Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ One of Us ❯ The Good Doctor ( Prologue )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

One of Us

By DuoLordOfDeath

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing, so there.

[1] Queer Street- A place dubbed so in old London where the poor and
destitute resided. And yes, I did research on the attire of the times
and the state of the poorhouses and asylums. This is as accurate to
history as I can get. =)

In this world; there are two kinds of people; good and evil. But in
every person; there is a bit of each...sometimes the good overrides
the small portion of evil in the human soul; and sometimes it is the
opposite. But sometimes; the human soul cannot contain both sides of
its persona, and it releases both sides in a violent explosion of
death and chaos...

~*Prologue- The Good Doctor*~

Dr. Winner was a kind and generous man; so generous that, for long
hours into the night, he would stay with his patients until they felt
they could continue alone; regarding their own welfare much over his
own. So kind that; in return for his long hours of service to the
needy and mentally ill; he asked nothing but a thank you; and
sometimes not even that was necessary. He felt that there were many
physicians that cared for the rich and upper-class; but there were
hardly none for the poverty-stricken and mentally ill; mainly because
they were considered the terrible dregs of society that were to be
undermined and overlooked. Such was the way in 1847; especially in
cities such as London; where Dr. Winner resided. But soon; London no
longer would be his home; for tomorrow; he was heading for New York
City in the United States. There had been a terrible cholera epidemic
that swept through; and the American doctors were running short. When
he heard that it was especially hitting the disadvantaged slums; he
immediately jumped to their aid.

As the young doctor stepped from his office for the last time; he
pulled his overcoat closer around his body; for it was raining; and
the cold night breeze was ripping through his clothing like knives.
Shivering; he stepped down the steep steps and onto the puddle-ridden
cobblestone streets. In the distance; the sounds of carriage wheels
and a horse's whinny sounded over the shouts of the bobbies. There had
been a mysterious murder recently nearby; there were no traces of who
had committed the atrocity. The murderer had been very clever and
skilled in his precision; the body wasn't mangled; but neatly cut at
key points in the body to allow for maximum drainage of blood. Dr.
Winner had even known the victim; it had been a young fellow by the
name of Zechs Merquise, and he had been the good doctor's rival at
medical school. It chilled him to think that the slaughterer was so
slick and hard to catch; and also so near to him and his sister. He
only prayed for her safety while he was in America.

He turned away from the direction of the police; they had blocked off
the quickest route to his home; so he had to travel down a dank area
of London that was commonly known as "Queer Street". [1] Only the
destitute and lower class resided there; it was a dark and foreboding
place where only the desperate went. The doctor glanced around and
could see paupers hurrying for any kind of shelter that was readily
available. Sometimes; this was merely a small, sopping wet shred of
newsprint; long forgotten and nearly shredded. He felt such sympathy
for them; but he knew sadly that there was nothing that he was able to
do. He lowered his head and passed quickly underneath the dim
streetlamps; his form indiscernible to any onlooker. Water sloshed
angrily about his newly polished shoes as he trudged onward;
lightening flashing above in the cloudy; smoke filled sky.

Then as he was turning a corner that led him back onto the main street
that he usually met on his way home; he saw a sight that nearly tore
his heart into shreds. Three small children, 2 young boys and a
slightly older girl, scurried across the street in front of him and
cowered in fear of the storm and his oncoming form. They were terribly
soiled; and their frail bodies were barely covered by shards of what
may have been clothing sometime ago. There was absolute fear in their
small eyes; and their disheveled; dirty hair kept dripping
relentlessly into their faces. Slowly, he approached them and knelt
next to them gently. He could read the frightened expression in their
small faces; but when they saw him remove his large; warm overcoat and
wrap it around them gently; the trepidation in their faces quickly
changed to gratitude.

"Do not worry...I do believe that there are some crumpets in that left
pocket over there...help yourself; and you need not worry about
returning the coat to me. You need it far more than I."

"Thank you, sir..." the girl said softly; the gratitude evident in her
small voice. He shook his head.

"You needn't call me `sir', child...Quatre will do just fine. Good
luck to you all." With a small bow of his head; he turned and
continued to walk down the street in only his clothing. He was
amazingly cold; and the rain ran down his face in torrents; but he
didn't stop smiling. He knew he had done the proper and good thing by
helping those children; nothing could sway him otherwise. But he still
didn't slow his pace; he had no wish to catch a fever before his
journey to America. His boots splattered through the chilly water as
he turned the corner and saw his flat come into view under the faint
lamplight. Hurrying a bit more, he quickened his pace and began to
run; knowing that he was an unstately mess and that his older sister
wouldn't believe her eyes when she beheld him in such disarray.
Hastily, he ran up the granite steps and stepped inside the door,
shivering and wet. He closed the door shut before any more rain could
fall onto the wooden floor. He took a few breaths, trying to warm
himself a bit, when his sister Iria came in and stopped dead in her
tracks. She was a tall, stately woman; obviously older than her
brother. She made a great deal of taking care of him; she was the only
family he had. Their parents had died; his mother first in childbirth,
and his father only a few years ago.

