|
"The Locker Shock Incident "Written By: Asymphototropic
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam wing. Author: Asymphototropic (attracted toward the
light, but never quite arrives there) Email: asymphototropic@aol.com Rating: R Warnings: language, yaoi, violence Summary: Post EW Preventers. Maxwell undertakes a death defying shuttle flight to destroy a killer's alibi on behalf of Yuy's case. Merquise feels an unaccountable urge to protect Duo. When the assassin comes stalking, will the combined skills of Zechs and Heero be enough to save 02 from the deadly blade? Pairings: 1x2, 6+1+2
"The Locker Shock Incident " Part 10. “Where is Maxwell?” Peacecraft appeared abruptly in Sally Po’s doorway. “Elsewhere.” “Where elsewhere?” “Wherever elsewhere. Not here elsewhere. I haven’t a clue elsewhere.” “I thought you were keeping him here.” “So did I. However, it would appear Maxwell had other ideas.” Sally’s shrug expressed disgruntlement. She looked up, saw Zech’s expression, and instantly asked, “how bad is it?” “Rather. Maelaport has escaped from prison and is reportedly headed here. The word ‘revenge’ springs quickly to mind.” “Damn.” “Yes.” “Maxwell may be still in the building. Have you checked his quarters?” “No. You were my first stop. But I alerted security at all exits to block him if he tried to leave. How long has he been gone from the floor?” “He disappeared sometime between midnight and three.” “How serious is that, medically speaking? Does he require care?” “He was under observation. He is at increased risk for fat embolism; fractures and flight do not mix well. Embolism to the lungs or brain would be a life threatening emergency if it were to occur. Which is why I wanted him here, in case of difficulties. Probably he’ll be fine,” Po added hastily as she watched Peacecraft’s face suddenly pale. “I’ve left a message for Yuy. I’m hoping he’ll answer soon. I’ll check their quarters.” “One thing,” Sally said. “When I admitted Duo, I confiscated his clothes. If he hasn’t managed to acquire some, he is wandering about in a rather skimpy clinic gown.” “Oh. Ahem.” Peacecraft, cleared his throat. “If I find him, I’ll tie him up and send him back,” he promised her as he left. Peacecraft exited Po’s office, turned down the hallway and instantly encountered Yuy, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. ‘They’ve mislaid Maxwell,” Yuy declared. “It would seem so,” Peacecraft agreed. “Better mislaid than never layed at all.” “What?” “Maxwell likes to say that. He thinks it's funny.” “I take it he has not been to your quarters? Sally says he is, ahem, scantily clad.” Yuy’s uninjured eyebrow rose, his expression calculating. “Gym. Locker room.” The boy turned abruptly for the stairwell. With some misgivings, Peacecraft followed. Yuy had the code for Maxwell’s locker, and opened it easily. He pulled out a single shoe and sock, a remarkably small pair of gym shorts, and a clinic gown. “He is no longer scantily clad,” Heero declared. The boy pushed aside some nearly empty bottles. Lifting a towel to his face, Yuy nuzzled it, inhaling deeply before refolding it. Finally he stooped, pried open the false floor of the locker and checked the set of sheathed blades, several of which were obviously missing. “Maxwell has gone hunting.” Yuy stated emphatically. “You say this because of the knives?” “Because of the shampoo.” “You’re joking.” Yuy shook his head. “He has scrubbed all traces of sweat and blood from his body, made extensive use of the perfumed hair care products. So that he smells effeminate. So that he smells non-threatening.” “I would have concluded he had gone partying under those circumstances.” “No. To go clubbing he would want to smell dangerous. But now Maxwell is in predator mode. He smells effeminate to lure his prey close, to lull the subject into a false sense of safety. He is hunting.” “He can’t have known about Maelaport. The word just came in.” Yuy studied Peacecraft somberly. “We rely upon our training. You and I, both. Intensive, excellent training. Maxwell relies upon his instincts. Somehow he senses threats.” “All the way from L2?” Peacecraft shook his head skeptically. “I'm on sick leave. But I should walk. According to the Preventers’ handbook on health maintenance. Upon returning to Earth from the colonies, it is well to re accustom one’s body to one-g by taking long walks.” “I suppose its no use checking out the address personnel has on him?” Yuy shook his head. “Maxwell has no fixed abode.” “Do you mean he’s homeless?” Peacecraft demanded, appalled. “He has a long series of boarding houses and cheap hotels. He moves in to a place, does repair work for the owner in exchange for room and board, then moves on. He could be at any of them. More likely he is out on the streets. Hunting.” Yuy drew his empty service pistol and loaded it. Then he holstered it, leaving no trace of its presence under his dark, nondescript clothes. “Commander.” He nodded once. “You are to stay in touch,” Peacecraft ordered before the boy ghosted away.
