Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation ❯ II - B - Same Shit, Different Day - Quatre's ( Chapter 10 )

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation - a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFall.com

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons, mainly 1x2 and 3x4) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you can find out in the world is now in your fanfiction!

 

Annotation Note: Flashback moments are enclosed in **.......** s.

 

Part B of Page II, “Wonder What's Next”, in the s4 arc.

“Same Shit, Different Day: Quatre's.”

Quatre's POV

 

I whacked the snooze button before the obnoxious sound could torture me a fourth time. I lay there for a moment, with my hand on the alarm, trying to remember my dreams, trying to understand if the bizarre images in my head were fantasy or fact. I could not remember my dream or if I had even had one.

 

However, I could remember being robbed last night. I could remember the faces of the four men in the store, their crude and plain lack of upbringing. It was almost like a dream, but too vivid, too real. I could remember running down the alleys, the sound of gunfire, the feeling of a hand gripped firmly around my neck. Trowa...

 

** “I'm certainly no celebrity like a Winner, so you'll probably forget my name. It's Trowa.” **

 

Trowa.

 

I hadn't dreamt it. I hadn't forgotten.

 

As I took my hand off the alarm I grabbed the pack of cigarettes, tousling my hair a little before opening up the container. Only three were missing. I hadn't picked a Lucky, the fabled cigarette in each pack that you ordain by flipping it so that it's in the opposite position from all the rest, filter down, tobacco up. You're supposed to save your Lucky for a special occasion, or when you really need to have good luck. It was bullshit superstition, totally meaningless to most.

 

// Especially when you smoke two packs a day //

 

But I did it anyway, picking out a jack from the second row, smack in the middle, removing and reinserting it with great ease. I pulled out a different cigarette.

 

Still in bed, I rummaged through a drawer in the mahogany nightstand, finally coming across matches. I took one out and struck it against the back of the bundle, the comforting scent hitting my nostrils. The flame almost went out, but I was quick to light the Benson & Hedges in my hand.

 

I threw the matches onto the nightstand, taking a puff and staring hard at the packaging.

 

** “Why were you so crazy about getting those cigarettes? It was dangerous, and stupid.” **

 

//Because you know they're bad for you. Because you're a bad boy//

 

I gently lay the pack atop the alarm, flicking it from `Snooze' to `Off'. I threw the covers to the floor, feet tickled slightly by the plush carpet as I got up. I stood and stared out the window, the city already bustling and teeming with life, the sun low in the East, blocked by the Cosmos' building.

 

**Take care of yourself, Quatre. **

 

I went and turned on the water for the shower. While waiting for it to get hot I made a phone call.

 

“Master Quatre,” The gruff, but reverent voice on the other line came after no more than two rings.

 

“Rashid, I need you to contact my credit card company and tell them I've lost my card, same with my bank card.”

 

“You never came home last ni- “

 

“Thank you Rashid.” I hung up the phone. Rashid was a good man, but I had no doubt he only cared about me because of my father. He seemed sincere, but I couldn't imagine he'd be so good to me unless he wanted some part of my family's, Father's, fortune. His people owed their survival to his actions, but I could never understand those primitive tribal alliances. No, it had to be the money. That's what almost everyone was after.

 

// But Rashid probably deserves more than you. At least he does some good for the family//

 

I stripped down and jumped into the steamy swelter of the shower. I didn't even turn on any cold water, just let the scalding jets of water scorch my skin, clearing my sinuses and cleaning all the dirt away.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

I had only twenty minutes to get across town to where the Winner International Enterprises headquarters was located. Walking was out of the question and the subways and buses were for Joe Schmoe, not me. I'd probably get mugged again! Problem was, I was at my seaside apartment all the way on the western tip of Gotham, overlooking King's Bay and my car... was probably still outside the 24/7 store...

 

So I called a private car company. They said it would be at least fifteen minutes before they could get a car to the building where my penthouse condo was. I dropped my father's name. The car was there in three.

 

I gave the driver his 15% tip, though he hadn't cleaned the back seat for some time and I had to pick dozens of lint balls off my gray Alex Cannon. I rode the elevator to the 44th floor, the highest level that non-board members and executives could enter.

