Koja ma Oshi 20 [FINAL]
18 Jul 2007 12:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigou(yes, revised from posted draft form)
Title: Koji ma Oshi 20/?
Author: Sol 1056
Rating: NC-17 for sex, violence, and dirty mouths
Warning: BDSM, psychological issues, post-post-EW
Pairings: 2x1, 3x5x3, 4xR
Disclaimer: No, don't own 'em... Hey! A sigh of relief from Bandai!
Archived:sweetlysour and gwaddiction ... only here, as those are now defunct/static.
Critiques: loved as much as chocolate
Hilde once said that when all else fails, scream like a girl. Every time I blinked — my eyelids were possibly the sole activity in the entire bay — it seemed like the nineteen-whatever gun-holding hands suddenly became thirty-eight, then seventy-six, and snapped back again. Other than that, no one was moving, and I was giving the entire girl-screaming concept some serious thought. Quick thought, okay, but still serious.
So I was a little preoccupied when a once-familiar sound echoed across the shuttle bay. Maybe to the untrained ear it was just a click, but that tiniest pause of a click-whirr followed by a kaCHUNK straight on its heels was definitely the sound of an AR-15 being flipped over to fully automatic. Except... none of the men had moved. I blinked again. Had they? Not that I was that keen on someone putting a whole round of four-fifty-eights in my belly, being rather attached to my gut as it is, thanks, but if I'm about to deal with unfriendly fire, I want it where I can see it, and shoot right back.
"Gentlemen," a man's voice said, firm and polite, but clear and unamplified. Sounded like it was coming from above me, actually. A few of the men glanced at each other, their boss; I could see heads twitching as some of the men tried to keep an eye on me while scoping the bay at the same time. I didn't move, hands half-raised, expression startled, like I'd been about to surrender but wasn't sure why. Problem: I couldn't see much past the frame of the shuttle's docking doors. Hadn't looked, really. Åll those dark barrels were rather demanding on the attention-neurons, but when even the ones with all the firepower start looking confused, that's saying something.
"I suggest you put down those weapons."
The shock sent my stomach leaping from its usual perch to bounce against my kneecaps and slam somewhere around my ankles. Quatre? What the fuck was Quatre doing there? I hadn't heard him use that tone of voice since—
"Yo," a voice said from behind me, quietly. Jack. "What's going on?"
"I think—" I muttered it, not moving my mouth, entire body cold from the effort of hoping my guess was totally wrong— "You need to get back—"
"This is," Quatre said, still the consumate diplomat, smooth, charming, but with a hint of steel—
"Inside," I spat, waiting for the moment, there had to be one, please space, let there be one.
"—Your only chance," Quatre finished.
There. The men's curious and irritated reactions had them taking their sight off me. One instant and I took it, backpedaling like all fuck. I slammed into Jack, grunted, kicked off with my feet, and the force sent us both tumbling backwards.
"What are you—" Jack's words, and breath, got knocked right out of him.
"No ti—" I caught the shuttle door's edge with my shoulder, but good enough. Twist my body, catch Jack by the arm, and threw us around the corner. "Move, move, move," I was chanting. How many seconds? How much of a last chance? I hit the deck with Jack beside me. He gave me a stunned look, and I said, "trust me, you don't want to be out there in the next ten—"
And lo, did Quatre open fire.
Jack's eyes went wider than I thought humanly possible, and he reached up to slam the controls for the shuttle's rear door right as a bullet winged itself through the open door and buried itself in the metal wall opposite. Jack hit the floor alongside me. I had my gun out, trained on the open door to the loading trunk, covering Jack as he bolted for the kitchen. I followed in the next second, locking the doors behind me, just in case.
The bullet's scar taunted me when I spun, and I cursed myself. Ship'd be out of commission for three months on repairs if anything got through the ship's external tiling, that'd be a fortune to repair. And what the fuck was I doing worrying about some smuggler's ship? I had more important things to fuss over, like what the bloody fucking hell was Quatre doing here?
The crew was free from the kitchen, and I had to admit a moment of being impressed with their professionalism. Hard to remember war hadn't been so long ago, but hard to forget when seeing a crew react so coolly and knowing it all battlefront experience. No hysterical cries, only succinct, if hollered updates. Jack made the call, and I made no protest when he sent me to the cockpit with two others. We were locked into the bay, but if the third mate couldn't hack us out, the electrical pair in the ship's belly could short out the contacts. Then it'd be up to the copilot and myself to get the ship out of the firestorm.
We could seal the ship against most things, anything short of Quatre, really. But we also had an unarmed crew of twenty who'd just been doing their jobs. In the chaos, getting them out made perfect sense.
I'd just reached the pilot's seat when a massive explosion shook the starboard engines. The entire shuttle rocked right off its secondary mooring-lock and slammed down again with a crunch of metal that made my ears ring. Next thing I knew, I was face-first on the floor. Might've broken my nose, but slamming my head against the pilot's console must've slowed the abrupt face-to-floor introduction. Damn it, how much I wanted to close my eyes and pass out, but I couldn't. It'd be hell getting us out of here, now, but someone had to.
I scrambled to my feet, wiping away the blood pouring from my forehead, and held myself up by the console. The shuttle's readouts were going haywire. The co-pilot joined me a second later; the third mate lay on the floor, unmoving.
"Fire, lower starboard deck! Hull damage!" The yell echoed through the ship's tunnels. "Sealing C-2! C-3!"
"Got it," Jack yelled. "Everyone okay?"
Several voices called back, mine among them.
"Juice dropping!" Another voice reported, from closer. I scanned the displays, sensors lit up like a colony glowing blue at night, and in a flash of wartime memory knew what they meant. I grabbed the copilot, spinning us away from the console, eyes closed against the light flaring, burning into my retinas through my eyelids. A split-second too long, I swore, what fucking pathetic reaction time—
Just barely, so close — we hit the deck as another jolt rattled the entire shuttle. The consoles exploded around us, overloaded. The air smelled heavy of ozone. My entire braid had to be standing on end from the electricity dispersing. Little pieces of melted plastic and bright sparks sprinkled down; I rolled off the guy with a groan. He was okay, but when I landed on my back, I realized a chunk or two of circuit board must've made for a nice projectile.
I really, really wished I hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. Or the morning before, or seventy-two hours before. I couldn't remember. I rolled over again, only my stomach, and forced myself up. Another explosion, a second right on its heels. Jack was yelling himself hoarse, repeating the reports coming in from the six stations around the shuttle. No electricity. Away from the pilot's seats, the docking bay's weak light didn't reach farther than the doorway, and beyond that was pitch black. I groaned, not liking the notion of heading in there amongst guys that I might be able to trust, maybe, if I didn't let down my guard.
Then I spun at the co-pilot's yell to see a man in Preventer uniform standing on the nose of the shuttle, assault rifle tucked under his arm. Beta c-mag hooked in place and fuck, that was one greeting party that I didn't want to meet. The lights overhead flickered and lit, backup generators coming online just as I shoved the co-pilot towards the cockpit door. I grabbed the third mate under the armpits, shouting something incoherent but hopefully encouraging.
