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by Anne Olsen 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: Stargem, Megan and Marlene for beta reading this chapter, and for all their helpful comments. Feedback to: anneo@paradise.net.nz
Chapter TwoQuatre shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair in the reception area outside Dr J's office, glancing at the clock on the wall once more. Had the scientist forgotten they were supposed to be meeting that morning to go over the new ideas for the heavy water and uranium problems? He ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration, as he stretched out trying to rid himself of the ache across his back. These chairs are nowhere near as comfortable as my own, he thought. His bad start to the day was progressively getting worse. Even though he'd managed to go back to sleep after his nightmare, the rest of the night had been spent tossing and turning, his mind mulling over the dream. Maybe it was just his imagination overreacting to the unexpected news of David? Or had it been brought about by guilt? The expected lecture from his father over their discussion from the night before hadn't gone well either, due in part to his lack of sleep and irritability. Neither man had been prepared to back down and Quatre wondered why he bothered attempting to talk to his father in these situations. It was sheer luck that he hadn't been turned over to the authorities after some of the comments he'd made. He was on very thin ice and both of them were well aware of it. One more outburst and the elder Winner wouldn’t hesitate. The fact they were family wouldn't enter into the equation. Quatre sighed again and reached into his coat pocket for his pad and pencil. If he had to wait for Dr J to finish his urgent meeting, he might as well do something useful. Jotting down the equations he was supposed to be working on would serve the dual purpose of occupying his mind and distracting him from his present train of thought. Blast. Where is that pencil? He pulled out his pockets again, emptying the contents onto his lap, hunting for the elusive pencil to no avail. This is shaping up to be one hell of a perfect day. He couldn't just sit here letting his mind wander, he'd go crazy, but if he went back to his own office he might miss Dr J and that wouldn't make him very popular either. Dr J preferred his staff to be both prompt and efficient. He busied himself putting back the small pile of odds and ends into his pockets, then settled back in his chair, fingers tapping out the rhythm of the Bach cantata he'd been listening to in his office as his eyes darted around taking in details he usually didn't notice. The paintings in their gold frames lining the walls of the room were in stark contrast to the spartan appearance of the rest of the room. It surprised him that Dr J bothered with such things, but he supposed it wouldn't have been proper to refuse such gifts from the Fuhrer himself. He edged his chair back, wincing as it scraped noisily against the polished wooden floor, then rose to his feet as he began to pace across the confined space. Back and forth, how much longer am I expected to wait? He yawned, his hand coming up automatically to cover his mouth as his elbow connected with the closed office door. To his surprise, it opened slightly, the tired hinge squeaking in protest, revealing Dr J's desk in all its glory. The scientist's desk was covered in an accumulation of months of paperwork piled one on top of the other in an intricate balancing act. Surely Dr J wouldn't mind if he just helped himself to a pencil? If he managed to get the equation down on paper he might make sense of the problem which had been eluding them both for some time. It wasn't as though there was anything in the office he hadn't seen before; he had security clearance to everything going on in the building. Within a few minutes he was sitting behind Dr J's desk. "Pencil, pencil," he muttered under his breath. "I don't believe this. All these papers and no pencil." Spotting the object of his frenzied search, he leaned over, his sleeve catching on the edge of one of the many documents littering the large wooden desk. A stack of papers tilted towards the floor and he let out a curse, his hand shooting out but narrowly missing the errant manuscripts. He pushed back the heavy leather-backed chair, falling to his knees as he began to gather the papers together quickly, hoping he could tidy up before Dr J returned. He muttered a few choice curses under his breath, wondering if the day could get any worse, then paused, his immediate problems forgotten as his eye caught a sentence on one of the documents. 'We look forward to putting these plans into reality. Such a device will ensure the continued success of the Fatherland during this war against our enemies.' Quatre dropped the remaining papers with a thump and kept reading, the coldness running through him reminiscent of his dream of the night before. He shifted from his knees into a half squatting position, supporting himself with one elbow, almost losing his balance as he realised he was shaking. He reached out with his hand for the support of the heavy desk, vision swimming as he tried to recover his bearings. All he was aware of were the letters standing out on the page in front of him. "The heavy water plant in Norway is being upgraded to provide the necessary volume required." This couldn't be right. They couldn't be seriously going to use the device against the enemies of the Fatherland. The implications were unthinkable, bringing about death and destruction on a scale never seen before. David's words kept running over and over through his mind. 