 

I powered on my computer, closed the drapes a little. The maids or whoever cleaned the office at night always left them wide open, the rising sun streaming through and burning my neck. I chose to sit facing away from the window, something all cubicle-bound staff were puzzled and a bit repugnant about. I could look out the window all day at the city and the ships coming and going in Prospect Bay, the sight-seeing helicopters from Gotham Harbor, the oncoming air traffic approaching Zeon Airport and finally, only on the clearest of days, the rolling hills and treelines of Suburbia, across the Avalon Bridge. That was my favorite thing to stare at. But if there was too much smog or mist and on overcast days I had to contend myself with watching the flocks of birds around the Gotham Harbor Park, crowding together on the few trees amidst the concrete towers.

 

I ended up doing just that today, staring out vacantly at the beauty of that small oasis of natural beauty. I don't know how long it was for, but the sudden ringing of my phone broke my trance.

 

“Winner Enterprises,” I said dreamily, still half-staring out the window. “Quatre Winner speaki-”

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!”

 

“I- um-” I didn't know what to say. I never received such indignant abuse.

//Cuz they know you're going to be rich when father dies//

 

“ARE YOU WATCHING THE MARKET AT ALL!?!?” The fury-warped voice was George de Sand's. He was the most important client I had ever been given, receiving the thousand-page portfolio only a week ago.

 

//He has enough money already, and probably won't outlive father. So, to him you're just a piece of shit in his teeth//

 

I stared stupidly at my computer screen, at the quiet flat-screen, HD TV installed on the wall opposite my desk. I quickly typed in my user name and password. Then another password. My access clearance was a 2. I was the only non-board member with a 2. The highest level of clearance was 1. Only father had a 1.

 

“I- Um- How are you doing today Mr. de Sand?” I stalled for time while all the programs loaded. I had 33 unread e-mails, 8 blinking `URGENT'. The real-time stock ticker was still loading.

 

“I'M LOSING ALL MY MONEY YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SNOT!” George de Sand roared, undoubtedly spitting all over his phone. An urgent red exclamation point popped up as the stock ticker loaded.

 

! de Sand, George P. ! I clicked on it.

 

“I told you to sell Zodiac Pharmaceuticals if it dipped under 130!” I was holding the receiver a full foot away from my ear. “IT'S AT 110! 109! 109 YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BRAT!”

 

I watched the money trickling away from de Sand's account. Zodiac was an up-and-coming, new R & D company. It had been in the papers a lot recently for its controversial testing policies, but its products boasted three of the Top Five new drugs of the year. de Sand had wanted to diversify out of the conventional stocks and slow-growth banks he'd invested most of his fortune in. Zodiac had seemed like a pricey risk at 160 a share, but nobody doubted their ability to deliver groundbreaking drugs.

 

“SELL IT YOU STUPID BASTARD!!! SELL IT!!!” He was screaming himself horse.

 

All of this could have been avoided if de Sand hadn't been such an old-fashioned bastard. Nowadays you can put stop-loss orders on most stocks, automatically selling them once they hit a certain low point. But de Sand would often complain that he 'didn't trust' computerized processes. Now he was in the red a few million because of that...

 

Knock Knock Knock. The raps came at a polite volume, just enough to catch a person's attention if they were on the phone or watching TV. They were paced politely, obviously saying, `Don't hurry, but this is important.'

 

“SELL!!!”

 

“I have to make some calls Mr. de Sand. Goodbye.” And I hung up despite his curses and protests.

 

I needed time to think. Exactly a minute went by. Zodiac was at 107. de Sand had lost eighty million dollars already.

 

Knock Knock Knock. The same perfect pace and volume.

 

I hated Dorothy Catalonia.

 

I picked up the phone and hit the speed-dial to Abdul's cell phone. I wanted to seem busy and hard at work, but also in control of things when she came in.

 

//You? Fool her? She's the definition of `in control'//

 

“Come in,” I collected myself and tried to sound cool.

 

The definition of cool and collected walked into my office, dressed in the most official, respectable-looking business suit a woman could wear in hot pink. Her golden blonde hair was tucked behind her ears, corralled by two pink hair clips. Her suit pants and shoes were pink. Her tie had pink and gold stripes, a wide, fat tie that was currently fashionable for men. Her buttoned down shirt was plain white, making the tie and the suit's pink flare even greater. She smiled at me pleasantly, without any genuine friendliness, a habit of manners.

