Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Interrogation ❯ Interrogation ( Chapter 1 )

Trowa stared impassively across the table at the man with the mutton chops. They really were a remarkable achievement. Bushy and black, they made one think of soft wings. But combined with the close-set beady eyes, the overall impression was that of a monkey. A large, sweating, nervous monkey.

 

“Look, we know you aren't Tristan Brown. Why don't you just cooperate and make things easier for yourself? Just tell me your real name.”

 

The man was getting agitated now. Trowa didn't respond. Instead he moved on to contemplate the hideousness of the man's tie. Forest green and mustard swirls with some sort of brown mixed in. The sort of brown that made one think of shit. And not healthy shit either.

 

“Who do you work for?”

 

Trowa ignored this question as well. He was good at not speaking. That was one of the reasons he was so valued as an undercover operative. Unfortunately, someone else was not so good at keeping quiet, as evidenced by the fact that Trowa was now in custody of the men he had been sent to investigate. Six weeks of infiltration had gone like clockwork, as usual. He had sent his final report to Une and was on his way to steal a shuttle out of there when he had been surrounded by his former subordinates all wearing identical looks of anger mixed with betrayal. Someone had blown his cover. He'd kill the bastard once he found out who it was. Or, if he found he could not get out of here after all, perhaps Quatre would do it for him.

 

“Where did you learn your piloting?”

 

Trowa stared back at the man whose face was now going a deep red. It clashed badly with his tie. He really wasn't the ideal person for this job. Quatre would have been much better at it. In fact, he'd cracked a few amazingly tough nuts for Une in his capacity as special consultant to the Preventers. Trowa would tease him that it was just that he looked so cute in the uniform that no one could resist him. That was certainly not the case for this interrogator.

 

A door slid open behind him and a look of relief passed over the face of Mutton Chop Man.

 

“That's enough, Marshall. I'll take it from here.” The smooth, cultured tones of Marius Pensaward cascaded gently onto Trowa's ears. This was more like it. The most heartless man in the organization, it had been Pensaward who had been responsible for the deaths of at least two dozen pilots in his attempts to perfect his own version of the Zero System. Not that the man had ever known anything about the original system. That was still a closely guarded secret, but the idea of trying to link a pilot's mind with his ship was nothing new. Pensaward's version was both cruder and more difficult for a human to handle. So far only Tristan Brown had been able to fly one of their ships successfully.

 

“Well, Tristan,” said Marius as he slid into the chair recently vacated by Marshall. “Or should I call you something else?”

 

Trowa could feel the presence of two more men standing behind him. He wondered if they were going to torture him, or just watch Pensaward do it. He seemed like the kind of person who'd like to pass on his skills to a few devoted sycophants.

 

“Nanashi, perhaps?”

 

Trowa's impassive mask did not so much as flicker despite the faint twinge of disquiet that ghosted through his gut. He wondered if his betrayer had somehow recognized him from his mercenary days. As far as he knew, everyone who had known him as a nameless child soldier was now dead. It was equally possible that Pensaward was just calling him that in lieu of having a real name to call him. He had the same unoriginal sense of humor as those who'd first used the appellation.

 

Marius stared hard at him waiting for a reaction. There was none. Trowa was not easily intimidated. The scientist gave up on the death glare that had served him so well with everyone else he had ever met.

 

“I am… disappointed. I had such high hopes for you.”

 

Trowa considered shrugging insolently, but decided not to give him the satisfaction. There was a slight shuffling of feet behind him.

 

“I want to know how you mastered my system when no one else has managed it.”

 

Ah, appealing to his ego. A nice trick. It might have worked on one of his swaggering, boot-licking pilots. Marius should know by now that Trowa was not susceptible to such flattery. They had been working closely together for the past two weeks. Too closely, really. Trowa suppressed an urge to sneer as he remembered the man's hands lingering every time he strapped Trowa into the harness of the flight simulator. The man bordered on Kushrenada levels of arrogance. Just without the looks, charisma and laser-sharp eye for judging people. Idiot.

 

“You will tell me. Sooner or later.”

