Merc

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It wasn’t easy. His care was completely draining. For the deeper wounds, the bandages had to be changed at least once a day, sometimes twice. Two of the more serious gashes became infected which led to us battling a fever for a few days.

Catherine was informed of the boy in my trailer, but excuses about his fear of strangers kept her away for the time being. She was recruited to do the things I didn’t have time to do. She made frequent trips into town for more bandages, gauze, and ointments. She also was put in charge of “cooking” for him, which essentially meant making broths until he was strong enough, then became blending the nutrients and calories needed for such extensive healing into as near a liquid form as possible for his consumption.

And that was the more pleasant part of his care. There was the set up of a feeding schedule so I could predict, and make arrangements for, an elimination schedule. There was dousing my entire bed in soapy water trying to keep him clean enough to prevent other infections.

All the constant care took its toll on me. My solitude had never bothered me before, but now, it wasn’t really solitude, was it? No matter where I was in the trailer, I could hear his breathing, the soft rustle of restless limbs tangled in sheets. And, when he was fighting off the fever in the first few weeks, there was the almost constant murmur of his voice. Incoherent mumbling in English and Japanese, I think, I didn’t speak much Japanese at all, just a few select phrases.

The silence started to wear down on me; I had always found comfort in silence, but the almost-quiet that hovered in the trailer was oppressive. My only escape was during the performances and for about an hour and a half a day, the time in which I got my assigned chores for the circus done. There was no reason to leave the trailer besides that because my missions had completely ceased with the pilot’s self destruction.

Silence had always protected me; there were none who could creep in absolute silence, and my ears were very sensitized to the silence. Previously, any noise alerted me to a potential enemy, but now, I found myself focused on any noise he made.

Pair that with the fact that I had to sacrifice my normal routine of slipping into town to find sexual release every few weeks or so. Frustration infiltrated my being to the boiling point.

Until I re-discovered the flute Quatre had given to me. Breaking down one day, I began to play, threading notes together, expressing the complete oppression of the trailer, the near silence, the frustration of not having any missions come in, everything flowed out of me in a musical catharsis. It was a release, not so much of one as running through the trees or jumping from the hatch of my suit, but it was a release nonetheless, one I desperately needed during that time.

There were times when I changed the bandages that he would flinch away from my hands, groaning with the pain of a wound being packed with gauze to facilitate healing, sub-vocal whimpers of agony as I moved the splinted arm around, trying to preserve as much movement as possible, prevent as much muscle atrophy as possible.

I didn’t like being touched. I had learned that repeatedly throughout my life, but I had to learn how to not mind touching him. It was necessary, not only for the bathing, bandaging, and feeding, but I also had to learn different forms of muscle massage and acupuncture to try to preserve the function his limbs had before he spent weeks in my bed losing strength.

My fingers tracing his muscles, seeking out any form of muscular damage, my hands looking for any trace of shrapnel that I may have missed initially, I had no choice but to become accustomed to the feel of flesh under my hands.

Hands that had touched human skin only in aggression, meant to destroy or dominate, hands that were meant mainly for repairing and controlling mecha, were trying to repair flesh. My calloused hands were trying to coax healing from flesh shredded by the very machine that was meant to protect him in battle.

And I was trying to fix him…I’m better with machines; they don’t flinch with pain or grimace and moan in the night. I found I didn’t like causing him pain. Some things had to be done for recovery, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

But never once did my resolve falter. I had no missions sent to me, and in that absence, he became my objective. He would live; I would make it so.

As the days progressed, it became more and more obvious that he wouldn’t swing or cause harm to anyone in his immediate vicinity, and still I was reluctant to let Catherine help me with his care, although I wasn’t sure why at the time.

Days turned to weeks, and there was little change aside from his wounds healing, bones knitting. I wondered when he would wake; there was nothing physically keeping him in the coma unless there was brain damage, but I had no way of measuring anything that sophisticated. By the third week, there were signs of his impending return to consciousness. His limbs became more restless. He even tried to get out of bed one time, eyes closed, still completely out of it, and he fought me as I tried to lay him back down.

He was weakened and not a threat to a hardened fighter like me, but Catherine could have gotten hurt. As soon as his back hit the mattress, the fight left him, and he sank back down into unconsciousness. I stayed very near him in the following days, expecting to have to put him back to bed again, but it didn’t happen. His eyes opened twice in that week, but there was nothing behind them, no recognition, no intelligence, just a reflex opening of the lids before closing again.