'Have you any idea what kind of people you are working for? Have you any idea of their real agenda?' He'd been such an idiot, only seeing what he'd wanted to. It had been such a great honour to be chosen to work as part of a team alongside Dr J that he hadn't noticed what had obviously been going on for months. According to the paper in front of him, Dr J had been working hand in hand with the Nazis for almost the entire length of the project. Everything made sense now. Quatre had wondered why money would be poured into something such as nuclear physics in the midst of the war effort, but had dismissed his concerns. This device, this atomic bomb, would end the war in a way that no other weapon could. He massaged his temples, slumping in the chair as a sharp pain pierced through his head. Taking a sharp intake of breath, the room spun as grogginess and a need for fresh air overwhelmed him. He couldn't let the panic win; he thought as he furrowed his brows and tried to ignore the thumping in his head. One breath at a time, in and out, in and out. I can do this, just focus. He buried his head in his hands, repeating the mantra until his breathing evened out. Minutes later the aura of calmness he convinced himself he'd achieved shattered as he heard the sound of footsteps in the distance, boots clicking against the polished wooden floors, growing louder with each minute. How long have I been sitting thinking? He'd lost all track of time as his world had crashed down around him. If he were caught snooping through the Herr Doktor's papers without his permission, he knew what the consequences would be. The fact that he was a trusted assistant wouldn't even enter into the equation, especially when it became apparent that he, Quatre, now knew what exactly what Dr J's plan was. He'd been vocal in the past regarding his pacifist views. It was a certainty that Dr J would know he wouldn't want to be part of the project now. Quatre Winner might be naïve but he wasn't stupid. There was no room for loose ends in the Nazi regime. He'd just disappear like David, never to be seen again. Oh David, I'm so sorry. A lone tear trickled down his cheek, falling to smudge the ink on the sheet of paper he held between his shaking fingers. He had to get out of here. Once he could think, maybe he could work out what to do. Was there anything he could do? Maybe it would be better if he just pretended he hadn't seen this? Could he live with himself if he did? Quatre gathered the papers together quickly, hoping the desk looked much the same as it had before he'd entered the room, and made his way to the door of the office. He straightened his tie in front of the small mirror on the wall, checking that he looked presentable, at least enough to pass a brief inspection. He peered through the slight crack in the door, but the corridor was empty. Time to leave before his fears of being caught became reality. He'd had enough reality for one day. Quatre sighed in relief, carefully closing the door behind him and starting on the route towards his own office. His mind was in chaos, compounded by the fact the pain in his head was growing with each passing minute, so much so that he didn't register the fact he'd exited the building until his foot caught on a rough patch of gravel and he went flying. "Herr Doktor Winner. Are you in need of assistance, sir?" Quatre blinked, suddenly aware of a soldier stepping in front of him, bending to help him rise. The man needed a haircut, he thought idly, noticing the long brunette bang hanging down one side of his face. Their eyes met, and Quatre received the distinct impression he was being scrutinised carefully. He pulled away from the man's touch, a small shiver running through him as he tried to regain his sense of composure. Get a grip, he told himself sternly, brushing the dirt from his lab coat all the while hoping his companion hadn't noticed how clammy his hands were. If the soldier noticed how nervous he was, he might wonder why, and in his present state of mind, Quatre wasn't sure he could trust himself to come out with anything that wouldn't be construed as incriminating. "I'm fine. Thank you for your help." The words were spoken with much more politeness than he felt like giving. The soldier was only doing his job as one of the select group of Waffen SS 'protecting' the small group of scientists on the premises. Looking out for the safety of the Herr Doktor and therefore the project would fall under the banner of his duties. "I'm fine," he repeated. Was there a slight glint of amusement in those emerald eyes? Quatre took a deep breath, trying to control his both his anger and growing panic. No need to arouse suspicions and draw even more attention to himself. "Thank you for your concern, Corporal, but it's really not necessary." The Corporal - Barton was his name if Quatre remembered correctly – nodded, appearing not to