"Then the king commanded, and they brought Daniel, and cast him into the den of lions."
--- Daniel 6:6
"Help me carry on
Assure me it's ok to use my heart and not my eyes
To navigate the darkness
Will the ending be ever coming suddenly?
Will I ever get to see the ending to my story?
Show me what it's for
Make me understand it."
--- Hoobastank, Crawling In The Dark
Requiem for the Sinners Part 41
In the Den of Lions
"Easy boy, chill!"
Catherine looked up from where she was breaking down one of the tents to see the youngest animal trainer, Michael, jerk back from one of the cages. He had one hand pressed hard into the other, and for a moment, fear jolted her, but there was no blood. Sweat shone on the young man's face as he shook his head.
A low snarl issued from the cage, and the white lion within it paced furiously, tail lashing. The animal growled, the sound so low it was almost sub-audible, more of a vibration in the bottom of her chest than an actual noise.
"What's wrong with him, Mike?"
The animal trainer leaned up against a stack of crates, sighing. "Hell, I don't know. You know how he gets. And with all these soldiers around..."
"Yeah," Catherine replied, softly. "The soldiers."
"I mean, damn, I wish Trowa was here."
So do I.
"Falco never gave Trowa any trouble."
Catherine flashed the boy a blinding smile, hoping to put him at ease. She felt a rush of satisfaction as the trainer visibly relaxed. "Don't worry about it. He's just nervous." She laughed, and hoped it didn't sound as forced as it felt. "Besides, you know he's Trowa's boy, anyway. Trowa spoiled him rotten."
Michael scowled as a squad of soldiers passed, the one in the lead talking on a walkie. They looked grim and tired. "I don't know 'bout you, Cat, but I'm gonna be glad to get out of here. These guys are makin' me nervous, too. Do you know when Trowa is gonna be back? He said he was gonna come back to the circuit in January."
Catherine shook her head. "I don't know. I've been trying to reach him, but I haven't been able to get him. He's probably fine, though." The lie wasn't convincing in the least, not even to herself. She wished it could be.
Please don't fight, Trowa.
"Yeah, he's a strong guy," Michael said, smiling again. "I'm sure he can take care of himself. Shane told you anything yet? Where are we headed?"
"I don't know. I think we're going to close the circus for awhile."
She said she wasn't sure as she watched Michael's face fall, but she was. The circus had been crowded, and they had been making good money on all the games and rides and attractions... but they couldn't stand to look at the faces anymore. The crowds looked desperate again, like they did during the Alliance, weary of the wars, of the deaths that had besieged them for so many years.
It was just too damned hard to be happy when there were constant reminders of what was going on around them; no amount of white lions and elephants and clowns could erase the soldiers stationed at street corners, the shudders from space battle that sometimes shook the colony hard enough to spook the animals, bursts of faraway dogfights in the sky. Silent death as beautiful as fireworks.
Michael burst out suddenly. Furiously. "I hate this goddamned war!" He jabbed his thumb out past the dismantled circus, towards the streets. A few civilians walked there, but not many. They walked with their heads down, as if they were pushing into a high wind. Catherine thought she could almost smell their fear. She was sure the animals could.
"Those people... they don't even know how ta have a good time anymore. It makes me fuckin' sick, Cat."
"I know. But you can't really blame them," she replied, softly. She pushed her bangs back from her face, weary. "It's been a rough couple of years. You know?"
"Yeah, so? They gotta just curl up and die 'a misery?" Michael said, his L2 accent deepening as he grew angrier. His fury was hot, almost touchable. "You see those damned kids, Cat? They can't hardly laugh, they're so scared."
"I've seen them, Mike."
She looked at him. The young man's eyes were feral, desperate, and spoke of a much different place than the one where they stood now. He reminded her of the lion in the cage. When she looked into Falco's eyes, she saw Africa.
When she looked into Michael's, she saw nests of newspaper in the backseats of abandoned cars, blood in gutters.
They just gazed at each other a moment, silent, caught in fear of it all.
"Fuck." Michael muttered, the sound almost as guttural as the lion's snarl, and he turned from her. "I left to get away from this shit," Catherine heard him whisper as he walked away.
Catherine stood in front of the dismantled tent piles, watching the animal trainer walk away, his shoulders decidedly more slumped than they had been before. Dejected. Somehow, she thought, they all knew what the death of the circus meant. It was a link to an earlier time, when people could find the time and joy to laugh at clowns, to try to catch rings around shining bottles for stuffed animals, to eat popcorn and cotton candy and forget their lives for a little while.
The circus was almost already gone. The Ferris wheel had already been taken down, the crates packed away on the trucks, the fences and gates and food stands and poles and hawker's podiums, poles and flags and cheap gifts and cheap food and animal props. All packed.
She walked over to Falco. The lion tensed as she approached, a low growl trickling from its throat, teeth bared.
Beasts only bare their fangs at enemies...
Oh, Trowa.
She pulled out her cell-phone again, flipping it open and scanning through the numbers quickly until she found the one she was looking for. TROWA-CELL.
