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"The Case Brief "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: NC 17 Warnings: language, yaoi, Summary: in honor of upcoming April 1st, a small fic featuring a prank gone slightly awry. Pairings: 4x2
"The Case Brief "
Part Four. Winner entered the police station with grim determination. Eyed the desk sergeant coldly. All the while debating whether he should have called his lawyers already. "Duo Maxwell. I was told he was brought here from the Assembly Hall riot." "Correct." The sergeant didn't look like he was used to taking guff from anyone, as he crammed a stare headlong into Winner's glare. "What are the charges?" "Charges? Against Duo Maxwell? No charges. He's here under protective custody." "Ah. I see. Where is he, then?" Quatre backed his aggression down several notches, and managed to smile politely. "Upstairs. First floor, main room on your right. Ask in there."
Thieves, shysters, unlicensed whores and cops looked up at him. His elegant business attire and perfect features drew looks. And his highly recognizable visage caused glances to turn into openly curious stares. The racket clamor of the place quieted noticeably. A plainclothes detective rescued him. "Mr Winner?" "Yes." He received the outstretched handshake gratefully. "Sarge called to alert us you were on the stairs up. Guess he didn't want to risk another gundam pilot mob scene developing." The guy cracked a wry grin at him. "Duo Maxwell?" Winner patiently restated his quest. "The medical examiner has him in one of the back rooms." "The ME?" Quatre choked with a sudden surge of panic. Had he misunderstood Maxwell's status? Was he...?" The detective chuckled. "Relax. Just because most of the Doc's patients are stiffs, doesn't mean he can't handle a live body competently. Over here." Winner wanted to punch the mean son of a something. Instead, he trailed after him, trying to calm his pounding pulse by taking some deep breaths. They entered a small conference room. A tall, gray haired man stood over a considerably smaller, seated person. When the older man stepped aside, Winner was staring at Maxwell. The Kid had a black eye, and his nose dripped a slightly blood stained rheum. He had one arm strapped upon his chest with ace bandages and adhesive tape. Leaving an empty sleeve dangling on a most garish, unbuttoned, glow-green shirt. Which garment proclaimed in bold block letters 'Property of L1 Detention Authority'. Under disheveled hair, Duo offered a face full of defiance. "Aren't you supposed to be attending a conference?" he demanded. "There is an hour's recess to collect ourselves. Everyone is feeling a bit distraught. I'm just grateful no one was killed." "Yurp." Maxwell studied the floor. "What happened?" Duo shrugged with his one mobile shoulder. The ME entered the breech cheerfully. "He chased after you to tell you something. A reporter spotted him and shouted out his name. The crowd got wind of a celebrity and stampeded somewhat. He took a bit of a pummeling. Dislocated shoulder, from being simultaneously jarred from behind and pulled from in front. I set it back in place. But he'll probably want to see a trauma specialist for some images of the shoulder. Assess the soft tissue damage. Oh. And I hereby officially declare him Not Dead." He patted the good shoulder. "Take care, Mr Maxwell. Don't let me see you in any other condition than breathing, for the foreseeable future." "Thanks, Doc," Maxwell nodded. "Appreciate it."