I was halfway to the door when I saw the Preventer raise the assault rifle, brace himself, and began firing. The space-glass held... mostly. Then I realized he wasn't shooting it, but the bolts holding it in. The co-pilot joined me, and between us we got the damned heavy third mate almost to the door when the space-glass exploded, sending shards of four-inch thick acrylic in every direction. I shielded my face with my arm, but didn't let go of the third mate.
The co-pilot's shouts were now just soft cries, but he held up and gamely helped me make it to the door. That's when the assault rifle really began its work, on the inside of the cockpit. We dragged the third mate out into the hallway with nothing to spare and the co-pilot hit the reinforced cockpit doors to shut and seal them. Too bad the third mate had been among the destroyed, as well. Nothing from the middle of his thighs down, but shattered bones and some bits of flesh. Blood seeped through the metal grate and dripped into the ship's belly. The man was dead.
Well, fuck.
The co-pilot, to his credit, didn't throw up.
The explosions in the cockpit continued, and the co-pilot flinched with every report, echoing through the shuttle down the main hallway. Sound beat against the metal like a million hands pounding on a tin drum — with us stuck inside. It brought me back to reality. I pushed the body to across the doorway. If they got the door open, at least they might trip over the poor bastard.
"He's taken out the seals," I yelled, sending Jack the report, then caught the co-pilot by the elbow and with an abrupt yank, sent him flying into the forward storage room. "Stay put." I kicked him back again when he started to get up, and hit the doorlock mechanism. "When the good guys show up, they'll let you out."
"What? Which ones are the good guys?" He bolted upright, but I slammed him back down again.
"The ones that don't try to shoot you," I replied, in the last second before the door shut. I locked it. I found Jack in the portside weapons room, just forward of the kitchen. He nodded and held up a magazine.
"Need ammo?" He asked.
"Got plenty." I shrugged. "Doubt I'd ever have enough to hold off all of them outside."
"Yeah."
The shuttle's internal sounds were gone. I frowned. "The crew?"
"Two dead."
"Make that three."
"Rest are in the kitchen." He flashed a grin, and I knew that expression might be on my face, as well: the look of the survivor who smiles because it's that, or go mad. "They can finish off the pizza." He tucked a last magazine into his belt. "Shall we?"
"Sounds fine to me." He could've been suggesting we storm the Alamo one last time for kicks and I would've gone along. Some part of me was just beginning to register that I'd voluntarily walked out onto the loading trunk of a shuttle and opened the door with absolutely no thought as to scoping out the area. I hadn't lost my touch, I knew that. There were a shitload of dead bodies back on L3 that proved otherwise — but I'd lost something. Wits. Oh, and way too much sleep.
If I'd ever wanted proof I wasn't fifteen anymore... I probably had it, right then. The devil's own luck had run out, I guessed, so I stood with Jack, shoulder-to-shoulder, at the entrance to the shuttle loading tank. If there was a weak spot on the ship, that'd be it, assault rifle versus shuttle cockpit notwithstanding.
"Hold in there," Jack whispered, placing a light hand on my shoulder.
"I'm good," I said, through gritted teeth. At least my gun-hand was steady, trained on the door.
The doors blew inward and I didn't start firing immediately, too busy shielding my face. By the time I lowered my arm to squint, the shuttle trunk was filled with hissing steam and sparks from ventilation pipes shunting on busted cable. A figure moved, and I still didn't fire. Or maybe I did, and I couldn't tell any difference, with the ringing in my ears, but if I had, I don't think I would've missed. Not at that range.
"Lay down your guns," Trowa said, and there wasn't a single hint that he had a bad knee, or a bum shoulder. He moved with a panther's grace, gun in each hand, and both trained on us with a steadiness that wouldn't require even a heartbeat to check the sights. He could shoot blind and hit his target with only instinct. I glanced at Jack, who had an expectant look on his face, and I nodded.
Cautiously, not taking my eyes off Trowa, I set my gun on the metal decking. Jack set his beside mine, and we stood up. The motion of leaning over and back up again made me dizzy, but when I put my head down, I could tell my shirt was soaked in blood. My own blood. From my goddamn forehead, how fucking pathetic. I stared past my chest at the gun at my feet, and tried to focus. Hilde hadn't been their best friend. She'd been mine, and this wasn't their—
"Kitchen," Jack said, and it dawned on me that there'd been talking and I'd not noticed. I tried to focus my eyes again. Jack said something to me, then again. "Pilot?"
"The co-pilot," I replied, and fought to keep my words from sounding slurred. "Locked in the... in the storage room. Locker...storage." I shrugged, wanted to glare. A last explosion outside the shuttle, but this time we weren't the target. The shuttle merely shifted in place, last cries of metal as it slid the final few inches free of the mooring rack to land on its side on the shuttle workfloor. A quick thump, and the shuttle was still. Somehow I managed to keep my feet, but it was an iffy thing, still, even once the shuttle was still. I realized all the fighting outside had gone silent.
Trowa nodded, lips moving, but I just stared past him, at the shower of sparks coming off the main power cable every time the ventilation system kicked in, trying to stabilize against the blown rear doors. Someone else was moving around out there, various shapes, but the sparks were awfully pretty. Coming down, gold and red, like fireworks...
I took a breath, and steeled myself for the last bit. This was probably where they'd sort out the bad from good, rescue the not-in-danger crew — at least, I hoped not quite in danger — and then... well, I had no idea. I couldn't even think of the next minute, to be honest. One minute there was one Trowa, then three; two Jacks, then four. And then abruptly, there was one Heero, and I started, instinctively squinting, shutting my eyes hard, opening them to see the reality and not four Trowas because if I wanted hell, that would be it.
A grunt of effort got me focusing again, and just in time to see Heero's quick step forward and an unexpected maneuver, but one I've never forgotten. A fist backed with bone and metal-bending muscle, and a world of hurt in the curl of his lips, all of it moving faster than I could follow. The blow landed in my gut and sent me straight to my knees.
All the air went right out of my lungs. I bet my eyes bugged out or something — I could feel them go wide, but everything had gone black in the sudden removal of me from the oxygen-breathing part of the world. I think I gasped, choked, or maybe I just gracefully slid from consciousness, but I never did shit gracefully, I'm the wrong pilot if that's what you want. The metal grating dug into the palms of my hands, and I struggled to keep some dignity and not fall over.
A hand landed on my shoulder. I choked again, and I was dragged up and thrown over a bony shoulder. Other things filtered in, as I slid over the person's ribs, falling into place in the uncomfortable position: footsteps storming off, clink of metal, someone else approaching. Trowa spoke and Jack murmured, my wrists felt ringed in cold. My cheek came to rest against the black of a Preventer's jacket.
All I could think was... nothing, and no one, ever really changes.
- # - # - # -
I woke with the hangover from fucking hell a view of stained ceiling tiles, with a soundtrack of beeping madness around me. Sounded like one or two were alarms, and sure enough, a burly-looking man in white rushed in, hit a few of the machines over my head, gave me a knowing glance, and rushed out again. Well, damn it, guess I should expect the welcoming crew soon.
