|
"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 13. Yuy had watched the unfolding progression, the flickering images, the night terrors. Duo was grinning, intoxicated with joyous excitement over this, his last brash effort. Enticing the madman to want him, to claim him. The seraphim receiving the confessions of the archfiend. Catechism, cataclysm. Step into the light. Step into the light. Then draw away. For me. Do it, Duo. Just enough to stand clear, and I'll make this creature gone again. Cleanse the Earth of his noxious presence. Move. Stand clear. Out of the line of fire. That's it. Easy now. Just millimeters more. Please. The sudden gunfire that lit the alley startled Yuy. So unexpected, the explosive flames forced a single cry from his throat. Then the abysmal dark overtook him.
"They can't have wandered all this way," Po protested grimly. "They'd have to have walked almost continuously." "Right to the outskirts of the city. Industrial section," Une nodded at the hotspot on their map display. "Out by the old airport." Peacecraft concentrated on driving. But his mind flashed images like old greeting cards that he sorted, reviewed before discarding them all. Yuy catching Maxwell as he folded, the Kid's face bathed in blood. Pitch that one. Maxwell, sitting on a floor, Yuy's hand caressing that length of braid. The hand shifted and it was Maelaport the assassin. Another image to discard. Brexten, startled, slammed against the locker room wall with Peacecraft's hands clenched around his throat. Zech's anger melted away. Suddenly, thoroughly, washed. Down, trickling through the drain in the locker room floor. Now he glimpsed Brexten's face for the first time. Disappointment. How strange that seemed in the throes of violence. The officer tried to maintain the image a moment, to study it, but this one melted of its own accord and was gone. At last nothing remained but the still-life, recently viewed. Peacecraft's office floor. His empty floor, with the random documents drifted down to dust it. He shook his head. Why did this last image linger? Why this sense of sudden contentment? So utterly inappropriate, so out of context. Why this sense of completion, order in the midst of chaos? He glanced to the side. Une's profile. Commander, calculating, in charge. At their back. Sally Po's face, anxious in the mirror. When Peacecraft maxed the acceleration, both women showed their teeth. Consensus.
"Stand down, you little bastard. It's me!" "I know that. Could smell you there, couldn't I? What the hell are you doing here?" "Saving your reckless ass, idiot. Get off of me before I shred you," Brexten snarled. Contortion of bodies and blood on the antique bricks. Ignoring his felled fisticuff opponent, Maxwell crawled to where the assassin lay. Fingertips against the hesitant arterial flow, probing the pulse. "This it, Kid?" Maelaport's whisper. "Yeah." Maxwell rested the silken curve of his cheek near the killer's lips. Mist coruscated on satin lashes like tears clinging there. "It wasn't me," the boy responded. "That's good." The trembling fist grasped the trailing braid, a failed lifeline. "Can't see. Can smell yer, sweet." The muttering mouth nudged the delicately curved helix. Breathed against the boy's face. The last bites of thickening air, then calm. Collapsed upon the corpse torso. Brexten swiped at his nose. His hand came away, tacky red. He swore, surprised, reviewing the Kid's quick, powerful jabs. Little jerk was fast. He nudged the boy's body with the toe of his boot. "Come off it. You're not hurt. I had a clean shot and I took it. If you're trying to scare a rise out of me, it's not working. Get up. Maxwell?" He dragged the boy to upright. The Kid shook angrily loose from his grasp. "He was confessing. Informing. What'd you shoot for?" "His left hand was on you. And his right hand was drawing a weapon." "He was gonna trade the Powerman's name for protection." "Bullshit. He was going to kill you." "Oh. Like he was somehow faster than me?" The blade flickered into Maxwell's grasp. Disappeared and glittered there again. Three times in two seconds the lethal edge flashed before Brexten's eyes. Brexten listened to the sound of sirens. Far off. Distant, useless. Dutifully, he groped the dead man's throat. Then thoroughly searched the corpse and confiscated the assassin's automatic. And gingerly, the repulsive straight razor. Then he turned toward the Kid. "My God, I hate you." Maxwell breathed hard awhile. "You want me to ask you why, dontcha? Want it so bad you can taste it, like cunt cream on your blessed tongue." "You filthy foul mouthed brat. Flaunt it. Your pathetic past. You and Peacecraft, the both of you. Power Prince and poor, poor boy. Where do the rest of us go to sign up? For a break. Us ordinary, middle class, nothing much slobs? You're no cop." "Nurp. Don't wanna be one, neither." Maxwell's provocative grin was huge. "I'm a cop. A damn good one. I quit the force. Joined the Preventers. I want to learn to fly. I want to pilot the shuttles. But Peacecraft turned me down for training. And he wont let me go. No matter how I stir him. He just holds on with a death grip." Maxwell leaned hard against the wall, groping for his L2 soul, stifling it at the source, stuffing it down, stowing it deep. Away again, away. "That's it? That's all? You want to learn to fly? And Peacecraft said no? How many times you asked?" "Once. Believe me. That was more than enough. That regal aristocratic asshole despises my middle class guts." "Look, Brexten." Maxwell paused, pondered. "You got to ask him again. Trust me. You ask him again. Peacecraft says no. You do it on your own. Ground school is cheap. You got a paycheck. Go take the written exam. Pass it with flying colors. Show him what you got. Chip away at him. Ask him again. And then again. You don't let him tell you no, for gosh sakes." Maxwell shook his head in patent disbelief. "Once," he muttered. "Can't believe it. For this, the man hates me." The local cops arrived, shouting, weapons drawn. Brexten intervened, took over, in crisp curt tones. All cop. Cop to cop com.
