FIC: The Performer [Gundam Wing, Trowa]

[omnicat]

Title: The Performer
Author: Omnicat
Rating: T / PG-13
Genre: General
Spoilers & Desirable Foreknowledge: The entire anime plus Episode Zero.
Warnings: Mercenaries and all the war-y stuff related to them.
Pairings: None.
Disclaimer: If you recognise it as belonging to someone else, it ain’t mine. Simple as that.
Summary: Maybe, Trowa thought one day, he hadn’t been born as a soldier after all.
Author’s Note: Inspired by the GW500 prompt 'Kid'.
 

The Performer

"I’ve been a soldier since the day I was born."

There was a time when he used to say such things without hesitation or doubt.

It was eight years ago from that day that he last uttered those words. Almost half a lifetime ago, but he remembered it like it was yesterday.

The rocking of the truck, the colours of the circus flashing in the corner of his eye as they drove past, the scent of Captain’s leather jacket and the spices Middie had spilled all over herself before they’d taken off. The look on her face when he’d said that. The wirlwind of emotions he himself had long since buried had been mirrored in the girl’s eyes, staring back at him for just a moment before she, too, shut the expression away.

Though technically false, the boy had considered the words to be true for as long as he could remember.

Before being taken in by Captain and his mercenary troupe he had only few memories, blurry, distant impressions of empty streets and abandoned fields and going unnoticed in crowds full of people wrapped up in their own despair. Before becoming a soldier he had been less than nothing; there had been no-one to make a distinction between him and the next best pile of rubble littering the streets, no-one who noticed or cared that he was there.

It was really very simple: there was no point in considering himself a living person before that day. It hadn’t been until the mercenaries had taken him in that his existence had taken on a semblance of meaning and shape; they had made him something, had made him a soldier.

Through all the years he considered himself to have been alive, the day Captain found him was the day of his birth. The day he came to life.

And then there was that day.

That day, it had been roughly two years since the end of his life as a soldier, three years since the start of his life as a circus member. All that time he had felt undead, existing in a semblance of what it means to be alive without really being it, because though he may not be dead, he did not know how to live the life he was leading without having been born into it.

That day was not about him. No, it was about Ken, the Manager’s grandson, all of six years old and the circus troupe’s pride and joy. Catherine Bloom was teaching the boy how to throw knives; getting into a dramatic-looking pose to point out how his body should be arranged and the projectiles held, going through the actual throwing motion slowly so as to give him an idea of what doing it would be like, a few demonstrations of the real thing. And then it was Ken’s turn. The whole troupe was gathered to watch, all eyes on him, wanting to see how their youngest member would fare.

Then suddenly, it was no longer the present he saw, but a memory, crystal clear and so vivid -

That day, yes, that day had been about him. About No-Name, the boy the Captain had taken under his wing, looking maybe six years old and the mercenary troupe’s pride and joy. Ralph Kurt was teaching the boy how to shoot a rifle; crouching down next to him in a battle-ready pose to point out how he should hold the weapon and position himself, manually moving the different parts of the device around so he could get an idea of what doing it would be like, a few demonstrations of the real thing. And then it was No-Name’s turn. The whole troupe was gathered to watch, all eyes on him, wanting to see how their youngest member would fare.

Realisation hit him like a meteor crashing to Earth, and he had to check to see if the sky was still blue above him, the trees still green around him, the ground still solid beneath him, and he should place a vidcall to Quatre to make sure the colonies were still orbiting the planet, because the world had suddenly turned itself upside down and inside out, surely reality had just given out.

But the world was the same world it had always been. It was exactly the same.

As Ken threw his knives, drawing pok sounds from the practice bord each time it was hit - a great rattle each time a bullet threw a can off the fence - and the audience sighed and cheered and ‘ooh’ed and ‘aah’ed at the appropriate times, it slowly began to dawn on Trowa.

The world he lived in hadn’t changed, the past and the present were the same. Only his way of looking at it had changed, and...

It was exactly the same.

No-Name had hit two out of ten cans on his first try; Ken got as close as the second ring from the center on his. And when he was out of ammo - projectiles - he turned wide, expectant eyes on the Captain - the Manager - and the grown-up nodded; he’d done well.

They’d been the same all along.

He had been born as a child of the circus - Catherine had unwittingly made sure of that when she took him in and made him her brother when he didn’t remember ever having been anything else. But it wasn’t a matter of being born as a child of war or a child of the circus; those roles were only superficial. It was about being born at all, about having people who recognized your existence, who invested in and cared about your achievements.

He wondered why he’d never realised this before.

He could be anything he wanted to be.

PSAN: If anyone gets the reference of Ken –> knifethrowing –> not Barbie, I will seriously glomp them to death. And it would be a good thing.