Y'know, someday, I'm going to be seventy — hey, a man can dream — and I'm going to be stuck in a hospital bed much like this one. I'll confess it right up: I won't be thinking about catching nurse-action, I'll still be wondering how the fuck Heero could fake out an entire room full of machines. I sure as hell can't. I wish I knew his secret. I wished it even more when a doctor's wizened face appeared in my view. That was when I realized I was restrained, wrists and ankles. That's just how fast they registered me waking up and reacted, or maybe just how slow my own reaction times were. I could feel throbbing in plenty of muscles and none of the good ones, so I couldn't even blame the wooziness on good drugs. Damn it.
"Hey," I coughed out. I wanted to play it cool, but it's been a helluva long time since I've closed my eyes on one sight and opened them to something else completely, and waking up to find I've got a mouthful of Hilde's sofa pillows doesn't count. At least all she ever took off me were my boots, and she sure as fuck didn't make me wear a paper napkin with string. I felt fifteen again. Worse.
"Mister Maxwell," the doctor said, and frowned when I gave him a blank look. "Don't play coy with me. Anyone, down to the janitor, would know your face."
I was about to make some crack about the size of my fan club, and then I saw the two Preventers standing behind the doctor.
The doctor was pretty sharp; he must've caught my quick glance. "These are your current babysitters." He looked quite pleased. I glared at him, but only half-heartedly. He had nurses as backup, after all. "This is the Preventer's detention center clinic. You were suffering from blood loss and a number of minor injuries, not counting severe dehydration and sleep deprivation. I'm half-surprised you weren't speaking in tongues."
"Hunh?"
He half-smiled. "Point is, a few more hours of rest, and then we'll drop you into the system with the rest of your mates."
I blinked at him. My mouth sure felt like I'd spent a few hours eating one of those sofa pillows. Maybe this was all a massive hangover hallucination, because I could've sworn he meant... I closed my eyes, took a breath, opened my eyes. Nothing changed.
The doctor noted something on his stylus pad, and tucked it back into his coat pocket. He glanced around, as if making sure he'd not forgotten anything. Me, I wanted to tell him, me, remember, I'm one of the good guys, haven't the other pilots told you that?
Except I wasn't, not anymore. I sighed and relaxed into the bed. Well. There it was. I might've busted up the ring, and I could at least be proud that I'd taken out as many as I could, but in the end, I guess it was those so-called friends busting me. Hunh, just like the war all over again, with the quiet ones always the flashiest, and the joke always being on me. I spared a half-second to wonder why I was the only loud one in the group, but then, don't that just figure.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," the doctor muttered, brows lowered. "A man of your stature, sunk to these levels." He nearly hissed the word, revulsion written across his patrician features. "Ashamed, Mister Maxwell."
I nodded, slowly. Yeah. Ashamed. Right. Only that I'd ever agreed to work with those bastards in the first place. I closed my eyes again, refusing to let him see any more of me — granted, a thin cotton blanket and a large piece of paper masquerading as a nightgown aren't exactly sterling defenses, but it'd have to do. I could fake the rest, for at least a little while.
When I opened my eyes again, one of the Preventers was by the bed. The other stood by the door, gun out and focused on me. That view was getting old, but I didn't have the energy anymore to snark about taking a vacation from close-ups with police-issue gun barrels.
"Maxwell," the first said. "If you want to take a shower before we transfer you to the regular holding cells, I'm sure your future roommates would appreciate it."
I wrinkled my nose at him. "Hard to do when I'm pinned in place."
"Don't make any sudden moves," the Preventer warned. "We'd be more than happy to have one less of your kind in the solar system."
Nothing like a little officer ambiguity to make one really want a shower. At least they had the decency to not come in with me, though the lack of shower curtain, towels, shampoo, hell, even toilet tissue or even a toilet seat was rather annoying. What did they think I was gonna do, hang myself with sixteen feet of one-ply tissue? A bar of soap's not the best for hair, but I've had worse, and I tried to ignore the sensation of dripping water down my backside, soaking through the paper gown. I refused to look at myself in the mirror, after a quick glimpse of my split lip and a massive purple bruise on one cheek. That was enough.
Don't know how much later, but they did at least give me something less paper-like to wear: old khakis that were two sizes two large in the waist but at least long enough, and a beat-up gray sweatshirt. The sleeves were two inches shy of my wrists; I folded them over and pushed them up and told myself it could be worse.
I wasn't sure how, but I didn't want to find out. Not like I had a choice, but at least I could still turn heads. Not quite being dragged this time, though, but still, the handcuffs and ankle manacles felt almost like old times. The one difference? No one had to crane their necks to see around the Ozzies dragging me to my execution. This time I was at least four inches taller than the tallest of the two Preventers.
Plus, not being out cold made for a better impression — I could smile politely at nurses, and do my best to ignore that I was being led like a dog on a leash, with a second Preventer training his gun on me. What the hell did they think I was gonna do, charm my way free? Besides, my stomach had started grumbling, and by the time we reached the elevator, it was hitting thunderous levels. The two Preventers frowned at me. I didn't even bother trying to grin and shrug it off. I was ready to eat my handcuffs.
Not that I had a chance. After all, before you get a roof over your head and three squares a day, first you must pass through booking. What was it Quatre once said, back on Peacemillion? Right. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. This is me, hopping with joy, buddy. Look, look, I've lived to see another day.
Yay.
- # - # - # -
Considering how neatly everything in the jail cell had been stripped of all potential weapons, I was half-surprised they didn't demand my hair-tie. I was expecting it, and even braced for a witty jest when my lockpicks would fall like sterling manna from a thieves' heaven. But they didn't even ask, they didn't even bother. Which was possibly a case of the joke being on me, once I got a gander of their jail's lock systems. No pick was going to undo that. Maybe they had learned a thing or two from the idiot Alliance. That, and they kept the lights on.
All the time.
Made it hard to tell whether it was day or night, which was probably the same intention the Alliance had when keeping me in that dark cell for a week, but I'd rather have the darkness. At least then I could sleep. Now it was mostly dull awakeness, mixed with random hours of lying on my back on a too-short too-thin cot, with one arm over my eyes, and believe me, that's not a comfortable way to sleep. Not when you're coming awake with a twitch at every little sound down the hallway.
Then again, this time, there wouldn't be a Heero come to shoot me or rescue me. Okay, shoot me, maybe, but don't know if I could talk him out of it, and sometimes when my eyes started to cross from the banks of bright lights over my head, I wasn't sure I would even try. Some hours, I wasn't sure I even cared, and then my hand would fall down to lie across my gut, and the abrupt wince of the garish bruise on my stomach would remind me of him. What a great parting gift. He always had been one for give and take, in his obsessive way of keeping score, never wanting to be in debt to anyone. And this time, he'd not even offered to let me punch him first. Unless, some cynical part of me whispered, me leaving was — for him — an equally damaging punch.
Well, I wanted to announce to the walls: it wasn't like leaving that bed was so easy.