 

Trowa wished it could be sooner. He was getting bored. He surreptitiously flexed his arm muscles, but the straps around his biceps and wrists binding them to the arms of the chair were no looser than they had been when he was first secured here. If his ankles weren't bound to the chair legs he'd have been able to swing up and over backwards to take out the men behind him. Too bad they had taken such a precaution. Considering the pathetic nature of their military skills he was surprised. When he first infiltrated their organization he had nearly laughed. He'd almost told Une to take him out and send in a chimp in his place. He did get a message to Quatre saying that if this was what was left of paramilitary revolutionary factions then peace was certainly assured well into the next millennium.

 

Sighing, Marius rose and walked slowly around the desk. Attempting to look sleek and catlike, but really just looking poncey and pathetic. Trowa refrained from rolling his eyes. If Quatre could see this, he'd be laughing his ass off. He was never going to live down being captured by these clowns. In fact, being captured by clowns would have been more respectable. Trowa knew better than anyone else that clowns were nothing to be trifled with.

 

The scientist knelt in front of his prisoner, an unsettling combination of fanaticism and lust in his eyes. He let his hand slide up Trowa's chest and around his neck where he tightened his grip in a gesture of what was surely meant to be dominance. Trowa felt the mild disgust he'd become accustomed to when touched by Marius. The man's free hand was sliding up Trowa's thigh, and he had to work hard not to react when it reached his crotch and squeezed his genitals. Quatre would certainly not be laughing now. In fact he'd probably be tearing someone's head off with his bare hands.

 

“I know you have a strong mind,” Marius purred, lips brushing Trowa's ear. He dragged his lips along Trowa's jawline until they came to rest on Trowa's lips. The pilot didn't move. He wondered if Marius would attempt to force his mouth open to deepen the kiss. He considered opening briefly of his own accord just so he could bite the man's tongue, but that would be giving into feelings - anger, disgust, fear. There was no place for those here. Trowa knew how to suppress such things. There was a reason Duo called him Trobot.

 

Pensaward pulled away and smiled smugly. “A veritable ice warrior. But even you will not be able to resist in the end.” He stopped pawing Trowa's crotch and reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a small metal case and popped it open. It contained a syringe and three vials of clear liquid. “It's my own formula. Guaranteed to blow your mind.” For emphasis he blew gently across Trowa's kiss-moistened lips. Despite the seriousness of the situation his urge to laugh was so strong he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop it. If only he were Duo. He could have made a dozen wise cracks before Pensaward even knew what hit him. But then the scientist would probably have hit him right back. Physically. And that was inefficient. Inviting abuse was never wise. Conserve energy. Bide your time. Take opportunities as they arose. Something about the way the needle was sliding into his skin told him that opportunities would not be arising any time soon.

 

A shaft of heat rose up his arm. It ensnared his chest. His lungs. His heart. It was strange to breathe. Not difficult, just odd. As if all his alveoli were glowing. Molten jello. Pulsating. Strawberry, perhaps. Or cherry. Something red like blood. But glowing hot.

 

He wondered if he could breathe fire now. It was never something he'd wanted to do before but now he wanted it very badly. Duo had asked them all once what superpower they'd choose. Quatre had chosen flying. Of course. He was such a sensualist. They'd all decided that Trowa would choose invisibility, and he hadn't contradicted them, since he didn't really have a preference of his own. But now he knew what it would be. He'd breathe fire. Then he'd light Quatre on fire as they made love and Quatre would burn to dust and be reborn because he was a phoenix, soaring majestically through the sky on his wings and healing the world with his tears and singing so sweetly and … and… someone was talking to him.

 

“…your name?” He'd almost forgetton the ponce. Damn. Wouldn't it be nice to burn him up with his fire breath. The heat was rising now up his spine and into his brain. Just like fuel injection. Heavyarms had always had such an excellent fuel system. He had reconfigured the engine on his motorcycle back on earth to be just like it. Never seen one so efficient. Duo copied it the moment he laid eyes on it. Eyes. His eyes felt funny. Hard to focus. There was a reason for this. Oh right. Poncaward and his magic drug. It was hitting hard already. Just like the idiot's piloting system. He had absolutely no sense of subtlety. No wonder he kept killing pilots.

