TITLE: Bless the Beasts and Little Children
Gundam Wing/Lycanthrope Leo XO
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This takes place after the end of the series, before Endless Waltz. Endless Waltz never happened, and nothing therein is considered canon for this fic unless it's specifically mentioned.
WARNINGS: Ummm. Violence. Language. Maybe Yaoi, maybe lemon. Maybe not? AU for both series. As In-Character as possible.
RATING: Let's make it R, for safety's sake.

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

In a clean, white lab carefully swept for monitoring devices, five middle-aged men gathered. Their white lab coats whispered about them as they sat at a lab-counter-turned-conference-table. Their gazes (or those that could be seen, anyway) shifted uneasily across each other, guilty but defiant. One by one, they placed large, wooden cases on the tabletop.

For a moment, there was an uneasy silence. Then one of them, his odd grey bowl-cut flopping over his eyes, spoke, "Do you think we made a mistake?"

"Of course not." An angry metallic click accompanied the denial.

"But the sacred duty..."

"I know the duty! But we have other duties, as well. To the Colonies... if OZ was allowed to triumph, everything we fought so hard for would have ceased to exist. We did all that we could."

"I know, Doctor J, I know... we needed the young ones. None of us disputes that. But now that the war is over, have we not unleashed a greater fury on an unsuspecting humanity?"

Doctor J smiled, unpleasantly. "We taught them everything they know. We have mapped out their capabilities, tested their limits, damn near engineered those sorry shells that pass as their souls. We know their weaknesses. What we have done *can* be undone. We will... fufill the duty."

"But... what about Quatre?"

"What about him, Doctor?"

"He hasn't shown any of the signs. He is a kind and gentle boy... a *human* boy. Surely we can..."

"Absolutely not. The bloodwork does not lie. He is one of them, and now that they are at the age of majority and their purpose is ended, he will die same as the others. Is that clear?"

"Yes. I... will fufill the duty." One after another, the other Doctors nodded their assent. This was their purpose, after all, to hunt. To kill before they were killed themselves. They gathered their things and left the table then without speaking another word, all but one secure in his purpose.

PART ONE

The crowd rose to its feet, roaring its approval. The slight figure in the center of the ring bowed low, and the two lions at his side echoed the gesture perfectly. From the sidelines, the ringmistress shouted, "Trowa Barton, ladies and gentlemen, the star of the New Colony Bloom Circus Company!" As the audience's adulation waned, the light shifted to the second ring, where a small group of clowns began their routine.

As soon as the spotlight faded, Trowa led the two big cats from the ring, back to the comfortable and well-appointed area he'd designed for their stay between acts. They flopped down into the enclosure, yawning lazily at him. His expression softened, and he said quietly, "I know." He leaned against the bars and closed his eyes wearily. 'Only one more month left in this tour. Then we can go visit Quatre. You'll like where he lives, next best thing to home.' His friend had regularly written since the end of the war, one letter every three days hand-delivered by a Winner representative. Finally, after two months, Trowa had agreed to visit... providing that Quatre would arrange transport and lodging for his two rather unusual companions. So was it written, so was it done. The tickets and other arrangements had arrived yesterday. Quatre wasn't giving him any excuse to back out of the 'five month anniversary' the sentimental ex-Gundam pilot had prepared.

Quite frankly, Trowa wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or crowded.

"Trowa! You were wonderful tonight! Although I wish you has warned me about that new trick... it could have been very dangerous."

He raised his eyes to meet Catherine's, "I wasn't in danger. They won't hurt me."

The ringmistress sighed, "I know you believe that, Trowa, just as you know that I'll always worry." She grinned, "After all, that's what big sisters *do*. It's in the rulebook. Now, let's change out of these costumes and celebrate. We sold out!" Her face practically glowed with happiness. She and others from the old circus had sunk their entire savings to purchase the circus. The previous owner had finally decided to retire; a decision perhaps aided by the confusion and danger of having a Gundam pilot on staff. At any rate, the circus was Catherine's heart, now, and luckily business had been good. After the war, the Colonies felt like celebrating. And for the first time in years (maybe his entire life) Trowa was letting his guard down just a little.

Catherine swooped in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Trowa sucked in a startled breath. His forest green eyes were wide and startled. "Why... why did you do that?"

A sigh. "Because I care about you, Trowa, and I was happy. When people are happy, they show affection to those they care about." He looked blankly at her. "Never mind. Just change, okay?"

Unfortunately, Trowa had more guards than the entire Alliance military. Catherine sailed off, muttering to herself. He stared after her a moment, then one hand curiously touched the place where she'd kissed him.

"Hey, mister? Mister Barton?"

He glanced at the young usher, and nodded. The kid blushed, and handed him a note. "A mister told me to give this to you. Said it was important. *Really* important."