It could've been once a day, or once an hour. I didn't care enough to pay attention. But along would come some Preventer, always a different one, delivering a tray of food that never changed to tell me whether it was breakfast, lunch, or dinner. A starch, a vegetable, and a meat, or at least what passes for meat on a colony. A square meal and I had no interest in eating. I felt like I was eight again, pushing the food around on the plate; my childish logic, even then, sensed that to willingly sit at a table with Sister Helen and the rest of the orphans was, somehow, to accept my lot in that unfamiliar, unwelcome, entrapment. Twenty years later, see how far I've come: to a room eight feet by five feet, white concrete walls unmarred even by the stereotypical scratching of former guests. The orphanage was an entire city compared to this small hell.
So there I sat. And in a half-hour, or hour, or less or more, the bolt would turn in the door. One guard would enter, another standing watch, and the first would take my mostly-untouched tray. He'd pick it up, then pause, saying casually, "did you want to call anyone?"
I'd shrug.
He'd say, "didn't eat much. No visitors, either?"
I'd give him a look like, what do you care?
That was his cue to leave. Didn't matter which guard it was, it was the same with each of them. I wondered idly if someone stood down the hall with a big cue card. No, I'd had no visitors, and since I'm expecting you had to walk right past the reception desk to get in here, and seen the check-in pad lying right there, wouldn't you know to look? Why fucking ask me? Hell, he'd even know if I had visitors who hadn't been allowed back, not that I could think of any. Except maybe Howard, and if Howard did show up, I'd strangle him, anyway.
See, I'd figured it out. It had to have been Howard, messaging Heero through the lines to let him know I'd headed on ahead of him. I can't recall telling Howard not to, was the thing. Though if I had, Howard probably would've any way, just to make a point; not saying a thing was supposed to leave Howard with the impression that Heero and the rest of those bastards were making their own way to our mutual destination.
Not that I could much of anything about it from where I sat, and not like I really much cared, other than a sometimes amused contemplation of trying to get an idea how long they'd held me. ESUN laws still followed the pre-colony standard, of a seventy-two hour period before a lawyer could bring motion of habeas corpus; until then, they could hold me without cause. After that point, they'd have to charge me or let me go. I doubted any of the few folks who might — maybe — hire a lawyer on my behalf even had an idea where I was, or even if I was alive. That meant the chances of the door opening to see some suited ninny waving papers was about as good as the chances of seeing the door blow open and there be Heero, with gun in hand, looking like vengeance personified.
Except he wasn't. Never had been. That was me.
He was just some kid trying hard to do what he'd been told was right, even if the means used to teach him that 'right' was so very, terribly, wrong. I was the one who didn't give a damn, who'd lost it all long before I'd had it, and I kept losing, over and over again.
I lay on that too-short jail cot with my feet hanging off the ends, one hand behind my head as an uncomfortable but passable pillow, the other hand across my bare stomach, and my shirt pulled up over my head to shield me from the worst of the light. Eventually my stomach stopped growling, or I just got used to ignoring it; the peculiar aches in my body all faded into one droning background hum, the lights filtered through the dull gray of the shirt. I knew there were cameras in each corner, watching me sleep, scratch my nose, take a piss, poke at the food. But they sure weren't gonna have the pleasure of seeing me wake from dreams, shaking and miserable. Knowing I'd always lose didn't mean I had to enjoy it, alright? And it sure didn't mean I had to lose with prying eyes right there.
I'd say it was days of this, but maybe it was just really long hours, or maybe a week. It was somewhere around meal sixteen — so maybe five or six days, total? — before I finally broke the guards' ritual. When he asked if I wanted to call anyone, I gave him a sideways smile and said, "it's been a lot longer than seventy-two hours, officer."
He shrugged, and studied my tray with a frown. "We weren't prepared to be dealing with over fifty arrests at one time. We've been working our way through the cases, so the judge gave us an extension on the arraignment period."
"Hunh."
Yeah, that's about all I could manage. You were expecting some kind of Maxwellian witticism, perhaps? Yeah, I got your witticism right fucking here.
Eight more meals passed before another break in the daily grind. That time, the guard looked at the tray, and looked at me, and said, "you keep this up, we'll haul you back to the clinic again."
I didn't even shrug. I didn't even bother to look at him. The wall was quite interesting by that point, but the guard didn't move, waiting. I don't know how long. I just glanced his way, not even looking, just a quick turn of my head and back again. He didn't even ask if I'd had visitors, and then was gone. I guess he might've thought that was a kindness on his part. I didn't care. I did my part.
Go on, go tell Heero to get ready for his close-up, because I'm ready for someone to roll the credits.
- # - # - # -
I wasn't even counting anymore, the time a guard arrived with his hands empty. He stood by the door and I stared up at him. It was the same Preventer who'd explained about the arraignments. Didn't seem like half the hard-ass as some of the others. I stood, stretched, and somewhere in the back of my head noted that I'd not showered nor changed since leaving the clinic. Whatever. I dug down in my last assorted smiles, dragged out an abashed one for him — he'd been a good guy, despite the circumstances, really. He proved it again by speaking with me in a low tone, as he escorted me down the hallway.
"Truth is, Mister Maxwell, normally we don't keep folks in these one-room setups. Isolation techniques aren't legal these days, but we were overflowing."
I grunted, not really sure what he needed me to say, or even what I wanted to say. I could remember, vaguely, stalking through a club with Heero at my side, feeling dangerous and powerful. I wondered where that me had gone.
"Just so you know, not that I'd think you're all that attached to that cell, but after you meet with the investigating officers, your arraignment will be scheduled. Then you'll be moved to a four-person cell." The guard looked me over as we stopped in front of one more metal door in a long row of them. I wondered if he had to count ceiling tiles to remember which was which. "Our usual bank of cells are not as—" He grinned, ruefully. "Well, not as far away from the showers."
I nodded, wishing he'd get on with it. I was saving up my snark for whatever unlucky bastards had drawn the short straws.
The guard pushed open the door, moving in such a way that I had no view of the room until halfway through, and then he was gone and shutting the door behind me. I might have been tired, worn down, and reeking like I'd slept in 'Scythe for two weeks, but that was nothing new. A long time in the past doesn't mean never, so it didn't even take a split second to suss up my opponents and greet them like they'd interrupted my Sunday afternoon nap. Bored, easy, but not annoyed, just... unimpressed.
We stared each other down. Wufei practically bristled, but didn't look me in the eyes. Trowa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head down, and if he weren't six-three, I'd have thought he was fifteen again for all he moved or looked my way. Quatre sat at the table, clasped hands half-propping his chin, half-pressed against his mouth, forever his posture of careful contemplation, but those sky-blue eyes bored into me, as if memorizing me. I felt like my line should be something about finding them on my porch, or maybe that was Hilde's line.
I did not let my expression change, and I kept my muscles at the same tension they'd been down the sixty-foot walk of the hallway; maybe I couldn't fake out hospital machines but I could fake out almost anything short of that. So I stood there, silence reigned.
Until Quatre finally moved his hands from his mouth, enough to reveal a sad smile. "Duo," he said, and for a moment I could see his plaintive fifteen-year-old self overlaid. A stark reminder of the hours before the final battle, miles above earth. He didn't unclasp his hands, but watched me over them. His voice was pitched low, but carried easily, tinged with regret, and it was almost like he wasn't even speaking to me. "How did it come to this?"
Title: Koji ma Oshi 20/?
