Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ A.I.: Artificial Identity ❯ Interconnected ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I don't own, nor do I claim rights to Gundum Wing, The Terminator, or The Supernaturalists. If I did, it's fair to say their storylines would have turned out very differently. But I don't. I'm just an exhausted high school student suffering from stress clinging to her last shred of sanity with no money. The library is my best friend. Along with the internet. To put it plainly, I OWN NOTHING. Except the concept of this story.

 

Warning: This shouldn't surprise anyone, but beware of Enraged!Duo's language. Lol. And this story is AU, futuristic, contains violence, has very little (if anything) in common with the real storyline, and I got this idea after watching The Terminator and not long after that I read Eoin Colfer's The Supernaturalists. So the plot bunny morphed into this. This will probably be a fairly long story…lemme see, anything else…? Oh, it's YAOI, like nearly everything else I write. 2x5 and I haven't decided whom to put Trowa with yet. So there.

 

SPOILERS FOR EPISODE ZERO! BEWARE!!

 

Author's Note: Hello again! And for all my fans out there: don't worry! Chapter One of OBR is coming soon. I just need to interrogate all my guy friends and then I'll have it up in a jiffy. Maybe after semester finals. But I might be taking that down from ff(dot)net because chapters keep disappearing, mutating, and the format keeps changing. I'm slowly reposting my DNAngel stories at foreverfandom(dot)net. Please REVIEW and keep me motivated!

 

A.I.: Artificial Identity

By: Mitsuru Aki

 

Chapter ONE: Interconnected

 

Year 2250; A.C. 100; City of Xenophene

 

A3535353535353535353A

 

The kitchen was dark and silent, all lights turned off. Two teenage boys sat at a plain kitchen table that was barely able to seat three. Mugs of steaming tea sat before them, untouched. Both of them listened to the rain pounding on the roof of their latest shelter, referred to as a `safehouse'. Their damp clothes were heavy with moisture since they themselves had just come in from the gloomy weather after a long night's work. The clock on the wall by the sink read 3:50 am in bright blue numbers.

 

“How's your arm, Chang?” The solemn brunette asked softly, long bangs not quite managing to hide his concerned green eyes.

 

“Fine,” Chang Wufei answered abruptly, glaring with barely contained resentment at the wet window over the other boy's left shoulder. “A little achy, but it's always like that when it rains.”

 

“Do you need to—”

 

“I said it's fine, Barton!” Wufei snapped, eyes beginning to narrow in anger. “Once I dry off I'll be fine. I don't need you badgering me.”

 

“I was just asking,” Trowa responded stonily, unwilling to let his irritation show. Chang didn't have to be so touchy.

 

They sat in silence for a while, listening as a vehicle drove by, splashing water with a sound only tires on wet asphalt can make.

 

“We did well tonight,” Trowa said, observing his partner from across the table.

 

Wufei grunted in acknowledgement, a few strands of hair sticking damply to his face.

 

“With this rain, we're lucky we accomplished as much as we did.”

 

“How many tonight?” Wufei asked, staring down at the table's scarred surface.

 

Trowa hesitated. “Seven.”

 

“That's it?”

 

“That's all.”

 

“Last night we destroyed ten, did we not?”

 

The green-eyed teen nodded in agreement. “And last Wednesday, twelve.”

 

The Chinese teen sighed gustily. “We're falling behind.”

 

Trowa made a noncommittal noise.

 

“Where did you put them?” Wufei asked quietly. “You did move them from the truck, right?”

 

“Downstairs,” his partner replied. “In the basement.” He finally took a drink of his cooling tea.

 

Wufei stood, shoving his chair roughly backwards. He headed for the stairs near the garage door. Behind him, Trowa stood also, following.

 

“Chang, don't—”

 

The Asian ignored him as he opened the basement door and yanked the chain to turn on the dingy light bulb overhead. The stairs were old and creaky, made of wood. No one used wood anymore without some sort of reinforced coating over it; everyone knew it was a fire hazard. Apparently the contractors hadn't cared.

 

He descended the worn staircase until he reached the cement floor, eyes passing over the red drops staining the wooden steps. Trowa's quiet footsteps made the stairs squeak in protest, but he didn't say anything else to Wufei.