He was still wearing the techy spectacles. And a somewhat predatory look. "How are you?" he asked. "Strictly off the record." "Fuck off," Maxwell told him. "Did I do that?" the newsman asked, nodding at the injured shoulder. The Kid snarled. "I thought hauling you bodily up the steps was preferable to your being trampled to a bloody pulp." "You should be ashamed of yourself. What did you think you were doing, shouting his name to the mob?" Winner demanded in a cold fury. "Investigating. The news. That's what I do. I thought a conspiracy between L4 and L2 to fix trade practices would be of interest to my viewing audience." "Say that again and I'll see your ass in court, so fast your testicles will take a week to catch up." Dahvede burst out laughing. "Ho. Naughty, Mr Winner. May I quote you?" "We could add a complaint of physical assault and incitement to riot." "Never stand up in court." "In civil court, for damages? All sorts of things pass muster before a sympathetic civil jury. Poor Maxwell. An orphan. A war hero. Badly injured, nearly killed, thanks to you. What do you say? Shall we give our respective attorneys a romp? Bet I can squeeze your credits to the tune of millions or more." "You're uncharacteristically quiet, Maxwell. What do you have to say about all this?" "I'm contemplating arresting you. The only thing stopping me is needing two hands to get my Preventers ID out of my wallet." "On what charges?" Dahvede scoffed. "Embarrassing the hell out of you in public?" "Covertly recording a World Tribunal-sponsored proceeding. Possession of an illegal recording device in said conference." The L2 Kid sprang forward, snagged the glasses off the reporter's face, and darted out of reach. "Give them back!" "Why? They're plain glass lenses in plastic frames. They can't be worth anything." "Officer, feel free to step in anytime here," Dahvede urged the desk sergeant. "Interfere with a Preventers' sting operation? Not on your life, mister," the sarge responded blandly. "Winner. Do something." "Compromise?" "Such as? Maxwell, careful with the damn things." "Uh huh," the Kid replied, twirling the frames around one bow in his fingers. "Give me a chance to negotiate a fair trade accord," Winner stated. "Without your interference in the process. See if you don't agree, the final compact represents a leveling of the playing field for all the colonies." "If I say yes to that, you'll give me an exclusive interview the very instant the conference ends." Winner hesitated, then acceded. "Very well." "And I want the glasses back now. And no mention of them outside of here." Winner realized Dahvede's continued possession of the expensive but illegal device would represent a point of future leverage if needed. "Agreed." "And I get an exclusive interview with Maxwell too." Winner sighed dramatically. "Surely you are sufficiently intelligent to appreciate the fact. Nobody speaks for the L2 Kid except Duo Maxwell himself." "Maxwell. Exclusive interview at the end of the conference. Agreed? Or do we ram heads in court?" 'You'd have to catch me first," Maxwell grinned wickedly. "Give me the glasses, now." Quatre offered a silently pleading look. Duo reluctantly handed off the prize. Dahvede hastily fastened the device into an inner security pocket of his jacket. Maxwell estimated the time required to pick said pocket at about 7 seconds. But refrained from testing his hypothesis, on Quatre's behalf. "The interview. Exclusive. Maxwell?" "Yurp. Can't guarantee you'll like my answers to your dumbass questions. But you got 'em for what they're worth." "Oh, as to that, I'll like any pearls you care to scatter before me. My viewers love Maxwellisms. You could sneeze. I catch an image of it, pic or dic, its worth credits in the bank." Winner hastily steered the L2 Kid out the station door.
"Please go to the hospital," Winner said. "No." "Make an appointment to see my private physician at least?" "Dun' need another doc. Seen one already." "Compromise." "What in the Gods' Green Earth and Infinite Blackness o' Space d'ye imagine you got for negotiation?" "I'll put on a leather collar and leash. And a loincloth. You can lead me around to every club in a ten k radius." Duo snorted. Then wiped the trickle from his nose on the back of the prisoner's shirt sleeve. The dribble looked only thinly blood streaked. He was pretty good at coagulation, having had plenty of practice, he reckoned. "False illusions of dominance do not thrill me," he stated primly. "Home," Winner sighed and gestured resignation toward the driver. "What was it you wanted to tell me?" "Huh? Oh shit, yes. Give me that stack of file folders you were carrying earlier." "Why?" "Trust me. You dun' wanna know." "Yes, I do." "Not gonna tell you." "Then I'll see for myself." Winner commenced sorting through the stack of legal briefs. When he came to the dummy file, he eyed it suspiciously and opened it cautiously. Then he chuckled. "Oh Gods! You nearly got killed over a practical joke. We nearly lost the whole bloody conference to a prank." His chuckles escalated to belly laughs, then swelled to cataclysmic roaring. Winner clutched at his sides in mirthful paroxysms. "Quatre. Its not that funny," Duo grumped. "Yes it is." Between gasps. "No it isn't" "Oh, my dear heart. You are the supreme joker of the vast universe." Quatre suddenly grabbed Duo and clung to him. "Excuse me. But that reaction is just plain bizarre. In light of recent occurrences," the Kid pouted. "You couldn't know that I wouldn't have time to see it before we left this morning. Absolutely none of this was your fault." "You dun' blame me? For being an asshole jerk of a clown?" "No. And you mustn't either. I insist." "Well. You're in charge. Whatever you say," the Kid replied, grinning slightly. Winner reopened the fake legal summary. Drew out the sheet of paper it contained. Upon which was stapled a pair of scandalously scant bikini underpants. Flaming red with silver cupids. Beneath this item was inked in neat black print, a caption. "Summary in the Case: Fruit of the Loom versus Hanes. Lawyers Exchange Briefs." Winner's chuckles faded gradually. The limo rolled smoothly forward. Duo's head settled on Quatre's shoulder as they both drifted off to sleep.
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