Author: Sol 1056
Rating: NC-17 for sex, violence, and dirty mouths
Warning: BDSM, psychological issues, post-post-EW
Pairings: 2x1, 3x5x3, 4xR
Disclaimer: No, don't own 'em... Hey! A sigh of relief from Bandai!
Archived:
Critiques: loved as much as chocolate
Hilde once said that when all else fails, scream like a girl. Every time I blinked — my eyelids were possibly the sole activity in the entire bay — it seemed like the nineteen-whatever gun-holding hands suddenly became thirty-eight, then seventy-six, and snapped back again. Other than that, no one was moving, and I was giving the entire girl-screaming concept some serious thought. Quick thought, okay, but still serious.
So I was a little preoccupied when a once-familiar sound echoed across the shuttle bay. Maybe to the untrained ear it was just a click, but that tiniest pause of a click-whirr followed by a kaCHUNK straight on its heels was definitely the sound of an AR-15 being flipped over to fully automatic. Except... none of the men had moved. I blinked again. Had they? Not that I was that keen on someone putting a whole round of four-fifty-eights in my belly, being rather attached to my gut as it is, thanks, but if I'm about to deal with unfriendly fire, I want it where I can see it, and shoot right back.
"Gentlemen," a man's voice said, firm and polite, but clear and unamplified. Sounded like it was coming from above me, actually. A few of the men glanced at each other, their boss; I could see heads twitching as some of the men tried to keep an eye on me while scoping the bay at the same time. I didn't move, hands half-raised, expression startled, like I'd been about to surrender but wasn't sure why. Problem: I couldn't see much past the frame of the shuttle's docking doors. Hadn't looked, really. Åll those dark barrels were rather demanding on the attention-neurons, but when even the ones with all the firepower start looking confused, that's saying something.
"I suggest you put down those weapons."
The shock sent my stomach leaping from its usual perch to bounce against my kneecaps and slam somewhere around my ankles. Quatre? What the fuck was Quatre doing there? I hadn't heard him use that tone of voice since—
"Yo," a voice said from behind me, quietly. Jack. "What's going on?"
"I think—" I muttered it, not moving my mouth, entire body cold from the effort of hoping my guess was totally wrong— "You need to get back—"
"This is," Quatre said, still the consumate diplomat, smooth, charming, but with a hint of steel—
"Inside," I spat, waiting for the moment, there had to be one, please space, let there be one.
"—Your only chance," Quatre finished.
There. The men's curious and irritated reactions had them taking their sight off me. One instant and I took it, backpedaling like all fuck. I slammed into Jack, grunted, kicked off with my feet, and the force sent us both tumbling backwards.
"What are you—" Jack's words, and breath, got knocked right out of him.
"No ti—" I caught the shuttle door's edge with my shoulder, but good enough. Twist my body, catch Jack by the arm, and threw us around the corner. "Move, move, move," I was chanting. How many seconds? How much of a last chance? I hit the deck with Jack beside me. He gave me a stunned look, and I said, "trust me, you don't want to be out there in the next ten—"
And lo, did Quatre open fire.
Jack's eyes went wider than I thought humanly possible, and he reached up to slam the controls for the shuttle's rear door right as a bullet winged itself through the open door and buried itself in the metal wall opposite. Jack hit the floor alongside me. I had my gun out, trained on the open door to the loading trunk, covering Jack as he bolted for the kitchen. I followed in the next second, locking the doors behind me, just in case.
The bullet's scar taunted me when I spun, and I cursed myself. Ship'd be out of commission for three months on repairs if anything got through the ship's external tiling, that'd be a fortune to repair. And what the fuck was I doing worrying about some smuggler's ship? I had more important things to fuss over, like what the bloody fucking hell was Quatre doing here?
The crew was free from the kitchen, and I had to admit a moment of being impressed with their professionalism. Hard to remember war hadn't been so long ago, but hard to forget when seeing a crew react so coolly and knowing it all battlefront experience. No hysterical cries, only succinct, if hollered updates. Jack made the call, and I made no protest when he sent me to the cockpit with two others. We were locked into the bay, but if the third mate couldn't hack us out, the electrical pair in the ship's belly could short out the contacts. Then it'd be up to the copilot and myself to get the ship out of the firestorm.
We could seal the ship against most things, anything short of Quatre, really. But we also had an unarmed crew of twenty who'd just been doing their jobs. In the chaos, getting them out made perfect sense.
I'd just reached the pilot's seat when a massive explosion shook the starboard engines. The entire shuttle rocked right off its secondary mooring-lock and slammed down again with a crunch of metal that made my ears ring. Next thing I knew, I was face-first on the floor. Might've broken my nose, but slamming my head against the pilot's console must've slowed the abrupt face-to-floor introduction. Damn it, how much I wanted to close my eyes and pass out, but I couldn't. It'd be hell getting us out of here, now, but someone had to.
I scrambled to my feet, wiping away the blood pouring from my forehead, and held myself up by the console. The shuttle's readouts were going haywire. The co-pilot joined me a second later; the third mate lay on the floor, unmoving.
"Fire, lower starboard deck! Hull damage!" The yell echoed through the ship's tunnels. "Sealing C-2! C-3!"
"Got it," Jack yelled. "Everyone okay?"
Several voices called back, mine among them.
"Juice dropping!" Another voice reported, from closer. I scanned the displays, sensors lit up like a colony glowing blue at night, and in a flash of wartime memory knew what they meant. I grabbed the copilot, spinning us away from the console, eyes closed against the light flaring, burning into my retinas through my eyelids. A split-second too long, I swore, what fucking pathetic reaction time—
Just barely, so close — we hit the deck as another jolt rattled the entire shuttle. The consoles exploded around us, overloaded. The air smelled heavy of ozone. My entire braid had to be standing on end from the electricity dispersing. Little pieces of melted plastic and bright sparks sprinkled down; I rolled off the guy with a groan. He was okay, but when I landed on my back, I realized a chunk or two of circuit board must've made for a nice projectile.
I really, really wished I hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. Or the morning before, or seventy-two hours before. I couldn't remember. I rolled over again, only my stomach, and forced myself up. Another explosion, a second right on its heels. Jack was yelling himself hoarse, repeating the reports coming in from the six stations around the shuttle. No electricity. Away from the pilot's seats, the docking bay's weak light didn't reach farther than the doorway, and beyond that was pitch black. I groaned, not liking the notion of heading in there amongst guys that I might be able to trust, maybe, if I didn't let down my guard.
Then I spun at the co-pilot's yell to see a man in Preventer uniform standing on the nose of the shuttle, assault rifle tucked under his arm. Beta c-mag hooked in place and fuck, that was one greeting party that I didn't want to meet. The lights overhead flickered and lit, backup generators coming online just as I shoved the co-pilot towards the cockpit door. I grabbed the third mate under the armpits, shouting something incoherent but hopefully encouraging.
I was halfway to the door when I saw the Preventer raise the assault rifle, brace himself, and began firing. The space-glass held... mostly. Then I realized he wasn't shooting it, but the bolts holding it in. The co-pilot joined me, and between us we got the damned heavy third mate almost to the door when the space-glass exploded, sending shards of four-inch thick acrylic in every direction. I shielded my face with my arm, but didn't let go of the third mate.