She pressed SEND, not daring to hope, but hoping anyway. The connection icon flickered as satellites linked up and the signal fought to make it across hundreds of miles of space.
It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Trowa's voice came on. Even though she knew it was a recording, it made her feel better just to hear him, the deep, dry timbre of his voice.
"This is 2738-594-2937. If this is the number you intended to call, I am unavailable. Please leave a message and your number at the tone."
No name. No promise to call back. Just confirmation.
"Hey, Trowa, this is Catherine. Please, please call me whenever you get a chance. I'm worried about you." One of the workers walked up, holding a box out to her questioningly, and she pointed to one of the trucks distractedly. "I want to make sure you're all right, Trowa. You know my number. ... I love you. Bye."
She flipped the phone shut.
"Oh, damn," she whispered, brushing away a tear on her cheek. She hadn't even realized she was crying. She looked at Falco, who glared back at her unapologetically as he paced, upper lip twisted in fury. He was more quiet, though, and she thought maybe he had heard Trowa's voice on the phone.
"You be quiet, Fal. I miss him too, and I'm not throwing a tantrum."
She turned away from the cage and yelped as she saw Shane standing behind her.
"How long have you been there, you sneak-thief?"
The grizzled ringleader laughed, brushing his thinning hair back from his face. "Just long enough to hear you talking to the animals, Miss Doolittle. You keep that up, you'll be as bad off as that Barton boy. Didn't mean to startle you to death," he added, a little more apologetic.
"Sure," she replied, turning away from him so he couldn't see her tears. She wiped her face.
"Look, Cat, I came to tell you... we can't leave the colony."
She turned back to him, scowling. "What?"
The ringleader sighed. "You heard me, girl. We can't leave. I mean, I was afraid this was going to happen, but I didn't think it would happen so fast. They've closed down the airspace around the colony. So we're all packed up with no place to go."
Preventers.
Catherine felt her mouth go dry. "But we're neutral. They know that... and we can't just stay here. The war is coming, Shane!"
He looked at her solemnly, no trace of humor in his face. "Sweetheart, the war is here."
~*~
Duo woke slowly in a pile of warm bodies, conscious thought rising to the surface of a dark well. Before he opened his eyes, he thought he might be back in Haven, curled up with other orphans like puppies in a litter. But the smell didn't match. It wasn't fire and sickness and dank dirt and concrete, it was incense and sand and polished wood.
He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was blood across the sheets he was lying on.
Trowa didn't tend that wound. Careless. Wonder how much these sheets cost. Probably more than I made in a month at Yofer's...
That thought brought him back all the way, heart thudding. Sheets. Cream silk sheets.
He froze, finally seeing where he was. He was pressed up against Trowa's back, his breath hot against the soft fabric of the blue tank top Trowa had been wearing under his spacesuit, his arm pressed skin-to-skin with Trowa's shoulder.
And Quatre on the other side of Trowa, face pressed against Trowa's shoulder, above his chest. Quatre's arm lying between his and Trowa's chests, hand resting lightly on Duo's wrist. Duo suddenly felt a tension run through Quatre, and Duo knew he was conscious. Quatre woke like the rest of them; deep asleep one moment, wide awake the next.
The blond pilot's hand flexed on his wrist, then closed tightly. Quatre's head lifted slightly, moving enough to where Duo could see his face. Two wary, bright turquoise eyes blinked sleepily at him.
"... Duo?"
"I'll give you the nose, Quatre, but I'm gonna need my wrist back in one piece." Speaking of which... Duo brought his free hand slowly to his face, patting gingerly. Not broken. Swollen, painful... but not broken. Phew, he thought. Never know how vain you are until someone hits you in the face...
He tried to pull back. The hand gripping his wrist stopped him, threatened crushing pressure. Duo knew without a doubt that no matter how soft the Sandrock pilot had sometimes appeared to him, Quatre could break his wrist as easily as Heero ever could. The ability of Quatre to hide that lethal strength had always been one of his advantages, and he knew it.
He stared Quatre down, his gaze cold and speculative. "Quatre, I mean it. Let go."
Both of them felt Trowa tense under them, unmoving, and wild green eyes opened slowly, cautiously. They flicked from Duo, to Quatre, and back again. Quatre glanced at him, then raised his eyes back to Duo.
"We need to talk." Quatre's voice was soft, but angry. Tight. "Now."
Duo raised his eyebrows hopefully. "Coffee first?"
All three of them heard Heero's soft laughter from the corner, and all looked at him in surprise. He still sat against the far wall, knees pulled to his chest, but he watched them from where he sat, chin resting across his crossed arms. His eyes shone in the half-light, amused.
The tension was broken, temporarily. Quatre smiled. Faint, but it was there. He loosened his grip, and Duo took his arm back warily. The movement caused Quatre and Trowa both to coil tightly; he could almost feel the violence in them, ready to spring like a trap. Duo saw Quatre's eyes flick to the gun on the bedside table, then back to him. It seemed to be more of a security than anything else. He made no move to grab it.
