Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ War Inevitable ❯ Better paranoid than dead.... ( Chapter 4 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

" Trowa? "


The man in the clown mask turned from the lions he was feeding at the sound of his name. His adoptive sister, Catherine, was standing in her familiar way, with her hands on her hips. It was her expression that caught his attention; her lips were pressed into a thin line, a sign that immediately told him that she was upset. " What is it, Cathy? " He asked, throwing the last piece of raw meat to the lions before turning completely around. She was still dressed in her performance attire, as was he, the feathers in her hair waving back and forth in the wind. They had just finished a performance, and he always fed the animals after a show. He reached up, unfastened the mask and let it dangle from his hand. Catherine didn't immediately answer him, her dark eyes studying him in blatant apprehension.


" Cathy? "


She took a deep breath, " We just got a message for you, Trowa. From Duo Maxwell. "


Oh. That explained her worry. Anything to do with the other former Gundam pilots put her on edge; she didn't hate them, but she didn't like what they had once stood for, and was always afraid that they would take her brother from her to go off and fight another war. " What was the message? " he asked.


Her expression grew even more serious. " Quatre has been wounded. Badly wounded. He may not live through the night. "


Outwardly expressionless, Trowa felt something icy cold in the pit of his stomach. He demanded, " What happened? "


" He wouldn't say. He wants to talk to you. He's waiting on the vidphone in our trailer. "


Trowa was running even before she had finished her sentence. Throwing open the door, he hopped inside and crossed the small trailer to the table where the vidscreen sat. As he slid into his seat, he could see the small shape of the former Deathscythe pilot, clad in his traditional black, looking pale and insubstantial. As he caught sight of Trowa from his end, his expression lightened somewhat.


" Hiya, Trowa, " he said with a trace of his old casualness.


" Duo. " The other greeted tersely. " What's going on? "


" There was an attack on Quatre, an assasination attack. He's been shot, Trowa, and things are looking very, very bad. "


Trowa felt hollow dread well up inside of him. " Can anything be done to save him ? "


" He needs blood, and a lot of it. All of his sisters are on their way here from space, but it's simply a matter of whether Quatre will live that long. "

" He has to, " Trowa whispered, more to himself than to Duo. " Where are you? "


" Port Stratford, in the States. "


" Is there anyone else there with him besides you? "


" Noin, and Dorothy. Relena Peacecraft was notified a short time ago, and she's on her way. "


" Wufei? Heero? "


" Wufei and Sally are also on their way, but they're way out in the new Perimeters and it will take them a few days, at the very least. As for Heero, " Duo sighed, " I have no idea where he is. No one has any idea where he is. I tried sending him a message using the old frequencies we used as pilots, but I haven't had a response. For all we know, he's dead. "


Trowa was silent for a moment, before saying, " I can be on a plane to America tomorrow night, but no sooner than that. We're in the middle of nowhere over here, so it'll take me a while to get to some semblance of a city. I'll leave right away. "


" Thanks Trowa, " Duo said somberly, " He needs all of us right now. "


" I know, " Trowa replied. " I'll get in touch with you as soon as I reach a city. "


Farewells weren't needed, and as Trowa switched off the vidphone his mind was filled with memories and regret. Regret that he hadn't made the attempt to see Quatre more often these last couple years, regret that he hadn't let Quatre know just how much Trowa valued him as a friend. He began quickly packing, taking only the necessities and shoving them into a large duffel bag. He was almost done when the door opened and his sister entered. She took one look at his bag, at his face, and walked the few feet towards him to embrace him. He let himself remain there, let himself enjoy the comforting feel of her arms around him, something that even after three years he was unused to. When she pulled away, he took a deep breath and said, " I have to go, Cathy. Quatre is dying. I don't know how long I'll be gone. "


" It's ok, Trowa. He needs you more than we do. I talked to the Manager, and we're going to drive you to the nearest city with an airport."


" Thank you. " Trowa picked up the bag and shouldered it, and followed his sister out the door and towards the large carriers that consisted of the circus' sole means of transportation. One of the lions roared in the distance, a deep echoing sound of isolation, of confinement. " Hold on, Quatre, " he whispered, before getting into the vehicle.







She had found him almost by accident. Upon returning to her hotel, she'd decided to once again research her remaining targets, to try and find their current whereabouts. When it came to Duo Maxwell, she was startled to find that his passport information indicated that he was now here in Port Stratford. A little more hacking revealed that he had rented a car, and was staying in rather nice hotel in the downtown area. Pleased at her good fortune, she set about cleaning her rifle so it would be ready for its next use. This would make her task immensely easier; for instead of carousing both space and earth in a guesswork of locations she could now exterminate a second target. Two in one day was something she had never before accomplished. Once the rifle was cleaned and back in its case she began suiting up. First she rebraided her hair, and then coiled it up so that it lay neatly at the base of her neck. She began dressing in her customary black; military issue pants and belt; the buckle blacked out to eliminate any shine or sparkle which could giver her away. Next a dark long sleeve shirt, and over that an ebony windbreaker with the zippers blacked out in the same manner of the belt buckle. In her pockets she shoved extra ammunition; more a precaution than anything else because she didn't plan on having to take any more than one shot. Black leather gloves, thin enough for free movement, went on over her hands. Lastly she secured a black cap, identical to the one she had one earlier, on her head and pulled it down low so that it shadowed her eyes. She put the rifle case into a black knapsack, along with her lockpicks, which she then threw over her shoulders. Prepared, she left her room.


