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By Ken Hidaka


by Team Bonet

The blood pouring down from his forehead ran into his eyes, blinding him. His hand, broken and
almost limp, brushed against his face, trying to rub it away. He frowned at his hands feeble
movements. The earth began to spin beneath his feet, his mind dizzy and torn. It hurt to be alive, after
such a huge explotion. It hurt.

He wished that he'd died in his Mobile Suit. His eyes lost focus as his body smashed down on the
sand. He was dying anyway. Alone and lost in the sand, unable to remember why he had ever began
this grim war.

His heart beat faster, his mind reeling in pain as each beat came. His hands gropped the sand
weakly, struggling to make himself stand, but he felt his legs still. His body was still, not working with
his commands, taking his own decisions. He frowned, angry that he was not in control. His lips
tasted the crude sand around his mouth, his eyes blinded by the caked sandy blood. If he is dying
this way, he'd rather take his own life quickly and end it. He buried his face in the sand, his eyes
closed shut, the pain radiating over his back, like a knife cutting him into pieces.

The sudden flash of light made him cringe, his eyes flying open, wide, in fear. He raised his head,
searching for the light that had hurt him, but there was nothing there. His mind is going insane. He
clutched at his head as the light came again, only this time with a loud scream, a loud prolonged
scream that bit into his skull. He shook his head, still clutching it with his hands, bitting his lips hard
until it bled. He whimpered softly, his head falling against the sand again, like a madman.


The young man rolled in the sand, his head in pain, his screams muffled by the sand. It hurts not to
die. It hurts. He lifted his body weakly from the earth, his legs shaking as another flash of light
invaded his head, and another. He felt himself convulse, his mind scared, his soul torn. The face. That
face kept coming back, with each flash, but who was that man. Who was he?


The soldier came closer, his teeth bared, his eyes flared with anger. Pain. There was that pain
against his ribs again, as the soldier hit him over and over again. Like a rag, his body
smashed on the wall, his long wild hair over his eyes, his green eyes staring madly at the

The face burst in red agony, red tears, red blood. The whole cell was a blood river as he
himself shot at the guards, at the soldiers, each one taken without regret. The faces swam
closer, and closer. Innocent faces. Cruel faces. Bastards and children. His father and mother.
Members of the OZ. Ordinary civilians.

"Die, you little asshole...die...!"

The young man let out a terrible scream, his back arching backwards. Blood sprayed from his
mouth, dark and horrible, and he landed innert, backwards on the sand, his body twisted in the sand.
His green eyes lay open, staring at the nothingness, his mouth reddened with blood, his body broken
and caked in blood. Blood that he had shed, with his own hands.

                & nbsp;                 ;  ******

The young girl had dropped the things she was carrying the minute she saw him, her hands running
over her face in worry. The young man, older than she was, lay sprawled over the sand, his face
twisted in pain, like his scared body. Her mouth had been full with her scream, but, surpinsingly
enough, she had not let it out. She had only come closer, her brows knitted in a sad frown, and
touched the boy's leg. Her eyes had clouded with tears, feeling the boy's leg stiffly move to the side
as she touched it. Her hands reached to bring the boy's head foward gently, her eyes searching his
handsome face, deformed by the blood and pain. He was indeed beautiful, she saw, her heart aching
that perhaps he was dead.

The young girl lay a hand over the boy's chest, feeling for his heart, and almost cried out when she
found it. Slow and soft, struggling to beat, but still alive. She smiled and brushed back the red hair
from the boy's face, his still darkened face.

Leaning on the wall as she ran up the stairs to the room where the boy now lay, under soft covers
and warm care, she stopped to think about what he'd say when she walks in. She lowered her eyes,
her face pensive. Maybe he'd had wanted to die and she ruined his suicide. The footsteps below, her
mother and brother, brought her back to attention. The boy's room, the only one that had been
available for use, cleared by her mother, was the next door.

The young man was not in his bed. She startled, her heart in pain, not knowing what had happened,
and ran inside the room. The window lay open, its crude curtains madenned by the breeze.

"Who are you?"

The little girl turned around, suprised by such a lethal tone of voice. She stared into the green eyes of
the young man, his breath rattling in his chest, his body less than healed, but standing still and ready.
She tried to remain calm.

"My name is Dos," she whispered, her mind racing. "I was the one that saved you in the beach..." He
stared at her silently.