 

They were sitting against the far wall, limbs askew and heads tilted forward. A red substance similar to blood pooled on the floor. Five men, two women.

 

Or, at least, that's what they looked like.

 

Wufei felt the familiar urge to turn around and leave; to just forget these things would be spending the night beneath his floorboards while he slept. But he didn't.

 

Crossing the floor took less time then he would have liked. He crouched down beside a redheaded male. Young looking, short, blue eyes. All in all, not likely to stand out in a crowd.

 

Trowa stood noiselessly at the bottom of the stairs; Wufei could feel his eyes watching him.

 

Wufei ran a black-gloved finger along the man's forearm to the elbow and back to the wrist. It felt real enough.

 

Using his left hand, he dug his fingers into the soft skin, felt it give way beneath the pressure, saw the false blood envelop his liquid-proof gloves.

 

Within seconds, Trowa was next to him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “This isn't necessary, Chang. Let it go.”

 

But it was necessary. Trowa didn't understand; maybe he never would.

 

Then his fingers found the metal beneath the lies. He grabbed the wrist with his other hand and pulled, hard, tearing more skin, more metal, spilling more blood.

 

And stared at the result.

 

Nothing but metal, wires, and complicated circuits. Despite its looks, the thing wasn't human. It was a machine. A very clever, intricate imitation of a man, but a machine nonetheless.

 

Wufei felt the bile rise in his throat as it always did. This was wrong, so very wrong. Why did people continue to believe they could play God? That humans could be made artificially instead of born naturally? What was wrong with the rest of the world?

 

Now that the basic components of the machine's arm were exposed, small faults were suddenly noticeable. The slightly longer fingers. The lack of lines on the palm of the hand. The sickly pallor of the skin. But that could be from blood loss.

 

He dropped the arm as though it were diseased, contaminated with some substance that would make him one of them.

 

“Wufei—” Trowa began, but his friend was gone. Lost among the wires and steel and pulleys of a once animate object and the prison of his own mind.

 

The dark eyed adolescent backed away carefully, paying no attention to the red liquid dripping from his gloves, that was splattered across his black, long-sleeved shirt, dotting the black pants he wore. Black and red.

 

The brunette unfolded himself from the floor, watching Wufei's tightly controlled breathing and shaking hands. Noticing the frenzied emotions that fought each other across his bronze face, how his eyes flitted from place to place without once landing on Trowa or the machines beyond him.

 

Then he turned and pounded up the stairs.

 

Trowa listened as he heard Wufei cross the kitchen and continue up a staircase to the second floor where the bedrooms and bathroom were. Waited for the vomiting that would inevitably begin as the Chinese teen reached the bathroom.

 

The green-eyed young man rubbed his temples as he walked slowly back towards the stairs. This is crazy, he thought, glancing back at the “dead” androids ten feet behind him. I can't keep doing this by myself. It's emotionally draining. He began the long stretch up the ancient staircase to the first floor. I think, Trowa admitted to himself, I need some help. I can't work a day job, destroy murderous androids by night, and watch over Chang and his issues. He shut off the basement light and closed the door to the stairs. Maybe I should install locks on the door…but I doubt that would help.

 

It was still raining when he reached the kitchen, but the sky was beginning to lighten. Four more hours until he and Wufei had to report to work.

 

Some help, anything, would be much appreciated. Preferably someone able to deal with Wufei's panic attacks.

 

Assuming that's what they were. They looked like panic attacks. But since Wufei wouldn't open up to him, he didn't know for sure. And if the teen had no intention of sharing, Trowa wouldn't pry. They hadn't affected their night work. Yet.

 

Wufei's mug sat cold and untouched at the table. 4:01 a.m.

 

Send someone, Trowa thought, not sure who he was asking. He dumped the tea down the sink. Someone to help me. To help him. God knows we need it. He set the cups on the counter; he'd wash them later.

 

All I'm asking for is a little assistance, that's all. He couldn't mask the sadness behind the words. How are two messed up people supposed to save this screwed up world?

 

And then he disappeared upstairs to check on his friend.