 

“How are you today Mr. Winner?” She always called me `Mr. Winner' despite being the same age as I. She put down a slim stack of papers on my desk, they were held together by a pink paper clip. “I thought you might be interested in this,” she said, that self-assured smugness creeping into her voice. “Of course, you've probably already seen it...” This last was said with rank condescension.

 

I eyed her for a moment, trying to figure out my best response. It was always a duel with Dorothy. She had found me today in terrible shape, frantic and exasperated. She would use it against me, undoubtedly. There was no such thing as mercy to Dorothy Catalonia. She waited for me with a smile. She was on the offensive.

 

“Thank you Dorothy,” I said as sweetly as I could. Her smile widened. I had to err on the side of caution. I was already bound to get a black eye over the Zodiac fiasco, it was time to cut my losses and try not to get another.

 

The title of the first page Dorothy had set down read, “Zodiac charged in criminal lawsuit over lab testing policies and use of third-trimester fetuses.” The last part was the most surprising. It was illegal to use any unborn `human material' for research once four months after fertilization had passed. I had never heard anything about Zodiac doing that.

 

What it meant was that Zodiac had stopped all its research and that was causing the plummet.

 

Abdul finally picked up. “Quatre-sama!” He had to shout over the roar of the frenzy. Abdul was a trader at the international stock market center, on Capital Street, right across from the Cosmos' building. He was always in the swirling sea of `Buy!' and `Sell!' ruckus of scrambling traders, like pigs fighting over the best share of the slop bucket, but dressed in designer suits.

 

“Abdul!” I yelled loudly, hoping he could hear me. “You need to sell George de Sand's Zodiac stock! Sell de Sand's Zodiac! You understand?!!?”

 

“Eh eh em,” Dorothy cleared her throat pointedly.

 

“Hang on a minute, Abdul,” I said into the phone. I looked at Dorothy, unable to hide a scowl.

 

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” She said with a slight shake of her head, like a mother reprimanding an ignorant child.

 

“George de Sand just called and told me to sell,” I growled right back. My hands were tied. “Time to cut losses.”

 

“How much money has he lost already?” Dorothy asked. “$80 million?” She never asked a question without knowing its answer ahead of time.

 

“He told me to sell,” I barked back. She was always telling me-

 

//Because you need someone to hold your hand, little Quatre. That's why you let her in. That's why you'll listen to her. She's smarter than you//

 

“I won't tell you what to do with your clients,” Dorothy said, feigning modesty, an emotion she only knew the act, not feel, of. “But if things end up with you selling now, you'll lose the de Sand account.”

 

“Start selling Abdul,” I ordered heatedly, slamming down the receiver. Fuck her!

 

//Oh, so that's how it's going to be? Won't let anyone trample on your pride will you? Easy to take it out on her or Abdul isn't it? But Father will know whose fault it is//

 

“Between you and me,” Dorothy leaned forward, cocking her head to get a new angle to enjoy the suffering evident on my face, “The board is grumbling that you're not cut out to take over for your father.”

 

//He isn't! //

 

I'm not...

 

“And that you've been riding your inheritance, living it up on your father's name and money.”

 

// The good for nothing wouldn't be anything without father! Look how he squanders his wealth //

 

I do just leech off of father. I never do a thing on my own...

 

“And at the next monthly meeting they'll ask your father to assign you to Seattle, and to consider electing one of the board member's when he steps down.”

 

//They should! Send the little worm out to rot in Seattle, or Shanghai or wherever! He's only ever been a burden anyway//

 

I don't deserve to inherit the family-business... They can send me to whereve-

 

“Wait!” I stopped. Something had popped the shame and guilt, shining like a needle. I had to know. “How did you hear that? Board meeting minutes are only available to board members and-” I stopped. I knew how Dorothy had found out about the board meeting minutes.

 

“They gave you level 2 access!” I said loudly.

 

//And she deserves it, while you...//

 

But surely she wasn't on the board now?

 

Dorothy nodded, a genuine smile of triumph coming into her face. “I'm not on the board, yet,” She stressed the last word importantly. “But you shouldn't sell all of de Sand's Zodiac. It will come back. This is only a temporary loss.”