"No offense to you guys, and nobody move too quick, but I'm getting up." Duo moved slowly, crawling backwards until he met the edge of the bed, then sliding off. Not exactly the most graceful exits of someone's bed he'd ever done, but he figured it would have to work. He stood as soon as he was on the floor, still looking at Quatre. He was welded to the spot, as if now that he had stood, he didn't know where to go. Finally, he moved to the wall next to Heero and sat down, crossing his legs in front of him.
"Truce," Quatre said softly, eyes never leaving him. "But I still have to talk to you. I have to understand, Duo. If I'm going to fight, I have to know."
"I know," Duo replied, just as seriously. He smiled a little, no teeth, and he knew Quatre could feel that it wasn't a mask. "But I meant it about the coffee first."
Trowa sat up, forcing Quatre to move off of him slightly. He stretched his back like a cat, and Duo could almost hear his vertebrae pop. He looked at Heero.
"Coffee." The word was neither a statement nor a question, yet seemed to be both. The Heavyarms pilot smiled lazily.
"Yes," Heero replied, his mouth twitching slightly.
"Hell yes," Duo put in.
"Good." Trowa pushed the sheets off of his lower body and slid across the mattress, standing. He walked out of the bedroom wordlessly. Heero noted that he had slept with his boots on. He glanced over to where Wufei was lying across the settee. The Preventer commander was twisted into an impossible position, face pressed into the cushions.
"Anyone want to wake up Wufei?" Heero said, smirking slightly. The old joke fell between them like a comfortable promise.
"Not it," Duo and Quatre said in unison, then looked at each other, eyes wide.
Whatever lethal tension had been left in the room dissipated into laughter.
~*~
Sally awoke to the sound of sirens.
She jolted from the couch she had been sleeping on as if she had been shot, disoriented. The red emergency lights flickered steadily in the pilot's lounge, and she recognized the cool, calm voice over the PA system of Peacemillion II, but couldn't immediately place it.
Suddenly, she could.
It was Dorothy Catalonia.
"All mobile suit fighter squadrons: red alert, red alert. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Legion fleet spotted at 291-937. Please follow offensive procedures. ... General Po, please report to the hangar."
Sally pushed the door of the lounge outwards and broke into the hall at a jog. The walkie at her side buzzed impatiently, and she pulled it free. "What is it? I'm on my way."
"General Po, it's Catalonia. I just thought I'd inform you that Septem's fleet is MIA." Sally was furious to note that the young woman's voice was nearly smug. "I told Noventa he should have sent me or Maser after Winner."
"His fleet?" Sally asked, startled. "You can't just lose an entire fleet!"
"We have, sir." Dorothy made the honorific almost sarcastic. "Septem and his men went into L4-2738 to quell the rebellion there. They never came out."
"Damn..." Sally closed her eyes tightly. She was beginning to get a headache. "... We have to go after him."
"Negative, Po. I already contacted HQ. Noventa ordered us to destroy Legion first, while we have the chance."
Sally stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, oblivious to the cat crews and controllers pushing their way past her, trying to get down to the hangar. "Fuck Noventa!" she spat into the walkie, furious.
There was a moment of silent static over the walkie before Dorothy answered.
"... Can I quote you on that, sir?" The young woman's tone was amused.
"Feel free." Sally walked towards the hangar, feeling somehow liberated now that she'd finally said what she had been wanting to say for the last few weeks. "As of now, all orders Noventa makes for my team are going to be considered null. And you can tell him that, too."
Dorothy's voice was disapproving over the walkie, but there was a strange undercurrent to it as well. Sally thought it might be excitement at the idea of another rebellion.
She's definitely Treize's blood.
"... You can't do that, Sally. Your troops are stationed on the Peacemillion, and the Peacemillion is under HQ orders."
Sally felt a chill come over her, numbing and a definite comfort. She knew immediately that it was the knowledge that she had just defected. Just like that, with no regrets, no consideration. The act was done. She wondered if Wufei had felt the same. Her mind ticked over the technicalities of treason with no hesitation at all.
"Then I'll remove my men from this base. Immediately. If we're going to fight his damned war, then it's the warriors who are going to decide how it's done."
"You realize that's mutiny, Sally. Noventa will have you killed. At the very least, the World Nation will have you up on lese majesty charges."
Sally started towards the hangar again. Now that the anger and doubt that had been hanging over her heart were lifted, she felt light as a feather. Thrumming. Almost as if she could float down the corridor. She didn't even realize her hands were shaking.
"I'd like to see them try. I already lost forty-two men to Noventa's last decision, I won't repeat the mistake again. PA my team to dock three, please. And take care of the Peacemillion, Catalonia. She needs you. And if you have to fight... don't do it because of him."
"I understand, General. More than you know. ...Good luck."
The walkie cut out, and Sally heard Dorothy's voice over the speaker system as she entered the elevator down to the hangar.
"Attention Creek Squadron. Please report to Dock Three for further instruction. I repeat, Creek Squad, report to Dock Three for new orders."
I'm not playing your game anymore, Noventa, Sally thought, a grim smile on her face as she strode into the docks. Her men saw her coming and looked up expectantly.
She would not disappoint them again.
TBC...
Back to CleverYoungThief's Fanfictions Page