 

A1111111111111A

 

Click, click, click. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

 

Teenage android-hunter extraordinaire Heero Yuy sat alone in his small apartment working away on his most prized possession: the ultra-tech Garrison1200#. The size of an old marble composition book, it contained a multitude of gadgets that only obeyed the verbal commands of—yes, you have it—yours truly. It could survive a drop from a five story building without a scratch; stick or suction itself to just about any surface; contained the times of all major cities; had a built in timer; and his favorite feature (although he would never admit that to anyone)—the self-destruct command. If he gave the word, all the data on his machine would be destroyed without a trace. A second command would annihilate the computer itself.

 

But one Heero Yuy wasn't using any verbal commands at the moment.

 

A11 FOUND 5 KM NE OF PRESENT LOCATION. MOVING AT 0.00083…KM/HR.

 

Click, click.

 

DO YOU WISH TO VIEW SD160 OR ACTIVATE COMMAND 4?

 

Let's check for civilians first, Heero thought. No mistakes.

 

He tapped the screen and was rewarded with an aerial view of a city block not too far from his apartment. A single woman strolled slowly down the shadowy sidewalk, past ruined stores and filthy alleys. Long dark hair was all he could see of her from above.

 

Click.

 

SEARCHING RADIUS…ALL CLEAR.

 

Clickety-clickety-clickety-click. Click. Beep.

 

CALCULATING…

 

Heero waited, drumming his fingers on the desk.

 

Beep. TARGET LOCKED. PLEASE CONFIRM COMMAND 4.

 

“Execute Command 4.” The blue-eyed teen stated clearly.

 

His computer was silent for a moment as it analyzed his speech patterns, examining the inflections of his voice and the pronunciation of his words. The machine hummed as it sent an affirmative signal through several channels; from the computer to Intelligence Tower 5 which he'd hacked into, through their computer system, directed along their satellites to Satellite 160.

 

It paid to be a hacker.

 

The aerial cam flashed back on the screen showing the female android moving at the same leisurely pace, probably looking for another victim. The last three had sparked murder investigations that were rapidly becoming cold cases. But the authorities didn't know that evidence would never be found.

 

Then she disappeared. Just like that. Gone. Vaporized. Maybe a few strands of hair on the cracked concrete. The air where she had been seemed a little murky, like smog, but that was it.

 

COMMAND 4 SUCCESSFULLY EXECUTED.

 

Yes, “ARain” rays were certainly useful. Too bad the molecules could only be found in the lower reaches of the atmosphere and used with the aid of a satellite nearly 80 miles above Earth. Perhaps the increasing problem of acid rain was useful after all.

 

Click, click. Tap. Clickety-cliclety-clickety. Tap.

 

ENTER PASSWORD.

 

Clickety-clickety-clickety-click-click.

 

PROCESSING…STORING INFO…EVALUATING SYSTEM…ERASING TRKS…SHUTTING DOWN. GOOD NIGHT, HEERO YUY.

 

He closed the top with a snap, then took a few steps toward the bed. He paused. “Stick.”

 

Heero returned to the desk and attempted to yank the laptop off the coated steel surface. Nothing. It stuck like it had merged with the desk.

 

Heero pulled his t-shirt off and hung it on the left side of his closet. Dirty clothes only.

 

If only people were more like computers, the sleepy, mussy-haired brunette mused. Not androids, but computers. Then I might actually get along with them.

 

He exchanged his shorts for lounge pants, and, almost as an afterthought, put on as oversized black long-sleeved shirt. The nights were getting colder now.

 

4:11 a.m.

 

His report needed to be turned in before work tomorrow. But first, sleep. Otherwise he would be completely useless once it was light. Then, of course, more work

 

“Off.” Heero commanded, throwing the covers down to the foot board.

 

The lights went out, and the android hunter climbed into bed and slept.

 

A2424242424242424242A

 

Quatre was crying again.

 

Not that it was loud or noticeable or anything, but the violet-eyed, long haired teen just knew. He'd cried every night since he'd arrived, about five weeks ago.

 

He crawled to the edge of his bunk, the fifth from the top out of thirteen stacked beds. Through the one foot gap between the next row of bunks he could see the faint glow of the emergency lights. He scrambled to his feet and stood, fingers gripping Quatre's sideboard for balance.

 

“Hey, Q?”

 

The sheets above him rustled as someone shifted position.

 

“Duo?”

 

“Yeah, it's me. You okay?”