His legs gave way under his thin frame, his body falling fowards. She ran to catch him, ignoring the
glanze he gave her, helping him stand up again. He leaned on her, closing his eyes, surrendering to
the uselessness of struggling against her kindness. Dos heard a soft murmur excape his mouth, as his
eyes became blank again.

"Who are you?" she asked, when he had sat on the bed. "Why were you so hurt at the beach?
Where you attacked?"

The young man looked at her, her small features drawn against the dark room in the early morning
light, her soft yellow hair over her shoulders, falling over her childlike face, her blue eyes cristal.
Beautiful. He shook his head, his hand feeling his temple.

"I am..."

Dos came closer to listen to him, barely able to hear his voice. She folded her hands over her dress,
leaning over to listen. He stared up at her, his eyes still a bit alarmed.

"I am...a clown."

                & nbsp;                 ;  ******
He was sitting by the fence, his face buried in his arms, when she walked outside. His eyes stared at
the distance, his mind possibly, she thought, at a million distant places. Perhaps remembering the
horrible things that had been done to his family right before she found him agonizing in the beach.
Perhaps reliving the evil he'd live through to stay alive, running from the sad memories. His eyes
looked so sad, filled with a deep melancholy she wanted to understand, but she dared not great him.
He was a quiet boy and their kind are best left alone.

Trowa didn't look at her when she sat by the fence as well, moving her thin legs sideways to the
rythim of the song she was singing in her mind. He stared at the tree that grew next to her house,
wondering what he'd do now, where he'd go. His Mobile Suit, no doubt, had not been found. What
was left of it probably lay beneath the sea, dying alone under the water. His eyes flickered for a
moment, wanting to go save his machine, but recoiled. He wasn't like the rest of the pilots, who
loved their Suits like real friends. For all he cared, Heavy Arms could rot in the sandy bottom of the
sea. He was not master when he drove him but a slave to the killing and madness. Together, Heavy
Arms and him had bathed themselves in blood. Dark and evil.

He shook his head, the flashing light threatening to return, and stared at the house, willing his mind to
stop spining. The sky was becoming gray again, rain clouds lingering above them. Dos looked at
him, wondering if the boy had had a house like hers, before he had been attacked. She smiled sadly.
He was probably an orphan.

"It's a lovely day," she said. "I love it when it rains. Call me weird, but I like dark, cold evenings."

Trowa looked at her, his mind glad for senseless conversation. Dos looked at him, her brows
saddened. She wished she understood the reason for his melancholy. The boy nodded.

"You have sat here all morning," she said. "Every morning, for the last days. What are you looking

Trowa looked away at the trees, at the land that enfolded before him, at Earth. Not his land, not his
people. He looked at the sy, his green eyes becoming darker and remained silent. Dos bit her lip,
helpless. He wasn't going to talk to her, or to anyone. He just ate his food, silent and stoic, in the
table, when food time came. He sat throught out the meal as if nobody was there with him. Alone.
He went to sleep early, speaking to no one, not even when her brother spoke to him. Her mother,
while watching the dishes after last night's supper, told her that perhaps he was mute. Dos had
frowned at her, telling her that he did speak. Trowa stayed in his room, alone, and then came down
to sit by the fence, looking at the distance.

Dos felt her throat hurt, her eyes searching for signs of life behind his cold composture. He didn't
look at her again, his back turned slightly from her. His mind was becoming scared again, full of the
dreams, of the screams, of the evil. His eyes widened, their pupils dilating, his breathing speeding up.
His mind is going crazy again. Make it stop!

The young boy turned suddenly, his eyes forced closed, and tried to gain serenity. Dos gasped,
fearing for his safety, and reached out for his hand. Her touch, warm against his cold hand, brought
him back. He opened his eyes, her face a blessed sight before her. Not those other faces, those evil,
bloody faces.

"You must be reliving the terrible past in your head, ne?" she said. She dared to smile, wishing that
he'd do so as well. He stared at her, forcing hsi breathing to slow down.

"What kind of clown are you, alwasy moody like this?"

Trowa blinked at her sincere joke, her eyes shinning boldly, reaching out for him. He felt her eyes
boring into his face, judging him, her soft voice calming him. He gasped silently as she let out a small
laugh, her blue eyes sparkling. Dos wanted him to forget the past, whatever it was.

Dos stared at him for a long time, silently. He lowered his eyes, getting up to a standing possition.
She looked at him, her breath a bit caught, hoping taht she'd not said anything that would make him
go away, back to his room, to lock himself up again. Instead, he stood before her, giving himself
some imaginary room and took a gracious bow. The little girl blinked.

