04-Sep-2000
Disclaimers: Don't own them.
Warnings: Cussing. Timeline? We don't need no stinkin' timeline. And, of course, the story takes place in one of the multitude of oh-so-convenient Winner estates... hey, just following fanfic convention.
This one's a little weird. Trowa is hard to write!
In my dreams, I walk a tightrope, balancing on a thin gold wire stretching out of sight before and behind. It is a struggle to breathe, to move, to keep my muscles from locking up in fear or exhaustion. Every step is an internal calculation of body mass and my center of gravity; every step is a single move in an ongoing, instinctual dance between heaven and earth.
Below me is the horror. You're not supposed to look down when you're walking a tightrope. It has less to do with fear of heights and more to do with your balance; walking on a wire no thicker than your little toe precludes extraneous movement. So I don't look down.
I know it's there, though, the horror. In a circus, there would be light coming up from below, and sound; the gasps of the crowd, the music, the ringmaster's deep-voiced drama. Here, there is nothing. It seems as though the wind should be whistling bleakly, but there is only silence.
I don't know why I always look down in these dreams, whether it's fate or chance or my own weakness that settles my eyes on the horror beneath me. Darkness, with a hint of movement. A pond, or a lake, or even an ocean, impenetrably black. Sometimes, I can see the reflections of stars, cold and distant, shimmer on its surface. Sometimes I don't see anything at all. And sometimes, on a good night, I can see light all over the surface of the water, turning what should be a nightmare into a dream of peace. I've had the last more and more often in the last month, and it's good, except for one thing. I know, despite the peace the dream brings, that the light is only reflected off the surface, and below it the water is still black and cold.
Breakfast is peaceful this morning; Heero is already in the hangar and Duo hasn't gotten up. Wufei doesn't generally speak until he's on his third or fourth cup of coffee. Quatre sips tea out of a delicate porcelain cup, humming Bach under his breath, just quietly enough not to disturb the Chinese boy with his nose in his mug.
Nothing like last week, with that pointless scene between Duo and Wufei. Fortunately, they seem to have worked it out, despite Wufei's ham-handed apology (which only made things worse, of course.) Actually, I suppose it's more likely that Duo just decided to let it go.
It's a relief to have things back to what passes for normal among the five of us. Duo's bad mood appears to have been shaken off; whatever Heero said to him must have worked. Heero's overall tolerance has been pretty high the last few days, come to think of it. I wonder if he hit his head on the last mission?
"Heero's been acting - different lately," Quatre said conversationally, putting his cup down. I blink at him. It's not unusual for him to suddenly interject a comment that appears to follow my train of thought, but it never fails to startle me. I don't know if it's some weird side effect of his empathy or if we just think alike. I'm not sure which is scarier, the idea that he can follow what I'm thinking or the idea that someone like him thinks anything like - well, like me. I realize belatedly that I haven't responded to his comment.
Fortunately, he's used to this. "He seems a little more open than he was." Quatre's right, of course. It never fails to astonish me how observant and intelligent he is, considering that he looks like a fluffy blond without a thought in his head. When I first saw him climb out of Sandrock, I was actually furious, wondering who in the hell would send such an innocent little kid out to kill and destroy.
Okay, so he's not so innocent, and piloting a Gundam is his choice. Come to think of it, he probably had more freedom to choose than any of us, considering that he actually had other, more logical options. But he's still here, fighting like the rest of us.
"I'm glad. I think he'll be happier once he learns how to make friends with people." Quatre sipped at his tea some more. Wufei lifted his head out of his coffee.
"Always assuming that one of us doesn't die," he muttered blackly.
"Do you honestly think he wouldn't have cared before?" Quatre asked him. "At least now, if one of us dies, he'll know why he's sad, and he might let the rest of us help him grieve." Wufei shrugged and buried his nose back in his coffee. Quatre sighed, leaning his chin in his hand and shooting a rueful glance at me. I blinked at him.
"Nanashi." I stilled on the tightrope, my arms outstretched for balance, my eyes vainly attempting to pierce the darkness in front of me. "Nanashi." The voice was a whisper, rolling across the water below, hissing in my ear with the hot breath of a demon.
That's not my name. Not anymore. I forced my feet to keep moving, my muscles to stay relaxed and responsive to the tiny motions needed to maintain my center of gravity directly over the wire.
