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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 14. Zechs knew he was dreaming when the wine changed to brandy in his hands. He had been drinking red wine that had a rich bouquet and a fine smoky aftertaste. But then he realized that the wine reminded him of the assassin's confession. The gruesome story, captured by Brexten's retelling. Maelaport, with one hand at Duo's throat, the other hand reaching for the razor. All the while lingering over the gory details of his last heinous crime. The red wine and the victim's blood slowly flowing unto death. The hideous killer clasping Duo to him. Heero Yuy's dread as he watched from the shadows, waiting in vain for a clear shot. Thank heavens Brexten's line of fire had been better. Although the agent had seemed somewhat dubious in describing the scene. Apparently Zechs had overemphasized the role of his men as observers. "You did fine," Peacecraft reassured Brexten. "You did very well." Looking for boisterous pride in response to the praise, bravado in the big man. Instead seeing only surprise and a measure of relief there. The image of quiet, subdued Brexten faded as his commander puzzled over it. Zechs reminded himself he was dreaming. He swirled the brandy that had suddenly appeared in a glass in his hand, watching the amber glints of it. Firelight. A roaring hardwood fire offering warmth, comfort, antique memories of alternate happiness and despair. He was in the Old Lodge in Sanq. Therefore definitely asleep, dreaming. Because this building, his favorite sanctuary, had been burned to the ground during his childhood. One of the first casualties of war. Victim of violence. When the Palace had been rebuilt, the Lodge had not. Its death, permanent. No resurrection offered. The memory left to die. Along with the caretaker and his wife who had perished there. Was Zechs their sole remaining mourner? And he was not allowed to mourn. The spoilt, pampered Prince. The arrogant, elite OZ officer. Nothing in his past to mourn. No right whatsoever. What had he got to be sad about? The lucky, wealthy, powerful Peacecraft. Hadn't got a thing to complain about, had he? As compared to Duo Maxwell, who had felt privation and misery all of his life. "You can't keep doing that to yourself," Heero Yuy said. Peacecraft handed the younger man a snifter. Poured a measure of glittering brandy from the crystal decanter. Yuy swirled his glass, sniffed the aroma, then sipped the liquid fire. The two of them stood at parade rest. Both in full dress uniform, medals in abundance displayed proudly upon their chests. This is your dream. You can do whatever you damn well please. Zechs relaxed his stance to nonchalance. Raised a quizzical eyebrow at his comrade. "Explain." "I do that too." "What do you mean?" "Every time I review my lousy childhood. My utterly warped upbringing. Every time I feel the urge to complain about my sordid past. Then I tell myself, 'Duo Maxwell had it worse. Much worse. After all, Yuy. You were always well fed, clothed, housed. There was always an adult protecting you, coaching you. Maxwell had it worse. Cold, starvation, disease, neglect. Duo really suffered.' You can't keep doing that to yourself, Zechs. Trust me, I know," Heero said, offering a small enigmatic smile. "But its true," Zechs protested. "Yes. But dwelling on it. Its not fair to you, and it doesn't do him any good. As a matter of fact, it can be downright dangerous." "Dangerous. How so?" "We've turned him into a war icon. The homeless street rat turned brash young pilot. The ultimate survivor. So everything about him pertains to his past, right? Except it doesn't. Personally, I think I have more war-related problems than he does. I forget that. I say, 'the war is over. Extreme measures are not required of us. Maxwell wont risk his neck.' But then he does. Because he's a natural born thrill-seeker. An adrenaline junky. For me its about the war being over. I have to stop being the soldier, ready to give my life for the cause. Before, willingness to self sacrifice was drilled into me. Now I need to back off several paces. Do what is good for me. Because the war is over now. But for Maxwell, it isn't about being the good soldier or not. He takes the risks because its who he is, not where he used to be. He gets himself into dangerous places because he just can't resist them. Wants them, craves them. If I forget