He took another bow and straightened his back, his hands stretched above him, his thin arms twisted
in a kind of dance, his eyes staring at her. He brough his hands down again, and with abit of flourish,
held them out to her, empty. Dos frowned, wishing she understood him. He twisted them again, and
when he opened them again, before her eager face, a big, golden butterfly rested in his palms. She let
out a delighful laugh, reaching over to touch the small beauty. The animal fluttered once, not flying
off, resting placidly on Trowa's hand.

The boy watched her take it, his green eyes full of a strange light. Dos saw that light, saw it for a
second, his laughter in his eyes, but when she looked at him again, it was gone. He stood before her,
his thin arms on his sides, his wild hair over his eyes, his mouth set in a grim expresion. He took
another bow, as if he was on a huge audience, and looked at her silently. To his surprise, she bowed
to, the golden animal on her hand, and smiled at him, her blue eyes sweet. Alive and free.

"Egao, clown."

Trowa lowered his eyes, staring at the floor, remembering the sound of the other voice that had told
him that so many times. Katherine. She was so far away now in her own world, hoping he would still
be alive. He wanted to run away from this place. This house is bringing to many memories to his
head and he doesn't want to think. Dos came closer to him, reaching down to take his hand, but then
the front door of the house opened and Dos's mother stepped out.

"Dinner is served."

Trowa's eyes glazed again, his feelings sinking into the dark shell inside him. He could feel Dos's
dissapointment, the way she bit her lip, her little face saddened. He walked back towards the house,
ignoring the pain he felt in his throat, ignoring everything around him.

Dos scolded herself for being such a fool. She wasn't acting like herself. She looked down at the
butterfly in her palm, wanting to see if it would want to fly away. She gasped, her voice sad.

The golden miracle was not there.

                & nbsp;                 ;  ******
The woman, her kind face smiling as he lifted each dish and washed it carefuly, nodded as he rinsed
them properly. She slapped the bottom of her apron, laughing heartly. The young boy was very good
at washing dishes. He had offered to help her, after dinner was finished because he was tired of
watching the family serve him, give him things, care for him, while he just sat in his room. He didn't
like to be served. He had never been. He had always been the servant.

"You do this very well, young man," the woman said, helping him take some of the heavy pans. "I am
most proud of you."

Trowa did not look at her, turning the greasy pan in his hand. He worked quickly, with a gifted
dexterity, holding each plate with care. His agil hands worked making hardly any faults. he could feel
the woman's eyes on his hands, watching as he did his job with speed and yet, made no mistakes.
Trowa wanted to finish quickly and return to his room.

"You must have made your mama very happy."

The woman sat in a chair she had next to the sink, letting her short legs rest from hours of work in
the house. She ran a hand over her forehead. Trowa looked at her from the corners on his eyes. Her
short figure bend over under the heavy labor she did each day, he aging face slightly wrinkled, her
blue eyes warm, but hard from years of labor. Dos's family had to struggle to stay alive ever since
the wars broke out on earth. Her father worked heavily in the city, coming home after dark, while
her mother took care of the house, cooked, took care of the children and the field. They weren't
unhappy, even if they were not rich. They were glad to be alive when so many other families were
separated by war or death.

The young pilot heard her sigh, her hands on her lap. He narrowed his eyes, his sharp senses
calculating the way she breathed, the even pattern of breaths. He shook his head slightly, willing his
mind to stop analizing everything in the kitchen like he had been trained. He turned his attention to
the cold water on his hands.

"You are very quiet, though," the woman said. Trowa did not stir. "Much to quiet."

She smiled sadly, her hands rubbing her apron. Trowa closed the faucet, the noise allowing the
woman's voice to echoe louder in the hot kitchen.

"Poor child, you must be hunted by the terrible things this fights have stired." She leaned back on the
chair. "I wish all of this would end, so the Earth can be as it was again. I wish those machines would
go home and stop murdering so many people."

The dish slipped from his hand, falling soflty into the water. He gasped and retried it in an instant, not
letting it even dent. Trowa bit his lip, forcing her words to leave his mind. Concentrate on the
mechanical acts of cleaning dishes. Mechanical acts.

