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by Anne Olsen
February 2002: This first story of the arc is primarily a 3+4, though the other guys do appear and there are some hints of 1+2. There will be some loose ends at the end of this fic, you have been warned, but they will be resolved as the series progresses *ducks. Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu Agency. I promise to return the boys (and other characters) more or less intact when I'm finished, honest. Thanks to: Sephy and Amet for the beta reading, Sarah and Maria for their support and wanting more. Feedback to: anneo@paradise.net.nz
Chapter OneGermany 1943 "I saw the God of Death today." "What?" Quatre scrutinised his sister Iria from across the dinner table, noticing the slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth. He studied the soup bowl momentarily, certain his face would soon match the colour of the bright red liquid dripping off the spoon he was absentmindedly twirling in mid air. "I haven't been listening, have I?" It was a standing joke between them of late. He'd be thinking about the events of his day, and Iria would divulge something farfetched to see if she could win his attention. The previous night she had spun a ridiculous story involving a knife-throwing act at a circus she'd insisted had set up camp in the middle of town. Quatre remembered with a small smile how he'd fallen for her story, hook, line and sinker until she'd mentioned the target was a clown. He rolled his eyes at that one, annoyed at how she'd nearly fooled him into believing such a scenario would ever eventuate. "No," she said, shaking her head in confirmation. "Honestly, Quatre, the world could end and you'd never notice. I suppose you were thinking about your project again?" Quatre nodded, trying to ignore the heat spreading across his face. Iria knew him better than he knew himself. He looked forward to these conversations, yet never managed to pay as much attention as he should. Dinner at the Winner residence would be an extremely silent affair if it weren't for Iria. He shuddered at the thought of just himself and his father sitting eating, each ignoring the other. Formal dinners were one part of his life he'd discontinue in an instant; he'd be just as happy sitting in a park somewhere with a packet of sandwiches. Quatre wasn't sure whom his father was trying to impress. He certainly never worried about the opinions of his children regarding the general running of the household. Every night was a repeat of the same scenario, food served on fine white china on an impeccable white linen table cloth, a servant hovering in the background ready to top up glasses if required. Quatre hated it with a vengeance. It was stifling, a reminder that even though he'd gone his own way in life, as Iria had, his father still attempted to maintain parental control. "Sorry, Iria," he mumbled, forcing a half smile. "What were you saying?" He'd spent the last week mulling over an equation, the answer was so close he could almost touch it. If only he could work out what he was missing. It wasn't good, this obsession with his work, but for the moment it was consuming him to the exclusion of all else. "One day you'll find a pretty girl to distract you from your work," Iria often teased. "If you can find one prepared to share you with whatever project you're working on at the time." Quatre always laughed on these occasions but the part of him that yearned to share his ideas and feelings with someone else winced at the gentle jibes. It wasn't as though he wanted to live only for his work, but until he met the right person, he didn’t see any reason to change. He'd dated a few times during his university days, knowing that he should attempt some semblance of a social life, but hadn't connected with anyone he'd met so far. To be honest, dating girls didn't hold any interest for him, but he wasn't about to tell Iria that. Better to let her think her efforts were appreciated, which they were, but until the right person came along, he'd prefer to pour his energies into his work. "David Reuben didn't come into work at the hospital today. You remember him, don't you, Quatre?" Iria took a sip of wine, her eyes meeting his as she repeated the question he'd missed earlier. She seemed tired, more than usual, her voice lacking its usual fire. His sister always managed to sound enthused about everything she spoke about, the spark in her voice often ensnaring others into assisting her with her current project or charity case. Iria couldn't resist someone in need, but obviously the long hours she was putting in at the hospital in addition to the extra volunteer work were beginning to take their toll. Quatre watched her carefully, taking in the lines around her eyes, the way she brushed an errant lock of hair off her face in a gesture of annoyance. Iria wasn't only tired, she was also very much on edge. He wondered how long she'd been feeling like this; judging from the pallor of her skin, the stress of work had been building up on her for some time. Why hadn't he