Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Survival ❯ Degrees of Suspiciousness ( Chapter 11 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Degrees of Suspiciousness

May 2nd 197 - Tuesday - Brussels

“Hey!”

Relena didn't bother looking up as Dorothy greeted the man back enthusiastically. “Hey! You're actually awake at a decent hour, are you sick?”

The guy sniggered. “I got incredibly side-tracked and am now on a roll… and hungry, so yeah.”

“You ran out of Poptarts again?” Dorothy teased.

He only sniggered more. “All five flavors.”

“I seriously think your diet is lacking in something, Jake.”

“What diet?” He laughed naughtily and went on to say, “Come on, I've got an omelet, I'm getting some protein in there…”

“One of these days someone's going to kick your scrawny ass, and you won't be able to do anything about it because you'll be too weak to fight back.”

“Oh, like they'd get within a hundred yards before I shot them.”

Relena couldn't help but giggle a little at that.

“Hi.”

She smiled a little, still not looking up. “Good morning.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she agreed, jotting down another note.

“You don't look it.”

“I've always been told that it's what's inside that counts,” she noted dryly.

“All work and no play, huh?”

“I like my work,” she returned easily.

“Can I see?”

She finally looked up at him, skeptical. The man's dishwater blonde hair was tousled, and the faded t-shirt and jeans hardly inspired confidence.

“Please?”

His blue eyes were sincere and lit up with interest, so she decided to dismiss his shaggy hair and sleep-rumpled clothes. “I doubt it's your kind of thing,” she noted, pushing her notepad over to him.

“Alright,” he agreed happily, and Relena watched him, waiting for disinterest to spread across his features. Dorothy made a noise that Relena couldn't decipher the mood or meaning of… though there was something mischievous about her eyes. She looked back to the guy, Jake… and realized he was entirely focused.

“What cities were you think of centering this in?” he asked after a moment.

She bit her lip. “I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. I was thinking probably the worst places first, but even that I don't really understand the scope of because I haven't been let in to the bad areas to try to assess it. Though,” she defended, pointing at the pad he was now starting to flip through, “what I didn't write down is that I would want to vary it from area to area, depending on what they needed.”

“And break it down into different sectors if it's a particularly bad area, so no one department gets too overloaded or so big that we don't have individuals dealing directly with individuals,” he read back to her, grinning a bit. “You wrote it down.”

Relena laughed a little, not entirely sure what to make of this… and Dorothy's sparkling eyes and smirk didn't help keep the flush out of her cheeks. She supposed that was what she got for underestimating him by his looks… and really, she should have learned not to do that after meeting Quatre. “I guess I'm a bit scatterbrained about it, honestly… I've been cooking it up in my head for a while, but I only started trying to put it to paper an hour or so ago.”

He shrugged, yanking a pen out of his pocket and writing on a bit of margin space on the first page. “You should go talk to Valerie Grandel, over in Reconstruction; she can tell you where everything's worst from the fallout, and Zechs might let you-”

“The man's name is Milliardo,” Dorothy noted, mildly annoyed.

“-get your hands dirty if you do it publicly so people start remembering you're still around, and have humanitarian interests,” he continued without pause, completely ignoring the comment. “You can get a better feel for it in general, there, and make everyone realize you're serious.” He started writing another name. “And try to find a guy named Jerome Moretti. He'll be able to give you a good idea of what places need the most work and why, all that; he's chasing down rebels day and night.”

Relena frowned. “So… Department of Defense?”

“He generally doesn't sit still enough to keep an office, but his little sister works down in Reconstruction, and they have lunch together whenever he's in town. Unless you want to chase rumors all day of where he might have been, you need to get Kelly to call him.”

“Alright…” She certainly hadn't expected such a help, but she definitely appreciated it. “Thank-you.”

He shook his head. “No problem. Once you get something a little more detailed sketched out, I'll crunch the numbers for you. I mean, you could send it over to the people who're supposed to be doing that, but they have this tendency to not get back to you for days on end.”

That sounded like an incredibly good idea, especially considering the fact that she wanted the kinks worked out of the whole thing before she showed it to her brother. “I think I'll take you up on that,” she told him gratefully.

“Just drop by sometime,” he returned amiably, passing her pad back to her.

She was going to thank him again, maybe start a less serious kind of conversation, but Dorothy spoke before she could. “She thinks the idea of recon and strike force to take down the more radical groups is good too.”

“Then find a way to promote or fire the asshole working above Mitchell, and we'll set the wheels turning,” he returned irritably. “Everyone thinks it's a good idea, it's just that Lee's too focused on the rebels to give a damn about the anarchists.”

“Why not make it a separate division within Defense, though?” Relena asked curiously.