 

“But he told me to sell,” I looked apprehensively at the stock ticker. Zodiac hadn't budged from 107. Maybe it wasn't going to drop any lower, maybe it was even going to turn around today. “He said-”

 

“Quatre, we manage people's money because we know how to secure it and make more for them than they do,” Dorothy spoke to me like I was a child in her Pre-K class. “And Zodiac will either change their testing policy or the suit will be settled quietly. Rau le Cruz is Zodiac's CEO, and he has millions of friends in high places, including Senator Dullindal. He boasts that the first line of their performance enhancement drugs for children are past testing stages. They'll make billions off that alone. In fact, this is a great opportunity to buy some more Zodiac; the price won't ever get this low again.”

 

I picked up the phone. Dorothy was right. She was always right... I never was. I called Abdul and asked, “How much of the de Sand stock have you managed to dump?” I waited. Dorothy smiled and began to leave. “Uh-huh,” I didn't even pay attention to Abdul's answer. “Stop selling Abdul. No, I know what I told you earlier. No. Listen, just stop selling, even if it goes lower. Yeah. Yeah, thanks Abdul.”

 

I hung up the phone. Dorothy was gone. The office door clicked shut. I sat down and put my head in my hands. I felt like crap. I needed a cigarette. I could feel my father's shame pressing down on me from seven stories above my head. Tears began to blur my vision.

 

The phone rang. Father wanted to have a talk with me, in his office, immediately.

 

I hung up. I lit a cigarette, despite the no-smoking policy in the building. After a few calming puffs, still not enough, I don't think the entire pack would have been enough, I felt a little better. I snubbed the cigarette out and went to face my father.

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

For most of the time my father sat and sternly reproached me for not being on top of things, of my lapses in concentration, my inability to handle bigger clients, my lack of effort outside of paid hours.

 

I nodded and nodded and apologized and kept my head down. I don't even know what I said.

 

//You're a bad boy Quatre, a very bad boy. It's all your fault. It's your fault. To think of all the trouble Father and mommy went through to have a son... And for it to come out like you... If only you were a shadow of the man Father is... If only you hadn't been born...//

 

I tried to block out the thoughts. But I never could. So, instead I thought about the events of last night, so much like a dream. I knew the police would seek me out. I knew the sinister Japanese killer would put me down like the dog I was if I told them anything. Maybe that would be best? No. No, that would be the coward's way out... That would make Iria and my sisters sad.

 

I kept thinking about what Trowa had said. Most of the night had been like a blur to me, but those handfuls of minutes after we'd eluded the police...

 

** Are you going to go to the police about me? I had to take my mask off, it would attract too much attention here on the subways. And I don't think you're the type to talk. No, I don't know why. **

 

**Take care of yourself, Quatre. **

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

And when I did get home, the police were there. A serious female with short, dark lilac-tinted hair introduced herself to me as Lieutenant Noin. She asked me if I was OK, if I had been hurt in the robbery last night. It was an obvious formality.

 

I told her I was fine; I'd even been able to go to work today.

 

She said she was glad for that, but feigned concern over my stolen wallet and watch.

 

I told her it was a small price to pay.

 

She asked me about the two gunmen, if I'd seen their faces, if I could describe their appearances, if I could identify their voices if (she said `when' ) they were captured, if I knew anything about them at all. She said a young police officer was dead and another currently hospitalized.

 

He was maybe six feet tall, maybe a bit shorter. He was strong, but quite skinny, almost gangly because of his long legs. He had flaxen light brown hair combed over half of his face, the bangs pointing towards his heart like daggers. He had a small, pointed nose. His eyebrows were thin, his jaw protruding less than an inch, also pointy in the front. He never smiled... His eyes were usually narrowed in serious demeanor, emerald pools tranquil and still.

 

His name was Trowa.

 

I told the police that, unfortunately, I couldn't help them.

 

-end Quatre's POV

-end part B, “SSDD: Same Shit, Different Day: Quatre”, of Page II in Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Hope you enjoyed, please send feedback to MasamuneEHS@hotmail.com

 

Next: Part C. “Bad Habits - Heero's - Gambling”