notice the cold tone in his voice. "If you insist, sir, but I can escort you if required." The man's voice was even, though with enough inflection to prevent it sounding like a monotone, reflecting the calmness he projected in direct opposition to how Quatre himself was feeling. As some of that calmness rubbed off, reaching out to soothe him, Quatre found himself wishing for a moment that he had someone to talk to. "That would be appreciated, thank you," he found himself saying without really knowing why. What are you doing? his mind screamed at him. This isn't someone you can trust. Under the present circumstances everyone on this base was his enemy. If anyone got an inkling of the thoughts running through his mind his life would be in danger. Yet he needed desperately to talk to someone, anyone. He groaned aloud, and Barton paused, one eyebrow raised in what Quatre could only translate as a look of concern. Choosing to ignore it, and the Corporal, he continued walking quietly, increasing his speed to overtake his taller companion. He needed to be alone, he thought in desperation, rubbing his temple in an effort to rid himself of the pain which was becoming worse with each minute. What am I going to do? Somehow he didn't think this problem was going to go away if he just ignored it. What could he do? He was only one man, there was no way he could halt the project now. Voicing his objections would only get him thrown into prison, that being the best-case scenario. "Are you sure you're all right, sir?" It was impossible to guess Barton's intentions, his impassive soldier's mask gave nothing away, but his voice suggested nothing but polite concern. Even so, Quatre couldn't help but wonder why the man was so worried about his well-being. Stop feeling so suspicious, he told himself sternly. Soon you'll be imagining everyone is watching you. He wasn't thinking straight, he knew, but realisation didn't make the feeling vanish. This was impossible. Where were the logical thinking patterns he was known for? They had obviously taken a nosedive out the window along with his peace of mind. "Sir?" Quatre knew that the man would insist on an answer and he couldn't run the risk of raising any suspicions at this point. The soldier couldn't have been stationed there long, a few months at most so hopefully was only being over zealous in performing his duties. As the war progressed even the men drafted into the specialist sections of the army seemed much younger than they'd been when he'd first joined the project. "I'm fine thank you, Corporal." Quatre replied politely, realising they were outside his office door. Maybe it was a good thing that he'd had an escort. Who knew where he might have ended up otherwise, given his current state of mind or lack thereof? Barton stood to attention, giving a small salute before continuing on his way. Quatre lingered for a moment watching him leave, then took refuge in the sanctuary of his office. He leaned against the closed door, concentrating on the feeling of the smooth wood against his back before moving over to his desk. He felt sick to his stomach, and glancing at himself briefly in the small mirror on the wall he decided it had been a miracle Barton hadn't noticed anything was amiss. His complexion was even paler than usual, blonde hair plastered to his brow with sweat. Maybe he should head for home, claiming illness before anyone else saw him? That or he could attempt to pull himself together, which he doubted would work. Nothing would calm him now. He placed his head in his hands, trying to ignore the feelings of despair threatening to overwhelm him. What was he going to do? ****** "You're working too hard." Quatre pulled his head up with a start. Had he been nodding off again? Ever since the discovery of several days before had turned his organised world on its head, he'd been suffering from severe insomnia to say nothing of lack of total peace of mind. The first nightmare had been mild in comparison to what now plagued him each night. The news about David had been his wake-up call; he could see that now. How could he have not noticed what the Nazis were doing in his own backyard? The same Nazis Dr J had promised to give the plans to - had promised his and Quatre's assistance to. He couldn't stay with the project, that much was obvious. It had been an easy decision to make once his tired brain had finally put two and two together. Putting that decision into practice - that would be the hard part. "You're going to make yourself ill," Iria wasn't waiting for an answer; she was well into mother hen mode now. Quatre opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. What was the point? He couldn't tell his sister why he looked like hell, the less she knew about the project the safer it would be for her. He fought back an urge to giggle, slightly shocked at his reaction. No one would be safe if the Nazis got their hands on their work, his work. The world would literally go to hell and he doubted anyone would be putting up a plaque to congratulate him for his contribution. "Yes, Mama," he said, pleased at the slight smile the term of endearment evoked from her. Iria had been all of that and more to him over the past twenty years; it was well deserved. No way was he going to allow her to become