 

“Oh, so you can speak. I thought so,” came a smug, syrupy voice.

 

Had he said that out loud? Great. This is not what he needed right now. He needed to be home in bed with Quatre, not uncontrollably spouting insults at a middle-aged Casanova with delusions of godhood.

 

“Did he say godhood?” An unfamiliar voice. Perhaps one of the stooges behind him.

 

“Come now, Nanashi. Just tell me who you are and I'll leave you alone to sleep it off. No harm done.”

 

Brown orbs danced in front him. Probably Poncaward's eyes. He was annoyed at how they kept moving. This whole situation was annoying. His self control was impaired. That was never good. It was one of his chief weapons. That and his fire breath. Without those he was probably never going to get out of here on his own. And then the Preventers would find him here, tied to a chair with Poncaward's tongue down his throat and Duo would take pictures and pin them up all over headquarters and then he'd have to resign in shame and go back to the circus and get a new mask that covered his whole face. But at least his fire breath would make a really great new act.

 

“Nanashi? Are you listening to me?” No. No I'm not. You are not worth listening to, you creepy old perv. I'd much rather listen to Heero tell a joke. Believe me, if it's torture you want, that's where you should look. This is nothing.

 

“Just tell us who put you up to this.” Of course. That would be the colony of elves that lives under my bed in the giant mushroom forest.

 

“Did he say elves, sir?”

 

“This isn't working. He needs another dose.” Fire again. Up my arm burns my heart sears my throat chokes my breath. I gasp for air. So cool and dry. Maybe it's snowing in my lungs now. That would be nice. Snowing lungs molten jello eyes throbbing. They might explode. Quatre wouldn't like that. He always says my eyes are beautiful. But then he thinks penguins are beautiful so maybe I shouldn't rely on his judgment too much.

 

“Nanashi?” Poncaward. Why won't he just go away. Hands. Touching me. Holding my head up. “Do you hear me? Say yes if you hear me.”

 

“Yes.” Fuck. I didn't mean to say that out loud. I hope it at least came out sounding as insolent as I thought it.

“Very good.” Soft caress. His thumb I think. Ick. “Now what is your name?”

 

“Nanashi.” Slap to the face. Ha. That's got you confused. You wanted to know, you idiot. I told you. Hahahahahahahaaaa. It was good joke. Quatre would have laughed.

 

“What is your REAL name?”

 

“Nanashi.” Slap. Hahahahahahahaa. You are such a fucking idiot. You should be crispy under my breath of fire. Or Heero's death glare. If only I could have borrowed that for the mission. The patented Yuy Death Glare â„¢. It would pierce those smarmy brown eyes and punch right through your squishy overrated brains and out through the back of your skull and they would drip out on my knees.

“Who sent you here?”

 

That is a very difficult question, you know. There are many forces at work in the world that make anyone end up anywhere. Too many factors involved to adequately pin down in a single equation. The vectors of chance are mysterious and fickle.

 

“I think he said `vectors of chance', sir.”

 

The world is shaking. Maybe there's an earthquake. Except that they were on a colony. Well, an abandoned mining satellite, actually. You can't really have an earthquake when you're not on earth. Would it be a stationquake? Not likely. Stations don't just quake unless they're exploding. Like being attacked. Maybe that was the cavalry. Slap. Oh, no. Just Poncaward shaking him. Trying to get him back on track. There was something he wanted to know.

 

“Who gives you your orders?”

 

“Cathy.” Wear your scarf. Brush your teeth. Eat your vegetables. Call home once a week. A slave-driving angel.

 

“There's a Cathy in accounting, sir.”

 

“Shut up, Paris.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Who is this Cathy, Nanashi?” An angel an angel an angel. Oh my head. It's so fucking heavy. And my fire breath is trying to escape out through my eyes. And my ears are so noisy. Why do they have to scream like that? I think I'm panting like a dog. How embarrassing. Duo does it all the time. Why can't I be Duo? He'd fit into this body so much better right now. And I could have his. I bet Quatre would like all that hair. But it would be so heavy. That's what's weighing down my head. Dammit, Duo. Take your hair back. It's choking me. Fuck, where was that snowy air again?