that, eventually he'll get himself into a situation where he needs backup. And I wont be there. Dangerous. Do you see?" "Ah, yes. I understand." They turned toward the fireplace. At a comfortable distance upon the oak floor, a small carpet was spread in all its artistic glory. So many colors, bright and dark, glowing and dusky. The intricately woven patterns, the wonderful fancies of the long dead artisan, still capturing the imagination of the living, generation following upon generation. Zechs began his explanation. "This forest lodge where we are now standing was a part of Sanq's ancient history. It was perhaps the oldest building in the kingdom. In the Lodge used to live an old man and his wife. They were proud to be caretakers of such a luminous piece of Sanq's history. They were wonderful people. Very kind and affectionate. When I was a small child, the old woman used to bake cake for me. The heavy dark spice cake that the foresters preferred. And the old man kept the fancy chocolates, the ones shaped like bears, remember you saw them? He always kept a box of those special toy chocolates for me, in case I came for a visit. I used to be allowed to spend the night here from time to time. As a special treat for me. There was a small wooden cot upstairs in the loft, overlooking the dark woods. There I would sleep, dreaming of flying over the high trees, right up to the stars. And that carpet used to lie on the floor, just before the little bed. The old man would tell me all the old Sanq folk tales, of forest, and mountain, and sea. The old woman would read to me out of 'One Thousand and One Arabian Nights', a musty old leather bound volume. That carpet there could really, truly fly, you realize?" Yuy smiled softly in agreement. "In the first rebellion, some mercenaries came to the Lodge. I suppose the old building was a symbol of the royal family. And an easy target, so distant from the Palace. They killed the old man and his wife. Before they burned the Lodge to the ground. It was meaningless violence, the old couple's deaths mere cold cruelty. It makes you wonder, doesn't it? How any creatures could live within themselves, being that cruel. Later, the Palace soldiers caught up with men who had some valuables in their possession. A few things that had been stolen from the Lodge. I don't think they even got a trial, those men. The soldiers tied their hands behind them. Hanged them by the neck from the high trees. You see how easily the tradition of pacifism could be broken, ruined? Anyway, I saw the bodies of the hanged men, dangling from ropes from the trees. I felt sorry for them. Then I felt guilty to feel sorry, because they had killed the old man and his wife. The Palace soldiers returned that little carpet to me, taken from the hanged men's stolen booty. I've managed to keep it with me all this time." "You had it in your office. And then you gave it to Duo Maxwell. As an offering? Maybe you want his permission to mourn your dead?" Yuy suggested. "Perhaps," Peacecraft nodded, before sipping the brandy. "Because, no matter how bad your story is, Duo's sounds worse. No matter how many dead there are in your history, there are more in Maxwell's?" "Poor kid," Zechs muttered, shaking his head. Duo Maxwell appeared before them. Curled up, sleeping comfortably on the floor. Upon the small antique carpet, luxuriating in the warmth from the fireplace. His cherubic countenance was all innocence, with just a hint of impish mischief about the corners of his mouth. The golden red highlights of the flames glowed upon the amber of his hair, rumpled to form a halo frame for his peaceful face. "If you wish to mourn your dead, I'm sure Maxwell will understand," Yuy stated. A single hot tear burned a trail upon Zech's skin. He wiped it carelessly on the sleeve of his uniform jacket. Then he took another swig of brandy. "I imagine that is why, when I see an image of my empty office floor, it gives me a feeling of closure. The carpet and all it represents." "Do your dreams often make this much sense?" Yuy grinned. "Almost never," Zechs snorted disgustedly. "And I'll probably have forgotten this one by the time I wake up." "That seems likely. Do you think Sally and Une figured this all out ahead of us?" Yuy finished off his brandy and set the glass upon an empty bookshelf. "Probably. You'd think they could have just said so. Instead of sending me off on these absurd chases after