"Nanashi." The voice came again, louder, freezing my muscles and tightening my breath. Involuntarily, I looked down. No lights shone off the surface of the water, and I shuddered. I didn't know what was beneath the water, but within the confines of the dream I knew it was the greatest horror there was, the ultimate nightmare, and my chest tightened in utter terror.
"Nanashi!" The voice was laughing as it cried out, the sort of maniacal laughter Heero frequently indulged in when fighting. The laughter sent shudders down my spine, and suddenly nothing became more important than keeping my balance on that wire, making sure that I didn't fall below into the grasp of whatever lurked beneath the water.
Even as I tried to move, as my lungs ached with the painful gulps of air I took, my rational mind was saying only a dream. But the dream was too powerful; the dream had control. "That's not my name!" My strangled shout brought me awake and upright, shuddering in the dark. "That's not my name," I whispered to the knees I hugged to my chest.
Around dawn I gave up on sleep and made my way to the hidden hangar in the forest.
Heavyarms was fully repaired, but like my fellow pilots I tended to tweak my Gundam from time to time. Heero, for example, was already up, crouched in Wing's cockpit. He glanced up as I entered.
"You're up early," he commented. I stared at him; stating the obvious had never been one of Heero's failings. "Anything wrong?" he pursued, and I felt my mouth drop open. I'd have laid better odds on a lion suddenly barking like a dog than on Heero expressing concern for someone.
I managed to shut my mouth and shrugged. He glared. "You haven't been sleeping well." Okay - on the weirdness scale, that ranked up there with a lion giving birth to live rabbits. A male lion, that is. "Talk," he ordered, "or I sic Duo on you." That was a joke. Who was this person, and what had he done with Heero Yuy? Maybe he had hit his head.
He was still looking at me expectantly, one eyebrow raised. What was going on? I thought Heero was too much the perfect soldier, closed off and focused, to sit around trying to play armchair psychiatrist. "Nightmares," I finally admitted, shrugging again and turning towards Heavyarms. Surely he couldn't keep up this bizarre display much longer.
"Hn. About?" Then again...
"Usual." He glared at me. "Why?" I asked him, suddenly exasperated. He refused to meet my eyes, looking down at his hands, which were uncharacteristically fiddling with a screwdriver.
"We're - worried," he finally admitted. "You're not eating or sleeping well, you seem to have lost your concentration, and you're not even talking to Quatre. He says you haven't picked up your flute in a week." I just gaped at him. "Whatever's bugging you, you ought to tell someone about it. I'm volunteering to listen."
What the hell was he doing? How could he suddenly change the rules like this? I understood him before - his need to isolate himself. I respected his drive, his fierce concentration on the mission, his incredible abilities. Why was suddenly turning into someone different? He was the example for which I strove; if he changed, if he opened up, did that mean that everything I had been striving for was a lie?
I glared at him. He glared at me. I'm not bad at glaring, but I'm no match for him. I broke the gaze first, scuffing my foot on the hangar floor and staring at the familiar metal body of Heavyarms as if it could shield me from this conversation as well as it did from enemy fire.
I finally said, "Do you have a real name?" Out of the corner of my eye I saw him staring at me, obviously confused.
"What's that got to do with anything?" he asked. I just shrugged. He sighed. "I don't know. I've never really been anything but 'boy' or 'you,' I don't think." I could feel my eyes widening in surprise. He shrugged. "It's never bothered me, really. I'm assuming, however, that you don't have one either and it does bother you." Yeah, I guess that would follow, wouldn't it, Mr. Obvious?
"I was Nanashi. No-name. I don't know if my mother ever named me or if she died giving birth to me or what. When I met up with the mercenaries, that was what I said my name was, and it stuck. Most of the time it didn't bother me, but sometimes - I would hear them call me that, and think that's who I am. Nobody. No family, no ancestors, no friends - no ties at all to anyone, living or dead.
"And that's still who I am. A cypher. The unknown soldier. I feel like a robot wind-up toy that's just been set down on the battlefield and pointed in this direction or that." Where was this coming from? The words were spilling out of my mouth as though the act of speaking had punched a hole in the seal over my fear and pain, and long-accumulated pressure was sending them bubbling to the surface. They hurt; I couldn't believe how much they hurt, wrenching something deep inside me.