 

“Snow, sir?”

 

“Cathy Snow? Who is she, Nanashi?” What? What the hell are they talking about? I just want to breathe. Is that so much to ask? Of course it is. With Idiot Poncaward in charge. Of course his drug will kill you before it works. Just like his stupid PilotNet system. Stupid name stupid system stupid man this is such a waste of time you're going down soon and nothing you can find out from me will stop it so just fucking give up already

 

Darkness. Peaceful. Quiet. Rhythm. Shaking. Stationquake. Slap.

 

Bright. Oh my eyes. Too bright. Murder. I will kill you to make it stop. Can't move. Spike. Into my neck. Heat. Pounding. Rocketing. Through my skull. I scream I think.

 

“… kill him, sir!”

 

“I know what I'm doing.” Breathe. Fight for every breath. Quatre will kill you if you don't. Fire. Breathe. Fire. Gasp. Fire. Breathe, dammit.

 

“WHO ARE YOU!?”

 

“Dead.” Gasp. Quatre. Gasp. Breathe. For. Quatre. Loud noise. Stationquake. Explosion? Gasp. Hands gone. No sound.

 

Darkness

 

No. Bright. Bright and hot. Not like before. Cold and dark. But still can't breathe. That is the same. No stars, though. Just white white white white light hurts eyes gasp Quatre noise breathe thump thump breathe thump thump breathe heart? thump thump just like before so quiet gasp Quatre gasp love gasp slow…. gasp…. death… again….

 

 

Noise. Falling. Shouting. Breathe.

 

“Sally! Where the hell's Sally??”

 

Loud. Gasp. Moving. Gasp. Hands. Soft. Gasp.

”Trowa!”

 

Blond like the sun.

 

“Trowa, can you hear me??”

 

Like fire.

 

“Answer me, please, Trowa.”

 

A voice of sweet music.

 

“I'm here, Quatre.”

 

“He can't breathe, Sally. You've got to help him.”

 

Such sweet music. gasp. And tears. gasp. My phoenix. Be careful. I might… gasp … burn you… gasp…. with my ….breath… of…

 

“fire.”

 

“Trowa? Trowa?? Trowa!!”

 

darkness

 

***********************

 

Birds were singing. Playful and lively. The smell of fresh cut grass was in the air. A breeze ghosted across his forehead. He wondered if he had to get up for work or if he could lie there a while longer enjoying the peace. The alarm would go off if he had to go to work. But he couldn't enjoy anything unless he knew how long he had in which to enjoy it. It was odd, though, because he usually knew what time it was as soon as he woke up. His internal clock was more reliable than any watch, Quatre always said. Quartre. Why should that thought worry him? Was something wrong with Quatre? His eyes snapped open. He had to find Quatre. He wasn't in bed with him. Looking around, there was no sign of him in this… hospital room? Why was he in a hospital room?

 

Oh fuck. The satellite. The freaking pervy scientist. The drug! Quatre! Fire flared in his chest and he was nearly wheezing as he began pulling on wires, tearing off sensors, ripping needles out of his arm. This was pathetic. The fact that bastard Marius Pensaward had laid him so low was infuriating. He had to find Quatre. Leaping from the bed he promptly fell to the floor. Holding on tight with all fours he waited for the room to stop spinning. Then he crawled to the door and hauled himself up with the door handle. Another moment for the spinning to stop and he was fine. See, Marius can eat shit. He hasn't won. No way. Now to find Quatre. He hoped he wasn't far because even if he'd bested the mad scientist he still wasn't sure he'd be up for driving very far. He poked his head out the door, hoping no one was rushing toward him having noticed that his monitors were down.

 

And there he was. Quatre. In the hallway talking quietly but animatedly on his phone in a dark rumpled suit with a lavender tie loose around his neck. Lavender silk. Beautiful. No shit-brown swirls to be seen. Trowa wondered briefly what had happened to Mutton Chop Man as he took a step toward him.