The co-pilot's shouts were now just soft cries, but he held up and gamely helped me make it to the door. That's when the assault rifle really began its work, on the inside of the cockpit. We dragged the third mate out into the hallway with nothing to spare and the co-pilot hit the reinforced cockpit doors to shut and seal them. Too bad the third mate had been among the destroyed, as well. Nothing from the middle of his thighs down, but shattered bones and some bits of flesh. Blood seeped through the metal grate and dripped into the ship's belly. The man was dead.
Well, fuck.
The co-pilot, to his credit, didn't throw up.
The explosions in the cockpit continued, and the co-pilot flinched with every report, echoing through the shuttle down the main hallway. Sound beat against the metal like a million hands pounding on a tin drum — with us stuck inside. It brought me back to reality. I pushed the body to across the doorway. If they got the door open, at least they might trip over the poor bastard.
"He's taken out the seals," I yelled, sending Jack the report, then caught the co-pilot by the elbow and with an abrupt yank, sent him flying into the forward storage room. "Stay put." I kicked him back again when he started to get up, and hit the doorlock mechanism. "When the good guys show up, they'll let you out."
"What? Which ones are the good guys?" He bolted upright, but I slammed him back down again.
"The ones that don't try to shoot you," I replied, in the last second before the door shut. I locked it. I found Jack in the portside weapons room, just forward of the kitchen. He nodded and held up a magazine.
"Need ammo?" He asked.
"Got plenty." I shrugged. "Doubt I'd ever have enough to hold off all of them outside."
"Yeah."
The shuttle's internal sounds were gone. I frowned. "The crew?"
"Two dead."
"Make that three."
"Rest are in the kitchen." He flashed a grin, and I knew that expression might be on my face, as well: the look of the survivor who smiles because it's that, or go mad. "They can finish off the pizza." He tucked a last magazine into his belt. "Shall we?"
"Sounds fine to me." He could've been suggesting we storm the Alamo one last time for kicks and I would've gone along. Some part of me was just beginning to register that I'd voluntarily walked out onto the loading trunk of a shuttle and opened the door with absolutely no thought as to scoping out the area. I hadn't lost my touch, I knew that. There were a shitload of dead bodies back on L3 that proved otherwise — but I'd lost something. Wits. Oh, and way too much sleep.
If I'd ever wanted proof I wasn't fifteen anymore... I probably had it, right then. The devil's own luck had run out, I guessed, so I stood with Jack, shoulder-to-shoulder, at the entrance to the shuttle loading tank. If there was a weak spot on the ship, that'd be it, assault rifle versus shuttle cockpit notwithstanding.
"Hold in there," Jack whispered, placing a light hand on my shoulder.
"I'm good," I said, through gritted teeth. At least my gun-hand was steady, trained on the door.
The doors blew inward and I didn't start firing immediately, too busy shielding my face. By the time I lowered my arm to squint, the shuttle trunk was filled with hissing steam and sparks from ventilation pipes shunting on busted cable. A figure moved, and I still didn't fire. Or maybe I did, and I couldn't tell any difference, with the ringing in my ears, but if I had, I don't think I would've missed. Not at that range.
"Lay down your guns," Trowa said, and there wasn't a single hint that he had a bad knee, or a bum shoulder. He moved with a panther's grace, gun in each hand, and both trained on us with a steadiness that wouldn't require even a heartbeat to check the sights. He could shoot blind and hit his target with only instinct. I glanced at Jack, who had an expectant look on his face, and I nodded.
Cautiously, not taking my eyes off Trowa, I set my gun on the metal decking. Jack set his beside mine, and we stood up. The motion of leaning over and back up again made me dizzy, but when I put my head down, I could tell my shirt was soaked in blood. My own blood. From my goddamn forehead, how fucking pathetic. I stared past my chest at the gun at my feet, and tried to focus. Hilde hadn't been their best friend. She'd been mine, and this wasn't their—
"Kitchen," Jack said, and it dawned on me that there'd been talking and I'd not noticed. I tried to focus my eyes again. Jack said something to me, then again. "Pilot?"
"The co-pilot," I replied, and fought to keep my words from sounding slurred. "Locked in the... in the storage room. Locker...storage." I shrugged, wanted to glare. A last explosion outside the shuttle, but this time we weren't the target. The shuttle merely shifted in place, last cries of metal as it slid the final few inches free of the mooring rack to land on its side on the shuttle workfloor. A quick thump, and the shuttle was still. Somehow I managed to keep my feet, but it was an iffy thing, still, even once the shuttle was still. I realized all the fighting outside had gone silent.
Trowa nodded, lips moving, but I just stared past him, at the shower of sparks coming off the main power cable every time the ventilation system kicked in, trying to stabilize against the blown rear doors. Someone else was moving around out there, various shapes, but the sparks were awfully pretty. Coming down, gold and red, like fireworks...
I took a breath, and steeled myself for the last bit. This was probably where they'd sort out the bad from good, rescue the not-in-danger crew — at least, I hoped not quite in danger — and then... well, I had no idea. I couldn't even think of the next minute, to be honest. One minute there was one Trowa, then three; two Jacks, then four. And then abruptly, there was one Heero, and I started, instinctively squinting, shutting my eyes hard, opening them to see the reality and not four Trowas because if I wanted hell, that would be it.
A grunt of effort got me focusing again, and just in time to see Heero's quick step forward and an unexpected maneuver, but one I've never forgotten. A fist backed with bone and metal-bending muscle, and a world of hurt in the curl of his lips, all of it moving faster than I could follow. The blow landed in my gut and sent me straight to my knees.
All the air went right out of my lungs. I bet my eyes bugged out or something — I could feel them go wide, but everything had gone black in the sudden removal of me from the oxygen-breathing part of the world. I think I gasped, choked, or maybe I just gracefully slid from consciousness, but I never did shit gracefully, I'm the wrong pilot if that's what you want. The metal grating dug into the palms of my hands, and I struggled to keep some dignity and not fall over.
A hand landed on my shoulder. I choked again, and I was dragged up and thrown over a bony shoulder. Other things filtered in, as I slid over the person's ribs, falling into place in the uncomfortable position: footsteps storming off, clink of metal, someone else approaching. Trowa spoke and Jack murmured, my wrists felt ringed in cold. My cheek came to rest against the black of a Preventer's jacket.
All I could think was... nothing, and no one, ever really changes.
I woke with the hangover from fucking hell a view of stained ceiling tiles, with a soundtrack of beeping madness around me. Sounded like one or two were alarms, and sure enough, a burly-looking man in white rushed in, hit a few of the machines over my head, gave me a knowing glance, and rushed out again. Well, damn it, guess I should expect the welcoming crew soon.
Y'know, someday, I'm going to be seventy — hey, a man can dream — and I'm going to be stuck in a hospital bed much like this one. I'll confess it right up: I won't be thinking about catching nurse-action, I'll still be wondering how the fuck Heero could fake out an entire room full of machines. I sure as hell can't. I wish I knew his secret. I wished it even more when a doctor's wizened face appeared in my view. That was when I realized I was restrained, wrists and ankles. That's just how fast they registered me waking up and reacted, or maybe just how slow my own reaction times were. I could feel throbbing in plenty of muscles and none of the good ones, so I couldn't even blame the wooziness on good drugs. Damn it.
