Title: Koji ma Oshi 1/?
author: Sol 1056
rating: NC-17 for sex, violence, and dirty mouths
warning: BDSM, psychological issues, post-post-EW
pairings: 2x1, 3x5x3, 4xR
I know death is senseless. I've sure perpetrated enough senseless death in my lifetime, though I tried to cut back once I turned seventeen. And in the days and months after someone took a big fuckin' machete and ripped a hole through the middle of my life, I tried to keep things together. I paid the bills and signed the contracts and dispersed the paychecks and smiled because I didn't know what else to do.
Nine years.
They say time flies when you're having fun; Howard used to say flies like a banana. But it's not all fun. It's hard work, scraping by for three, four years, watching the numbers, tracking the bills, making contacts and friends and learning the routes and getting the hang of things. Five years and you think you've made it. But no--just when you think you've got it, things get bigger and you're scurrying to catch up again.
We scrambled for nine years and barely had a chance to breathe, but we had a lot of good times--until some bastard souped-up on crow-71 pulled out a knife in line at the coffee shop. He aimed for someone else, but Hilde got in the way. Witnesses say she saved the other woman. I don't know if it was worth it, but I'd be willing to bet Hilde would say it was. Oh, and knife? Not knife. I should say, machete. Her gut was ripped open, along with her life.
I got to the hospital ten minutes after the call, and broke every colony speed record and didn't give a damn. Hilde was doped, couldn't speak, breath rattling in her ripped lungs, drowning in her own blood. I don't know if she even recognized me, past the pain, and the painkillers. I held her hand, and the EMTs apologized once, then again, and it all ran together. Nothing they can do to put a person's guts back in, really. Die slow, die fast, but the least they could do was make it painless. Like seppuku but she was twenty-six, and who the fuck would kill themselves over who orders their coffee next? Or kill anyone else, let alone my business partner, my sister, my best friend.
Eventually I had to realize: Hilde was the glue of my gang, my life; she held together the guys in our scrap yard, the pilots in our shipping fleet, the contacts at our client companies. I'd kept things running, and stepped forward to shake hands, but without Hilde, everything simply faded.
Or maybe that was just me.
In the end, it didn't matter. I sold the business to Hilde's cousin, her last living relative. I said my goodbyes to the little plaque at the memorial, since she was a war veteran, technically. I'd scattered her ashes a year before, shooting them out into the space dust around L2 where she'd fought and cursed and bled. It's what we'd agreed we both wanted. I even left a flower at her father's plaque--he'd died a few years before. And that was it.
I packed a week's clothes in a duffel bag, put some stuff into storage, and crated the rest so it'd be ready when I had a destination. Then I took the insurance money I'd never touched, the receipts from the business, and left L2.
I didn't look back. I hadn't looked back at fourteen, and I wasn't going to do it at twenty-seven.
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Wufei met me at the shuttle port. I was too exhausted to be surprised, but I did a good job of shrugging like I hadn't expected anything less. I was pleased to see that although he's grown since the wars--though five inches shorter than me, fuck yeah--he hasn't changed in some ways. He looked downright irritated with the fact that I greeted him as though it were perfectly natural. Yeah, just another day. There he was, sitting in some run-down shuttle port in his neatly pressed Preventers' uniform waiting for my lazy ass to shuffle my way along behind moms and squalling babies--and second-rate political assistants already clicking and beeping and sounding important. Stupid personal screen devices.
I used to have one of those.
I don't remember where it is now, but who cares? I don't have a three-colony business to run, either. Not that I ever dressed like it.
"Maxwell," Wufei said, standing up.
"Chang," I replied. I didn't stick out my hand, just grinned like I was saying, how good of you to come pick me up. Glad you got the message--you know, the one I never bloody well sent because I didn't think there'd be a snowball's chance in hell you'd have five minutes free to breathe, let alone come get me. "How's tricks?"
"Tricks are fine," he said, and he nearly did get me with that.
But his expression remained inscrutable, and I kept the smile on my face by sheer willpower. I'd had enough practice over the year before. Three words from Mister Do My Own Thing wasn't gonna trip me up now. So maybe he'd grown a sense of humor. Yeah, and maybe I grew a third nipple in the middle of my chest, too. Possible... but not likely.
Wufei glanced over my stuff, and raised a single aristocratic eyebrow. "That's all?"
"Yeah." I shrugged and slung the bag over my shoulder. "I left the rest of my stuff in storage, ready to ship when I've got an address."
"Ah." Wufei led the way down the broad shuttle hallway. We had delayed long enough that the worst of the rats' rush out was ahead of us, and we could stroll unimpeded.
It gave me a chance to look him over. He's not a bad looking guy, really, when he's not contemplating doing someone in or haughtily refusing to fight with the rest of us peons because he's got his own grand scheme, thank you. The arrogant tilt to his lips kinda undoes any friendly air, but I guess if you like porcupines, you'd just love this one. His hair's still in that tight ponytail, sharp enough to use as an extra weapon. Wufei didn't seem to notice me staring, or didn't care. He just walked along with his arms swinging beside him, palms open and I knew he was on guard. Not gonna put his two best weapons away when he's not sure what's going on. I figured anything keeping Wufei off-balance was a point on my score. Go me.
