Disclaimer: I own GW as much as my name is 'monkeyspit.'

Two more characters have been added to the cast! *Dances around like a troll* Woo-hoo-hoo!! (Vixen and Sarah, thank you!)

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Dorothy turned the corner to her office hurriedly, a pile of work jammed between the crook of her arm and her waist, a pen tucked behind her ear and her mouth turned downwards in quiet scorn of the system.

Nigeria's exports did not count for much of a percentage in the world market. Their products existed mostly of surplus, but the majority of the country worked not on farms but in factories. They had an excellent harbor, though. It gave refuge and rest to shipments coming across the Atlantic from South America and those coming south from Europe and northern Africa. They had many landing strips, too - more than anyone knew, really.

Romaefeller, in the beginning of its reign, used at least two countries in each continent for its army. Nigeria, being a relatively innocent tradespoint, had housed a sliver of the army at all times. In turn for its services, Romaefeller signed its name under a contract stating it had taken Nigeria under its protective wing.

When the war had broken out into full-fledged mayhem, the contract was nonverbally dropped in order to prepare for the battles. Nigeria and its many, many military shelters were momentarily forgotten, during which Dorothy guessed the terrorist group to have expanded to a much larger state.

And now they were going to make themselves known.

Where could this lead to? The African nations were still regarded as third world countries in the developing stage of becoming more. They had disputes in the government's ranks and no true navy or army, with the exception of a few - Egypt for one, along with Morocco.

Dorothy let the pile slap onto the surface of her desk.

She wouldn't have time to herself for the next month or so; her division of the Preventers was much involved with this project.

Dorothy stroked her forehead with the tips of her fingers languidly, eyes easing over packets and folders and faxes. She could not think of herself at this crucial point; inner confusion had to be replaced by something new. Order. A fake order, discipline.

Drown her own fears in that of the Preventers. Rake the frustration aside.

Dorothy's nails dragged along the skin roughly as she thought about this. A muffled growl of her own wormed itself out of her heart; if only she could throttle those bastards for their actions as blame for her own.

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Trowa leaned against the crate, listening to the Lion inside pacing, it's giant paws thumping against the wooden boards impatiently, its tail sometimes swinging against the sides of it to show its unease. Every so often, he could hear it panting slow, gruff cries of perplexion.

"Shh. Calm down." Trowa murmured, arms crossed over his chest, head bent at such an angle that his chin nearly touched his chest, directly under the collar bone. Eyes closed, his lips moved as he said things to himself without sound. "It will be alright. Shh."

Catherine sat not far from where he stood, sadly watching the tent being taken down, the poles tied together in a massive bundle to be loaded into the flatbed of a truck. Other than the Lions and the team of show dogs they had, all other animals had been shipped off already. The performers she had lived with so long had all said their goodbyes, leaving with promises of future reunions.

They were the last of them. Catherine had not finished packing at the time and Trowa had waited for her. Her long stay with the Circus as one of their best performers had earned her the privilege of a trailer all her own - small, but very private. Packing hadn't been that necessary if it were to come with them, but now they were leaving it, too.

Having owned more memories than materialistic things, Catherine had quietly asked if Trowa could rip some things from the walls of the trailer before it was towed. He had silently gotten to work on that, carrying out small cabinet doors and pieces of the actuall wall were the glue had long since melded with the structure.

Catherine would then tie these together with metal twine and lay them in boxes.

Now the tent collapsed, folding into millions of colorful wrinkles, a large, heavy mass of old fabric flattening the grass beneath. She watched it disappear into another truck, as if being sucked in so as to be shredded by an inner machine.

Standing up, she faced a tree in the distance, eyes narrowing. With one quick tug of her wrist she brought out her familiar family of knives; one after the other was thrown aggressively, lunging at the tree. They formed a near-straight line when she was done; shoulders slumping, she trotted over to retrieve them from its trunk.

Ciruses went out of business from time to time. Others would take their place.

But it was not a comfortable feeling to sit with.

Glancing back, she saw the tent to have gone completely from sight; Trowa now stood alone, the Lions having been brought away while her back was turned. Like stone he watched the last trucks and moving vans off, dust clouds springing up where they turned on the road.

This has been her circus - and for a time, their circus. A make-shift home along with a make-shift group of friends.