 

Quatre's nervous face appeared two feet above him. He gave the brunette a weak smile. “I'm okay,” he whispered.

 

“Bullshit!” Duo hissed back. “That question was only for formality. Lemme come up!”

 

“But I don't want you to get in trouble again…” the blond said hesitantly, biting his lower lip.

 

“Aw, it's alright, Q. The bruises healed up, didn't they?”

 

Quatre just looked at him sadly. The brunette could have kicked himself.

 

“I didn't mean it, Q, I'm sorry. It's not like it was your fault or anything.” Duo squinted up at his friend's silhouette. “Can I come up?”

 

The child behind Duo stirred. “Wha's goin' on?” she murmured sleepily.

 

“Nah, go back to sleep. Nothin' important that you need to know about.”

 

“'kay.” She sighed and rolled over.

 

The braided teen returned his attention to Quatre. “Now, am I gonna hafta wake everyone up, or are you—”

 

“Okay, okay,” Quatre gave in. “Just don't get in trouble, Duo.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Duo muttered, pouting.

 

The Xenophene Orphan Center had strict rules and even stricter administrators. Unwanted children or orphans like Duo were considered a blemish on a supposedly advanced society so children without a “patron” were sent by the truckload to already overcrowded Orphan Centers. Severe and often unfair rules were created to keep the myriads of kids in line. Most centers, like this one, were low on funds and lacking in government financial support, so they often collaborated with some sort of business. The Orphan Center earned money by making the orphans work small jobs, often testing or assembling products; the businesses saved money since they didn't need to pay an extra five hundred people a salary. The arrangement worked rather nicely for the administrators.

 

Their center was affiliated with Technological Industries, creators of engines, small robotic toys, and computers—including the new Garrison* series. The orphans put computer parts together and repaired small engines, working from seven in the morning until ten at night. Breakfast was at six-thirty and dinner at eight-thirty. When the overseers remembered or felt generous that day they had lunch around one. Occasionally, Duo was able to steal small amounts of food from the kitchen at night, but that wasn't very often. New orphans often fainted from dehydration and hunger pains until their systems adapted.

 

Quatre was no exception; he had been released from the “medical ward” (actually a spare room with cabinets and several first aid kits) only six hours ago.

 

The blond had been here for five weeks. His gentle, emotional personality made it hard for him to endure the harsh conditions of living in the TIOC (Technological Industries Orphan Center). He wasn't used to the strict advisors, the majority of whom resented watching so many young charges at minimum wage. Sometimes community volunteers popped in to help out, but that wasn't often and they never stayed long.

 

Duo and Quatre had been friends since they had first met.

 

Two months ago, Quatre's 29 sisters had gone on a shopping spree with their father a week before school was due to start. Quatre, who was the only one with all his supplies at the time, stayed at the Winner mansion for a bit of peace and quiet without his older siblings. His sisters went straight to their favorite store, an ancient place called Kyoko's Boutique so old the building was entirely wooden. Unsurprisingly, it had failed every fire security inspection ever invented; the authorities simply hadn't cracked down on it yet. An electrical fire due to faulty wiring demolished the building along with thirty-five other people, and Quatre's family, rather quickly. Within the space of fifteen minutes, the blond lost all thirty of his closest relatives.

 

And instead discovered more examples of the world's cruelty and unfairness in the form of TIOC. Meeting Duo, however, had helped soften the blow.

 

But Duo couldn't blame the blond for crying.

 

He himself had been a “scar”, or a parentless imperfection that marred the city of Xenophene, for as long as he could remember. When the Maxwell Orphan Center blew up ten years ago, the surviving orphans were rounded up and redistributed to the remaining “patronless” children centers; Duo was the second child of that group to be tagged as a survivor, right after his friend Solo. Solo was injured in the explosion, but recovered quickly. But he'd lost the only people who he could have tentatively referred to as his unofficial patrons: Father Maxwell and Sister Helen.

 

He'd been sulky and easily provoked for almost two years, smart-alecky by day and slowly healing his bruised, six-year-old heart by night. Duo could relate to Quatre's feelings; they reminded him of how he used to be. Even though Quatre's situation was a bit more extreme. Duo still had trouble believing his friend had twenty-nine siblings.