noticed before now? Iria, like Quatre, suffered from a predisposition to get involved in a project to the exclusion of all else. He and Iria looked out for each other in that regard, seemingly able to notice the failing in one another, just not in themselves. It was a tendency they shared with their father, who was even now slowly sipping his soup from his place at the head of the table. In many ways it seemed that the long hours spent running the family business were of a higher priority to the elder Winner than time spent with his family. Many of Quatre's earliest memories consisted of being in the care of his sister and various nannies whilst his father worked long hours at the bank. The child in him still resented being deprived of the presence of his father, the fact he was the sole parent making his regular absences more noticeable. Weren't parents supposed to be there for their children? He wondered. 'I'm working to build a better future for you and your sister, Quatre. When you're older you'll understand.' Quatre didn't understand, all he knew was that was his father had never been there for him, more often than not missing his milestones in life. His first steps, his first words, his father had even managed to miss his graduation ceremony. He remembered walking up onto the stage to receive his degree, eyes darting around the hall, wondering why he had bothered to think even this was important enough to drag his father away from his work. I didn't want the family business, Father, I wanted you. Paul Winner hadn't been impressed when his son and heir hadn't expressed an interest in the family business, instead opting to follow his dream of becoming a scientist. ''Over the past few generations our family have built Winner banking to be the bank in Berlin. I'm very disappointed in you, Quatre. You have responsibilities to me, to your family name. Have you thought through the consequences of your decision?" His eyes had been cold, reflecting his disapproval. You mean how it will affect your standing in society, Father? Quatre wisely didn't put those thoughts into words, instead opting for the response he knew would appeal to his father's desire for prestige outside the scope of the small but select world he now inhabited. "I have thought of the consequences, Father. If I achieve my goal I could be working alongside great scientists, working for the advancement of the Fatherland. Think of the opportunities…" He deliberately left the phrase unfinished, knowing his father would draw his own conclusions. The elder Winner could never resist the idea of spreading his 'empire', of meeting potential customers, especially those connected with the upper echelon of society. Quatre nodded. David had been one of his close friends at the University although they'd entered into different fields of study. While Quatre had been interested in physics, David acting on a genuine desire to help those less fortunate than himself, ventured into medicine. After graduation they'd drifted apart, but he doubted David had been aware of why going their separate ways had been for the best as he'd insisted on staying in touch by exchanging birthday and Christmas cards. He sighed at the painful memories, not wanting to remember the details. Maybe if he'd been honest with himself, honest with David, it would have been easier instead of taking the coward's way out, choosing not to face up to the reality of where their friendship could have led. Iria continued, ignoring the way their father's eyebrows were knitting together as he glared at her. Quatre mentally shrugged. Father never approved of their conversations of late and still worked under the illusion that his show of disapproval should be enough to divert the subject material onto something more suitable. "He's not the first person to disappear overnight." "Why would David disappear without telling anyone? Surely he would have told someone where he was going first? He cared about his work, leaving wouldn't have been an option, not without good reason." He'd heard the rumours about homeless people being given the option of relocation, the chance of a fresh start, but David wasn't some vagrant. She must be mistaken. The wording she'd used…He shivered, reaching for his glass to take a quick sip as she continued, knowing that this time she had his full attention. "Poor Quatre," she said, rolling her eyes. "So involved in your work you haven't even noticed what's been going on around you. It's because he's Jewish of course." The last sentence was short and spoken as though it were explanation enough. Quatre frowned again, this time placing his soup spoon on the starched linen cloth, ignoring the symbolism of the crimson stain slowly spreading across the once pure white fabric. "So?" he asked. What did being Jewish have to do with anything? There was a sudden silence in the room, broken only by the sound of the elder Winner dropping his spoon onto his plate with a loud clunk. "So?" he reiterated, the outrage in his voice resounding across the room. "They are Jewish, Quatre. What other