involved. He was well and truly on his own. Quatre shivered as he realised the truth in that statement. There was no one he could turn to; even if he did find someone who could help, which he doubted, all he'd achieve would be to place them in the same danger he knew he was in himself. He'd helped dig the hole, it was up to him to make things right, if only he knew how. Part of him wanted to give up right then and there. He looked down at his hands, strengthening his grip on the side of the easy chair so that Iria wouldn't see how much they were shaking. Pull yourself together, Quatre. The longer he put this off the harder it became to think straight. He was convinced that the other scientists were talking about him, noticing the change in his demeanour and to make things worse he was sure he'd seen Corporal Barton out of the corner of his eye on several occasions. Allowing the man to walk him back to his office that day had been a major miscalculation on his part. Barton was watching him he was certain, turning on several occasions, positive there was someone in the room but never actually catching the SS officer in the act. Paranoia was a side effect of a guilty conscience wasn't it? "Go to bed, Quatre, before I carry you up those stairs myself." Iria paused, giving him the once-over with her practised medical eye. His associates had bought the story he'd spun of being under the weather but he doubted she would. Lying to his sister had never been an option and that hadn't changed. Quatre nodded meekly. If retiring early for the night prevented Iria from asking too many questions, so be it. Once he was in his bedroom, behind the closed door he wouldn't have to keep up the act. He paused for a moment on the bottom step, tempted to ask her for something to help him sleep then decided against it. Even though he needed sleep, drug-induced slumber wouldn't be any more dream-free than what he'd been experiencing. "I've been so naive," he muttered as he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Naïve and stupid. He undressed quickly and slipped in between the sheets, wrapping his arms around the big feather pillow as he'd done as a child when he'd been scared to go to sleep. Iria had always been able to comfort him, reassure him that the spectres that haunted his dreams weren't real. Unfortunately these new spectres weren't going to be banished by a few words, much as he'd like to believe they could be. He rolled over in bed, biting down on his lip in an effort not to scream. He should have been a musician instead of succumbing to the desire to leave his mark on the world through science. If he survived this, he was giving up on science forever. Right about now a small house in the country and a violin would be all he needed to achieve happiness. That and someone to share it with. God, he was so lonely and he now doubted that was ever going to change. Who in their right mind would want anything to do with him knowing he'd been involved in this? Quatre pulled the pillow around him tighter, slamming his fist into the mattress. How the hell had he gotten into this mess? All he'd wanted to do was help people and make the world a better place. Why him? He reached for a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily, ashamed of his inability to act. He was a coward, there was no escaping the fact. He couldn't continue working on the project but neither could he find the strength to confront Dr J and do what needed to be done. He sniffed, running his sleeve across his still dripping nose. What could he possibly achieve by confronting the scientist? He'd only bring attention to his objections, in all probability signing his death warrant in the process. Quatre buried down further into the blankets, trying to warm himself against the chill of the room as he concentrated on a silence only broken by the occasional sound of vehicles on the road outside. Laying a hand on his chest, he could feel his heart finally slow to a steady beat as he tried to find some source of inner calm. He had to find a solution, continuing like this wasn't an option. 'God, help me,' he cried out silently, repeatedly before his mind finally stopped struggling against the advances of sleep. ****** Evil prevails when good men do nothing. He walked the same street he'd found himself in that first night but since finding the letter in Dr J's papers the dreamscape had changed; subtly at first but with each subsequent night the sense of death had grown. The buildings around him were now ruined shells of what they had once been and there was no sign of life apart from his own. Even the truck of Gestapo from that first night was no longer present. Quatre shivered, pulling his thin coat around him, knowing there was no way to be rid of the chill. He was surrounded by death. "I saw the God of Death today." Iria's words at the dinner table were coming back to haunt him. Prophetic words, considering this landscape was his doing, caused by his inability to act. If he could somehow find the courage to stop the evil he was involved in, maybe this glimpse into the near future could be halted. Quatre laughed, a small sharp sound echoing off the ruins that had once been the homes of the people who had lived here before the evil had come, the evil he had helped to