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"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 Twelve. Monstrous masonry overshadowed, blocking the way. The harsh mortared surface was emphasized in geometric relief. Escape stairs, clinging there, beckoned. Escheresque, contorted. Promising ascent, a glimpse of the stars, but possibly sinking instead. In a trance, Duo Maxwell took the steps randomly, wandering without wondering where they went. He didn't care, it didn't matter. The black and gray oblivion of the early night seduced him. He allowed the illusion of solitude to embrace him, caress his skin, soothe him. Come and take me, his body invited. This is yours if you will. The soft silver mist like alien fur, melded with his blurred contours. His lips parted and the fog entered his body, gliding in and out upon the warmth of his breath. He suckled at the moist entity, receiving it deeply within him as he ascended to heights. Reaching a pinnacle, he came up to a trembling platform and paused there, breathing labored. Scanned the dark depths, seeking destruction. It seemed to him the murk beneath crawled with life. Had it caught up to him at last? How many were there? One, two, perhaps more? Now that he confronted reality, he began to reckon, eyeing possibilities, all futile. Maxwell, you've made your play, now deal with the consequences. He eyed the wall. The free climb across it to the further fire escape was impossible because of the polymer cast on his ankle. He supposed he might be able to crack the cast and pry it off with one of his larger blades. But there was no guarantee the injured ankle would support his weight. He shuddered at the sudden vision of falling several stories to be crushed. Crunch. Splat. He set the image willfully aside. Turned to study the route of his prior ascension. Even stealthy descent back the way he had come was impossible. The cast, thumping upon the metal stairs would declare his progress and identify his exact location. He sighed, ran his fingers through his mist damp bangs. He had sought confrontation with his enemies and now he was about to get it, full force. Face the music, get it over with. Eerie music, weird notes, playing in his head. He turned and clattered back down the fire escape, making no effort to mask his movements. Racket upon racket, story after story. Telling the history of humankind in rusting metallic strata. To the base again, and into the shadows. Heart pounding, he leaned against the rough brick wall. Why was he so tired all of a sudden, and woozy? What was it Sally Po had been ranting about? Some malady where your bone marrow broke up into nasty little wriggling pieces that went swimming upstream in your blood to spawn in your brain, turning it to mush? Disgusting. He slammed his eyes shut on a bit of vertigo. Naw, just tired. Overdone it, that's all. "So there you are." A deep disembodied voice sounded from the enshrouding dark. He clenched a firm grip on the dizzy spin of brick wall, forced his eyes open. Eased his body around to the invisible-seeming source of sound. "You are an insane little fucker, aren't you?" "That's what they tell me," Maxwell agreed. "What happened to your leg?" "Kicked a car," the boy shrugged. "I told them ordering a hit on you was no good. Guess they ignored my advice. Sorry, Kid. Tried to talk them out of it. Truly." "Hey, it's the thought that counts. You should see the car. Really messed up the finish on it with my foot." There was a chuckle at that. "Can't see it. Nobody can. It's under several dozen feet of salt water. Car and driver both. The Powerman doesn't like screwed plans. Totally objects to hired hits gone wrong, when it's his fancy money. See?" "Can't say I'm gonna mourn that car and driver doing the anchor bit, yer know?" "Don't blame you." "So, did I screw your own plan wrong enough, that you're scheduled for cement overshoe fitting?" "Yeah, the shuttle alibi was part of the deal. My being stuck in prison over his hired hit makes Fancy Pants Bigboss nervous. He figures I'll blab, eventually. Reveal his nasty highbrow name, the slimy son of a bitch." Maxwell tried to steady his shifting view of the surrounding murk. That dark there was down, that gray was up. Over there was the assassin's voice. Maybe. The boy shivered, swallowed the uneasy queasy shifting sense. "That's bad. Being a sitting duck in prison. So yer flew the coop, huh?" "Yer got that right." "Ha. Thought I heard the old neighborhood clinging to your talker. Earth's best assassin is actually L2's own." "Yurp." "So. Yer wanna tell me Fancy Pants Powerman’s name, I guess, huh?" "Depends." "Depends? On what?" Yeah, let's get down to brass tacks. Bargain, before this spinning building falls on top of me. "I want to know the cheat on your terminal to terminal shuttle hop." Duo Maxwell slammed hard into a blank wall. He blinked dizzily. Drew a deep breath and coughed. The hell? The negotiation. Surely that's what this was. Either the murderer planned to shoot the boy, thus saving the prior failed hit and run. Shoot Maxwell, gut him, garrote him, scalp him, leave the boy lying in gore. Either the killer would redeem his reputation in some spectacularly bloody manner. Or he would throw in the towel, trade the Powerman Boss' name for a promise of Preventers' protection. One or the other. But this? Makes no sense. What the fuck? Makes no sense. What the fuck? Makes no, shut up, shut up. Lemme think. Maxwell pressed the side of his body, his face against the wall, thereby assuming an upright position. As long as the wall was still standing. Was it? The street was brick too, he noted. Had he fallen? And while the building gyrated, the assassin had turned into some bizarre groupie that wanted the details of the L2 Kid's Infamous Deathflight? Why the fuck? What the hell kinda negotiating point was this? I'll spill my guts, tell you what you want. Make the Confession of the Century. Reveal the Big Boss. In exchange for? The Details of Duo's Defiant Deathflight. Huh? Then it came to him abruptly. Listening to the sound of the killer's voice echoing inside his skull. Maelaport was crazy. The supremely successful assassin. A lunatic. With a capital L. Maxwell was attempting rational discussion with an insane killer. Get a grip. Stall for time. Think. Rethink. Brag. If he's the groupie, you're the idol. You gotta be big for your number one fan. Larger than life, little Duo Maxwell. The Kid from L2. The Pilot. Trying hard not to Puke. "That Deathflight. Yer think I didn't do 'er?" Maxwell straightened, feeling his heart hit his ribs hard. "I think yer didn't do 'er square. That's all. I just wanna hear the cheat," the assassin replied with an icy laugh that echoed. Off the walls, the street bricks, off his brain. Again Maxwell tried to localize the shifting source of the killer's voice. Oh damn, oh hell, oh shit. He felt the sough of stealth. Shifting the fog. Felt the assassin's hand parting the mist. Felt it closing the distance. Then it was upon him. The killer’s fingers, gently stroking the thickness of braid between his shoulder blades.