She had decided to walk to her target's hotel. She stole through back alleys and small, desolate streets, inwardly daring someone to attack her. The success of her attack today had made her almost jubilant; it had been so long since she'd felt the adrenalin, the thrill of the killing shot. No one bothered her, which was all the better, for she disliked killing people she had no reason to. A half hour later she found the hotel .never bothered with the front entrance because the only way to steal in unnoticed would be to kill the night clerk and hide the body, and she wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. She moved around to the back, to the fire escape. Scaling up to the third floor was simple, and she moved upwards with a practiced skill that indicated she had done this many times before. She knew from her earlier research that Duo Maxwell was in room 312. Having earlier memorized the room layouts of the hotel, from where she stood now on the thin metal grill of the fire escape she could see the window of 312. There were no lights, so he was either out of his room, or asleep. She checked her watch, illuminating the small face to see the digital numbers. It was only 10:30; night fell fast here in the fall months. She was betting that he hadn't arrived yet. She removed the backpack, pulled the rifle case clear, and began reassembling the thin black gun. Once it was complete she set the case and backpack down on the metal grating and hoisted herself up to perch precariously on the thin railing, wedging herself between pieces of pipe. Settling down to wait, she pulled up the collar of her windbreaker to ward off the increasingly chill wind.


She didn't have to wait long. The lights in room 312 flicked on, giving her a large yellow rectangle to aim at. The window was a little above her and off to the right, and she would have preferred to be somewhere higher than the window itself, but this would suffice. Sooner or later, she knew, he would walk to the window to close the blinds, giving her the perfect opening. She raised the rifle, steadying against her shoulder, and brought her eye to the scope. Her vision was magnified, and she could make out certain objects in the room. The nondescript artwork they sometimes put up in the fancier hotels; half of the tv screen with its flashing images. He walked into her vision then, looking exactly as the photo she had memorized. She held her breath to steady her aim; he flipped his long braid over his shoulder and reached for the cord on the blinds.


She pulled the trigger then, and the kick back from the rifle unbalanced her so that she half fell, half jumped from her precarious position. The shattering of glass had been instantaneous, as had been his strangled cry. She remained crouched where she had landed, staring up at the window, alertly listening for the sounds of panic and confusion.


Duo Maxwell appeared in the broken window, a gun in his hands. She stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, long enough for him to pinpoint her location and get a shot off. She made a desperate leap down the stairs, releasing the rifle and folding her body to minimize the impact of her landing. She heard the bullet graze off the railing she had just been leaning against, felt the wind from its passing. Then she was falling, rolling down the hard metal steps. She couldn't help the small cry of pain as she hit the landing below, but she was on her feet and running headlong down the stairs, ignoring the searing pain of whatever wounds she had sustained. Somewhere abover her she heard a door clang open, heard footsteps pounding down metal stairs, and she knew he was hot in pursuit. She reached the ground, and doubled her pace as she took off down the back alley. Another shot was fired, but she knew he hadn't had time to aim correctly, and it hit the corner of a building off to her far right. Then she rounded a corner, and was out of his line of sight.


As she fled down this new street she heard a cry of rage behind her. She kept running for long moments before she stopped, panting. Trying to quiet her labored breathing she listened intently for sounds of pursuit, but heard none. She backed up to the wall of a building and sank down against it; as she allowed her breathing to slow she tried to figure out what exactly had gone wrong. Her shot had been perfect; right at the heart, the maximum kill zone. She hadn't missed; she never missed. Therefore the only explanation was that he had been wearing Kevlar or something similar to it. She had to give him grudging credit, for even with body armor a shot like the one she had made was enough to lay someone out unconcious, and it would still hurt like hell. The fact that he had been so protected bothered her; most people didn;t run around with body armor on just for the hell of it. He was, however, a pilot, a former soldier; she knew that much from the information she had been given and the research she had done. There were a still a lot of bitter feelings from the war, so it was plausible that he had enemies. Having justified his survival, she began to feel better.


The adrenalin from her flight was fading, leaving in its place the throbbing pain of the injuries she had sustained from her fall. She pulled the windbreaker off and rolled up the sleeves on her shirt, wincing as the fabric that had dried to her wounds peeled away. On the outside of her forearms were raw, bleeding scrapes from the metal grating. Judging from the pain in her knees and lower legs, that was all she'd received. She put the windbreaker back on and stood, hissing as the movement sent fresh waves of pain down her legs. She turned to look back the way she'd came, momentarily pondering whether she should go back for her rifle, but quickly disregarded the notion. Too risky, and besides, she had several more just in case of situations such as this. The loss of her firearm bothered her; those rifles si not come cheap. With the amount she was being paid for this job, however, she could replace it several times over. She turned and slowly limped in the direction of her own hotel.


Next time, she thought resolutely, she would use a head shot. She normally disliked head shots; they were messy and not, in her opinion, as professional. Next time, she silently promised herself, Duo Maxwell would die.