"Thank you." The kid scurried off. Trowa opened the note slowly, and felt his heart sink.

Trowa,
Doctor's orders: Tannebaum's Machine Shop in Sector D4. Urgent.

'I don't have to go.' The war was over. He'd done his share, damn it. He deserved his part in the peace he'd helped to win. But the need to obey was strong within him. After all, the Doctor would not have contacted him if it wasn't important. Right?

He crumpled the note into a tight, hard little ball, and hurled it into the lion enclosure. One of the cats growled at it idly, and batted delicately. By the time it lost interest and turned an inquisitive muzzle to its trainer, the room was empty.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The machine shop was a broken down hulk. Irrevocably broken parts and the leering corpses of vehicles sprawled across the shattered concrete of the 'yard'. Only the sign had any semblance of recent use. In fact... Trowa leaned forward and sniffed. The sharp smell of fresh paint made his nostrils flare slightly. 'Why put fresh paint on a place this decrepit?' His eyes narrowed, and he stalked towards the corroded steel door, his normally smooth stride gone wary and silent.

Something was not right. The feeling tugged at him, and he'd been a soldier too long to shrug it off. Unfortunately, he'd also been a soldier too long to simply walk away from a command, direct or otherwise. After a moment's hesitation, he pushed open the door.

The interior was shadowed, but Trowa's night vision had always been good. He stepped inside and to the left as his eyes made the minute adjustment. The shop was empty but for a single table and chair, currently occupied by his Doctor.

"Come in, young Trowa." The Doctor smiled, "I don't bite."

"What is this about? The war is over." That little feeling had grown teeth, and gnawed insistently at Trowa's midsection.

The other's smile widened, and he patted a black wooden case that rested in his lap. "That depends on which war you mean, boy. The war with OZ is over, yes. But we are still in danger."

The boy racked his brain for possible threats to the Colonies. The Zero-System? Destroyed. Earth? Too fractured, and what little order there was was presided over by the Sank Kingdom, and Relena Peacecraft would never initiate a war. What else could there be? "From what?"

"So, you're working at the Circus now?"

"Yes." What the hell was going on?

"An animal trainer, I hear. Animals always liked you. Especially the cats. Did you ever wonder why that was, Trowa?"

"No."

The Doctor frowned. He'd almost forgotten how difficult it was to get a rise out of the child. Probably why the first metamorphosis hadn't occurred yet. But that would have to change. Otherwise, the hunt would be no fun.

"Would it surprise you if I said that *I* knew why animals liked you?"

This time there was no response at all. Trowa simply stared at the Doctor, his face and eyes blank. This was not what he'd come to expect from his trainer, and the change frightened him? Why would anyone even care why animals liked him? It was just a feature, like the color of his eyes. The Doctor stood, and every muscle in Trowa's body tensed.

The Doctor placed his case on the table, and opened it, laying the cover back so that Trowa could see what lay within. It was an ornate, antique crossbow, and six bolts the color of old ivory. The Doctor looked up from the box to meet Trowa's eyes.

"Animals like you because they recognize their own."

Trowa blinked. His Doctor was obviously insane. "I don't understand."

"I know. I suppose I shouldn't expect such a poor, dumb beast to understand, but I shall endeavor to explain anyway." He took the crossbow out of the case, and began to polish it with an old rag. "You are not, and never were, human. That is why you were chosen to be a Gundam pilot, because your kind's abilities exceed humanity's. And, now that the war is over, you have become an unacceptable danger to humankind.

"Moreover, I am a member of an ancient society, dedicated to wiping your kind from the face of the Earth... and now, from Outer Space as well." He finished wiping the crossbow, and loaded it with one of the yellowed bolts. Trowa knew that he should move, seek cover, or just run like hell. But he was frozen in place. The man must be insane. Trowa was human. This was wrong.

The crossbow leveled at his chest. The Doctor smiled, a bit sadly this time. "If it's any consolation, Trowa Barton, I had grown fond of you. But you are an abomination unto Man and unto God, and it is your time to die.

"Good-bye." He pulled the trigger.

PART TWO

Before the sharp twang of the bowstring reached his ears, Trowa crouched, tensed, and leapt in a blur of speed and grace... directly into the electrical field that hovered a foot and a half above his head. The boy screamed, a heartbreaking sound, as the current took him in its teeth and shook his body like a dog with a ragdoll. Gravity tore him loose from the field's grip, and he fell to the oily concrete with a moan. Quiet, deliberate footsteps filled Trowa's ears as he lay there, panting and trying regain control of his spasming body. The footsteps stopped, and he heard the slow clicking of the crossbow being reloaded from somewhere above him.

"Consider it a fair handicap, Trowa. I modified one of the Mobile Doll shield systems. Gave it a little more 'kick', so to speak. I must say, it was a masterful job." A hand came down and turned the shuddering ex-pilot's head towards the light. For the moment, Trowa was helpless to resist.