reason is needed? Better that they are rounded up and sent somewhere more suited for their place in the scheme of things. We must not lose sight of the fact that the Jews are nothing more than parasites interested in taking control of the economy for themselves." How dare he? Quatre gripped the side of the tablecloth, pulling the fabric into a hard ball in his hand as he fought to repress what he really wanted to say. He'd suspected his father had disapproved of his friendship with David, but had never heard these arguments voiced before. Or maybe it was because in the past he had always switched off and deliberately chosen not to listen? Quatre rose to his feet, still struggling to quell the anger rising up within. "Father," he said in a low voice, his tone devoid of the disgust he was feeling. His stomach twisted, threatening to expel its contents as he eyeballed his father. "Most of these people have spent their lives as useful contributing members of German society. How dare you judge them because their beliefs are different to ours?" A slow cold feeling crept through him as memories of David trickled through his mind. They had spoken a week ago, meeting for coffee in a small café near the hospital where David worked with Iria. David had seemed distracted but when Quatre tried to push for cause of his discomfort he'd become extremely evasive. In fact as Quatre turned his mind back to their conversation, David's words or rather, the things he hadn't said were more ominous than ever. ****** One week earlier. David hadn't changed, unruly too-long dark bangs still meeting the top of metal rimmed glasses, those chocolate eyes with their hidden depths now tinged with a sense of sadness and worry. Quatre sighed loudly. He reached over the table to offer comfort, acting on instinct then withdrew his hand, hoping David hadn't noticed. David sat, sipping his coffee, fingering the large star sewn on his pullover over and over. Quatre wriggled in his seat, his own fingers winding tightly around his cup, knowing David would speak when he was good and ready. He glanced behind him as the door opened and a tall man in a dark suit settled himself into a table across the room. David placed his cup on the light wooden table with shaking hands, his eyes darting towards the man then back to Quatre. David, are you all right? He wanted to say, needed to say but couldn't bring himself to ask the words, instead concentrating on the steam coming from the beverage he'd been consuming as he tried to control his fluctuating emotions without success. Eventually David removed his glasses, reaching over to place his hand over Quatre's. "Have you any idea what kind of people you are working for?" David spoke quietly, as always, but there was an underlying tone of fear in his voice, a tone Quatre didn't remember ever hearing before. David had always been the controlled one, something he'd envied. "Have you any idea of their real agenda?" Quatre pulled his hand away, trying to ignore how fast his heart was beating. Why had David come to him? Surely he couldn't have assumed to use the closeness they'd once had to further his own agenda? Was that the reason for his nervousness? Quatre tried to keep his voice even as he replied. "I'm a scientist, David, trying to make the world a better place, as you are. We're working for the advancement of science, for the good of the Fatherland." The last sentence came out sounding like the mantra it was. Any doubts Quatre had were always dealt with efficiently if he repeated those words. He knew the potential danger of the device they were working on, but the chances of anyone considering utilising the catastrophic component of the project was remote. David snorted, raking a hand through his hair before replacing his spectacles. "You always were naďve". He lowered his voice "Wake up and take a look at what's going on around you, before it's too late." David sounded as though he was talking about the end of the world, an edge of desperation sharp in his voice as the worry Quatre had picked up on earlier drew closer to fear. "Too late? Too late for what?" His earlier fears of being used vanished at the tone in David's voice. Quatre heard his own voice rise in pitch, all attempts of hiding his emotions lost as he tried to desperately work through rapidly descending confusion. David shook his head, unwilling to say more, eyes nervously darting around the small café before his gaze settled on the man Quatre had seen entering a few moments earlier. "I have to go. I think I've said too much already." Quatre had barely registered the fact his friend was leaving before he was halfway out the door, leaving a tip for the waitress on his way. He pulled himself to his feet, ready to follow then paused, suddenly unsure at what had just occurred. ****** Quatre realised his father was speaking, bringing him back to the present. "Someone has to protect the safety of the German people. The Nazis will bring the Fatherland into a glorious new age." Yes, Father, and bring you into the social standing you've always wanted if