"Quatre Winner! What on Earth are you doing? You're a mess! And where
is your coat? Haven't you enough brains to realize that it's cold and
raining outside?" Quatre looked up to face his irate sister with a
sheepish smile and sighed, still quivering with cold.

"Yes, I know, but there was this small group of children with barely
any clothing on their poor backs, so I gave them my coat and the
crumpets that were in the pocket. They needed it more than I."

Iria smiled and shook her head as she removed a towel from a nearby
linen closet and walked over to him. "You're too kind for your own
good, Quatre," she said as she helped him to dry off. He chuckled
lightly and waved her away slightly; yawning a bit as he did so.

"There's not enough kindness in the world, Iria, so I do what I can.
That's why I'm going to America tomorrow; to help those in need.
Speaking of which, I need to go change into my pajamas. I have a long
voyage ahead of me, and I do not need to be late tomorrow morning."

Iria nodded and smiled. "I had the maid start you a fire before you
arrived; that way you'd be able to get to sleep in a hurry. Good night
now, Quatre."

Quatre smiled down at her tiredly as he made his way up the tall
cherrywood stairwell; cold and anticipating the warmth of his bedside
fire. He gently opened his door and lit the candle that sat on his
night table, offering a bit more light than the fire would allow. He
stepped over to his armoire and opened it, pulling out a long
nightdress. He sat the candle nearby and stripped himself of his
sodden jacket and waistcoat, then pulled off his trousers and laid
them over a basket beside the armoire so that they would be picked up
and washed. After pulling on his nightwear, he took the candle and set
it upon his bedside table before sliding under the covers of his bed.
He was thankful that his sister had dried most of his hair; he just
hoped that she learned not to be so finicky. As he blew out the candle
and began to fall asleep, he heard the shouts of the police and more
horse whinnies down upon the streets of London. He only prayed that
they would find the murderer quickly; or he would find only long,
sleepless nights ahead of him in New York.

He awoke the next morning to a clear sky; the sun shining through his
slightly open drapes. He shivered slightly and sat up tiredly, the
warmth of the fire long died and now resting in the smoldering coals
in his fireplace. He quickly got dressed and made his way downstairs;
feeling strangely tired although he had slept a good long slumber. He
met Iria in their kitchen; she had brought his belongings downstairs
and set them by the door so he would be ready to leave on time. She
smiled at him sadly as they both sat down to eat their breakfast.

"I hope you are well in America. Those Yankees are quite rude, I hear.
And trust no one; you have no idea whom you might meet on the
streets," she instructed him thoughtfully; worry obvious in her eyes.
He smiled at her reassuringly.

"You needn't worry, Iria. I'll be fine; I promise I won't let anything
happen to me. I'll write you as often as I can; telling you all the
news that happens to me. I promise that I won't leave a thing out."

Iria smiled a bit. "Alright...but if I don't get a letter from you
soon, I'm going to come over myself and track you down with the
hounds!"

Quatre chuckled a bit and stood, his breakfast finished. "Alright, I
understand; Iria. I must bid you farewell now, though. I fear that I
may be late if I do not hurry to the port. Thankfully, our flat isn't
that far from the Thames; so I should be able to walk there quickly."
He stepped over and kissed his sister lightly on the cheek before
striding lightly into the foyer; where his spare coat and luggage sat.
Swiftly, he slid his coat on over his jacket and waistcoat, and picked
up his luggage. He had already had his larger luggage taken to the
port the day before so that he wouldn't have to worry about carrying
it; he opted to walk the short distance.

As he stepped outside into the brisk London air, more shouts of the
police echoed down the street above the whinny of horses and clatter
of carriage wheels. Curious, Quatre walked towards Queer Street, where
the sounds were coming from. As he turned the corner; he came across
the small crowd of people gathered around one spot, all murmuring to
each other in a hushed whisper.

"Excuse me, what's all this?" he asked lightly, stepping forward. A
young woman turned her head to face him and shook her head in
disgrace. "Oh, Dr. Winner; it's another murder. This time; it were
three small children, it was. All that was near them was a bloodied
overcoat and a few crumbs in the pockets. No identification was left
in the coat. And the murderer was very precise; there be no traces of
him left now!"

Quatre froze in his spot; stunned. The three children he had
helped...why had they been the target of such a crime? As he numbly
walked back down the main street and left the scene behind, his
thoughts wandered.

"First Zechs...and then those children...I just hope that neither mean
that this murderer is after me...but thankfully, I am leaving
London...he can't easily follow me across the ocean..."