The Doctor loomed over him, the crossbow held one-handed, but at the ready. With difficulty, Trowa focused his eyes on the sharp, smooth point of the bolt. His hands clenched spasmodically, and he averted his gaze. "G--go ahead. Kill... me."

A low chuckle, then retreating footsteps. "No, my boy. I won't kill you while you still believe me to be no more than a crazy old man." The Doctor's voice hardened. "You must know why. Then... well, I'm sure you won't welcome your death, but at least you will understand it." The crossbow raised and fired in one smooth motion. Still struggling through the effects of the electricity, Trowa could do nothing to dodge.

The bolt tore into the meat of his right shoulder, penetrating deep and burying itself into bone. He screamed again as the point burst through the other side. He'd been shot before, but this was different. The pain radiated through his body like a wave of heat, intensifying instead of drifting into the blessed cold of shock. 'The bolt... poisoned?'

What had he done to deserve this? Trowa had followed every order the Doctors had given, risked his life, and killed over and over at their command. He'd won their damned war, and this was how they repaid him? The heat became a fire within him, and where it burned pain and betrayal became killing rage. His left hand groped, then ripped the bolt from the wound. It hurt, but the pain was welcome fuel for the inferno within. He rolled until he faced the Doctor, sweat plastering his long bangs to one side of his head.

Catherine had once compared his dark-green eyes to those of a wild beast. If only she could see them now. As Trowa stared at his enemy, those eyes bloomed gold, the pupil lengthening and contracting to a narrow vertical strip. Trowa snarled, and there was nothing human left in the sound.

The Doctor's breath caught in his throat, the bow lowering slightly as he watched, mesmerized. This was what he'd wanted to happen, of course, but what was sound in theory had become perilous in execution. All over his prey's body, fascinating, terrifying changes were taking place. He could hear the sickening snap of joints and tendons giving way to new configurations. Muscle mass appeared, seemingly from nowhere, accompanied by a veritable forest of thick, black hair. Clothes shredded under the assault, and fell to the floor in patches.

Finally, it crouched on the floor before him: a misshapen amalgam of man and beast, inhuman, huge, naked... and very, very angry. The Doctor shouted in triumph, "Now do you see, Trowa? Now do you see why you must die?"

Trowa Barton was beyond listening. He lunged forward, his new muscles obeying his will with more power than he'd ever felt... even when piloting Heavyarms. The target raised the bow, but he would be much too late. After all, he was only human. He struck out with his foreclaw, then sheared away at the last second, warned by the acrid scent of electricity that surrounded the Doctor. As the crossbow came up, he dodged away, faster than human eye could follow. But all cover had been removed, forcing him to lope in a circle around his prey's shield, just a fraction faster than the bow could be aimed. And he struggled to think beyond the anger and frustration that laid his ears back against his head and tore tiny, rhythmic growls from his chest.

The shield would hurt, that much was obvious from recent experience. It would also stop the momentum of his strike, leaving him as a sitting duck for a well-placed bolt. So... as satisfying as it would be, the direct approach was out. For now. He could keep moving, tire the prey out until it dropped from exhaustion-- but the Doctor wasn't exactly a leaping gazelle. When all you were doing was pivoting in a circle, you could probably keep doing it for quite a while. And Trowa had no illusions on how the situation would look to outsiders, should they stumble upon it. So time, terrain, and reinforcements were all on the enemy's side.

'What would Heero do?' That was easy. He'd hit the shield full tilt, ignore the pain and threat of death, and eliminate the target. Simple. And mostly likely fatal. And with a sudden flash of insight, Trowa realized that he didn't intend to die here. He would not self-detonate, but rather, he would triumph. *His* way.

Even if he wasn't really sure what that was, yet.

Trowa widened the circle, ears pricked forward with new purpose. That shield couldn't be coming from thin air, could it? If it really had been modeled from the Mobile Dolls, then the perimeter *should* have... 'There they are.' His enhanced eyes picked out one, then another, and finally all of the small disks that generated the shield. Now to test his theory.

He sprang into the air again, rolling his body just beneath the edge of the field, close enough to singe his thick black coat of hair. As he reached the hovering disk, Trowa uncoiled with a snap, and thrust both feet into the field. He endured the pain, and pushed his hindclaws into contact with the disk. They caught, and penetrated, and with a roar of triumph, he rent it asunder. The other disks immediately rerouted, but there were gaps now, and the strength of the whole was lessened. Trowa spun as he fell back to earth, landing on his feet, enfolded by the smell of burning hair. But the muscle cramps and pain were already fading, overpowered by the raw animal strength of his form. He stared at the ashen-faced Doctor, and slowly, one corner of the manbeast's curved into a hard smile.