I never left him alone during that last week before he woke. If I had to be somewhere else, Catherine sat in for me with clear instructions not to go near the bed in case he woke violently. I explained that the accident he had been in was very traumatic, and he might be dangerous if he woke disoriented. Any other questions she had, I refused to answer. She wasn’t very happy, but she did what I asked.

I had one of the clowns fill in for me during the performances; Manager was not happy, but there wasn’t much he could do because Catherine was on my side.

Then one day it happened, I was returning from feeding the lions, one of my chores as the new guy, and I heard Catherine speaking inside the trailer. As I opened the door, he was there, propped up on one elbow, fighting his weakened state to rise to sitting.

“Trowa, your friend has woken up.” Catherine was sitting on the couch, and I could see the excitement and joy in her face at the situation.

She didn’t know how much danger she could be in; if the pilot was unaware that I was an ally…I just stood in the doorway watching him. The arm he had his weight propped on shook with the stress of holding himself up; he had a lot of work to do to regain what was lost. Despite the strain, his face showed nothing, shutting down any hint of what his intentions could be.

He returned my appraisal; there was not an ounce of emotion on my face, and my eyes were sharp, tuned to the slightest movement. The fall of my hair kept one of my eyes covered from his view, but I could see just fine. I wondered what he was thinking when he was faced with someone so similar to himself.

“Oh, you must be hungry! I’ll go make some soup.” Catherine walked out of the trailer, out of immediate danger, and I could breathe a little bit easier knowing I’d only have to defend myself if need be.

When she was out of hearing range, he spoke. “Where am I?” His voice was somewhat breathy; he had worked much harder in the past few minutes than he had in a month.

“Along the route of a traveling circus. Its where I hide myself.” I sat down on the couch, back to him, arms crossed. I hoped to give him some sense of security that he had the immediate advantage if he chose to attack. Maybe that small security would allow him to trust me more quickly; he would need to trust me. There’s little chance his rehabilitation would go smoothly without some help.

“Why did you save me? I was supposed to die with honor.” His voice gave nothing away, but his words spoke of some frustration at being alive. But I knew something he didn’t know; his will to live is the strongest I’d ever seen. He might consciously want to die, but something within him won’t allow it.

“You died a long time ago.” I spoke only truth and longed to turn around to see if he reacted to it. We were alike; I knew that the moment I stepped into the trailer.

He was as dead to himself and his own will as I was. But I wondered whether he knew it, wondered what my reaction would be if someone said that to me, if someone knew me well enough to gauge something so personal so quickly after meeting.

There was a newscast on the television in the background, the Oz representative pictured continued to blame casualties and deaths around the globe to those resisting Oz’s military fist. I let the silence between us fill with the Oz officer’s voice before trying to fill in the pilot as succinctly as possible.

“One month has passed, and Oz has done nothing to the colonies. They’re just controlling nations with their military power.”

“A month has already gone by?” He sounded surprised; did he really think he could heal such extensive injuries in a few days?

I stood and turned the screen off. “In Oz’s eyes, you’re already dead. You’re no longer restrained to the colonies. In my case, its not that simple.” My body turned towards him, but I kept my face turned away. I wasn’t sure about the direction I was taking the conversation in, so I didn’t want to risk any emotion coloring my face to be seen.

“They found you, Trowa?” He seemed genuinely concerned. I guess I would be, too, in his state of health, waking to find yourself in a relatively impossible to defend location, with knowledge that your enemy knows your position. Or maybe he was showing some gratitude by being concerned for his caretaker.

“No. But there hasn’t been one mission since that day.” No orders, nothing, its hard for a soldier to remain focused with no one commanding him. And with Oz’s position militaristically, any self-induced missions against them could endanger the colonies again.

“I see.”

Did he? I turned, resting my back against the wall across from him, arms crossed across my chest.

“I’m not so sure what to do. What would happen if Oz used the colonies as a shield again?” I was expressing my frustrations through my words as he did earlier. As I realized how much he was gaining from my verbal and physical language, I dropped my arms and walked over to the window, giving him only the profile of my body, my face turned away. “Or should I follow your example?”

“In that case, I’ve got one warning.”

