The woman, her kind face smiling as he lifted each dish and washed it carefully, nodded as he rinsed them properly. She slapped the bottom of her apron, laughing heartily. The young boy was very good at washing dishes. He had offered to help her, after dinner was finished because he was tired of watching the family serve him, give him things, care for him, while he just sat in his room. He didn't like to be served. He had never been. He had always been the servant.

"You do this very well, young man," the woman said, helping him take some of the heavy pans. "I am most proud of you."

Trowa did not look at her, turning the greasy pan in his hand. He worked quickly, with a gifted dexterity, holding each plate with care. His agile hands worked making hardly any faults. he could feel the woman's eyes on his hands, watching as he did his job with speed and yet, made no mistakes. Trowa wanted to finish quickly and return to his room.

"You must have made your mama very happy."

The woman sat in a chair she had next to the sink, letting her short legs rest from hours of work in the house. She ran a hand over her forehead. Trowa looked at her from the corners on his eyes. Her short figure bend over under the heavy labour she did each day, he ageing face slightly wrinkled, her blue eyes warm, but hard from years of labour. Dos's family had to struggle to stay alive ever since the wars broke out on earth. Her father worked heavily in the city, coming home after dark, while her mother took care of the house, cooked, took care of the children and the field. They weren't unhappy, even if they were not rich. They were glad to be alive when so many other families were separated by war or death.

The young pilot heard her sigh, her hands on her lap. He narrowed his eyes, his sharp senses calculating the way she breathed, the even pattern of breaths. He shook his head slightly, willing his mind to stop analysing everything in the kitchen like he had been trained. He turned his attention to the cold water on his hands.

"You are very quiet, though," the woman said. Trowa did not stir. "Much to quiet."

She smiled sadly, her hands rubbing her apron. Trowa closed the faucet, the noise allowing the woman's voice to echo louder in the hot kitchen.

"Poor child, you must be hunted by the terrible things this fights have stirred." She leaned back on the chair. "I wish all of this would end, so the Earth can be as it was again. I wish those machines would go home and stop murdering so many people."

The dish slipped from his hand, falling softly into the water. He gasped and retried it in an instant, not letting it even dent. Trowa bit his lip, forcing her words to leave his mind. Concentrate on the mechanical acts of cleaning dishes. Mechanical acts.

The woman saw the way his body tensed, the way his head jerked as he forced himself to forget. Her words had probably brought up the memory of hardships and death, of a lost friend or family member. She should have not been that stupid. Her maternal soul ached to see such a young boy act this way. She got up from her chair, coming closer to him. Trowa gasped as he felt the woman's hands on his shoulders.

"I understand child," she said. "Forgive me."

Trowa felt his body collapse, his tired mind surrendering to her tender embrace. He bit his lip forcing his mind to return to his old self, to forget this feelings. He was a Gundam pilot, cold and trained to be vicious and silent. Lethal. He felt his soul tearing from that dark pit where his feelings resided and he hated that. He needs to go back to the past, back to the quiet, uncaring bastard that he was. That he is. His body was not answering him, his mind disobeying his orders.

The woman's hands held him close, telling him to stop the washing, to ease from the burden for a while. War is terrible, she must have thinking, as she embraced the child closer to her body, feeling sorry to have been so careless with her words. Trowa jerked his head back slightly, his eyes closed, his head falling into her tender breasts. His mind was becoming wild again. He could not forget.

The face of his mother, her soft green eyes smiling, looked down at him. He tender arms enfolded him just like Dos's mother did now. He heard her soft laughter, her voice. What was she telling him? Her words were a torturous jumble in his mind. That he could not remember. His own face, staring at himself in the mirror, wearing that suit she had made for him for his birthday. He had been smiling then. Then.

The face of father came to his head, his mother's sad expression. The poverty that hung from their walls like clothes. Faces that he did not remember, countless of faces he did not wish to recall. Hands touching him, rubbing him, kissing him. He wanted to see the faces of his mother and father, not those ones, but they did not go away. He gasped as he heard the yells of his father, the lonely songs of his mother as she sat each night hoping the misery would end. She had washed him with her cheap perfume every time such hands had touched him. She had tried to wash away the shame, from herself and from him, but she could not.