truth, beauty, and etcetera." "Its all those extra X chromosomes in them, in contrast to us. The added weight overbalances their minds. Warps their perceptions of reality. Makes this sort of thing seem like a good idea to them," Yuy vouchsafed. "That's exactly what I think," Peacecraft agreed, as the ancient Lodge faded into his past again. When he awoke, the dream wasn't even a distant memory. "Maxwell, what have you got in your locker?" Oblivious to the danger of prodding the Kid, Brexten reached a meaty fist into the dark space, then emerged. "Needlepoint!" he proclaimed, holding the item aloft for all to see. A square of cloth in a stitchery hoop with a trailing crimson length, stabbed through with a needle. A ripple of laughter sounded amongst the crowd. Duo's lopsided grin spread wide, invoking a solitary dimple at his cheeks' edge. "If you wanna get technical, that's embroidery." The laughter got louder. "That's His Honor's Hankie. You know. The judge at the shuttle flight. After me bleeding all over it, I figured he wouldn't wanna use it as a swipe anymore. I mean, yuck. So after peroxide and bleach. I figured I'd do some stitchery on it. Its a picture of the Stargrazer. Plus the date of the flight. I was planning on sending it back to him with a note of thanks for the loan of it. It was an original idea at the time. ‘Til somebody stole the notion." Maxwell looked down ruefully at his official issue Preventers gym clothes. The sweatshirt had a logo. The Stargrazer shuttle. Underneath the image was the date of Duo's Deathflight. And the phrase "Forty nine minutes, twenty seven seconds." "Forty seven minutes, dammit. Screw the seconds," Maxwell muttered darkly. Heero Yuy grabbed the embroidery out of Brexten's hand. Placed it emphatically back on Duo's locker shelf. Closed the door. Shook his head. He growled, "Brexten. In a two-bar VASI, what does red over white light signify?" "On flight path." Brexten stated triumphantly. "Ask me another, Yuy." "What are the chief factors that affect air density?" "Humidity, temperature and altitude. Such that less dense air is warmer, higher and/or more humid." "When does an airplane stall?" "Uh. When you exceed, hang on. Got it. When you exceed the angle of attack." "Correct." "Sounds good, Brexie," one of the other pilots in the room said. "When are you going out for your written?" "When I'm good and ready," Brexten stated. "I don't just want to pass it. Got to ace it.," he added. "Hand over the marker pen when you're through with it. I'm next in line to sign the Kid's cast," someone called out. The newly replaced expanse of pristine white polymer on Duo's leg was rapidly garnering script. "How about, 'Roses are red. Violets are blue. Cum sure is sticky and hardens like glue'?" Roars of laughter to that. "You better not sign it, Shakespeare. Unless you want to encounter Commander Po's wrath." "Guess I'd better stick to 'get well soon' then. " "Good thinking, Einstein." Yuy dropped close to Maxwell on the bench. Duo turned, dusted his partner's wild bangs aside to examine the healing laceration for evidence of bleeding. Then he nodded in satisfaction, releasing the soft handful. "Are you taking a shower?" Yuy asked in low tones. Maxwell crammed his snub nose, snuffling into his own armpit momentarily. "Naw. Why bother? Sally's convalescence workout program is lamer than I am. Out of here as you like it." "Let's go. I want to get to the air terminal before dark." "Yeah?" Maxwell studied Yuy in some puzzlement. Still with the etiquette books, huh? He shrugged. "Okay by me." They exited the locker room together. Maxwell stumped along on his cast. He was growling deep and low, chin to chest. "Forty seven minutes. Screw the seconds. Dammit. Dammit." They rounded the corner headlong into a clump of teenagers. Maxwell glanced up, spoke up. "James old son. Easy on the afterburners." "Aye aye Cap'n'. Easy it is." Yuy recognized the grinning gopher as having delivered the Commander's carpet to their room. Suddenly, without warning, Maxwell grabbed at the tail of his sweatshirt, tugged it up, over his head, dragged the remainder of his braid through the neck. Then he tossed the pullover to James. "Do me a favor. Take this off m' hands, will yer?" There came a murmur of excited appreciation from the group, as James attempted astonished thanks. "Sure. Whatever. Keep 'er tucked 'n' all," Duo told him, hobbling away rapidly. Yuy hastened after