 

Duo pulled himself up to the blond's bunk, careful not to make any noise or bang his limbs in the small gap between beds.

 

“So, what are you thinking about tonight, Q?” Duo cocked his head questioningly, knowing he didn't need to dance around the subject. They'd been through this before.

 

“Just…just my sisters,” Quatre sniffed quietly, twisting his bed sheet around his fingers. “Memories…that sort of thing.”

 

Duo nodded. “Wish I had some siblings. Or maybe I do, I dunno.” He yawned and leaned backward, propped up on his hands. “What did you guys use to do?”

 

Quatre gave his friend a watery smile. “When I was really little, they'd dress me up in their old clothes, since I was the youngest. I was their favorite doll.”

 

The braided orphan smirked. “Yeah, you'd make a good doll, Q.”

 

The blonde shoved Duo playfully with his foot. “Anyway, one time I dumped a bowl of spaghetti on my head and ruined the outfit.” Aquamarine eyes grew distant and sad. “Never tried that again.”

 

Duo watched Quatre quietly with violet eyes. They had to keep their voices low so they wouldn't be caught.

 

Quatre's eyes suddenly snapped back to the brunette, hard and angry but full of tears. “I hate it here, Duo! The Advisors don't even like us!”

 

“I know,” Duo agreed whole-heartedly. “They despise us.”

 

“I ran away from home once,” Quatre continued. “I thought Father wasn't being fair. But this—I didn't really think people could live like this!”

 

Duo shrugged. “I've always lived in these sorts of places. Except the Maxwell Orphan Center, but I don't remember that too much…It must've been better than this dump, though. And who's this Father person you keep talking about?”

 

Quatre's red-rimmed eyes looked confused. “Father?”

 

“Yeah,” Duo said curiously. “Is he some friend of yours? That's a weird name.”

 

“No, no, he was…well, my father.”

 

Violet eyes gifted Quatre with a blank stare.

 

“Um…” the blond teen struggled for words. “My…male parent?”

 

“Parent?” The brunette frowned and pulled his braid over his shoulder as he toyed with the end. “Like a Patron?”

 

Quatre gazed at his friend wordlessly. How do you explain the concept of parents to someone who had never experienced their love and the very word itself was completely foreign to them?

 

“Sort of…” Quatre conceded in a dissatisfied way. “I guess you could say that. I mean, you know what brothers and sisters are, right?”

 

“Of course!” Duo exclaimed, causing the blond to glance around nervously. “We're kinda like brothers, right?”

 

The short-haired boy gnawed on his lower lip. “Like brothers,” he agreed.

 

“You know,” Duo said thoughtfully. “I've been thinking about busting out of this place. We're almost old enough to live without a Patron. We're nearly seventeen.”

 

“But…we've never lived on our own, Duo!” Quatre protested softly. “How would we support ourselves?”

 

The brunette smiled cheekily. “Exactly the way I do! Steal food, like always!”

 

“Duo, you can't steal out there!” the blond argued. “We may not get arrested because we're minors, but as soon as they see we don't have a Patron, we'll end up back here! Then we'll really be in trouble!”

 

“Anything's better than here, Q!” Duo retorted. “It has to be!”

 

“When I ran away from home a few years ago, I spent the night on the street!” Quatre hissed. “With no food, no money, and no place to sleep, I realized that running away wasn't such a good idea after all. At least here we can count on getting the basic necessities.”

 

“You should have taken some money with you,” Duo said in a Duh! tone of voice.

 

“That's not the point, Duo!” Aquamarine eyes collided fiercely with amethyst. “We don't know anything about street life! Things aren't the way they used to be; we wouldn't last a week!”

 

“I've lived on the streets before!” Duo replied indignantly.

 

Quatre rolled up his sleeve to the shoulder, exposing a black tattoo that looked like a barcode in stark contrast with his pale skin. “And how do we hide this?!” he whispered with barely contained fury, yanking up Duo's sleeve and showing the brunette his own mark. “They can track us, Duo! We wouldn't get very far!”

 

The blond could see the fight draining from the teen across from him, everything except the small spark of hope that lurked behind his eyes.

 

“Sorry, Duo,” Quatre said softly. “I know what you mean…but I just don't think it's possible. This place is like a prison.”