I wasn’t expecting that, and turned to him to gauge his next words.

“It hurts like hell.”

Of all the things I was expecting, advice to take out as many of them as I can with my detonation, warnings of political excommunication, an uprising in response, I wasn’t expecting that. I couldn’t help it, caught off guard, with no way to suppress the sentiment, laughter bubbled out of my throat.

Had I ever laughed before? I don’t recall. I calmed myself, still looking out the window, wondering what to do now when his voice prompted me.

I turned my face to him as he spoke, reading his non-vocals as well as his words. “I’ve got a big favor to ask you, Trowa; the first since I came to earth. Could you tell me what was going on while I was lying here unconscious?”

A few seconds passed as I digested his words. He kept calling me by name, and I wondered whether he thought I would feel threatened by him having such knowledge. Or maybe it made him feel like he had some leverage over me by having my name when I didn’t know his.

Or maybe…after coming so close to death, he just wanted to feel close to someone.

It didn’t really matter, but it made me curious. “Sure thing.” I nodded, turning to walk over towards him, leaning my back against the back of the couch, far enough away to avoid attack with my agility capabilities, close enough to make him think I was vulnerable to it.

I wanted him to trust me, but I wasn’t quite ready to trust him, yet. We had a common cause, I think…but as far as I knew, he was an operative gearing up for Operation Meteor with Oz as his main opponent preventing his plans.

Until I knew for sure, precautions would be taken.

I ran through the major events over the past month; where Oz encountered the most resistance, what kind of weaponry has been shown through the media, where there are still patches of Alliance troops wreaking havoc, other pacifist leaders who had been assassinated or removed from power and detained. Everything had happened on earth, no movements in space broadcast, only political maneuvers and sweet talking politics. I reported my suspicions on Oz infiltrating the colonies, testing the waters, and covertly building forces, but there was nothing on the news, just rumors.

It takes a certain kind of actor to overcome any kind of military training. Its hard to hide in plain sight unless you’re used to it. There were whispers of plain-clothes soldiers gathering in number in space. Oz would reveal their locations soon enough.

Catherine came back in then carrying a tray with two bowls and two drinks. “Soup’s on. I hope you like it, and if you need anything else you just let me know.” She handed me the tray and turned to the other boy. “Any friend of Trowa’s is a friend of mine.” Silence answered her comments, and she sighed. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to catching up.” She turned and walked out, a small smile painting her lips. She was always smiling.

I shifted the tray to support it with one hand. His eyes were watching every nuance of movement I made. It was a natural response, being wary of taking food from a stranger. I couldn’t help but smirk as I set the tray down across his lap.

The top of my vision was fixed on any movement he made towards me. His sharp blue eyes were watching my hands as they picked up one of the spoons and a bowl. As I stood, I scooped a spoonful of the bowl I had left for him; he watched as I ate part of his meal with no ramifications. Proving that no poison was hidden within his food, I returned to my spot leaning against the couch and began to eat my own meal.

He still hesitated, so I spoke, my head down, seemingly concentrated on the bowl. “You’ve been on a thick liquid diet for a month, drink all the broth, but take it easy on the solids until you know your stomach can handle it.”

He nodded and began eating a few bites, taking in the softened vegetables and some smaller chunks of meat. His eyes began taking everything in, trying to measure the layout of the trailer by just being exposed to the one room.

One of the lions roared outside, and the unfamiliar noise made his hands twitch towards a weapon that wasn’t there anymore. I spoke up. “There wasn’t a weapon on you when I found you.”

He nodded. “They were in the cockpit before the detonation.”

“There’s a gun under the mattress right beneath you. You can have it, or, if you’d prefer, you can give me the make and model you prefer and I can get you a replacement in a few days. That goes for any weapons you want.”

The other pilot looked at me, blue eyes analyzing me. It doesn’t matter where I was or what state I’ve been in, I always felt safer with a gun near me. I think it was the same with him. He nodded. “I’ll need access to my accounts; can I use your computer?”

No.

I took my cell phone out of my back pocket and tossed it to him. His bowl sloshed, but he caught it with a slight wince at the quick movement of injured tissues. “You can access the net with that if you want, but I’ll cover it. We’ll get you a new laptop, too; just let me know what you want.”