“You'd have to convince the higher ups it was actually necessary first, and something fairly bad will probably have to happen to change that.” He considered Relena for a minute before shrugging again. “You might be able to pull it off after you show some success organizing this, but yeah, I don't really know.”

“Mm… thank-you, then.”

“Don't mention it.” He stood; somehow or other, despite all the talking and reading, he'd managed to clean his plate. Rolling his eyes, muttered, “I'll see you two around sometime. I want to try to finish what I've been about all morning before I crash.”

They said their good-byes, and Relena glanced at the neatly written out names before smiling at Dorothy. “That was helpful.”

She snorted. “I could have told you all that, I was just going to wait until you had finished putting it on paper to bother.”

“Mm.” She took a couple bites of her hash browns before deciding, “I think you're jealous.”

“And I think you need orange juice in your hair,” Dorothy noted sweetly as she took a sip of the mentioned drink.

She almost jerked out of reach before she realized the other girl wasn't about to actually do it… and hid her almost giggle by taking a sip of milk. She had the glass tipped and was about to actually drink when the Dorothy muttered, “He's cute enough to give you dreams, isn't he?”

She coughed, hard, and suddenly she had milk coming out of her nose, but she still couldn't breathe, so after slamming the glass back down, sloshing it over her hand, she started pounding on her chest, trying to get her wind back.

Once she'd recovered, she turned to glare at her friend, who blinked, then snorted. “You're a princess, fairytales, come on…”

…The problem was that she couldn't tell whether or not she was lying.

“It's not my fault your mind was in the gutter,” she went on.

…That little smirk could mean that she was playing at having been clueless, or just amused that Relena had gotten milk all over the place.

“What?”

“You're obnoxious,” Relena decided, standing up to head to the bathroom and try to clean herself up.

The blonde woman snorted. “You're pmsing.”

…There wasn't a whole lot to say to that.

***

Akko, Israel

The situation was… touchy.

He hadn't figured out whether it was a good thing or not that there seemed to be a manhunt for Wufei. On the one hand, it made his hunt easier, and the people were being subtle about it, which suggested it might not be with the full jurisdiction of the law, but some other group instead. On the other hand, the subtlety could just mean they knew they were dealing with someone smart and were avoiding alerting him, and that many people spotting Heero near them could be bad.

The root of the issue was really making sure he himself wasn't suspect to becoming hunted himself, for suspicious behavior.

Like following them, for acting suspicious…

It was probably time to fall back before it became obvious. He stepped into a small diner and headed over to the barstools. It was convenient for eating alone, really… it had a way of not looking so strange as a young man sitting alone at a full table, despite the small duffel by his feet. He asked for water when the waitress came over to him, trying to offer a carefree smile before focusing back on the menu… he knew he wasn't all that good at that, but a moody teenager had a way of staying in your memory, and practice was generally the only way to get better.

In retrospect, some of his school identities probably would have been sniffed out earlier if not for his associations with the more popular Duo and Relena. Few people his age really appeared so serious… so he needed to work on a better façade.

The blueberry waffles looked really good… Odin had always liked to keep a waffle iron among the things they traveled with, because, as he put it, it was a small, guaranteed stove… and for all that they had very rarely made actual waffles in the thing, he had always liked them on the occasions that they had.

He needed to wait until all these people moved back out of town… and then he could follow their considerably more visible trail.

***

May 5th 197 - Friday - Amsterdam

“Ah, godverdomme…”

In the process of opening the door of my generally affable employer's office, about to check in for my night of work, I blinked and finished entering. “Wat is er?” What's wrong?

The room he kept his small desk in was also the `employee's lounge,' which was to say he had a few vending machines in there that we were allowed full access to, so long as we didn't slack off too bad. He had been rifling through his desk, but he motioned at one of the machines. “It keeps losing power, but the plug's fine, it's something inside the damn thing, and I had a guy who was gonna come look at it tonight, but Kale took the damn keys home…”

I grimaced. The machine was one of the less conventional sorts, and included sandwiches and bottles of milk, and seeing as lack of power meant lack of refrigeration, that was just a nasty prospect. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Tate would have to pay the company for what spoiled, which meant in turn that wages might get a little shaved this week.

When you make nine bucks an hour, getting shaved a few bucks is a big deal, especially when it's a physical job and you don't get to eat on your break. I worked a twelve-hour shift, and while Tate would let me run and grab something to eat, that meant both more money than the three bucks that made a fairly healthy meal out of the machines, a ton of grease, and more time off the payroll; there were advantages to being able to scarf something in three minutes before getting back to work.