"Hey," I coughed out. I wanted to play it cool, but it's been a helluva long time since I've closed my eyes on one sight and opened them to something else completely, and waking up to find I've got a mouthful of Hilde's sofa pillows doesn't count. At least all she ever took off me were my boots, and she sure as fuck didn't make me wear a paper napkin with string. I felt fifteen again. Worse.
"Mister Maxwell," the doctor said, and frowned when I gave him a blank look. "Don't play coy with me. Anyone, down to the janitor, would know your face."
I was about to make some crack about the size of my fan club, and then I saw the two Preventers standing behind the doctor.
The doctor was pretty sharp; he must've caught my quick glance. "These are your current babysitters." He looked quite pleased. I glared at him, but only half-heartedly. He had nurses as backup, after all. "This is the Preventer's detention center clinic. You were suffering from blood loss and a number of minor injuries, not counting severe dehydration and sleep deprivation. I'm half-surprised you weren't speaking in tongues."
"Hunh?"
He half-smiled. "Point is, a few more hours of rest, and then we'll drop you into the system with the rest of your mates."
I blinked at him. My mouth sure felt like I'd spent a few hours eating one of those sofa pillows. Maybe this was all a massive hangover hallucination, because I could've sworn he meant... I closed my eyes, took a breath, opened my eyes. Nothing changed.
The doctor noted something on his stylus pad, and tucked it back into his coat pocket. He glanced around, as if making sure he'd not forgotten anything. Me, I wanted to tell him, me, remember, I'm one of the good guys, haven't the other pilots told you that?
Except I wasn't, not anymore. I sighed and relaxed into the bed. Well. There it was. I might've busted up the ring, and I could at least be proud that I'd taken out as many as I could, but in the end, I guess it was those so-called friends busting me. Hunh, just like the war all over again, with the quiet ones always the flashiest, and the joke always being on me. I spared a half-second to wonder why I was the only loud one in the group, but then, don't that just figure.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," the doctor muttered, brows lowered. "A man of your stature, sunk to these levels." He nearly hissed the word, revulsion written across his patrician features. "Ashamed, Mister Maxwell."
I nodded, slowly. Yeah. Ashamed. Right. Only that I'd ever agreed to work with those bastards in the first place. I closed my eyes again, refusing to let him see any more of me — granted, a thin cotton blanket and a large piece of paper masquerading as a nightgown aren't exactly sterling defenses, but it'd have to do. I could fake the rest, for at least a little while.
When I opened my eyes again, one of the Preventers was by the bed. The other stood by the door, gun out and focused on me. That view was getting old, but I didn't have the energy anymore to snark about taking a vacation from close-ups with police-issue gun barrels.
"Maxwell," the first said. "If you want to take a shower before we transfer you to the regular holding cells, I'm sure your future roommates would appreciate it."
I wrinkled my nose at him. "Hard to do when I'm pinned in place."
"Don't make any sudden moves," the Preventer warned. "We'd be more than happy to have one less of your kind in the solar system."
Nothing like a little officer ambiguity to make one really want a shower. At least they had the decency to not come in with me, though the lack of shower curtain, towels, shampoo, hell, even toilet tissue or even a toilet seat was rather annoying. What did they think I was gonna do, hang myself with sixteen feet of one-ply tissue? A bar of soap's not the best for hair, but I've had worse, and I tried to ignore the sensation of dripping water down my backside, soaking through the paper gown. I refused to look at myself in the mirror, after a quick glimpse of my split lip and a massive purple bruise on one cheek. That was enough.
Don't know how much later, but they did at least give me something less paper-like to wear: old khakis that were two sizes two large in the waist but at least long enough, and a beat-up gray sweatshirt. The sleeves were two inches shy of my wrists; I folded them over and pushed them up and told myself it could be worse.
I wasn't sure how, but I didn't want to find out. Not like I had a choice, but at least I could still turn heads. Not quite being dragged this time, though, but still, the handcuffs and ankle manacles felt almost like old times. The one difference? No one had to crane their necks to see around the Ozzies dragging me to my execution. This time I was at least four inches taller than the tallest of the two Preventers.
Plus, not being out cold made for a better impression — I could smile politely at nurses, and do my best to ignore that I was being led like a dog on a leash, with a second Preventer training his gun on me. What the hell did they think I was gonna do, charm my way free? Besides, my stomach had started grumbling, and by the time we reached the elevator, it was hitting thunderous levels. The two Preventers frowned at me. I didn't even bother trying to grin and shrug it off. I was ready to eat my handcuffs.
Not that I had a chance. After all, before you get a roof over your head and three squares a day, first you must pass through booking. What was it Quatre once said, back on Peacemillion? Right. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. This is me, hopping with joy, buddy. Look, look, I've lived to see another day.
Yay.
Considering how neatly everything in the jail cell had been stripped of all potential weapons, I was half-surprised they didn't demand my hair-tie. I was expecting it, and even braced for a witty jest when my lockpicks would fall like sterling manna from a thieves' heaven. But they didn't even ask, they didn't even bother. Which was possibly a case of the joke being on me, once I got a gander of their jail's lock systems. No pick was going to undo that. Maybe they had learned a thing or two from the idiot Alliance. That, and they kept the lights on.
All the time.
Made it hard to tell whether it was day or night, which was probably the same intention the Alliance had when keeping me in that dark cell for a week, but I'd rather have the darkness. At least then I could sleep. Now it was mostly dull awakeness, mixed with random hours of lying on my back on a too-short too-thin cot, with one arm over my eyes, and believe me, that's not a comfortable way to sleep. Not when you're coming awake with a twitch at every little sound down the hallway.
Then again, this time, there wouldn't be a Heero come to shoot me or rescue me. Okay, shoot me, maybe, but don't know if I could talk him out of it, and sometimes when my eyes started to cross from the banks of bright lights over my head, I wasn't sure I would even try. Some hours, I wasn't sure I even cared, and then my hand would fall down to lie across my gut, and the abrupt wince of the garish bruise on my stomach would remind me of him. What a great parting gift. He always had been one for give and take, in his obsessive way of keeping score, never wanting to be in debt to anyone. And this time, he'd not even offered to let me punch him first. Unless, some cynical part of me whispered, me leaving was — for him — an equally damaging punch.
Well, I wanted to announce to the walls: it wasn't like leaving that bed was so easy.
It could've been once a day, or once an hour. I didn't care enough to pay attention. But along would come some Preventer, always a different one, delivering a tray of food that never changed to tell me whether it was breakfast, lunch, or dinner. A starch, a vegetable, and a meat, or at least what passes for meat on a colony. A square meal and I had no interest in eating. I felt like I was eight again, pushing the food around on the plate; my childish logic, even then, sensed that to willingly sit at a table with Sister Helen and the rest of the orphans was, somehow, to accept my lot in that unfamiliar, unwelcome, entrapment. Twenty years later, see how far I've come: to a room eight feet by five feet, white concrete walls unmarred even by the stereotypical scratching of former guests. The orphanage was an entire city compared to this small hell.