The woman saw the way his body tensed, the way his head jerked as he forced himself to forget.
Her worsd had probably brought up the memory of hardships and death, of a lost friend or family
member. She should have not been that stupid. Her maternal soul ached to see such a young boy act
this way. She got up from her chair, coming closer to him. Trowa gasped as he felt the woman's
hands on his shoulders.

"I understand child," she said. "Forgive me."

Trowa felt his body collapse, his tired mind surrendering to her tender embrase. He bit his lip forcing
his mind to return to his old self, to forget thsi feelings. He was a Gundam pilot, cold and trained to
be vicious and silent. Lethal. He felt his soul tearing from that dark pit where his feelings resided and
he hated that. He needs to go back to the past, back to the quiet, uncaring bastard that he was. That
he is. His body was not answering him, his mind disobeying his orders.

The woman's hands held him close, telling him to stop the washing, to ease from the burden for a
while. War is terrible, she must have thinking, as she embrased the child closer to her body, feeling
sorry to have been so careless with her words. Trowa jerked his head back slightly, his eyes closed,
his head falling into her tender breasts. His mind was becoming wild again. He could not forget.

The face of his mother, her soft green eyes smiling, looked down at him. He tender arms enfolded
him just like Dos's mother did now. He heard her soft laughter, her voice. What was she telling him?
Her words were a torturous jumble in his mind. That he could not remember. His own face, staring
at himslef in the mirror, wearing that suit she had made for him for his birthday. He had been smiling
then. Then.

The face of father came to his head, his mother's sad expresion. The poverty that hung from their
walls like clothes. Faces that he did not remember, countless of faces he did not wish to recall.
Hands touching him, rubbing him, kissing him. He wanted to see the faces of his mother and father,
not those ones, but they did not go away. He gasped as he heard the yells of his father, the lonely
songs of his mother as she sat each night hoping the misery would end. She had washed him with her
cheap perfume everytime such hands had touched him. She had tried to wash away the shame, from
herself and from him, but she could not.

Trowa opened his eyes, now full of unwanted tears. The woman turned his around, letting his head
bury itself into her breasts. She closed her eyes, running her wrinkled hand over his back. Trowa
closed his eyes madly, forcing the memories to end. The pain and sorrow to reside, to die, but he
couldn't. He buried his face deeper in the woman's chest, smelling her maternal smell. Not his
mother's smell. Feeling her fingers on his hair. Not his mother's hands. He felt his soul break, his
shame drown him, but he couldn't stop himself.

Dos's mother hushed him softly, rocking him like her own child. He did not see the faces of the two
little children that had come by the kitchen's door, their eyes big and full of tears. He did not see Dos
and her brother as they cried for him, saddened that any one should suffer so. Ashamed that they
couldn't do anything for the quiet boy. The sad clown.

                & nbsp;                 ;  ******
The scream woke him up, startled like a madman from the dream he ahd been having. His sweaty
palms reached up to brush his hair from his face, holding his head. It was spinning too fast, hurting
too much. He felt his throat hurt, the cold air stuck in his lungs. His body had almsot completly
healed in the days he had stayed in the house, fed and cared for, but his mind was still as sick as
when he had crashed in the sea.

The dream came again, hot, beating against his skull. He felt his mind explote inside, the recollections
blurring into one single delirium. Then, there was nothing but silence. His hands gripped the sheets as
he listened to the silence. The whole house was quiet, save for the breathing of the people and their
soft sleep talk. Trowa gasped.

Their soft noises came up from their room into his. His eyes widened as his ears caught even the
slightest breathing. A hundred times louder.

The young boy slammed his head into the pillow, willing their breaths to go away. He gritted his teeth
hard, his mind screaming as the murmurs invaded it. The noise would not leave. The still, even, slow,
faint, breathing traveling up through the walls, finding its way under his bed covers, over his naked
skin, reaching his mind. He let out a small whimper.

Trowa's eyes widened as the soft sounds became screams, hizzing. Screams of dead men, army
generals, soldiers, Oz officials and Leo drivers, of the children of his colony and of the Earth.
Katherine's screams. Her voice soft, above the others, yelling out to him in the darkness. The people
were running. He could hear their labored breaths as they made their way outside. Outside the circus
tent because this huge machine had appeared out of nowhere.

Trowa snarled, fighting against his nightmare vision. It was his Mobile Suit. Heavy Arms stood in the
middle of the tent, glorious and magestic, ready to kill again. The boy felt his arms move, felt his
fingers work the machinery, and opened fire on the people. All of them. Bad and good alike. He
heard Katherine's screams, felt her anger as she slapped him again. Hard. Ashamed of him.