The dogs were gone now as well.

Oh Trowa.

Now what would happen to them?

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Relena bobbed her head to the music on the radio, turned up a few notches for her to hear clearly from the living room. Rubbing the handle of a small kitchen knife between her thumb and index finger, Relena trotted back to the counter, not entirely alert, her attention parted between the apple she intended to cut and the lyrics.

Trotting, though, from place to place did not necessarily mean she was happy.

The two weeks of work over, New Years excluded, she had returned to a silent, dreary little house in which hung almost nothing of any real value to her. A dip into depression or perhaps the sudden realization of the few weeks left to her had caused to come with a sour attitude.

Denna had slipped a card under the door in her absence; 'Happy New Years, Panda.' Why Panda, Relena wondered, soon shrugging it off and setting the card on the coffee table.

To her apprehension, Relena was not given any clear orders of when to definitely return to Cinq. Soon, yes. When, who knows. Relena began to peel the apple, eating bits of the skin inbetween knife strokes, chewing in time to the music - a feat she was not quite aware of. She peeled slowly, maybe an inch every ten seconds.

One more slice and the apple would be completely naked, it's green hide meeting up with her digestive system. Perfectly white but for a green patch, she quickly cut in.

The knife dropped to her feet, clattering till it had bumped under the eaves of the counter. Her lips parted, before the knife had even left her fingers, in a silent scream. The once-white apple now sported large red splotches that dripped onto the counter surface, and she veered away with the sharp sting in her hand, coughing up sputterings of words.

Blood dripping onto the wooden floor she raced out of the kitchen, made a limping dash around the corner of the stair post and hobbled up the steps to the bathroom. Her injured hand, now clamped tightly by the other, she held close to her stomach as if it was in some danger of otherwise being hurt.

Once in the bathroom, Relena turned the faucet on, tears now blurring her vision. A strange thought wandered into the open; should she really wash the blood off directly from this heavily-bleeding cut? What if it was deep? It must be deep, the knife had dived into the skin. Why hadn't she been paying attention?

She ended up sitting on the toilet seat, hunchbacked over her hand and rocking back and forth while the faucet ran on. The pain was surprising - her shirt now carried a large red stain, turning the blue material a peculiar, dark purple. As if she was an animal with purple blood instead of red.

Lifting her face, she caught sight of an old dishtowel she had been using to wipe water from the bathroom counters - now old and slightly ragged around the edges. Grabbing it, she hastily wrapped the cloth around her hand, fumbling and not making it as tight as she should have.

It would stop bleeding soon. It had to. Please stop bleeding. No blood, please, no blood, not now. Why would this throw her into a panic? - oh Lord, the dishtowel wasn't enough, where was something she could use -

Toilet paper. Lots of toilet paper, an entire roll of toilet paper - wrap wrap wrap, unwrap, wrap around her hand, put the dishtowel back on. Relena knew, maybe she had to call the hospital.

But she only wanted the blood to lessen a little before calling. Get rid of the bloody toilet paper, too. Relena had to be able to hold the phone and dial without keeping the makeshift-bandage closed.

Relena wiped away sick tears from her eyes. Those weren't just from this damned cut. It was a build-up of things, a small pyramid, that made her want to let loose in a bout of weeping. Not weeping, really, but certainly crying.

Things just didn't make sense. She had woken that morning with a headache. People were acting strange and more out of the ordinary than usual. Her birthday had gone by with calls for a celebration, all of which she refused. Montreal would leave her life at the end of four months. Nigeria was creating these problems and she had no way of correctiong them through actions.

Good, good, stay on Nigeria, that is a sensible reason to cry right now. Cinq couldn't get involved, that's good, think of that. Why couldn't it get involved? Answer already!

Well, as the leading model of complete pacifism Cinq could not jump into an aggressive front because another country did not agree with its principles. Doing this would be extremely hypocritical. All Relena wanted was to talk, know they're opinion and reasons.

Relena's tears had dried up, the rocking had left her body.

Now she could call.

She felt as if there was, indeed, a purpose for this odd depression in her life. And now that it was there in her conscious mind, she could get up from her cramped seat.

This was much better; not healed, but certainly better.