He smirked, and I knew he had caught me out. There’s too much on my computer that I don’t trust him with, yet, maybe later, but not yet. The configuration of Heavyarms, previous repairs, and armor weak points were all documented along with the way to reach my superiors and the accounts I used to fund my endeavors.

I didn’t want him on my computer, yet.

His brows pulled together, and he began looking around. I checked the clock, right on schedule. “Can you stand?”

He scowled at me. “Yes.” What he meant was, he didn’t know, but he didn’t want to need my help.

I set my near empty bowl down and walked to the bed as he pulled the sheet back. “I don’t need your help.”

“Good because I really don’t enjoy standing with you as you piss, but I’m not going to watch you fall either.” He was far from happy, inching his legs closer and closer to the edge, but not completely in control of his movements. “Do what you can on your own.”

He wouldn’t look at me; swinging his legs off the side, he pushed off the floor, came to standing, and abruptly began to sink to the floor as his knees gave out. I reached out to support him but hesitated at where to grab him. That hesitation was all it took for his eyes to widen and the hand on the non-broken arm to grip my own.

He used my hand to pull himself to standing. Blue eyes glared at me, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I was not about to let him re-injure himself just because he has a stubborn, independent streak.

We ended up having to sling his good arm over my shoulders as he hobbled to the bathroom, took care of business and got him back to the couch. He refused to get back in bed, which was fine, it let me strip the bed and change out the sheets which hadn’t been done in about a week. He was wearing a pair of loose shorts that Catherine had gotten for him in town.

That night was awkward. Changing his bandages and stimulating muscle health with soft tissue massage was a lot different when he was unconscious, but we got through it.

I couldn’t watch him while my hands skimmed across his skin. My eyes were fixed on a point, open but not registering what I was looking at. My focus was on the textures under my fingers, knots and slight deformities in the muscle that needed attention, the knitting of wounds, fragile new skin where the pressure of my hands lightened to a caress before firming again.

The conflicting textures of healthy skin, bruised skin, scar tissue, and the scratch of scabs brought me to question how my own skin felt. I very rarely paid attention to touch; I didn’t let others touch me…but I really didn’t touch myself, either.

Later that night, as I lay on the couch, enshrouded in darkness, I ran my fingers across the skin of my arms. The touch was foreign and almost erotic knowing it was my hand, this touch was safe, non-threatening, sending tremors up into my neck. I felt the narrow dips of the long scars that covered my left arm, a lifetime I’ve had them, and I doubt I’ll ever know what caused them.

Sleep was an elusive foe that night, and my dreams were plagued with explosions and the helpless screams of the wounded.

The next day was dedicated to his rehab, he and I walked around the circus several times that day, resting frequently, retraining his stamina, letting his muscles get used to holding his weight up again. It came back pretty quickly.

There was little I thought of during that time other than piecing out his resolve. It was obvious that his main priority was the safety of the colonies; he had fully intended to give his life to protect them, or at least his colony…but probably the colonies collectively.

He stated he had been taught that it wasn’t always a bad thing to follow your emotions, but orders came first; it wasn’t spoken, but it was there in his eyes.

He was a freedom fighter and a soldier in one being; both served the same objective, but he was free now, if he chose to be. Oz thought him dead, his suit was destroyed; he could slip easily into anonymity and create another life. But he wouldn’t.

Me? I was still chained to my task; I was to fight Oz to my dying breath and protect the colonies. But fighting Oz endangered the colonies with the threat of the military satellites pointed at such fragile structures.

Trapped between two equally important orders, so I sat, armed and ready, but for what…for all I know this stalemate could last until my body rotted in the ground, and this stasis sucked the life out of me slowly.

I envied the other pilot his temporary freedom, but I knew he would find a way to rejoin the fight, just like I would but there was a big difference between us. He would rejoin the fight because of his belief in the cause; I would because there was nothing else for me but the fight.

I’m a soldier, what is my point in life except to fight? Answer: none. My life was meaningless without the battle, win or lose, but the draw was agony.

An out was presented the next day.

Manager had declared that he had a big announcement for the circus crew, he gathered everyone outside by the crates and cages. I really had no concern for his announcements; I had my own agenda, and every moment I left the pilot alone was one he could be hacking my computer or preparing to sneak off before he’s healed. Although how I thought I could stop him, or why I would want to was not a consideration at the time.