create. Once this had been a thriving town, people going about their business, children playing in the streets, honest innocent people unaware of what people like him did behind closed doors in the name of science. Now all was left was total desolation. There was no way he could stand up and be counted as a good man after this. A good man would have never have buried himself in his work to the extent that he didn't notice what was going on around him. A good man would have listened to David and acted in time to save him. A good man wouldn't be so worried about saving his own skin that he couldn't do what was right. This world was grey, different shades of neutral. For the vibrant colours associated with living you needed emotion, joy, love and there was no room for that here. Everything that was positive had been killed alongside all the people. Quatre remembered the dream from the previous night, children screaming, burning alive, calling out to him to save them. The city had been an inferno, the only colour being the bright red of flames falling from the sky. He'd walked through the inferno unscathed but something inside him had died with the people he'd been unable to help. As he bent down to cradle a whimpering child, she looked up at him and pointed a finger. "Your fault, this is your fault." He wept over her lifeless body as she drew her final breath, knowing full well that she was right. The burden of guilt was something he would carry for the rest of his life, whether this ever became reality or not. "What do you want?" He lifted his head to the dark sky and screamed his question to whoever might be listening. What was the point? There was nobody left to listen. Everyone was dead. The air around him was still, the smell of death permeating every part of him. Not even vultures circulated to prey upon what was left of the population. There was nothing here but the death and mass destruction caused by the evil of the weapon he was helping to build. They'd done their job well in ridding the city of all evidence that life had once existed in this place. He'd awoken screaming that night, unable to stop the shaking and the terror and too scared to go back to sleep. No wonder Iria thought he looked like hell. He stopped, unable to face the memories and buried his face in his hands. He didn't have the strength to stop this. What could one man do? He was barely twenty, he didn't need this responsibility. Surely there was someone else? Someone without as much to lose, someone else better equipped for the task at hand. A quiet voice interrupted his reverie. "You need to act, to follow your conscience, to stand up for what you believe to be right. You know the project you are working on will lead to this. It's time to act before it's too late." He spun around to observe a slender woman kneeling behind him over the body of a small child. "I didn't think anyone had survived," he told her. The woman's lips pursed, showing her disgust as she rolled her eyes towards the sky. "Survive?" she asked. "Would you want to survive this? Even those who live will feel the effects for generations to come. You know the evil of what is being planned, and yet you say nothing, do nothing." "I'm only one man," he repeated. "What can I do?" The woman's expression softened. I know you, he thought. How do I know you? "My poor Cat," she whispered. "You have to do what you know is right." Aquamarine eyes met his and he found himself back-pedalling as he realised why she seemed so familiar. It was the reflection he saw in the mirror each morning and yet it wasn't. Quatre heard himself take a sharp intake of breath as he put the obvious into words. "Mama?" he croaked, his voice catching. She was beautiful, blonde hair falling over her shoulders in waves, her smile projecting a radiance and aura of inner strength he knew he didn't possess himself. The old sepia photographs didn't come close to doing her justice. Quaterine Winner put her arm out to her son, beckoning him to move closer as she laid the body of the child she was cradling gently down on the dusty sidewalk. Quatre needed no further invitation. It was what he'd longed for his whole life, an opportunity to put his arms around the mother he'd never known. He laid his head on her shoulder, feeling the softness of her skin against his. Iria's hugs had never felt like this, even though she'd tried. A mother's touch was something unique, something he'd never had the privilege of feeling, until now. He put his hand on her cheek and ran it gently across her face, craving the contact like a drowning man clutching onto a life raft. "I'm so sorry." His body shook as the tears came hesitantly at first, then flowed as though they would never stop. She pulled him closer, stroking his brow gently as she waited for the sobbing to stop then pulled away, a stern look on her face. "You can't go on like this, Quatre, you know you can't. It's time to take responsibility for your actions." His mother's tone was gentle as she reached over to place both hands on his shoulders but her firm grip suggested she wasn't about to tolerate his behaviour. "You have the power to stop this, stop hiding and do something." A wetness gushed across his hands, and he glanced down, not wanting to see what he suspected was the cause. The sensation