It settled upon the shoulders of the boy leaning against the electrical pole. Hung upon his hair and clothes, caressed his features in lascivious abandon, claiming him along with the territory. The boy stared into the dim street shadows that contrasted sickly with the green white of artificial day upon true night. “When the war was fought upon Traeszkavelon,” the boy muttered, dragging the back of his hand across the dampness clinging to his face, lingering under his snub nose. The squad car came past the corner. And again. The next time it slowed. The time after that it halted, aggressively blocking a portion of the road. The multicolored display of hostility began to flash its warning over the vehicle’s field of threat. The cop on the passenger side took his time exiting the warm comfort of the car. He scoped the vicinity for dangers while settling his club along his beefy thigh. Shrugged his taut shoulders, thinking he wouldn’t actually object to some action. Tossed the notion into the trash and missed. The cop strode the hard pavement hard. Stood next to the boy a moment, looking for obvious weaponry. Scoped the shadows for predators dangling the kid as bait. Came up empty. Circled warily. The boy stared off at an elsewhere point, remote. The cop jerked abruptly as the low voice suddenly sounded, plaintive. “The shattered peace transcended mortal time, not mine, mine.” The phrase ended on a slight drag, soft choke that stifled to silence. “Upon Traeszkavelon, where...can’t ‘member.” The cop grabbed the boy by the arm, and found the extremity surprisingly, powerfully tense. He dragged the detainee over to the squad car, draped him unceremoniously face down over the metal frame. Pressing one fist into the boy’s lumbar spine, he patted him down. At the first responsive quiver of warm flesh, his fingers slowed, lingered over the alternately gentle and firm curves. Sweet shudders, soft skin, under the black shrouding cloth. “What’re you packing?” he snarled. Then swung the boy around, and off and up, gripped firmly, face to face, feet dangling, the cast thunking the wheel base. “Nuffin’ off’sir.” Colonial, thick as day old congealed bloodshed. The hell? “What’re you doing?” “Writin’ er poem.” The cop snorted. “That right?” L2ish, sounded like. What the fuck? This bit of jetsam from far away. Floated up on the sewer wash, to knock gently up against the squad car. The cop manhandled the kid over to the lamplight. Set him upon his feet. And cast. Now there’s a real crime, to have beaten that sweet flesh. Whoever had. One fist gripped the skinny arm. The other engulfed the boy’s face, then slid to the smoothly sculpted chin. Firmly turned into the full harsh glare. “What’re you on?” “Der-know.” The wide eyes, forced into the electric lamplight. The cop studied the boy’s pupils. Supernaturally large eyes, weird nightsky color, almost inhuman. Staring stars. Primitive. Strange thoughts of alien life, dismissed to oblivion with a skeptic's snort. “Are you trouble, boy?” Or in trouble? Another snort. Where the hell did that pussy up from? “Nurp. N’trouble.” The cop’s fist left the arm, feeling the hint of mildly coiled power there that slid away to hide. Strangely wrong, all strange. The cop's fist clenched, unclenched, reached for the knot of hair at the neck’s nape. Ermine. Thick smooth. The fist clenched into it, forcing the head farther back. The other hand on the smooth chin traveled up to the lips, spread them a little to panting breaths. Dared the kid to bite. To fight. To struggle. Finger tips lingered on the fog damp lips. The smallest hint of pink darted out, lapped at his rough skin, withdrew with a slurping sough. Hand smacked cheek. Just a touch. A toyish slap. A hint of sting. That’s all. “You’ve got somewhere to be?” “Else-wh’r’?” “That’s right.” “Sher-off-sir-sir,” The boy shuddered away. “Else-wh’r’ upon Traeszkavelon. Where the corpses orbit, ice over forlorn rock. Rocket, rock it upon the icy death...” the dreamish murmur trailed off to nothing. The kid disappeared into the alley shadows, the yellow rotten mist trailing tauntingly. Returned to the normalcy of the car, his partner’s voice sounded, bored, mildly amused. “Trouble?” “No trouble.” The cop's look lingered upon
the gloom. Lingered on elsewhere briefly. He shrugged. ~ * ~
|