Heero grasped the scrap of poetry in his pocket. Crushed it. His eyes glinted, two chunks of glacier ice in his visage, freezing the grin on Maxwell's face. Duo frowned at returning sensation, dying lips gasping, breathing their last onto his flesh. "Maelaport. Death bed confession. I got the wealthy conspirator's name for you. The L2 Powerman that hired the hits." "I give a damn," Yuy stated. Maxwell's eyes widened. "It's your case. Your collars. I just figured you'd be interested." "No." The subzero silence congealed between them. Finally Yuy snapped. "Ask me if I'm angry." Maxwell's face crumpled. "Okay. Yuy, are you mad at me?" "Yes." "Uh. Sorry about that, buddy." "No. Not like that. Ask me why." Yuy cringed, hearing the echo of the mad murderer's words, the taste of guilt on his own tongue. "Uh, yeah. Right. Erm, why are you mad at me?" Maxwell mumbled, wriggling his bare toes in the grimy cast, staring down at the blood smudging them. "That's twice you've left me to play catch up, Maxwell. Me trailing you. You losing me. Both times you could have alerted me, told me your plans. Both times you left me, went off on your own." "Better going off halfcocked, than no cock at all?" Maxwell quipped, that dumb lopsided smile gracing his lips. Yuy shook his head. Useless. Let it go. Just leave it. "Lemme make it up to you?" Duo asked, extending his hand hopefully toward his friend. Yuy hesitated. Then grasped it. Gasped. The grip was ice. Cold, colder, like the nearest approach of death. Still softly smiling, the boy collapsed. Heero caught him, lowered them both, sinking to the pavement. Pulled off his jacket, wrapped it around Maxwell's form. Then, back against the coarse wall, his arms clasped the body to his chest. Duo muttered. "I'll make it up to you. Promise." "Sure you will," Yuy agreed. He'd called Peacecraft ages ago. Surely Sally Po would come to them. Soon. "Anything you want. Yer jus' lemme know, Yuy." Drowsy, dreamy, drifting. "Okay," Heero smiled against the damp delicate strands of Duo's hair. "I want books." "Huh. Books. Seems you got bundles o' books a'ready. Yer wan' more?" "Yes. For my bookshelf. My new old bookshelf. I found it at a garage sale." "Thas' nice. Yer put yer books on yer bookshelf." Slumping, soft, slurring. "I want your books too. On my bookshelf. All those books on etiquette. I want them. Every last one. Maxwell? Duo?" "Thas' nuts, Yuy. Yer gone off t' deep end." "You said you'd make it up to me, Maxwell. You promised. Anything I want," Heero reminded him. He wasn't shivering. Not good. "Ma'm'selle Minnette's Guide ter Colonial Propriety?" Duo snickered. "That's right. And the others. All of them," Yuy stated firmly. "Where are they stowed?" "Locker. Rental. Air terminal." His face fell forward, chin onto chest. "Maxwell. Wake up." "Save some money, 'least. Savin' ever' cent." "Saving your money? For what?" Yuy blinked. "Can't say." "Why not?" "Think erm crazy." "Try me." "Mad. Nutso. Loony tunes." "Duo. What are you saving for?" "Round the bend. Bonkers." "Maxwell!" "Explorer class...spacecraft." "Saving. To buy. A spacecraft?" "Told yer 's' crazy." The sheer massiveness of Duo's dream struck Heero dumb. And then it hit him. Hard. All this time. He'd attributed Maxwell's homelessness to fear. Of the past. The war years. His unbearable childhood losses. The mindsickness. After all, it went with the blanket vermin, the water prayer, the dark-hidden sex. Didn't it? Yuy shook his head. How much more wrong could he have been? Maxwell was saving his money. Not terror of the past at all. But rather anticipation of some vast, far-flung future. The fact left him dizzy. Breathless. At last he chuckled. "It's audacious. Magnificent." " 'S' crazy." "That too. They must cost a fortune." "Even crashed 'n' trashed." Maxwell agreed. "But we'll fix 'er up. Gonna sleep now." Damn. He didn't want the nearest ambulance. He wanted Sally Po. Yuy groped for a pulse on the clammy skin. Listened to the hesitant breaths. He saw himself from a distance. Passed out on the bricks, clutching Maxwell all the while. Woke to the latest siren's arrival. Doors slamming. The deep stern tones. Peacecraft. Commander Peacecraft. "Commander Peacecraft!" he called out loud. "Doctor Po!" He kept shouting until they heard him. Sally came running, Peacecraft and Une striding determinedly at her back. "None of the blood on him is his," Yuy informed her helpfully. Po slid a stethoscope under the soggy shirt briefly, nodded. "What is it?" Heero asked. Sally shrugged, replacing the stethoscope amongst her portables. "What you'd expect. Exhaustion. Exposure." "Flashing folks?" Duo murmured. Une, watching the medical scene, guarding her 'man down', rolled her eyes. Acknowledging the sense of relief. "It doesn't appear he's too far gone." "Both of you into the car," Po ordered, taking Maxwell up with surprising ease. Peacecraft got a firm grip on Yuy.
"Brexten was happy as a clam at high tide," Peacecraft noted. "All those cops. And the crime scene, his. Nirvana." The sentence floated around Yuy. He cracked one eyelid open. Maxwell, there, safe in Sally's arms. Himself, secure. Snuggled. Against whom? He stealthily snuffled, drawing in the telling scent. Peacecraft's chest. The Commander's arms. Interesting. Well, why not? He was fading again. Almost gone. Une drove like a madwoman. For some reason, this observation pleased him. ~ * ~
|