Trowa opened his eyes, now full of unwanted tears. The woman turned his around, letting his head bury itself into her breasts. She closed her eyes, running her wrinkled hand over his back. Trowa closed his eyes madly, forcing the memories to end. The pain and sorrow to reside, to die, but he couldn't. He buried his face deeper in the woman's chest, smelling her maternal smell. Not his mother's smell. Feeling her fingers on his hair. Not his mother's hands. He felt his soul break, his shame drown him, but he couldn't stop himself.

Dos's mother hushed him softly, rocking him like her own child. He did not see the faces of the two little children that had come by the kitchen's door, their eyes big and full of tears. He did not see Dos and her brother as they cried for him, saddened that any one should suffer so. Ashamed that they couldn't do anything for the quiet boy. The sad clown.

The dream came again, hot, beating against his skull. He felt his mind explode inside, the recollections blurring into one single delirium. Then, there was nothing but silence. His hands gripped the sheets as he listened to the silence. The whole house was quiet, save for the breathing of the people and their soft sleep talk. Trowa gasped.

Their soft noises came up from their room into his. His eyes widened as his ears caught even the slightest breathing. A hundred times louder.

The young boy slammed his head into the pillow, willing their breaths to go away. He gritted his teeth hard, his mind screaming as the murmurs invaded it. The noise would not leave. The still, even, slow, faint, breathing travelling up through the walls, finding its way under his bed covers, over his naked skin, reaching his mind. He let out a small whimper.

Trowa's eyes widened as the soft sounds became screams, hissing. Screams of dead men, army generals, soldiers, Oz officials and Leo drivers, of the children of his colony and of the Earth. Katherine's screams. Her voice soft, above the others, yelling out to him in the darkness. The people were running. He could hear their laboured breaths as they made their way outside. Outside the circus tent because this huge machine had appeared out of nowhere.

Trowa snarled, fighting against his nightmare vision. It was his Mobile Suit. Heavy Arms stood in the middle of the tent, glorious and majestic, ready to kill again. The boy felt his arms move, felt his fingers work the machinery, and opened fire on the people. All of them. Bad and good alike. He heard Katherine's screams, felt her anger as she slapped him again. Hard. Ashamed of him.

He rose up in bed, his eyes wide, his face sweaty. The room was dark, the lightning falling in the distance making it glow every now and again. The house was silent, the breathings quieted down again, residing from his head. Thunder rumbled weakly outside.

Outside. Trowa got up from his bed, slowly making his way across the room towards the single window. He put on the white shirt Dos's mother had left on the chair for him, not taking time to think. He opened the window, climbing his naked legs over the window sill, letting his body slip outside in the wet roof.

The cold rain hit his face, making the healing wounds sting, his torn lips aching as the harsh night wind bit into his half naked body. He drew in his breath, letting his thin body drop to the ground below. He stood up, looking at the dark field that lay before him, the tall tree looming in the middle. The windy rain made him shiver, the shirt and underwear not enough against nature. Without looking back at the house, he walked into the field, his feet crushing wet leaves and muddy soil. Walking like mad man.

Trowa walked, his green eyes becoming human now that no one was around, leaving the house behind, the past, the dreams. He listened to the wind as it rustled the grass on the field. A new dream rose from the back of his head, the wind becoming talking voices. Calling his name. He gasped as he felt someone near him. Katherine stretched her hand out for him. He raised his hand, longing to feel her warmth, longing to rest again by her side, but it was useless. She was just a dream shadow.

He sank to his knees, the sound of the Gundam's fire becoming louder in his head. He clenched his hands on the mud, his maddened mind reliving his everyday scenario. Unclenching his hands, reaching for the Gundam's control lever that was not there. Not in that field. Not there.

His green eyes became darker, tears welling inside them. He reached and brushed them away. Earth was not his home, he thought, as he looked down at a handful of wet soil he took in his palm. L3 was not his home either. Then, where did he belong? Was he truly nothing but a hired killing machine, a mad bastard?

He hugged himself, and let his head drop close to his chest. He was cold. The rain beat on his back, making its way through the shirt, through his hair. It mingled with his tears and skin. His bare feet sank in the uneven soil as he let his body fall sideways, the rain over him, closing his eyes, the darkness and grass in the field enveloping him.

Silent clowns never belong anywhere.