 

And it was true. How would they ever make it past the sentries or electric fence? If only they had a legitimate reason to go off the property. An idea formed slowly in Duo's brain. A reason…

 

“Maybe…maybe we could wait until the next trip to Tech. Industries,” Duo suggested hopefully. “You know, when they drop off the finished parts and pick up the next load of materials?”

 

“Duo—” his friend began tiredly.

 

“No, no, listen,” the brunette insisted determinedly, sitting up. “Look, it's our turn to load and unload the truck this Friday, right? So on the way back, I'll snitch a coupla new parts—”

 

“I don't like—”

 

“—and pick the locks. I've done it before; that's how I get into the kitchens.”

 

“Duo!”

 

“What? The locks are practically antique. Besides, it's a useful skill.”

 

Quatre sighed.

 

“Then we can take off. We'll keep moving until we can find a way to deactivate the brand,” Duo whispered conspiratorially, referring to the barcode.

 

The blond's eyes were worried and anxious. “But how do we outrun the truck, Duo?”

 

“What're you talkin' about Q?” Duo asked, grinning. “We're gonna hijack the truck!”

 

“But you can't drive, Duo!” Quatre wailed softly.

 

The brunette shrugged off that small, inconsequential fact. “It can't be that hard if almost anyone can do it.”

 

“Maybe we should—”

 

“We'll have our first run through three days from now, okay Q?” Duo looked expectantly at his friend. Friday.

 

“What?!”

 

“What's going on up there?!” A woman's voice shouted, followed by a searchlight sweeping the rows of bunks.

 

Crap!

 

Within seconds Duo vanished between the two beds down to his own, although not quite as stealthily as he'd climbed up. Moments later as he sat on his mattress he was blinded by the light.

 

“Is that you, Maxwell 02?”

 

“Yep!” Duo responded as cheerfully as possible, blinking rapidly.

 

A brunette woman with two tight buns and glasses glared up at him. “Get down here.”

 

Damn.

 

Quatre's scared face peered out from his bunk. “Duo—”

 

She pushed a button and ladders descended from bunk to bunk down to the tile floor.

 

Duo exhaled forcefully, his bangs fluttering very much like his heartbeat at the moment. He gripped the ladder and made his way to the bottom, that stupid searchlight tracking his every move. “Yes, Captain Une?”

 

“Don't `yes' me, boy,” Captain Une snapped. “It's 4:30 a.m. Care to explain why you're not asleep?”

 

“Well, with that searchlight in my face…”

 

She slapped him.

 

The brunette didn't even bother to look back at her, choosing instead to keep his head in its current position. Struggling to control the flare of instantaneous anger, he tried to force back the instinct of hitting her in return. She really didn't like him and the feeling was mutual.

 

“You were talking again, weren't you?”

 

“No.”

 

“No what?”

 

“No I wasn't talking, Captain. I was whispering.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Don't start with me, Maxwell 02. It was that Solo boy again, wasn't it?”

 

“No ma'am,” Duo said, gritting his teeth at the pang of loss making it self known at Solo's name. “Solo's not here to talk to me anymore, ma'am.”

 

“So then who was it?”

 

“A friend.”

 

“What?”

 

“A friend, Captain. I was talking to a friend.”

 

“Is that right?” Captain Une asked, raising an eyebrow coldly.

 

“Yes ma'am.”

 

“And who would this friend be?”

 

Duo kept his mouth shut. The idea of bringing Quatre into it never even crossed his mind. She glared at him. He glared at her. The silence stretched on.

 

“And why do you feel the need to talk to `a friend' when the rules clearly state to remain quiet until the morning alarm rings?” Une demanded finally.

 

Duo wondered vaguely if she slept with her hair up like that. Wouldn't that be uncomfortable? “Talking with my friend is the only surefire way of intelligent conversation these days now that Solo's gone, ma'am.”

 

Solo had vanished from the TIOC three years ago. After two days of frantic searching, not-so-subtle inquiries, and several irritated blows from various Advisors for `sticking your nose where it doesn't belong', he'd discovered the boy had finally been Acquired, or adopted, at the age of seventeen. He'd lost his best friend without a word of warning.

 

But Captain Une clearly didn't care about any of that because she hit him again.

 

Damn I hate this woman.