 

Quatre looked up in surprise. “Trowa!” He dropped his phone and ran toward the faltering pilot. Trowa sagged into the warm embrace, sank to his knees as his lover stood before him stroking his head and chastising him.

 

“Tro. Oh Tro. What are you doing out of bed? Let's get you back there, all right?”

 

“Quatre…” he croaked, his voice reluctant to traverse his damaged throat. He took a deep breath of Quatre-scented air and sighed. He squeezed his lover as hard as he could in hopes of binding them together permanently. “I'm sorry, Quat. I screwed up. I'm so sorry.”

 

“Shhhhh, no, Trowa, no.” Fingers gently combed through his hair. “Actually it was sort of the government's fault.” His voice bordered on anger, and he had to pause to get it under control. “Apparently the organization attempted to file your tax information with the government and your name bounced back as unrecognized.”

 

Trowa let his arms fall to his sides. He sank back to sit fully on the floor. He knew he should be angry. But all he could think of to do was laugh. And so he did. It sent twinges of pain dancing through his chest but he didn't care.

 

Quatre squatted down and peered into his face, a hint of worry in his eyes. “Trowa?”

 

Couldn't he see the absurdity? It was so perfect. “What sort of secret military organization pays taxes on their operatives?” Idiots idiots idiots.

 

“Ones that are trying to maintain their cover as a research facility?” his lover offered helpfully. Another stray thought set him laughing once more

 

“So… that means the person who blew my cover… was Cathy in Accounting?” Quatre looked confused which made him laugh harder.

 

“No, it was Carl in Operations. He failed to properly register your cover identity. He's been reassigned.” There was an edge to Quatre's voice which made it clear that he thought Carl ought to have been more than just reassigned.

 

Trowa knew he should be angry too, but all he could feel was gratitude. He was grateful to be alive and whole and here with Quatre. Quatre who wasn't close enough. He reached out and grabbed hold of that lovely tie and pulled his lover on top him so that they were both sprawled on the floor of the hospital corridor. Several nurses had stopped to stare. He didn't care. Quatre's lips tasted sweet no matter who was watching.

 

A soft tap to his shoulder made him stop and look up. Sally Po had just prodded him with her toe. “Don't push it, Barton. We don't want you coughing up any more blood.” Trowa raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked at Quatre for confirmation. Tousled blond hair and flushed checks and a serious expression looked back at him.

 

“You almost died, Tro. The dose he gave you would have killed most people.”

 

“Twice over,” added Sally. “So get back in that bed until I tell you you can get up, soldier.”

 

“Yes, ma'am,” Trowa muttered meekly. The two helped him up and Sally got him settled back in with his wires and needles. Quatre stayed quiet until she left.

 

“You look worn out. You should sleep.”

 

Trowa put his hand on top of Quatre's. “Not exactly the homecoming we were planning.”

 

“You came home. That's what matters.”

 

“I…. I wasn't sure I was going to make it.” Trowa felt his lover's hand tremble in his so he gripped it tighter. “But I kept hearing your voice, yelling at me to breathe. Always such a control freak.”

 

“Trowa!”

 

Trowa smiled and lifted Quatre's hand to kiss it. “I wouldn't have you any other way.”

 

“And you are always such a drama queen.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Getting yourself captured. Collapsing in hospital corridors. Too much time with the circus, I say. But I wouldn't have you any other way either.” Quatre leaned down and tenderly kissed his weary lover. As he straightened he ruffled those unruly auburn bangs. “But next time you want to get out of fixing the garage door, just tell me and I'll hire a repairman.”

 

Trowa chuckled in response but it exploded into a cough before he could stop it. Dizziness returned and he could feel a headache trying to slip into his skull. And then those wonderful hands were back on him, soothing and caressing. Not at all like those creeping, probing ones he'd had to endure for the past few weeks.

 

“Shhh, love. Just rest now. Shh…”

 

His eyes were drifting shut under these gentle ministrations. But he had to know…

 

“Pensaward… what…?”

 

“He's dead,” Quatre supplied, in his ruthlessly efficient board-of-directors tone. His glorious fiery Phoenix. A soft smile slipped across Trowa's lips as he fell into sleep.

 

 

* Fin *