"Hn." Heero looked a little startled, an expression that was decidedly odd on his usually still face. "You're not unknown."
I sighed. Mr. Literal strikes again. I should have known better than to think he would be any help solving personal issues. Before I could turn away, though, he spoke again, hesitantly. "Catherine knows you. The four of us know you. You're a person, no matter what your name is or isn't. It's easy to feel faceless on a battlefield, easy to submerge all individuality in the duties of a soldier. That's our job; we're supposed to be that way.
"But you're wrong if you think that you don't have a personality. Cyphers don't make friends with lions. Nobodies don't play the flute with skill and passion that even I can feel. And wind-up toys generally don't have such extremely distinctive hairstyles." The corner of his mouth twitched. Great. If I'd wanted bad jokes, I would have talked to Duo.
"I know all that in my head. But I don't feel it. I don't feel like I know anything about myself."
"Well, Trowa, you're 15. From what I know about human physical and psychological development, we're not supposed to know who we are at age 15. But if it really bothers you so much, maybe you should find out."
"Huh?"
"Find out who you are."
"Great plan. How?"
"Uh..." Poor Heero. He was shifting restlessly still, turning that screwdriver over and over in his hands. He was doing his best, but human weakness was definitely not his area of expertise. Hell, conversation wasn't his area of expertise. I sighed, acknowledging that it wasn't exactly mine either.
"I'll figure it out. Sorry to burden you with my problems."
Friends are supposed to help each other with their problems," he said, glaring at me. He said it the way he used to say that terrorists shouldn't become attached, as though it were written in a book on the proper rules for a friend's behavior. I couldn't help but smile a little. Here we were, two boys with no identities and no childhood, trying to fight a war and become human beings at the same time. As Heero had always implied, the two goals were almost mutually exclusive. But if he were willing to try anyway, maybe I could, too.
Heero began to fiddle with Wing again, restlessly, and I turned back to look at Heavyarms. This was something as familiar to me as my own body; I had helped build it from the frame out, welded and hammered its parts with my own hands. The same hands that played the flute Heero so admired, that even Duo would shut up to listen to. These hands had slaughtered the mercenaries I had grown up with. They had nursed the circus's sick tiger back to health.
I stared at them, caught by my train of thought. They looked young to be capable of so much, despite the obvious strength, the small white scars, the callouses. Distinctive. Unique. Not the hands of a cypher; these hands carried my history with them, just as the rest of me did, body and mind together. Whatever name I chose to answer to, I was myself, the only person on Earth or the colonies who had lived through my experiences, done the things that I had done, and had the abilities that I had. That would be enough to start with.
I turned back to Heero, who was trying not to be obvious about watching me out of the corner of his eye. "I thought relying on others was a weakness," I commented, smiling slightly as I caught his eye.
"Hn. Tactically speaking, it stands to reason that a burden is lighter when spread out over more supports, and that different members of a unit can compensate for each other's weaknesses with their own strengths."
"Tactically speaking."
"Aa."
"Oh, that's okay then," I said, suppressing a smile and turning towards the hangar entrance. "Members of a unit, huh?" He glared at me. Apparently, one of my traits was to tease my friends... I made a mental note, wondering what would happen if I were to try the old bucket-over-the-door trick on Duo. I headed back towards the hangar door, struck with the sudden desire to find out. Outside, the sun was burning through the early morning haze. The two ravens were circling over the entrance to the hangar.
Heero followed my glace and smirked. "I think they're stalking you, Trowa."
I glared at him. "You know, you were a lot more tolerable when you only opened your mouth to threaten to kill somebody." The smirk widened a little.
"Want me to run interference?" he asked.
"Don't shoot them; Duo likes them."
"I'm not going to shoot them. I'm going to throw large heavy objects at them."
"What, like Wing? Don't worry about it. I'll take my chances." With that, I sprinted towards the house, ducking and rolling just in time for a diving raven to crash into a tree with a squawk, and making it to the front door without a hair misplaced.
In my dream, I balanced, perfectly still, on a tightrope. Below me was the calm, still surface of the water. From somewhere below, a faint light filtered to the surface. I took a deep breath - and dived.