He rose up in bed, his eyes wide, his face sweaty. The room was dark, the lightning falling in the
distance making it glow every now and again. The house was silent, the breathings quieted down
again, residing from his head. Thunder rumbled weakly outside.

Outside. Trowa got up from his bed, slowly making his way across the room towards the single
window. He put on the white shirt Dos's mother had left on the chair for him, not taking time to think.
He opened the window, climbing his naked legs over the window sill, letting his body slip outside in
the wet roof.

The cold rain hit his face, making the healing wounds sting, his torn lips aching as the harsh night wind
bit into his half naked body. He drew in his breath, letting his thin body drop to the ground below.
He stood up, loking at the dark field that lay before him, the tall tree looming in the middle. The
windy rain made him shiver, the shirt and underware not enough against nature. Without looking
back at the house, he walked into the field, his feet crushing wet leaves and muddy soil. Walking like
mad man.

Trowa walked, his green eyes becoming human now that no one was around, leaving the house
behind, the past, the dreams. He listened to the wind as it rustled the grass on the field. A new dream
rose from the back of his head, the wind becoming talking voices. Calling his name. He gasped as he
felt someone near him. Katherine stretched her hand out for him. He raised his hand, longing to feel
her warmth, longing to rest again by her side, but it was useless. She was just a dream shadow.

He sank to his knees, the sound of the Gundam's fire becoming louder in his head. He clenched his
hands on the mud, his maddened mind reliving his everyday scenario. Unclenching his hands,
reaching for the Gundam's control lever that was not there. Not in that field. Not there.

His green eyes became darker, tears welling inside them. He reached and brushed them away. Earth
was not his home, he thought, as he looked down at a handful of wet soil he took in his palm. L3
was not his home either. Then, where did he belong? Was he truly nothing but a hired killing
machine, a mad bastard?

He hugged himself, and let his head drop close to his chest. He was cold. The rain beat on his back,
making its way through the shirt, through his hair. It mingled with his tears and skin. His bare feet
sank in the uneven soil as he let his body fall sideways, the rain over him, closing his eyes, the
darkness and grass in the field enveloping him.

Silent clowns never belong anywhere.

                & nbsp;                 ;  ******
Part II

His whole body was too hot. He groaned, trying to wake up, the fever that was eating his skin
pounding in his head. The covers were wet with his sweat. He tried to open his eyes as he gripped
the covers tighter.

"Take it easy," the girl's voice came to him from the darkness. "Please rest. You have a very high
fever and you need to sleep."

He opened his eyes, her figure taking shape before him nothing more than blur. His head hurt too
much so he stopped trying to make the shape focus. The girl's face came closer, reaching with her
hands to brush back the hair over his face. He groaned as her hands touched him. She seemed
vaguely familiar, but the colors had begun to swim again, the ceiling threatening to fall down on him.

The girl smiled, her eyes full of sadness. She took his hand, taking it softly from his tight grip on the
bed sheets.



Trowa's eyes narrowed, the girl's shape finally coming together before him. The young girl smiled
sadly, the name he had called hurting her. She felt her cheeks color as he sat up looking at her,
relaxing his head backwards into the soft pillow.

"You walked off into the field in the night rain," she said.

Trowa looked at her, his green eyes searching for the reason for the way her voice took the strange
tone it did.

"Father found you lying in the wet ground, soaked and shivering."

She drew his hands up from the bed sheets, not caring for the look he was giving her. She grasped
both hands in hers, squeezing them for comfort. She looked at his face and noticed his green eyes
looking at her hollowy. The fever ran up his nerves, but her hot hands drew him back out of the pain.
She smiled kindly, getting up and leaving his side.

"You seem intent in dying."

Trowa watched as her yellow hair moved sideways when she turned away from him. She walked
towards the bathroom, a small room to the right of the bedroom. He let his head fall back wearily
into the pillow and stared at his sweaty palms, bringing them up to his face. He moved his fingers

He closed his eyes, tight, as his feverish skin was invaded by shills, the scream in his head returning.
He gritted his teeth, snarling as the flashing light returned. Hot. Dizzy.

He opened his eyes, listening to the sound of the girl in the bathroom. The sound of the water lapping
quietly at the edges of the sink, of her searching for something in the drawers. The sound became a
thousand times louder, her movements seeming to become more intense.