Manager’s voice raised above the murmur of voices. “Hey. Everyone gather around. Our next performance is confirmed. Hold onto your hats! We’ve got a request from an Oz base!” This caught my attention. From Oz? Was it a trap? Had they discovered my identity, or was this just coincidence? An opportunity?

“And to celebrate, I would like to try something new. Something special and exciting that the Oz soldiers just might enjoy.”

It was the perfect opportunity to end my stalemate. The majority of the soldier’s would be accounted for, one missile to the communications tower would prevent any alert to Oz’s central command. The attack would be over before Oz knew about it, meaning they couldn’t threaten the colonies for my attack.

Oz was trying to gain the trust of the people, advertising themselves as a peaceful organization that was fighting only because others were resisting. They were offering a hand of peace while their other hand was hidden behind their back holding a loaded gun.

I spoke up for the first time in one of these gatherings. “Could you leave this new performance up to me?”

“Have you got some ideas?” This was really the first time Manager had ever really looked at me as something other than a bit of an irritation.

“Yeah, and I think it’ll be a big hit with the soldiers.”

“Wow.” Catherine put her hands on my shoulder as she spoke. I just hoped she didn’t notice how my entire body tensed with her touch. “Trowa’s usually so quiet, so it must be a good idea.”

“Right.” Manager pointed at me. “I’m going to let you handle this, Trowa!”

If Oz destroyed one of the colonies in retaliation for the destruction of the base, they would reveal their threat. There would be a demand from the populace as to why they fired on the colonies; there’s no politically acceptable reason, and Oz would be exposed for what it truly is. No, it wouldn’t happen; the organization was just starting to gain, through deception, the reputation they’re trying so hard to build.

The populations of earth and space were in for a rude awakening, but it wouldn’t matter to me because I didn’t plan to be there for it.

I felt regret that I would be leaving the other pilot before he has recovered enough to defend himself if need be, but it couldn’t be helped. This was an opportunity what wouldn’t come again.

I made the necessary preparations, and gathered the things needed as quickly as possible. The wounded pilot knew something was going on by the way I ducked in and out of the trailer, he had to, but I explained nothing until it was absolutely necessary. The morning of the performance, I sat down with him, running through were everything he may need was located in the trailer, giving him advice on how to continue his rehabilitation without help. He was silent, just staring through me the whole time.

I broke first. “I’ll leave some food and keys to the car. Stay here and concentrate on getting better.”

“What are you planning to do?” He knew; he just wanted me to admit it to both him and myself.

I refused to play his game. “On my colony, consensus wasn’t reached to fight using the gundams. The gundam attack was started by a small percentage of the population who felt strongly about it. I was among those people.”

“There’s nothing wrong with acting on your emotions. At least, that’s what I was taught.” His voice was hard, giving nothing away…but I had the feeling he was trying to convince me not to, even as his words supported my intentions.

“I must not give Oz a reason to invade the colonies. It wouldn’t be rational. So I will do as you have done. I will follow my emotions.” It wasn’t until very recently that I had many emotions upon which to act; now I act as if I had the same convictions as the freedom fighter in front of me.

He looked away then, those deep, blue eyes not meeting my own after the declaration of my future.

As I started the transport truck that held Heavyarms strapped beneath the tarp, Manager walked up to the window.

“Is this the apparatus you’ll be using in the performance, Trowa?”

“I promise it’ll be a real blast, like nothing you have seen.” I tried to hide the conviction in my voice, tried to make it light, but wasn’t sure I succeeded.

“That’s the spirit, young man. Make it the performance of your lifetime.” He was so excited. I felt somewhat guilty that I would probably end up destroying quite a bit of his equipment, possibly the circus all together if there were any Oz soldiers that survive.

But there was no avoiding it. “Yeah, it’ll be my last…grandstand show.”

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AN: Yeah, I guess this would be a cliffhanger if people didn't know the series, meh. Unsure about this chapter, but I don't NOT like it. Anyways, hope ya'll liked it.

About the transition spoken of in the last chapter's AN, here's a hint if you wanna: go back and read the fight with the cancers in chapter seven, then the caretaking in chapter nine. One word is all it takes to see the difference.

But if you're tired of guessing and you just want to know, I'll post the afore-mentioned transition on my author's page tomorrow along with review responses, but right now...I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

Goodnight.