Hastily Zechs straightened, squared his broad shoulders, mustered his arguments. He opened his mouth to address Une, to explain, to persuade. "You drive," she told him, tossing the vehicle code card to him. "Let's see just how damn fast we can get there." He caught the flying card before his jaw had a chance to snap shut. In the basement garage, they ran across Sally Po. "I'm a part of medical rescue response. What's your excuse?" she demanded as the wheels squealed upon the pavement, even before the car doors slammed shut.
Maxwell's grin went wide. "Yeah, well they get to be a damn continual nuisance if yer let 'em. Squirrel journalists all. So I scowl at them a lot. Make faces to discourage 'em. On principal, yer know?" He eased away from the wall, inched himself around, gradually, carefully, no sudden moves, until he saw the assassin. Standing inches away. Now Maelaport touched his face. Grazed Duo's lopsided dimple softly with the back of his knuckles before his right hand dropped. "Been wantin' to meet you for the longest time, Kid. Years, now. And here you are." "Yurp," Maxwell agreed. "Yer a pilot, too, right?" He stared up. Maelaport's features were cloaked in the fire escape's shadow. But his dark eyes gleamed there. With what? Amusement, malice, madness? A fire so alien as to be unfathomable. To anyone who clung desperately to sanity. Duo clung desperately to sanity. This day. These 24 hours. Culminating in this conversation. Kinship with the killer? Are we together in this? The doubts assailed his mind. Or was it the malady the doctor had threatened? Nibbling away at his cogency? "So, tell us about the Deathflight. What's the cheat? How'd you do 'er?" Maelaport reached out a hand again. This time his left hand. Pushed the boy's bangs from his face. Smoothed them. Lingered in the cloud, powerful hand tangled in mussed hair. Trailed through the glistening strands, seeking the tender skin on his neck. Throat. Vulnerable flesh. Pulse. "Yeah, all right, in a minute," Maxwell spoke, pleased at the coolness of the sound. "But what about you? Before. When you. You were seen getting into your shuttle, taking off. How'd you get to the, uh, to where you were going. In time?" For the throat cutting? Duo gulped hard. Unwillingly reviewing the file images he had seen. The body, the spectacular gore. Took a deep breath and held it, steadying a moment. Maelaport gave a low laugh. "Ha. That's a good one. That shuttle? Used to be flown by smugglers. Got it a bit of a spare exit, not to spec, yer savvy? Hidden good. Same with the shuttle terminal. Riddled with tunnels. Connections between the gantry ports. If yer know where to look. I just had me a spare flyer in the cockpit. Climbed onto my shuttle. Climbed off it straightway. He took off in the shuttle. I took the tunnels. Used public transport, like the civic minded soul I am. Got there. In plenty of time. For the big event." "I gotta tell ya, Kid. That one was pure dirt. Filthier than Original Sin. A Lewey One-er with a hankering for sweet L2 flesh. And so highbrow was he. He just figured his aristocratic ass had it all coming to him. He swung more dirty deals there than the old colony's got back alleys. There's hardly a crime of any note this last decade he didn't have his lucre backing the play. But he got in crosswise with the Fancy Pants Bigboss. Powerman took his actions amiss one day. And that's where I came in to it." "He had it coming. So I gave it to him slow. Nicked him in the groin. Then we watched it trickle out nice and sleepy. Civilized. Had us a bottle of his vintage wine. Together we watched it flow. His red vino and his blood. When he got wimpy enough. Started crying and begging me. I had him lick my cock and balls for luck. And then I dragged the razor across his throat for him. Listened to the gristle pop, the both of us. He knew he was a goner before he went. Retribution." Maelaport gripped Maxwell's neck firmly. Stooped slightly. Nuzzled at his hair. "So sweet," he murmured into it. "I know. If it'd been yours to do. Yer woulda done 'er quick. Yer got yer own style, Kid. I like it. So now, I told you my story. Tell me about the Deathflight. How yer cheated me out of my alibi, Kid." Maxwell shrugged loose. Inched back, grinning. "It was simple, man. All I did was..." "No!" The assassin stepped into the vague newrise moonlight. His left hand shot out, grappled the boy's shoulder. "Not like that. Begin at the beginning. When you first heard my name. Swore it out loud. Duo Maxwell, the L2 Kid. Going against Maelaport the Assassin. The two of us, together at last. Savvy?" Maxwell drew away again. As much as his pinioned arm allowed. Stared up into the swirling chaos, the killer's eyes. Saw his own reflected there. Hellfire and damnation. Flames stabbed the alley. Cremating the gush of lifeblood. ~ * ~
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