His eyes grow wider, as his mind became crazy again, the fever hot, spilling from his eyes. He
whimpered, his sweaty palms clenching. His mind began to twist the sounds, her voice, the room. It
was too hot.

Trowa's eyes narrowed as the sound of her voice, twisted and much louder, came to his ears. She
was talking to someone. He gritted his teeth as he caught some of the conversation. The girl was
talking to an officer. Hushed. Quiet, so he wouldn't be able to listen. Trowa's eyes widened. That
was the reason why she'd brought him to her house. To set a trap for him, to deliver him to the OZ
like a captured animal.

He drew the covers off from himself, his head spinning as he stood on his feet. He steadied his body
with the bed. His insane mind brought the sound of her plotting to his ears, twisting what she was
talking into a hushed conversation. He frowned. He wasn't going to let her deliver him to those men.
He wasn't living that hell again.

He wasn't going to let her take him to those evil men again. He would take his life, but first. He was
taking hers.

She was bending over the tub, her back towards him. He bit his lip, watching her back move as she
turned the water faucet on, filling the tub. Where was the soldier? Trowa's eyes narrowed as he
slipped into the small room silently, like a whisper.

Dos' ran a hand over her hair, unaware of the young boy who sneaked into the bathroom silently, his
body moving lethaly. She turned the water tap to "hot."

Trowa came closer, his eyes taking in the contents of the sink's cabinet, eyeing the small shaving
knife on top.

Dos screamed as the young man grabbed her, coming in from behind, his strong grip on her chin.
Her eyes widened as his other hand covered her mouth. She heard Trowa laugh, her heart racing.
Why was he doing this?

She gripped his arms, trying to get him to release her, her mind screaming, but he was too strong.
She moved her body backwards, feeling his naked skin against her head. She closed her eyes,
willing this to be a nightmare. The boy was delirious.

Trowa turned her around, forcing her to look at him. His green eyes bore a terrible, mad look, the
pupils dilated, his face sweaty, his red hair caked with sweat to his forehead. The steam rose around
them as the tub filled with the hot water.

Dos' eyebrow's twisted in pain, her blue eyes wet with tears, as she watched the boy's tormented
face. She felt the boy's hand trail down her chin and her breath became faster. He frowned deeper,
his mind possesed by the nightmare that kept repeating itself in his mind. She struggled to raise her
hand and touched his arm. He stared at her, tightening his grip.

"I'm going to kill you."

She felt her heart beat madly in her chest, and her eyes widened as they became full of tears. Her
body became weak, shaking with her sobs, her eyes becoming frightened. She tried to break free
from his grip, but he held tighter.

Trowa snarled, dragging her closer to the sink. She screamed, her voice muffled by his hand as he
reached for the shaving knife. He pulled her roughly, closer to the sink, feeling her legs trash beneath
her in the wet tiles. She kicked him weakly, one of her small shoes coming off.

"Then, I'm going to kill myself."

Trowa laughed, picking up the knife, twisting it in his fingers and freeying her neck. She whimpered
louder, her tears falling on his fingers, her legs kicking him harder. She bit his fingers, but he didn't
seem to even notice. He only became angrier and dragged her nearer.

He raised the blade over her face, his eyes narrowing wickedly. His hand trembled softly, but he
shook his head, drawing back the feelings that emerged from his mind. He was possesed by some
evil spirit, it seemed, making him act like a demon. Dos looked at his crazed eyes, wanting to
understand why the boy had suddenly gone crazy. His green eyes were not his own.

The little girl screamed as his hands shook suddenly, watching him convulse strangely. She gasped,
her breath becoming still in her lungs. He was crying.

Her eyes widened as he seem to struggle agaisnt himself, but whatever force had possesed him won.
He smashed the blade against the sink, its loud sound making the little girl jump. She began to sob
like a lost animal as he drew the blade closer to her face. All her strengh had gone away, her body
just lay limp under his own. He put the blade to her face, ready to push it into her flesh, to puncture
her skin. He gasped for air, his eyes becoming human again, and looked at her.

His green eyes found her fear, her sorrow. Her scared, innocent, blue eyes. Eyes like so many he
had seen, just before they had died.

His breath quickened, his grip loosening. His hand quivered, his mouth open and gasping for air. The
steam of the hot water made it hard to breath. He closed his eyes tighly, his body wraking with his
agonizing sob. Dos whimpered louder as he twisted in pain, his face red.

