March 1999
[Standard disclaimers apply]
"Come here, boy. Come on, don't be shy." Raucous laughter echoed through the hangar as the man gestured to the slight child standing in the shadows of a half-completed mobile suit. Hesitant, the boy shifted uneasily from one foot to another, his small hands turning the metal wrench between his fingers. The man who had called out to him beckoned again, smiling widely. He looked sincere.
Almost.
"Don't you have a name?" the man asked. When the boy shook his head, the sandy-haired man smiled again. "No name, eh? Guess we'll just call you Nanashi then. What do you think?" he asked the rest of his company.
"Whatever," a moustached man laughed out. "You can call him anything you want. He's only good for one thing," he leered. Without warning the man reached out, grabbing the boy's thin arm, pulling him almost off his feet. With a startled cry, the boy stumbled forward, the wrench clattering onto the floor as it dropped from his grip.
"Ooo look at those eyes," the man crooned, holding the young boy's jaw with a callused hand, turning his head this way and that so that the bright fluorescent lights shone in his eyes. The boy knew he had pretty eyes; too many people had told him so. But they had been sincere and admiring, and had not shown the leering covetousness that radiated so impossibly obvious as it did from the man that held him in a grasp so strong, it hurt. The boy whimpered as the man squeezed his flesh suddenly, and shuddered when he felt another's hand stroke his leg. Even through the thick material of the coveralls he wore, the touch left behind something that permeated to the very core of his being.
And it disgusted him.
Almost immediately, the boy started to struggle, trying to pull away from the laughing ring of men. The one who still held him laughed the loudest, and there was a wicked twinkle in his cold eyes, one that dared him to scream, to shout. Go ahead, the eyes seemed to say, no one will hear. No one will come. Go ahead and cry, little Nanashi. And in emphasis, those triumphant orbs loomed closer until he could feel the warmth their master's breath upon his skin; the rough caress of hair across his cheek.
Squirming, the boy twisted, his breath hitching as he tried to control the sobs that threatened to break loose. It would not do to cry, to seem weak. It would not do to surrender. But it was so hard, so very hard...
Someone grabbed his upper arms from behind, pinning them to his body; his wrists were held tight, enveloped in the moustached man's ham-sized fist, even as the man roughly nuzzled at his neck, nipping at the tender flesh there.
"No..please...no..." the boy gasped, terror already reigning supreme in his thumping heart. He'd had close brushes before, but they had always let him go after seeing how young he was. He had thought this would be similar.
He was wrong.
A hand fumbled at his thigh, gripping the tough cloth and pulling at it as though to tear it apart. Then it moved higher. The boy's eyes widened as he felt the sudden aching in his crotch as the man grabbed at him; kneading at his flesh over the cloth; squeezing his buttocks and digging his fingers between them. Crying out with renewed strength, the boy flailed, pulling his legs together as he tried to deny the offensive touches that roamed so freely. Tears blurred his vision as he struggled, but all that he seemed able to do was make his molester laugh all the louder.
"Let him go."
A soft voice, velvet upon steel.
The boy looked up through teary eyes from where he half-crouched, half-sat, pinned between a strong arm and a large chest. His captors did likewise, a surprised growl rumbling from one of them. The men's grip on him tightened, reluctant to give up their prize. The silence around the hangar dripped like coagulated rubber, thick and heavy. The boy felt the harsh grip on his arms loosen, and the sudden rush of blood through his vessels brought the welcome distraction of pins and needles. But the grip on his wrists refused to follow suit and he was too tired and too terrified to pull away.
Again he looked up but the brightness of the overhead lighting worked against his favour and all he could see was a tall, broad-shouldered figure dressed in the standard jumpsuit the test pilots wore. And a halo of soft gold around the man's head...
How pathetic, the man seethed. That grown men, educated to the highest levels and bred in the most honourable houses, would be reduced to the levels of base animals. And worse, some of these men were his colleagues. It was unforgiveable...
Without warning, the blonde man lashed out, a hard fist connecting with the moustached man's jaw. The latter collapsed backwards, surprised more than anything else. But in so doing, his grip on the boy loosened, and the blonde man took that opportunity to pull the boy away.
The man knew what long periods of isolation did to men, especially men who knew the pleasures of the flesh. And being cooped up on a disguised resource satellite with nothing to keep you company but empty metal husks of lifeless mobile suits did not help to alleviate the loneliness. Desperate men often resorted to desperate measures.