you stand with them. His father always believed in looking after his own interests alongside those of the German people. He'd read how the Jews lived, how they thought, agreeing in principle that something needed to be done to help them but surely this didn't need to include David, unless the feelings he'd once had for his friend had blinded him? "These people need help, Father, but relocation against their consent isn't the answer." Quatre stood, knocking the contents of his wineglass over the table in anger. "I should turn you over to the authorities for this treason! How dare you question me, question the ideas of the Fuhrer?" His father was turning an interesting shade of white, his hand shaking as the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Iria rose to her feet, coming between her father and brother, placing a restraining hand on each man. "I think we should leave this discussion until you have both calmed down. Father, I'm sure Quatre is tired after a long day's work, as you are." Winner muttered something under his breath, pushing Iria aside as he left the room. "We will discuss this in the morning," he said coldly and Quatre knew this was far from over. Holding on to his standing as head of the household was of utmost important to the elder Winner. Losing control in public was even less of an option than being disagreed with in any shape or form in front of the servants. Was it so hard for him to listen to his son's opinion, just once? He sighed, and wished not for the first time that his mother were still alive. From what he'd been told by his sister, his father had been much more approachable before he'd lost his wife. When she had died giving birth to their only son, part of him had died with her. Quatre had never known his mother; all he had of her were the stories told by Iria, old photos and the fact that he looked just like her. To all intents and purposes he'd been orphaned when Quaterine Winner had died. His father tolerated him because society dictated he should, though in truth he was disliked and blamed for the death of the one person his father had truly loved. In Quatre's mind his family consisted of himself and Iria; she was the one who cared about him and discussions such as these only served to confirm that theory. "Are you all right?" Iria pushed a stray lock of hair off her face again, winding it around her finger as she studied him. Quatre sat down, pushing his back into the hard wooden chair, as he took a deep draft from the refilled wineglass. "No, I'm not!" he snapped, then softened as he saw the hurt on his sister's face. She was the last person he should be taking his anger out on. "It's been one of those days and I’m tired." He buried his face in his hands for a moment, trying to stop the tears. He'd always been emotional, Iria had told him it was because he cared so much about what happened to others. Quatre snorted. Yes, he cared so much he hadn't noticed what had been going on under his very nose. The work he was involved in had been so important, so absorbing that it had taken over to the exclusion of all else. Had this absorption cost him the life of a friend he had once held dear? Ironic that he had entered science to advance the quality of life of those around him, to the extent of ignoring reality. When had he stopped caring, stopped noticing? "Maybe you should get an early night, Quatre. You'll cope with Father better in the morning if you do." She was right. Discussions with Father, when they couldn’t be avoided usually upset him even when he wasn't tired. Herr Winner was interested only in his own opinions, not in those of a son who rarely shared his ideas. Quatre had once hoped that he and his father would grow closer together as time progressed but instead they appeared to be drifting apart. He climbed the old wooden staircase at a snail's pace, barely aware of the rail under his hand as he trudged towards his bedroom, his mind trying to digest the information about David. What had happened to his childhood friend? The fear he'd thought he'd seen in David must have been real and yet he'd ignored it, instead permitting reality to take a back seat to his work. He changed into his nightclothes quickly, leaving the curtain open slightly so he could observe the stars. Climbing into bed, he pulled the crisp white sheets over him and lay his head on the pillow, hoping sleep would bring some respite to his confused state of mind. A dark cloud passed over the clear night sky, obscuring the small pinpricks of light as he wondered again where David was and what had happened. It was connected with the Nazis, he reasoned, his thoughts returning to a flyer he'd read a few weeks ago but had dismissed as fiction. What if the stories the underground group, White Rose, were circulating had some element of truth in them? The rumours of concentration camps were no longer as easy to ignore as when he'd first heard them. What had happened to David and the other Jews? Iria always chose her words with care, when she'd said disappeared, she'd meant just that. David must