|
"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 11. Peacecraft scanned his men, briskly mustered for assignment, all in drab dusk mufti. “Commander Une informs me. Her recommendation that the Ass Pull Bull on Maelaport be delayed. As a matter of course has fallen on deaf ears, as expected. The APB is out as we speak. Which means the streets will be chaotic. Every agency in the sphere will be mucking in the mess. Every level of constabulary from local to Martian will be out and about and underfoot. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Department of Sanitation has some complaint on littering against the man, and an enforcer out there. Likely the fire will drive Maelaport so deep into the sink the undersea thermals will be over him. We wont be able to see him. But he will be able to find us. Leaving ours open for attack. This is Yuy’s play. Which means the rest of you are to keep your distance. Far and away back. Watch and report. Do not stir the dregs. Do not approach your pigeons with feed. Do not max the fuzzy logic. Just be there. You have eyes, ears, feet, nothing else. Anything you hear, I want to know yesterday. Anyone tangling into the fray for anything less than a life threatening situation will rue their actions. I shall see to that personally. Any questions?” Peacecraft studied them again, knowing full well who would speak. His expectation was not disappointed. Brexten, of course. “Sir. What about the Wildcard?” Peacecraft restrained his urge to curse, snarl, and bite the man. The thrice damned troublemaker knew. They all had heard Zechs place Maxwell on sick roll. “Wildcards are on the street under Commander Une’s direction. Brexten. Do you have special information you feel would be particularly useful to the Commander in Chief? No? I thought not. In that case, I will just say. Keep away from Maxwell, keep away from Yuy. Let them work. That is all.” He dismissed them, listened to the retreating undertones. ‘You have eyes, ears, feet, nothing else... what, no cock and balls?... where’s the fun in that?... hey, how do we report in if we don’t have mouths?... see you when I see you... later... shut up... what do you know?... he said... Yuy’ll probably.... Brexie, when will you learn to keep your yap glued?’ Fingering his holstered weapon, Peacecraft turned to find Une materializing from the shadows. “Don’t even think about it,” she told him. He sounded a noise deep in his throat. Allowed his hand to drop from the sidearm. Shook his head. His fingers tingled. He clenched his fists. He could taste his untapped adrenaline surge, invoking malaise. The urge to action was palpably upon his shoulders, pummeling his chest. His gut tensed. He wanted to pound his feet into a long stretch of dark hard roadway. He wanted to crouch in shadowed corners. He wanted to hit something, to taste or smell blood. He craved perpetual motion. He unfolded his fingers, one by one, carefully, conscientiously. “Someone has to hold down the fort. Lest we drift into space,” she told him. Offered him that bitterly sarcastic smile that still somehow suggested sympathy. She would be craving it all too, he reminded himself. His hand grazed her shoulder, solid, slight. Then he turned away from her.
Flames, screams, smoke, confusion, loss, lost. Dead contorted obscenely. Bodies on the streets left without mourners. The desperation of those remaining, who couldn’t find the right corpse. But knew it was out there somewhere else. If you can’t mourn the one you love, mourn the corpse you’re with. Couldn’t they remember that? Had they forgotten so soon? The death specter fog drifting in through the cracked entrance reeked of rotting. From a distance, the waitress confronted the newcomer. One of the hunters? Or the victims. And she the lone sane onlooker. It was a young man. Very young. Tousled hair, glossy dark. Stormily violent sea eyes that fought with his deeper coloring and won out. Dangerous. Another one of those. The young man sniffed at the air as if sorting its component parts. Cooking, domestic, clashing with the sick street smell. But it was something else that interested him, that he savored on the air. The young man entered, seeking. Found a focus, lingered then claimed a seat at a booth. She approached him. “Do you want a menu?” she asked, as neutrally as she could manage. He didn’t see her, hear her, it seemed. Instead he reached for the paper napkin, which her previous customer had left. She’d left it too, when she bussed the table, thinking the customer might come back for it. Or else that it was a message. Strange impulse in her, oddly romantic. She’d fallen for the looks of that kid. He’d seemed peaceful, dreaming, sad. Leaving scraps of poetry lying about on cheap paper napkins. The young man lifted the scrap and sniffed at it. Then studied the carelessly scrawled words. ‘Upon Traeszkavelon, and elsewhere...’ “He ordered soup,” the newcomer stated. “You a mind reader?” she wryly chuckled. He looked at her, saw her for the first time. The silver hair, tissue thin skin, the toll of decades upon her, pain set firmly aside. His harsh determination faded. He responded, giving her a small sample of his own smile. “He ordered vegetable soup. And a glass of water.” “You are a mind reader. Do you tell the future too?” “Tomorrow there will be no war. We’ll hold it back again.” She jumped slightly, startled. Had he indeed read her thoughts? Or was there really the scent of war threat on the air tonight? “I’ll have the chicken soup. And I don’t want water.” He stated this firmly, as if delineating the difference between himself and the other boy. It was an effort for her to pull away from him, to turn to the chore at hand, the mundane. She had discovered a bit of comfort in this one, where she had first seen only threat. The young man set the waste paper aside, as if he could set the writer aside as well. Had it come to that? A real separation. Even the brief suggestion of a thought made him inwardly ill with yearning. I can’t. No I can’t do it. Not even for self preservation. But if I stay. His craziness mingling with my own, dragging us both under. For his good, can I leave him alone? The young man had read about sharing psychiatric illness. Two mindsick people staying too long, too close together, ending with the same disorder, as if the mental illness were contagion. He had spoken to the doctor. The wise woman, comforter of miserable souls. When he had changed commands, sought some distance, a different range of assignments. He knew his own malady, knew it well. He had been carved with a dull tool, inwardly hollowed. Leaving raw oozing surfaces, surrounding cold spaces, before he’d even had a chance in life for self formation. Left empty, a receptacle to receive training, orders, duties. He had accepted the training, followed the orders, faithfully performed the duties. Done it well. They said he had done well, very well. Then they’d told him things had changed. His superiors had said so. The war was over now. Draconian measures were no longer necessary, no longer expected of him. He’d seized that assurance, accepted it. Now he demanded it of himself. Painfully, then with lessening discomfort, he had re emptied the internal space, his inward aspect. It was to be refilled with self. True self. And some others. Others of his choosing. Aspirations. Life goals. Affections. Place-staking. He could choose his associations. People like this grandmotherly lady who brought him food. She set the dish in front of him. Smiled, wisdom in her he could sense, and left again. He could choose his place. Shift work goals to suit himself. Find a living space. Oh yes, he had lodgings. They were his. He could keep them, alter them. Change location or linger in comfort as he desired. Choose his company. A delectable freedom, that. But how ironic, the one he most wanted, the one who had shown him something of what to value. The one he wanted most to hold could not be held. Not in the light of day. Only in the dark, only fleetingly. He shrank away from dwelling upon this thwarted desire. Instead he concentrated a moment upon the shelves. His new old shelves. While he ate the food a valued grandmother had brought to him. Old wooden shelves. Aged things, but sturdy. He had found them at a garage sale. Wonderfully normal things, garage sales. An exchange of the useful. I benefit, you benefit, we’re friends. Better for touching feet on the same dirt, albeit temporarily. He would clean the shelves, glue them, peg the joints, polish the surfaces. Then place them in his lodgings. So many empty spaces in his rooms, waiting to be filled. Some of those spaces saved. Saved, just in case they were needed. Needed by, needed for. Already he’d strayed back upon painful thoughts. He closed his eyes, but still could see the image. My books and his, mingled upon the new old shelves. Fiction. Versus reality. His books, instead, located in a dingy rented locker, in some shuttle terminal. Borrowed room, borrowed life. Just gloomy locker spaces, scattered in many places. Rendering the target smaller, limiting the damage. When destruction, dogging him, found him once again. I understand the logic. The mindsick logic. I reject it. Even if rejecting the logic means rejecting that person as chosen company? Even then? Damn him. No, don’t damn him. Damn me instead, if there’s anyone to be damned. What have you got in your locker? Only the essentials of life. Then he would grin. Glistening life beauty, utterly unattainable. Broken in the forming. Warped. Yet desired still. And now to the practical. Here Maxwell had been. Out and about. Everywhere his enemies might expect him to be. Flaunting his vulnerability, vaunting his colonial accent. Identifying himself to a surety. The lure, the target. Dangling seduction. His soft skin on view, his pulse pounding just underneath. A vessel exposed, waiting to be severed. Blood to be spilled. His destruction, so readily attainable. Why? Hadn’t their superiors told them? Even ordered them. Insisted. Draconian measures were not called for. The last war was over. The next was held at bay, day by day, each new rise of Sol another success. Why couldn’t Maxwell accept that, receive it? Stretch out in the light. Damn him. This time, Yuy left the curse hanging dangerously in place. He exited, again seeking the external threat. The elderly waitress gathered from the table the tendered payment, the used dishes. She shrugged at the emptied doorway. Then commenced stacking menus, sorting receipts.
~ * ~
|