I considered for a moment. I knew I could get the thing open… but I was worried about possibly staining whatever image my boss had of me and sowing the seeds of suspicion for if anyone else broke into it later. I had no intention of ever doing so… I was more than grateful for the job with no questions asked, and you don't shit in your own back yard, so to speak. Half of my pay went to the water bill though, and usually a good third or so went to the church, but Luc had been hitting bottom of his funds trying to get Sin to see a real doctor before the baby was born, so I'd already told the Father I wouldn't be able to give him anything this month… and I supposed I was already going to probably have to steal to pull it off, a little more wouldn't hurt too bad, but really, it was the principle of the thing.

I had told the Father that I didn't want to get a job because I was worried about the repercussions if I got caught in who I was… but that seemed less and less likely, anymore. I was trying to set a better example for Amos, and an honest day's work made me feel good, useful… I mean, I'd take a better job if I could, I got paid shit and could have done the work in my sleep, something a little more complicated would be nice… but there was that whole not having a social security number thing, or finding an employer who didn't want a background check. It kept me from fiddling and getting too bored.

And I wanted to help, to be perfectly honest… and Tate was an understanding guy. If I played it right, I could work myself deeper into his favor instead of out of it.

“Can you call the guy you've got coming?” I asked curiously.

He grimaced more and shook his head. “Nah, it's some kid Dale said was good with machines, and he just told him to come in tonight. He's just out for a bit of cash, kind of thing.”

I bit the inside of one cheek, making a show of thinking about it, and leaned against the doorframe before muttering, “You know… I'm good with machines.”

He sat back in his chair and gave me a calculating look. “Are you now?”

“Repaired ships and suits back during the war,” I admitted, shrugging a little. “Was with the Sweepers before I came to Earth, before all the shit with the gundams hit the fan, and ended up working in a scrap yard for a while during the war, and eventually got picked up for…” I grimaced, “more conflict related work.”

He pursed his lips. “The Sweepers, huh?”

The group had a reputation both for fine work with machinery, but also the notoriety they had gained from their involvement with the war. “They're how I first started getting settled into life down here,” I admitted easily, “but I cut once all the shit with the colonies and Earth got into full swing.” I swear, the dumbasses had been trying to get me killed, at that point. Their support had been great, and they were a great place to run to for shelter and supplies, like when I had broken Heero back out of the hospital I'd put him in… but bureaucracy, bureaucracy, bureaucracy.

“You're hiding from a debt with the Sweepers, that's it?” he asked curiously. He had a dawning sort of enlightenment in his eyes… I hadn't ever realized that he might be curious about where the hell I'd come from.

I grimaced again. “And White Fang was trying to get me to do stuff for them before the whole Libra thing… I'd really rather they not remember my exit, I didn't turn them down all that gracefully.” Offering to physically throw them out of my and Hilde's place had probably been what had gotten the idea in her head that she should go spy on them for me, and then hey, let's not forget that whole trying to blow Libra into pieces thing…

“Shit, you're hit from both sides, yeah?”

I made a face, thinking of Hilde's reaction to my not wanting to be part of the rebellion. “Basically, yeah.”

“Huh…” He stared off for a bit, then focused back on me. “It's still locked though, and Kale bolted out of town to Utecht to see his kids.” He tilted his head, giving me an almost expectant kind of look.

“Well, I was going to offer to jigger it too, if you wanted me to,” I muttered sheepishly.

He smirked. “I kinda figured when you brought up working with all that.” He stood up and gestured at the thing. “Be my guest.”

I grinned broadly. “Just let me get some cardboard, then.”

“Cardboard?”

“Well, I could pick it normal,” I explained, motioning at the little circular ace lock, “but it might take a while, and I know another trick. If it doesn't work it, I'll do it the old fashioned way.” I pursed my lips. “I'll probably need some pliers and electrical tape once I get in there, though. Something to check voltage if I have to troubleshoot… I was fixing up some stuff in the church last month, so I can run home and grab my stuff real quick, if that's alright.”

He blinked. “Church?”

“The little Catholic one, down on Ander,” I agreed.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You're that boy the Father always talks about?”

I blinked. Tate had never exactly struck me as Catholic… not that I actually knew more than his name and general mood swings, but yeah. “He talks about me?” I wasn't worried that he might have said anything that I wouldn't want heard about but… to be perfectly honest, the idea had never occurred to me. I'd gotten the work recommends through Luc. Tate knew I was in a gang, but he also knew the Devils didn't cause trouble, and that Luc wasn't above knocking one of his people back in line if they needed it.

“Where's your paycheck go?” he asked, frowning.

“Half of it to the den's bills, usually, and most of the rest to the church,” I admitted. “Luc has other people making sure there's always food about, so I don't usually have to worry about that, but I like having a little emergency money on hand.” Stealing was getting to be a worse idea as the economy took another dive; I didn't like the idea of taking from anybody who might be needing… and the Sister and Father gave me looks when they knew I'd given more than a third of what I actually made.