have had an inkling that this might be going down when they'd met. "Have you any idea what kind of people you are working for?" Dr J had always spoke highly of the Nazi party, he remembered, wiggling down further into his bedclothes. If the Nazis were behind this, was he somehow helping them with the work he was involved in? No he couldn't, he wouldn't. He was only a scientist, he couldn't be connected to what was befalling the Jews. "Have you any idea of their real agenda?" David's voice re-echoed through his mind over and over as he finally drifted off to sleep. ****** He walked slowly, taking comfort in the familiar regularity of his breathing, loud in the apparent absence of life. Hearing the echo of the leather soles of his shoes against the hard pavement, Quatre realised that he was in his own neighbourhood, walking the streets he saw every morning from his bedroom window as he started his day. Where were all the people? He turned, hearing a rumble of an engine from behind, just in time to observe a large covered truck pull into the sidewalk, brakes screeching as the driver came to a sudden halt. Moving back into the welcome safety of the shadows, he shivered as a dark shape slithered through the street leaving a sense of coldness in its wake. Death was moving through the empty buildings, he could smell it, sense it. He pitied the poor souls who would lose their mortality tonight. A cry echoed through the silence, a plaintive cry for help. "Quatre!" Instinctively Quatre edged out of his hiding place, out of the safety of the shadows, only to see his childhood friend being ushered into the back of the truck by a group of soldiers. "This is your fault," David accused him, trying to pull away from the well built man trying to force him to cooperate. "I tried to warn you, you wouldn't listen and now it's too late." Quatre stepped forward, placing himself between his friend and the vehicle as one of the soldiers brought his rifle to bear on him. David reached out only to have his arms pulled roughly behind him as he was thrown none too gently against the side of the truck, his head connecting with a dull thud. "Do you want to join your friend?" asked the soldier. "It can be arranged very easily." Quatre heard a sudden intake of breath and realised it was his own. He opened his mouth to protest against the rough treatment but couldn't get the words to form. One look at David, struggling against the silent soldiers, blood dripping from the gash in his forehead brought him to a sudden halt, as fear of his own safety became paramount. "I can't help you," he whispered. "This isn't my fault. I didn't know." "Wake up and take a look at what's going on around you, before it's too late." David's eyes seemed flat, lacking their usual spark, as though his spirit was already dying. Quatre remembered the creature he'd thought of as Death, and realisation hit that his friend would soon be one of those sating its hunger. "David! David!" Quatre stood frozen, trying to force himself to move, but to no avail. It was too late to help his friend, too late to help the others he could see cowering in the back of the truck. The soldier pushed David into the rear of the truck, twisting his head to stare at Quatre before joining his prisoners and closing the doors behind him, severing all contact. The street spun around him momentarily, as the blonde registered the expression he'd just seen. The soldier had both despised and pitied him, as did Quatre himself for his cowardice and lack of action. He stood, knees bent, breath rasping alone on the quiet street once more with his thoughts and growing feeling of guilt as the vehicle drove away into the darkness of the night. I didn't know. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He whispered to himself, knowing it was too late to apologise to the one person who needed to hear. Looking up again at the sky, the once clear sky now completely covered in darkness, he dropped down onto his knees and screamed, trying to purge himself from a sin he knew he'd never forget or be forgiven. "It's not my fault!" He closed his eyes, seeking respite from the images embedded in his mind, then lashed out as he felt strong arms around him. The soldier had come back for him. "Wake up, Quatre, wake up." Iria? He opened his eyes, relief flowing as he found himself on the floor next to his bed, his sister leaning over him. He let her assist him back under the covers, taking comfort from her gentle touch as she stroked his brow, her fingers cool on his damp forehead. "It's okay, Cat. It’s a bad dream." Iria would look after him. Iria always made things right. He took a few ragged breaths, snuggling into his sister as she held him close. Once he grew calmer she disentangled herself, tucking the covers around him before settling herself on the chair next to his bed. "It was only a dream," he whispered, more to himself than to her, as he took refuge in the security of the soft feather pillow, allowing sleep to claim him once more. "Only a dream."
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