So there I sat. And in a half-hour, or hour, or less or more, the bolt would turn in the door. One guard would enter, another standing watch, and the first would take my mostly-untouched tray. He'd pick it up, then pause, saying casually, "did you want to call anyone?"
I'd shrug.
He'd say, "didn't eat much. No visitors, either?"
I'd give him a look like, what do you care?
That was his cue to leave. Didn't matter which guard it was, it was the same with each of them. I wondered idly if someone stood down the hall with a big cue card. No, I'd had no visitors, and since I'm expecting you had to walk right past the reception desk to get in here, and seen the check-in pad lying right there, wouldn't you know to look? Why fucking ask me? Hell, he'd even know if I had visitors who hadn't been allowed back, not that I could think of any. Except maybe Howard, and if Howard did show up, I'd strangle him, anyway.
See, I'd figured it out. It had to have been Howard, messaging Heero through the lines to let him know I'd headed on ahead of him. I can't recall telling Howard not to, was the thing. Though if I had, Howard probably would've any way, just to make a point; not saying a thing was supposed to leave Howard with the impression that Heero and the rest of those bastards were making their own way to our mutual destination.
Not that I could much of anything about it from where I sat, and not like I really much cared, other than a sometimes amused contemplation of trying to get an idea how long they'd held me. ESUN laws still followed the pre-colony standard, of a seventy-two hour period before a lawyer could bring motion of habeas corpus; until then, they could hold me without cause. After that point, they'd have to charge me or let me go. I doubted any of the few folks who might — maybe — hire a lawyer on my behalf even had an idea where I was, or even if I was alive. That meant the chances of the door opening to see some suited ninny waving papers was about as good as the chances of seeing the door blow open and there be Heero, with gun in hand, looking like vengeance personified.
Except he wasn't. Never had been. That was me.
He was just some kid trying hard to do what he'd been told was right, even if the means used to teach him that 'right' was so very, terribly, wrong. I was the one who didn't give a damn, who'd lost it all long before I'd had it, and I kept losing, over and over again.
I lay on that too-short jail cot with my feet hanging off the ends, one hand behind my head as an uncomfortable but passable pillow, the other hand across my bare stomach, and my shirt pulled up over my head to shield me from the worst of the light. Eventually my stomach stopped growling, or I just got used to ignoring it; the peculiar aches in my body all faded into one droning background hum, the lights filtered through the dull gray of the shirt. I knew there were cameras in each corner, watching me sleep, scratch my nose, take a piss, poke at the food. But they sure weren't gonna have the pleasure of seeing me wake from dreams, shaking and miserable. Knowing I'd always lose didn't mean I had to enjoy it, alright? And it sure didn't mean I had to lose with prying eyes right there.
I'd say it was days of this, but maybe it was just really long hours, or maybe a week. It was somewhere around meal sixteen — so maybe five or six days, total? — before I finally broke the guards' ritual. When he asked if I wanted to call anyone, I gave him a sideways smile and said, "it's been a lot longer than seventy-two hours, officer."
He shrugged, and studied my tray with a frown. "We weren't prepared to be dealing with over fifty arrests at one time. We've been working our way through the cases, so the judge gave us an extension on the arraignment period."
"Hunh."
Yeah, that's about all I could manage. You were expecting some kind of Maxwellian witticism, perhaps? Yeah, I got your witticism right fucking here.
Eight more meals passed before another break in the daily grind. That time, the guard looked at the tray, and looked at me, and said, "you keep this up, we'll haul you back to the clinic again."
I didn't even shrug. I didn't even bother to look at him. The wall was quite interesting by that point, but the guard didn't move, waiting. I don't know how long. I just glanced his way, not even looking, just a quick turn of my head and back again. He didn't even ask if I'd had visitors, and then was gone. I guess he might've thought that was a kindness on his part. I didn't care. I did my part.
Go on, go tell Heero to get ready for his close-up, because I'm ready for someone to roll the credits.
I wasn't even counting anymore, the time a guard arrived with his hands empty. He stood by the door and I stared up at him. It was the same Preventer who'd explained about the arraignments. Didn't seem like half the hard-ass as some of the others. I stood, stretched, and somewhere in the back of my head noted that I'd not showered nor changed since leaving the clinic. Whatever. I dug down in my last assorted smiles, dragged out an abashed one for him — he'd been a good guy, despite the circumstances, really. He proved it again by speaking with me in a low tone, as he escorted me down the hallway.
"Truth is, Mister Maxwell, normally we don't keep folks in these one-room setups. Isolation techniques aren't legal these days, but we were overflowing."
I grunted, not really sure what he needed me to say, or even what I wanted to say. I could remember, vaguely, stalking through a club with Heero at my side, feeling dangerous and powerful. I wondered where that me had gone.
"Just so you know, not that I'd think you're all that attached to that cell, but after you meet with the investigating officers, your arraignment will be scheduled. Then you'll be moved to a four-person cell." The guard looked me over as we stopped in front of one more metal door in a long row of them. I wondered if he had to count ceiling tiles to remember which was which. "Our usual bank of cells are not as—" He grinned, ruefully. "Well, not as far away from the showers."
I nodded, wishing he'd get on with it. I was saving up my snark for whatever unlucky bastards had drawn the short straws.
The guard pushed open the door, moving in such a way that I had no view of the room until halfway through, and then he was gone and shutting the door behind me. I might have been tired, worn down, and reeking like I'd slept in 'Scythe for two weeks, but that was nothing new. A long time in the past doesn't mean never, so it didn't even take a split second to suss up my opponents and greet them like they'd interrupted my Sunday afternoon nap. Bored, easy, but not annoyed, just... unimpressed.
We stared each other down. Wufei practically bristled, but didn't look me in the eyes. Trowa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head down, and if he weren't six-three, I'd have thought he was fifteen again for all he moved or looked my way. Quatre sat at the table, clasped hands half-propping his chin, half-pressed against his mouth, forever his posture of careful contemplation, but those sky-blue eyes bored into me, as if memorizing me. I felt like my line should be something about finding them on my porch, or maybe that was Hilde's line.
I did not let my expression change, and I kept my muscles at the same tension they'd been down the sixty-foot walk of the hallway; maybe I couldn't fake out hospital machines but I could fake out almost anything short of that. So I stood there, silence reigned.
Until Quatre finally moved his hands from his mouth, enough to reveal a sad smile. "Duo," he said, and for a moment I could see his plaintive fifteen-year-old self overlaid. A stark reminder of the hours before the final battle, miles above earth. He didn't unclasp his hands, but watched me over them. His voice was pitched low, but carried easily, tinged with regret, and it was almost like he wasn't even speaking to me. "How did it come to this?"
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Date: 18 Jul 2007 07:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 18 Jul 2007 05:19 pm (UTC)On the other hand, it's fanfic, my brain keeps saying, and I think people will forgive one or two really minor things. If not, err, I'll catch 'em later.
Glad to hear there was improvement, which was sort of the aim in going from draft to final. ;-)