him. Then, stride for stride, he eyed his partner. Duo was wearing a thin, white tank-cut undershirt. Where it ceased, the sweats hung low upon minimal hips, the waistband clinging for dear life upon the uppermost curve of buttocks. "What, what, what?" Duo demanded irritably. "So long as the nibs and dibs are covered. Impossible to wear that thing with any image of modesty. Mademoiselle Minnette emphatically would not approve. Who authorized the goddam things, do you suppose?" Yuy, opening his mouth upon a judicious reply, was forestalled. "Maxwell!" Commander Po. Sided by Commander in Chief Une. The two women eyed the blushing boy from head to toes to head to belly and stopped there. "Agent Maxwell. I don't know how you've managed to lose your shirt. And I don't think I want to know. But I'm confident the quartermaster would be delighted to issue you another garment, effective immediately." Une barked. Duo bit his lip, but did not reply. Yuy, opening his mouth to fill the gap, was again forestalled. "Commander. We'll see to it forthwith." Peacecraft came up behind them. He draped his uniform jacket over Maxwell's shoulders. "Maxwell," Po offered wickedly. "If you catch pneumonia, wandering about in your skivvies, you will answer to me. Bear that in mind. Do you want me to get you a clinic gown?" Now Duo looked up at the two women, an insubordinate retort poised upon his burning lips. "Forthwith," Peacecraft snapped, as he on one arm, and Yuy on the other, manhandled Maxwell down the hall. Sally and Une waited for the trio to disappear before they commenced chuckling, elbowing each other in the ribs.
Yuy's warning look stated soundlessly, 'If you want to have to discipline Maxwell for insubordination, talk to him now. Sir.' They arrived silently at the quartermaster's window. Duo spoke up. "Agent Maxwell. Respectfully requesting any shirt, any color, any size. Just so long as it is logo-less." The quartermaster opened his mouth to retort that logo-less shirts were against uniform regs. But was forestalled. When he noticed Commander Peacecraft standing there. "Perhaps some older issue shirts are available?" Zechs suggested calmly. "Commander. I'll have a look in the back, sir," the attendant stated crisply before ducking into the supply room. "Who the hell do yer suppose authorized the all-damnable things?" Duo muttered to the floor. "Ahem. That would be Commander in Chief Une," Peacecraft informed him. "The new logos are thought to be good for morale. Requests for them are rather brisk. The artistic design was submitted via the mess hall suggestion box. With a hundred signatures." Maxwell, scowled down at the floor, wriggling his bare toes. "Sir. Found one, sir." The quartermaster held up the requested pullover. "Lucky to still find one. We've been removing the old logos. Replacing them, trying to keep up with demand." "Thank you, Sergeant," Peacecraft replied as soon as courteously possible. Yuy returned the jacket to his commander as Duo pulled into the shirt. He helped the Kid with his braid, tidying it. Then he spoke up. "Commander. Maxwell and I owe you a bread and butter. In thanks for luncheon at your club," Heero declared. Peacecraft opened his mouth upon a reflex thank-you-but-no. He was forestalled by an earnest desire to accept instead. "What did you have in mind, Agent Yuy?" he asked, smiling slightly. "Sir. We could all log some flight time into Biloxi. Thursday night is bowling night," Heero declared. "I've never so much as picked up a bowling ball. Ever," Peacecraft confessed. "Perfect," Maxwell crowed suddenly. "We're thinking of starting a whole new league, the 'BBB'. 'Blindingly Bad Bowlers.' Sir, you will be a highly valued addition. Please consider it." "Very well. Thursday it is," Zechs turned away, smiling.
Yuy was toting an empty duffel. "For the books," he stated succinctly. "Did you finish your poem yet?" "Finished it. But forgot it. All that, erm, excitement. Leave it alone, and it'll come home. Wagging it's tale behind it," Maxwell grinned, shrugging. In his imagination, Yuy had a view of a bookshelf, quite filled with volumes. There might even be a small antique carpet spread on a hardwood floor in front of it. He draped his arm over Maxwell's shoulders. "Elsewhere is a poetic destination." "But no more elsewhere for you," he silently
vowed, hugging Duo as they walked along together. ~ * ~
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