Title: The Knife in Shining armor
Rating: Strong R for violence, language, and homosexuality.
Warnings: ANGST, OOC, Crazy Quatre
Discalmer: Alas, I do not own Gundam Wing. Please dont sue me, all you'll get is my Japanese homework and some hairballs from my cat...
Anyway- on with the fic!

The Knife in Shining Armor

Quatre walked quickly, head bent, his hands stuffed deeply into the loose khakis that hung from his slim hips. His blond hair looked disheveled, his usually smiling face turned to the unforgiving concrete beneath him. It must have been this lack of attention, or perhaps some cruel twist of fate, but whatever it was Quatre did not see the man until he had run right into him.

The pilot stumbled back form the man, apologies already tumbling form his lips even as he struggled to regain his balance. As he brushed the dust off of himself, Quatre looked up to the man’s face. He was ugly, tall and broad shouldered. A soldier, most likely. But what caught Quatre’s attention most was the man’s mouth- it was large, thin lipped, and the sneer on those lips was twisted- the look of a man who enjoys the pain of others.

“I’m very sorry,” Quatre said, reaching our a hand to shake the man’s hand. It was a gesture of the friendship that Quatre offered to everyone, even soldiers.

The mans sneer turned even more disgusted as he looked down at Quatre’s hand and blatantly ignored it. The boy dropped his hand back to his side, resigned to the fact that not all people were as open and friendly as him.

However, as Quatre began to walk past the man, deciding that it wasn’t really worth his time anyway, the man’s booted foot shot out and tripped the boy. Quarter fell heavily onto the concrete to the sound of a man’s cruel laughter filling his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see two more men materializing out of the shadows of the alley. Both looked dangerous and ready for a fight.

Damn.

“Well, what have we here?” Asked one of the men, a blond with a scraggly goatee and squinty blue eyes. He was grinning at Quatre, showing off multiple missing teeth. The small pilot pushed attempted to get up, but a boot in his back stopped that rather quickly. He made a little noise of pain, and the man above him laughed some more.

“Ha! Are you a little sissy boy? Why don’t you run home to your mama, you pastel-wearing faggot!”

Oh, shit.

“Yeah, boy, why don’t you run home and go play with your dolls?” The third man, a dark haired kid not much older than Quatre himself. Quatre closed his eyes for a moment and rested his forehead on the concrete. He didn’t want to deal with this, not today, not now. Please, not today.

The man with the boot in Quatre back suddenly moved, grabbing the stunned blond by his shoulders and hauling him roughly to his feet. Quatre grimaced as the bones in his shoulder scraped together loudly. Quatre turned his head as far back as he could to look at the man from his awkward position halfway off the ground.

“Please, just let me go,” He said. It sounded weak even to him.

Quatre decided that he really didn’t like the sound of this man’s laughter.

“Haha, boy, do you have to go? Me’n my buddies just wanted to have a little fun. Won’t you stay and play with us?” He laughed again, and his hands tightened their bruising grip on Quatre’s shoulders.

“Yeah, why not stay and play?” Laughed the blond haired man as his fist connected with Quatre’s stomach.

Pain exploded into Quatre’s consciousness. He had had no way to block that punch, and the way the bigger man was holding him he could not twist out of the way. He doubled over in pain, gagging. The men just laughed.

“Aw, is poor little momma’s boy hurt? Where’s your momma now, you fucking queer?!”. The second punch landed square on Quatre’s jaw and his head snapped back form the force of the blow. He was seeing stars at first, but soon he began to see red as anger overtook whatever pain he was feeling. His mother was dead. She had been a kind woman- they would not defile her memory this way. He struggled in the larger man’s grip, which inevitably tightened on his shoulders. Quatre spit blood out of his mouth and turned to the men.

“What, you can’t fight me like real men? Three against one? And me held back. Yes, you’re quite the macho men now, aren’t you?”

Another fist hit his face, but Quatre barely reacted at all. He simple turned his head and looked at the man who had hit him, stared hard at him.

“What the fuck do you know about being a man, anyway, faggot-boy?!” Screamed the dark-haired kid, flexing his muscles in what Quatre assumed was supposed to an intimidating way. It just looked stupid to him. “You don’t nothin’ about bein’ a man. Ha, I bet you got some boy at home who fucks you like the dog you are.”

Something snapped inside of Quatre then. All the anger he held for this war, all the frustration of loving someone and getting nothing back, it all coalesced into one bright spark of anger and hatred that ripped through his body like an electrical charge. His own voice screamed in his ears, I’ll kill you all!! All of you!! Before he knew what he was doing, Quatre had kicked up and back, catching the man who held him in the knee and dropping him like a rock. All of his training as a soldier came rushing into him, and the butterfly knife he carried in his pants was suddenly flying into his hand, shining like the armor of the triumphant knight. He spun, throwing one leg out to catch the bearded man in the head mid-fall, knocking him completely unconscious. The blond man was rushing him, and Quatre ducked, rolling straight into his legs, causing the man to lose his balance. The Arabian didn’t even wait to see if the man had fallen before his knife had sunk deep into the flesh on the mans back.

At the first sight of blood, the dark-haired kid paled. This tiny little faggot boy had just knocked out one of his buddies and possibly killed the other. He had just wanted to have some fun, but now the kid was looking at him again, those huge aqua marine eyes filled with something that the man couldn’t understand for a moment. With a start, he realized that it was an utter loathing, a hatred so deep it made him shake. He saw his own death in those eyes.

One left, Quatre though, as he moved slowly towards the last man standing, the young one. The kid turned to run, but Quatre was faster, his training had been well executed as well. He was as much the soldier as even Heero Yuy.

Quatre grabbed the kid by his chin and forced him to his knees with another hand on the kids shoulder. His eyes bored into the terrified eyes of the kid in front of him as he slowly brought his knife up to the kids throat.

“I should kill you,” he hissed.

The man whimpered pathetically. Quatre tightened his grip on the man chin, maintaining the forced eye contact. “I should make an example of you. Yeah, I’m a fucking faggot. And you know what? After I kill you, I’m gonna go home, and I’m gonna be fucked like a dog. But you won’t care, will you? Because you’ll be dead.”

The man’s whimpers became terrified sobs. “Please!! Please don’t kill me!! I’ll do anything! Please!!”

Slowly, slowly, the thing that had gripped Quatre loosened its maddening hold. Rational though seeped slowly back into his mind, and the human part of his brain began to take over again. Quatre’s grip on the man’s face loosened, and the tip of his knife dropped away but a centimeter, leaving behind a small drop of blood that gathered and pooled until it dripped languidly down the kids neck to be soaked up by his shirt. Quatre watched, fascinated by the tiny droplet of life, life that he was taking away. Why was this affecting him so much? He had killed men before, hundreds, possibly thousands. He regretted it every day of his life, but it had never been as real as this. And as Quatre watched the blood ooze agonizingly slowly from the wound, he suddenly wanted to gag, and he shoved the kid away form himself and fell to his knees. He didn’t even turn at the sound of the kids running footsteps echoing through the alleyway. He simply crouched on his hands and knees like a dog, throwing up everything he had eaten for the past three days, and crying for the lives he’d taken. It took him a long time to stand back up.