 

“Don't get smart with me, Maxwell 02,” she snapped. “You've been here for how many years now? Oh, yes, that's right, eleven. You have no excuse for not following the rules anymore.”

 

Duo could feel the familiar hatred smoldering behind his eyes. “The rules are stupid,” he informed her.

 

Une grabbed him by the hair at his scalp and dragged him forward until their faces were a foot apart. “No one asked you for your opinion of the rules. And just because you failed to be Acquired by a Patron, again, doesn't mean you can take that anger out on me,” she informed him in a deadly whisper, her eyes cold.

 

Duo didn't even register that he'd hauled off and hit her until he saw her stumble backward with her hand to her jaw, his knuckles stinging from the contact, scalp tingling where strands of hair had been pulled from his head.

 

“That's bullshit!” Duo shouted furiously, fists clenching at his sides.

 

The orphans closest to him scooted to the far side of their beds. An angry sixteen-year-old Duo could give you nightmares for weeks.

 

“You think I don't know how you fuck up my case files whenever some Patron asks about me?! Well I do!” Enraged, pain-filled violet eyes locked with her angry brown ones. “I know how you make up some story of how screwed up and unstable I am! How I did drugs, or was in a gang, or some other stupid shit!”

 

Captain Une's eyes widened in surprise.

 

“The only people who abuse me are the freakin' employees who work here!” Duo ranted. “Making us work sixteen hour days, and oh, don't talk to any of your fellow prisoners, `cause you might actually make friends!”

 

“Silence, Maxwell 02!”

 

“Make me!” the teen hollered with total disregard for the few children left that could have slept through an earthquake, planning to hit her again; he would have knocked her stupid glasses right off her stupid face if one of her co-workers hadn't come up behind her at that exact moment.

 

“What's happening here, Une?” The man was tall, nearly two feet taller than Duo, and gray-haired with a thick beard and matching gray eyes.

 

“This insolent brat attacked me after I reprimanded him for disobeying the rules!” The stern, brunette woman declared angrily, glaring at the teenager in question. “After all we do for him: giving him clothes, food, a place to rest—”

 

“You only do it to get the deduction off your taxes!” Duo snarled, narrowing his eyes. “And if she thinks I won't retaliate after she hits me—”

 

Duo was abruptly cut off as the man grabbed him roughly by the collar and yanked him towards the door. “I won't tolerate that kind of back talk here, young man!” he declared. “Anything less than complete respect and gratitude is utter selfishness!”

 

“Gratitude?!” the American yelped, fighting the older man's suffocating grasp on his shirt for the ability to breathe. “What, I'm supposed to be grateful that bitch beats me three times a week?”

 

Captain Une grabbed Duo by the chin, smiling icily. “I think it's time you had a little chat with the head of this institution,” she told him gleefully. “Then you can see how nice I am in comparison.”

 

Oh God, thought Duo, his blood freezing in his veins. Solo had gone there once. And spent a week in the medical ward after they were done with him. I'm going to die.

 

“Everyone back to bed!” Une yelled at the small, drawn faces peering down at them through the darkness. “And if I hear any more `whispering', you'll be working a few extra hours tomorrow night!”

 

The gray-haired man resumed dragging Duo to the exit towards the hallway. Friday couldn't come fast enough.

 

It'll be our first, and hopefully last, escape attempt, the condemned teen thought firmly. Because I'll probably wind up dead before I turn eighteen if that stupid woman has her way. She'll kill me.

 

She couldn't possibly be human. Didn't she have any feelings at all?

 

Duo could already feel the bruises forming on his face. His only solace as he endured the rest of that painful night was that he knew, deep down, that soon he would be free.

 

 

AXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXA

 

Author's Note: Whew! That took a long time to type! So I can't promise that chapter two will be up soon, since I'm not exactly a computer whiz. And I was going to write this at the beginning, but I didn't want you all to push the back button before reading my story. I actually haven't seen any episodes of Gundum Wing. Okay, I've seen three and a half episodes, but still. Nearly everything I know of the series comes from bits and pieces from fanfiction and the ranting of my friends. I would really appreciate it if you guys could let me know how I'm doing with characterization, and tell me if they're getting OOC. Lol. Thank you and REVIEW!!!