"Gotcha."

Trowa dodged the Doctor's hasty return fire with contemptuous ease, making his way to the next disk. He took it out and was halfway to the third before the crossbow could be reloaded. This one, Trowa simply battered out of the air one-handed, so weak had the field grown. With fully one half of its support gone, the shield finally sputtered and died. That done, he resumed his loping around his prey, relishing the scent of fear, the feeling of helpless rage that radiated from the center of his circle. Something told him the kill would be that much sweeter for the wait.

In quick succession, the Doctor shot the rest of his bolts, but now that there was nothing caging Trowa in, it was like trying to pin a shadow to the ground. There was only one thing left to do, in the face of such failure. He dropped the crossbow to the ground, and pulled a loaded pistol from beneath his white coat. Quickly he pointed at his head, whispering, "I'm sorry..." as his hand tightened on the trigger.

Hand and gun exploded into fragments as they were swept aside by a massive, clawed hand. The Doctor fell to his knees, his eyes and mouth bulging open in a soundless keen of pain. The shattered stump of his wrist waved before the great beast like an offering. Trowa stared downward at the pathetic thing, and hungered. So weak, helpless... it would be so easy...

//A young boy stares at himself in a mirror, bruises cover his painfully thin body. He shivers, and pulls on what's left of his clothes. Next to the door of the compartment is a bed, filled with a man who is much larger than the boy. As he tries to sneak by, a hand (large and monstrous in the gloom) fastens itself around his slight arm and hauls him into the blackness of the blankets. "Where you going, little green eyes? I ain't finished yet." The child screams...//

... and the young man screamed with him; he threw himself away from the Doctor, and ran blindly from the building. 'I'm not like that! I'm not like them...' His form dwindled back to human as the denial penetrated and chased away the blood lust. With it went his strength, and before long he was stumbling from building to building like a drunkard.

The Doctor stared after him for a moment, his thoughts fuzzy with shock and blood loss. Finally it sunk in. He was alive, and would remain so if he could get his wound staunched. And then, then the sacred hunt would begin again. And this time... "I will not fail again." He struggled to his feet, and left by the back entrance, where his vehicle had been stored.

--------

"Trowa!" Catherine ran forward to take her 'little brother' from the men who held him, disregarding the blood that smeared across her blouse and the curious crowd of circus people who quickly gathered. "What happened to him?" She demanded.

"I wish we knew ma'am. Found him like that, before he passed out he gave your name."

"Oh, Trowa..." She held him close with one hand, and grabbed a cape from one of the other performers with the other to cover him. She wrapped his trembling body in the cape, and murmured, "Why can't you have a little peace?" She looked up at the concerned crowd, "We need to get him to his trailer. Mark, would you carry him?"

The large man nodded, and she transferred Trowa to him with reluctance. As Mark carried him away, she turned to the two men who still hovered, a bit nervously, near the door flap of the tent. She tried to smile, and knew from their change in expression that it rested oddly on her face. "Thank you for finding him, and bringing him home. Here, for your kindness..." She fished out a few bills from her purse and passed them over without looking. Their gratified smiles and hasty departure warned Catherine that they thought she'd overpaid. What they couldn't understand is that she'd have handed over the entire Circus to keep Trowa safe, and gladly. Why did such a kind and gentle boy always end up with such pain?

"Catherine? Ma'am?" She turned to face Mark.

"Yes?"

"He's asking for you."

----

"You want to *what*?" Trowa winced at the anger in Catherine's voice. He hated to cause her more pain, but he had to contact the others. And the only one who'd kept their contact info was Quatre. So...

"Cathy, I have to go back to Earth. I have to see Quatre."

She leapt from her position by his bedside, hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You're injured! Why can't you just contact him through the vid-phones?" He could see tears shimmering unshed in her eyes.

"It's too important... it has to be in person."

"What's too important? Won't you tell me? I... I thought we were done with secrets, Trowa."

He looked away. He wanted to tell her... but what if she looked at him with the same disgust and horror that had been on the Doctor's face? And what if he couldn't control himself next time it happened? As long as he was here, she and the Circus were in danger.

"I can't. Please trust me, Cathy... I'll come back when I can, I promise."

She was crying now, tears running silently down her expressive face. He couldn't see them, but he could *smell* them. "You're going to fight, again, aren't you?"

'I don't know what I'm going to do.' Out loud, though, he said nothing, just stared at the trailer walls. After a few moments, she sighed in defeat, like he'd known she would.

Quietly, she said, "I'll make the arrangements. You get some rest, okay?" He turned back to face her.

"Thank you, Cathy."

She just wiped her eyes with one balled fist, and left. In the breeze of her hasty exit, he caught the scent of her blood where her fingernails must have penetrated her palms. And it was sweet.