was too light for rain, it congealed with the consistency of something he'd seen enough of over the past few nights. Blood. The crimson liquid dripped onto his clothes from the sky, seeping into his skin as he frantically began wiping his hands on his coat in a misguided attempt to try to prevent it from staining his soul. He was already stained in guilt, in death and in blood, it was too late to save himself, to save David, to save all those he should have helped. Quaterine Winner spoke again but this time there was no sign of humanity left in her voice. It was a cold harsh voice, born of a nightmare. "Their blood is on your hands Quatre Raberba Winner. You have to stop this nightmare from becoming a reality." Quatre backed away, falling to his knees as the first wave of pain hit him. It was the pain of rejection, of self-hatred, of everything he'd feared in life all rolled into one. He'd failed himself, failed his mother and failed humanity. He reached out for his mother looking for forgiveness but knowing he wouldn't find any. It was too late. "Mama!" he screamed as she started to fade before his eyes, a wraith disappearing into the fine damp mist which had appeared out of nowhere, bringing with it a sudden burst of cold. Quatre forced himself to his feet too late. She was gone and he was alone. ****** "It's okay, Cat. It's just another nightmare." His sister, Iria, was leaning over him, stroking his brow. For a moment he felt disorientated, his memory struggling to relate her features to those of his mother in the dreamscape. Taking a few deep breaths, he took comfort in the familiar smell of her perfume, before struggling to pull himself up into a sitting position, wrapping one hand around the cotton sheet. His knuckles were white as he gripped it, trying to pull himself together. "It's not just a nightmare, Iria," he told her. "It's the future. A future I'm helping to create." He swallowed hard as he shivered, trying to control the urge to run to the bathroom and vomit. He dry heaved, wiping his lips against the damp handkerchief still sitting on the side of the bed. All he wanted to do was pretend the nightmare hadn't happened but it was far too late for that now. Iria shook her head, blonde curls falling over her face as she took the handkerchief from him, folding it over and over. A minute passed before she spoke. "I can't believe you'd be involved in something evil, Quatre." She touched his chest with her hand as she climbed onto the bed next to him, resting her back against the headboard. "You feel too much for others in here." Quatre snorted. "I feel so much for others that I don't even notice what's going on around me till it's too late. I should have realised." He pushed her hand away, feeling guilty as he saw the hurt reflected in her eyes. Iria was trying to help, but how could she when she didn't know the full situation? The unspoken questions going through her mind were apparent, questions he couldn't answer. "Is there something you need to talk about?" Iria asked, the tone of her voice reminding Quatre of his mother in the dream. He pulled away, shaking and she wrapped her arms around him, rocking him as though he were a baby. They sat for a moment, until Quatre spoke again, reluctant to move away from the safety of her embrace but knowing he couldn't hide in it forever. "I can't. It's not…safe." He sat upright, pulling away from the comfort she offered. "I want to tell you, Iria, but I’m scared, I'm so scared. Do you understand?" Iria nodded, understanding seeming to flash in her eyes momentarily before disappearing. "This is about work, isn't it? Should you be working on this project if it's having this effect on you?" Quatre stifled a sob. "I can't …don’t ask me, I can't." He hated hiding the truth from her but he couldn't take the risk of her being placed in danger because of him, because of his shortcomings. He concentrated on steadying his breathing, if he seemed less agitated maybe he could lessen her concern. His mother had been right, running away was no longer an option. He spoke again, this time with more control. "I have to do something, Iria, but I can't tell you." He reached over, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Promise me you'll understand, please?" Iria slid off the bed, her eyes covered in a fine mist. "I do understand, Quatre, more than you realise. Promise me, you'll be careful." Quatre frowned. From the tone in his sister's voice…somehow she did understand, he was sure of it, but he didn’t have the energy to work out why. "I promise, Iria, but I have to do what's right." He would confront Dr J in the morning and to hell with the consequences. He couldn't continue to do nothing. If the Nazis didn't kill him, inaction would. "I love you, Cat." Iria put her finger up to her lips, leaning forward to touch his forehead in a familiar gesture of trust and affection. Quatre nodded, letting out the breath he'd been holding. "I know you do, Iria. I love you too." He watched her leave the room, then settled back against the pillows, sensing a calmness he hadn't felt for several days. For some reason he wasn't worried about how or what he was going to tell Dr J but it didn’t seem to matter. The fight within had been resolved.
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