capeandcowllogs | In A.D. 2011, war was beginning.

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They'd been fighting for two days straight when the reinforcements had showed up. They were exhausted. Trowa himself was out of ammunition at last--shocking, considering how much he'd packed into that subspace belt, but somehow not at all surprising to anyone--and had resorted to brute force, tiring him out even more.

So when the tide of help came in from the outside, it was understandable that they would try to rest, even if only for a little while.

Of course, having 40-something fans and nearly a dozen coworkers surrounding them in a giant protective... and talkative... circle was making that fairly difficult.

Trowa stared at the person who looked so very much like Zechs Merquise, and yet, was wearing an infinitely more ridiculous mask and had much shorter hair. Although he couldn't be certain, he was pretty sure the stranger was doing just the same in return.

"...What?"

Quatre had fielded a good half dozen questions already since they'd come to a stop, unable to fend anyone off long enough to get any sort of rest. The staring was nothing for him, having gotten used to that years ago, though the temptation to snap at someone was getting harder and harder to ignore.

Sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Trowa, he gave the brunet a quick look when the question was asked and without having to think about it, grabbed his arm when the fan finally gave in to whatever odd query he had.

"Do you really just brush your hair like that?"

He barely had the energy to feel anything beyond being damn tired, but the question he'd already heard so many times that month from assorted Crabhammers trying to throw him off his game caused a brief, intense flare of irritation; only the hand on his upper arm and the glance from Quatre kept him from being snappish and saying something rude.

Instead, he held his tongue until he could be more civil, and nodded. Yes, I do.

As if the dam holding them all back had just been broken, more questions began pouring in, drowning the both of them in a veritable sea of voices.

"Do you have a satellite in space again?"

"Hey, so what did happen at New Edwards?"

"Are Dorothy's eyebrows really like that?"

"How did you solve the mobility issue with Sandrock's pauldrons?"

Trowa frowned, trying to figure out what question to answer first, if any. It was still really, really disturbing seeing a copy of himself and hearing about things he hadn't even lived yet from people who were never once there.

Edited 2011-05-20 16:55 (UTC)

"New Edwards?" Quatre mouthed the words, that particular question standing out just a little more than some of the others.

Because it implied that whatever they had seen showed that anything that wasn't the fight had happened. Which was one of those uncomfortable things that made him wonder exactly how much this rabble of strangers knew about his personal life and how much was merely assumptions.

Either way, he just shakes his head.

"If you want to know anything about Winner Corporation, we have a website. You can find details about our space program there."

"Hey. I've got my iPhone if you want."

"Oh! Thanks."

While the blond was busy addressing the issue of satellites and the having (or having-not) of them, Trowa turned to look at the person wearing the plastic mobile suit.

"What mobility problems?"

He'd never seen Quatre have trouble with them before, but understood what the issue was pretty quickly when the person inside raised their arms in demonstration--only to be unable to lift them past their shoulders.

"Oh. You built them with the--"

A tighter squeeze on his arm closed his mouth again; changing his mind, Trowa finished the sentence with a new ending. It was a lie, but then, if they had access to this much money and armor already, who knew what they could do with simple steel.

"--wrong materials."

"Damn."

Another voice piped up, coming from one of his own reinforcements. Specifically, the guy in the cartoonish lion suit.

"When you were at the circus, you totally tapped that, right? Cathy?"

Trowa gave him a blank look, unsure of what the question referred to, unaware of the meaning to that particular bit of modern (or to him, historical) slang.

Quatre coughed quietly into his hand then, not only knowing the slang, but also exactly how not pleased Trowa would be by the implication. The question earns the guy a derisive look from some, but every one is quiet, only polite now that their questions were beginning to be answered.

He didn't really know what to think, releasing Trowa's arm slowly.

"It means sex," he mumbled, too quiet for most of the people around them to overhear.

Trowa's only reaction to the explanation was to pin the guy to the spot with the world's most intense glower of utter loathing.

"She's my sister," he ground out. It was all he needed to say; the ridiculous-looking lion suiter stammered a hasty excuse, realizing his error, and ran off to go find a mob he could join in on beating up.

Silence reigned for a few moments while Trowa quietly sat there stewing.

And then someone snapped their fingers in realization.

"Ah! Then that means you're Russian!" The woman turned to her cardboard-robot companion, elbowing him in the side before holding her hand out, palm-up. "Ten years I spent telling you he wasn't Latin American. Ten! Pay up."

In A.D. 2011, war was beginning.

Around 4AM / Fun with NPCs / CLOSED

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