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Stitches. Many stitches - blue thread poking in and out of her skin. Her palm itched whenever she twisted it, but in a way she could forget. At least she was back.

Relena sniffed, hoping to rid her nose of the smell of dried blood soon enough. She had been cleaning it from the floor with a multiple number of paper towels, scrubbing hurriedly in the mind that it would leave no mark.

It was darker in the kitchen where she was on hands and knees, wiping up the last bits of evidence from her accident. Scooching back, she managed to make another swipe and clearing the floor entirely of the brown-red. Still the smell would not go away, so she took a tissue and blew her nose in efforts of urging it on and out.

Just after she threw all away, paper towels and the used tissue, the bell rung accompanied by a hurried knock. Struggling from her stiff knee joints to her feet, she reached the door seconds after. With her hand on the doorbell she glanced over her shoulder to make sure it was alright in the kitchen, that no proof had been forgotten.

Opening the door, Relena felt a grin stretch over her teeth as she ushered her guests inside. The wind blew into her body, making her eyes water, but she refused it entry.

Turning, she just heard the loud sigh of Denna's purple shag coat sinking into its folds in a corner. Lark wrinkled her nose repeatedly and worked her fingers through cracking and stretching them; she severely disliked the cold.

From under her arms she took a set of crutches and set them against the back of the sofa, causing Relena to pull back in surprise and look her over; once the girl's heavy coat was removed saw her right foot to be in a cast.

As had always been an unconscious habit of hers, Denna had sneaked up to Relena's elbow while she was in a spell of thought, wriggling with joyful expectancy. In her hand she held a movie, a large bag of sweetened popcorn gripped between two fingers.

Lark leveled a stare at the tall girl, searching her for any smugness at her situation. She found none, only excitement. With a quiet snort she settled onto the couch, propping her cast on the coffee table, awaiting questions that were part of the courtesy given to invalids.

"Lark, what happened?" Denna clicked the light for the living room off; Relena had forgotten it was on, accepting the false light as part of the room's atmosphere. Without it, she found a dull pain in her eyes easing.

"I fell."

A feral grin flashed into Denna's face as she flopped to the floor near the television.

"Tell her the whole story, Groucho, it's funnier that way." Lark grabbed for one of her crutches. Relena's questioning look at her made Lark put it away after just one good bop on Denna's head, in which she gave a hissed curse at her short companion.

"Ballet." Lark said bluntly. Relena's eyebrows were working against their natural limits; she came closer while Denna played with the VCR set.

"I did not know you took ballet." Lark blew a dissatisfied exhale from between pressed lips.

"I didn't. But my parents-"

"Eccentric old goofs-"

"-decided I should in hopes I would have something else to concentrate on rather than lash out at classmates."

"Has it worked?"

"To them it did; the lessons ended about a week ago."

"May I ask if that was when you hurt your foot?" Lark gave the cast a sullen glance.

"This? I got that two days ago."

"Prepare yourself, Lena dear." Lark seemed to have gotten used to letting Denna's comments go unacknowledged and ignored it, boring down on Relena's face instead.

"I continued the lessons." She said in a very frank tone. Relena's smile hid itself in a wiggly line, the corners of her mouth jerking. She thought she understood.

"Ah, I see." Lark nodded and turned from her, settling into a very comfortable, slumped position on her share of the couch.

"Denna, what did you bring?"

"Something wonderful, you'll see. Could you put this in a bowl?" She threw the popcorn into Relena's lap.

"Of course, excuse me." She took the oblong bag and poured the contents into a plastic container, returning once she had checked herself on the work done to the once-bloody floor.

Denna glanced up at the television screen, stretched, and pressed 'Play.' Lark took the bowl from Relena and motioned for her to sit down; the previews started, broken between by commercials, and they sat dumbly waiting for the movie to begin.

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I'm sorry this is short, but I've gotten into a rut. If I don't find something, I might implode....too many situations and scenes that I want to install in this, but I can't do them all at once....ACK, order! (It'll probably take me a while to get the next chapter up, but it will be much more realistic than anything so far, and I need more time to think it through).

And I have finished and uploaded a yuri - it has an unusual couple, Relena and Dorothy. (These two should come up more often, they're an extremely interesting pair).

Please review!! I would really like your opinion on this.