Dos gasped as he relased her, his hand wrapping itself around his small shoulders, as he rocked
slowly from side to side whimpering. The knife fall from his hand to the tiled floor. She fell exhausted
to her knees as he released her and felt her throat about to scream horribly as she raised her head
slowly to look at him, but her scream froze in her mouth.

She couldn't scream, but just looked at his pityful body rocking sideways like a poor lost soul. Tears
ran down the boy's red face. The blade fell from his hand, clanking loudly int the tiled floor. The
small girl gasped as it hit the floor, harsh reality cutting her like that knife would have done. She
stared at the boy in silence, her heart aching as it beat madly in her chest.

She brushed away her tears absentmindedly watching the boy's body become still, his head falling
slowly between his legs. He was mumbling weakly something she could not understand. She reached
out her hand, scared a little that he would return to the madness, but her soul daring to help him. She
touched his shoulder, gasping as his skin tightened. He lifted his small head, his green eyes finding
her. The old quiet sadness had returned to them.

She reached with her left hand, drawing in her ragged breath and her fear, and brushed the small
tears on his face, her small fingers caresing him warmly. She blew in her nose, willing her own tears
and her runny nose. The sound echoed in the steamed bathroom. She opened her dry mouth, fighting
to be able to talk.

"Don't cry, little clown," she said.

Trowa drew away from her ashamed of his actions, of his lack of control. The memories were
returning. The face of a lovely boy watching over him, taking his hands and kissing them. The young
blond pilot had been willing to die for him. Trowa closed his eyes tighly. The memories were driwing
him mad and he wasn't their master. Not anymore. He gasped, his eyes widening and focusing on
her. He needed to grasp reality, or he will end up nuts. He'd been almost about to kill this little,
innocent girl who had been so kind to him. He reached out and gripped her leg, wishing to let her
flesh draw him from the nightmares.

"I am not... a clown...Dos," he said.

He looked up at her, fighting with himself to stop shaking and talk. To say the truth and be afraid of
himself anymore. She stared at him silently, her red face sad, but her body regaining control.

"I am not a clown...I am a killer. A mindless, ruthless, evil, demented young butcherer."

Dos swallowed the new, silent tears that ran down her cheeks. Her childhood pride fell with them,
her chest hurt terribly. She reached and touched his hair, drawing it away from his face. He bent
down, letting himself surrender to the pain and sorrow. he was tired of fighting against he senseless
memories. She bit her lip as he buried his face on her lap, and closed her eyes. She did not want to
belive him.

"Don't cry anymore...clown."

Part III

Trowa raised his head, his eyes full of a sadness that she would never be able to understand. She
gasped as he touched her face softly, sadly.

"When you found me, Dos, I had been shot by the enemy," he said. "I lay dying after taking
countless of human lives. I have killed mercilessly with these hands. My own hands." He held them
out to her, almost imploring for forgiveness.

"Dos, I drive one of those horrible machines that destroyed your peace, that separed your family,
that forced your father and mother to work so hard...and forced you to live in poverty and misery..."

Trowa lowered hsi eyes, ashamed of himself and ashamed of the war he was part of. He felt her
body tense, her chest breathing faster. Dos closed her eyes, her hot tears falling into het lips. Her
soul hurt, but she opened her eyes, reaching down to touch his hair. He gasped softly as she drew
him closer, enfolding him softly in a tender embrase.

Her face held a soft, sad smile. She bend down and held him close, willing his words to wash away.
They would never be able to.

He felt his heart beat slow down, the bloody memories lifting away from his soul, hammering against
his insides before they left him, but her small arms drew them out gently. They demanded to return
and drive him mad, feeding off from his lonely soul, from his pained bones, but she stood in their
way, small and beautiful, like an angel. The memories had drawn back into the darkness of his mind.

Trowa looked at her again. The small girl looked at him without any shame, letting go of her own
pride and sorrow. She smiled at him forgeting that he had just been about to kill her. he wnated to
run away, to stand and draw back into the quiet, hollow lonelyness that he had built for himself, but
he couldn't move. He could only stare at her and feel her soft embrase, feeling taht he didn't disurb
all her kindness. A strange feeling ran inside his veins.

The little girl closed her eyes, brushing the nightmares away from her head. She opened her eyes
again, reaching to comb Trowa's red hair.

"Egao, clown..."

The young man closed his eyes, his arms falling softly by his sides. He sighed heavily, his aching heart
beating stronger, and drew away from her, looking at her soft, courageous smile, and smiled.


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