“…You're younger than I'd thought,” he decided eventually.

I chuckled a little. “The war made it so a lot of us had to grow up fast.”

He sighed, looking more tired than I'd ever seen him. “And the tension and all the skirmishes did the same thing for the twenty or more years before the gundams came down. Now, with the fallout and war trying to brew all over again…” He shook his head. “It's a crazy world, kid. You go get your stuff, I'll tell that brat he took too long getting here if he bothers to show up; Luc and Espen both said you're good on your word, and I trust Sweeper work, just can't afford it.”

I grinned again and bolted back out of the room, heading back to the den for my tools. I'd opened another door for myself… and who knew what new opportunities it would bring.

***

Beirut, Lebanon

The guy was just too close.

I briefly debated what to do. Getting caught wasn't an option, but that might not be the greater of my two problems. I shouldn't be recognized on sight too easily, but if the blood started seeping through my shirt before I made it onto the train, the crowd would want to call a doctor, and my tail would be on me before I could dance back out of sight.

Not to mention the fact that I'd be hard-pressed not to faint if I looked too close at the mess myself. I might be a master in both armed and unarmed combat, but seeing my own blood, especially in such amounts, was incredibly unnerving.

I took a deep breath and gently pulled my coat on, trying to shift casually as I moved deeper into the crowd. There were advantages to being short; the people following me would be hard-pressed to keep track of me if I moved right. I pulled the rubber band out of my hair and shoved it in my coat pocket, pulling out one of the hats that everyone seemed to be wearing around here, and did my best to pull my hair up and tuck what the hat didn't catch back under it. The muscles in my right bicep were screaming, but the binding of the bandages gave me a little extra strength in it, and once my head was covered, I tucked my right hand into my pocket so I could rest the arm without being too obvious about it. Then I ducked a little lower, and outright ran for my destination.

People seemed slightly put off by my abrupt movement, but merely annoyed; they could only expect that sort of obnoxious behavior from a teenage boy, and I hadn't bumped into them, so it wasn't an issue. I heard a few comments of “Hey, watch it” but for the most part they seemed content to let me fall into the hands of the trouble I would actually make eventually by being reckless. With the low brim of my hat and the black of my visible hair, they probably didn't even consider the idea that I might be foreign. It would be obvious that my skin tone wasn't quite olive enough or that my build was too slight for me to be of Arabic descent if they actually bothered to think about it… and even then, since they couldn't see my face, they might just dismiss me as Egyptian.

…Or a girl. I scowled at that, but there wasn't exactly anything I could do about it… and to be perfectly honest, right now, I needed to take whatever fortune I might be granted, even if it was something so embarrassing. I could salve my pride when I was sure I would still be breathing in a few hours.

The boards were ahead. Ankara, Ankara… Departing.

I started all-out running. I could see the ancient machine starting to pick up speed, but waved frantically at the porter with my good hand, which had my ticket in it. He raised his brows at me and made a sort of “come-on” gesture, looking up and down the pavement before grabbing onto one of the rails on the side of the door and leaning out with one hand outstretched.

I smirked a little to myself even as I took another deep breath and pumped my legs so that a few moments later I was grabbing his hand and throwing my weight up into the alcove; I was safe, for now. No one chasing after me was catching the same train, and it was straightaway to the capital of Turkey.

“Cutting it a little close, aren't we?” the man asked, chuckling a little as he took my ticket and inspected it briefly before handing it back to me and pulling out a notepad to check off my number.

“My apologies,” I muttered sincerely, ducking my head slightly; there wasn't enough room for me to bow. With my arm like it was, I wasn't sure I would have been able to pull myself on board without his help, so I was truly indebted to him, even if he didn't realize it. The infection was bad, and I knew I needed to clean it again; it was throbbing and burning in a telltale way. Once I got some food, it might be safe to take some of the painkillers I had gotten from the doctor in Jerusalem before crashing in the bunk my ticket allotted me. I wasn't due for the antibiotics for another few hours, but I had already set the alarm on my watch so I wouldn't be late on it. I was wary of the drugs too, but it had been almost two weeks since I had slept well, from the pain…

Stupidity had been what had gotten a bullet in me…. A little anxiety when in a locked bunk on a moving train was too light a penance, but I needed to not be sleep deprived the next time I met trouble… and I needed to heal as quickly as possible, and a good, deep sleep was part of that. Po was going to be furious enough with my situation as it was, without needing to confine me in a sickbed for another few weeks once I finally made it back to the base; the last thing I needed to do was let the infection spread further in my body, or not allow the muscle to knit itself back together.

“Your bunk will be to your right,” the man explained as he led the way into the cab. “Two cars down.”

“Thank-you.” I was safe… at least for the next fifteen hours.