And victims.
Especially ones who didn't - or couldn't - fight back.
"Nobody, and I mean, *nobody* touches him you hear?" the man affirmed, promises of pain glittering in his eyes. "Anyone who does will answer to me, Trowa Barton!"
Whirling away with a disgusted huff, the man named Trowa Barton strode away, firmly but gently pulling the nameless boy with him.
"Isn't he beautiful, Nanashi? Isn't that the most wonderful mobile suit you've ever seen?" Trowa grinned, changing the monitor screens yet again to reveal the image of an experimental mobile-suit yet to be completed. "What shall I call him, ne?" The blonde man whirled his chair to face the boy standing beside him.
Nanashi had become an almost constant feature in his life on the satellite for the past year, ever since he had 'saved' him from an over-affectionate 'admirer'. Looking at the boy now, and knowing more about him than he did then, Trowa was certain that the boy could have held his own back then, even without his help. But he was also certain that the boy would not have been able to hold off such advances forever. It had taken some time for the boy to warm up to him, but when he did, Trowa had discovered bits and pieces of the child's past. And what he had pieced together had saddened him, reaffirming his beliefs in his father's dreams. Earth's so-called democracy and justice had resulted in orphans and cast-off children like his Nanashi. Mother Earth had become a tyrant.
Operation Meteor would literally be heaven sent.
"What about 'Heavyarms'?"
The boy's soft but confident voice broke through his thoughts. "Huh? 'Heavyarms'?"
The boy pointed to the arms-heavy mobile suit and shrugged. "It seems to fit."
Trowa Barton chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Then 'Heavyarms' it is, Nanashi!"
Heavyarms became their mutual past time; hours of endless tinkering kept the two occupied for weeks, months. When Trowa took the suit out for test runs, Nanashi waited. When Nanashi checked the machine's inner wirings, Trowa sat back in the cockpit, telling him stories that never failed to amuse.
And when the boy laughed, so did the man.
With time Nanashi began to live, and Trowa Barton began to enjoy life.
Nanashi gazed from his vantage-point in silence. Slowly the vision before him began to gel, gaining coherence. He hadn't been dreaming. He hadn't nodded off in his maintenance works. He hadn't imagined the gunshot.
Trowa Barton lay sprawled on the hangar floor. His saviour was dead.
An old memory tugged at him as he slowly climbed down from where he had hidden, forced to reveal himself. The shouting and arguments had distracted him as he worked, and he had, as inconspicuously as possible, peeked at the three men standing at the mobile suit's feet. And the sharp report of the gun would echo forever in his mind.
*This is my sister's child, Nanashi. Her name is Marimeia.*
Trowa had shown him a picture, then. The man's voice had been filled with pride, but he, he had felt consumed with jealousy. Why did such jealousy flare within his heart when Trowa showed him the little babe's picture? Why was he jealous of a mere child?
He had gazed long at the picture in silence, eyes wide as he took in the elfin features. Trowa's arm around his shoulders had tightened slightly and he could almost hear the smile in the man's voice. "Isn't she beautiful? As beautiful a babe as you were, I'm sure, Nanashi." The man sniffed slightly and he had cocked his head to one side, knowing exactly what the man would do next. And welcoming it.
Trowa Barton had given him a soft kiss on the cheek.
As Nanashi stood beside body of Trowa Barton, his eyes fluttered shut for one brief moment. There would be no more hugs. There would be no more kisses. There would be no more love. For there was no more Trowa Barton.
The dark crimson pool widened around the still figure, and the green-eyed boy gave him a perfunctory nod; a silent salute. With every millimetre of increased radius, his heart grew colder, as though in sync with the cooling body of the one who had treated him almost like a son. As Trowa Barton's life's blood seeped away, so did the warmth he gave to the nameless boy that stood silent over his body. What would he do now? Now that he was once more alone, what would be left for him to live for? *Who* would he live for?
Trowa Barton was dead. Trowa Barton was no more. And his killers stood in front of him with cold, uncertain gazes. Whatever he decided now, the boy realised, would rule his life forever. Whatever he did now, would determine how that life would be lived; if there would be a life to live.
The green eyed boy looked back, face stoic and utterly devoid of expression. Until a small smile quirked at one corner of his lips, decision made.
Trowa Barton would live again.
-owari-
Shirin
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