On the other hand, it meant I couldn't help but notice the flash of gold on his hand.
"You're still together," I said, conversationally. Y'know, keeping up that whole how-long-has-it-been crap. Four years, actually, why do you ask? Oh, because those bastards couldn't be bothered to leave dirtside, come out and see me? Even Quatre managed to, twice, at that. Then again, not like vacations were at the top of my to-do list, either. I was lucky to get two days for each wedding.
"Of course," Wufei replied, and he sniffed.
I swear by the stars, the bastard sniffed, just like he did when he was fifteen. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to laugh or pop him one for still being so insufferable. Either way would be a surefire route to death. I ever get suicidal, I'll keep that in mind.
"Trowa is currently on a major project," Wufei explained. "He sends his greetings. He should be back by eighteen hundred hours, and will meet us for dinner."
He sounded amiable enough, but who knows. So I'm not his best friend--never have been--but I had his measure when we fought side-by-side. People change, but not that much. So either Wufei had gotten better at hiding his irritation with small talk, or he was on drugs. I was voting for the latter, and the verdict was in when he gave me a small smile. When I registered the words coming out of his mouth, I was ready to start checking his pupils and demanding a blood test.
"It's good to have you join us, Maxwell," he said, though he didn't look at me. Those dark eyes were darting back and forth, assessing the security measures on the exits, summing up all random travelers within a hundred yards. "It'll be good to have your skills on the team."
"Yeah, skills," I said, chuckling. "Don't need to stroke my ego, Chang. You want my connections."
"That, too," he replied, in a cool, detached way. "Among other things."
I kept the smile pasted on my face. I wasn't sure I wanted to ask, and if he really was on drugs, I wasn't sure I wanted to know. But that last phrase... damn it, I never could keep from asking. I think the bastard knew it, too. Who the fuck had been teaching him how to introduce a leading statement? Last I heard, he was doing good just to speak a statement, let alone one to make my curiosity boil. Bastard.
"I'll bite. What other things?"
He led me through the exit doors, and I noticed people seemed to instinctively move out of his way. He never paused nor slowed down, just divided the crowd like some fuckin' iceberg crusher. I was a little surprised at the length of his stride, given his height, but then, Trowa's my height. Maybe in four years of marriage, Wufei had learned to keep up. And maybe in four years of marriage, he'd mellowed. Yeah, and maybe I'd grown that third nipple, too. People are only gonna change so far.
"Heero's joining the team, as well."
I nearly tripped over my own feet, but did a quick little side step and I think I covered my sudden graceless shock quite well. I would've gone right ahead and tripped and played it up when I was younger, but I'm a bit more jaded, now. Besides, Wufei did show up and was giving me a ride--to wherever, not like I'd asked--wouldn't do to piss him off completely. Maybe just a little bit, but not completely. I do have some sense of self-preservation.
"So." I tried to think of something intelligent. "He finished his doctorate?" Oh, real fuckin' intelligent. Well, it filled the space.
"Last year."
Wufei dug out keys from his pocket, and a silver sedan chirped, lights flashing. I threw my bag in the back seat and slid into the passenger seat, noting the excellent interior styling with some appreciation. Wufei always did have a taste for the finer things. Odd, y'know? Trowa, the mercenary brat who couldn't care if his coffee were fresh ground or came powdered from a can, is the best friend of the richest damn man in the Earth Sphere and married to the last scion of the L5 Hans. Some guys have all the luck.
"He'll be taking over our security systems and surveillance," Wufei continued. "You'll be working in close conjunction, given that your stealth skills will be needed for some of the insertions."
He started up the car, and I nearly creamed my jeans at the purr. Fuck, I'd spent three years working on my bike back on L2 and I'd never gotten an engine to sound like that. I added that to the list of Reasons Why Wufei is a Bastard.
Damn, it felt just like coming home.
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It's strange the things we notice, y'know? Staring at Trowa's face over dinner, I could only think: you were a distant, sullen child. Well, to me, at least. Now he looked at Wufei with quick sideways smiles, flashing across his face--and the rest of the time he was a distant, sullen adult. I chattered on, racking my brains for needless odds and ends, knowing full well that both Wufei and Trowa were probably thinking now would be a good time to remove one of those regulation white socks they had to wear for the uniform--and cram it in my mouth.
Thing is, I don't talk like that, really. I mean, I don't yammer on brainlessly, contrary to all reports. Oh, I can, and I do, when I'm in the mood. But Hilde had pointed out years before that when I fell silent around Trowa and Wufei, they got nervous. Wufei, probably because he was worried someone would see him crack a smile at the thought of me upright in my chair, dead to the world and therefore no longer harassing him. And Trowa, because his first instinct--or so Hilde claimed, and my sister-friend-partner was a damn sharp woman--well, Trowa's first instinct was to make sure nothing was about to explode, or turn pink and start pumping out L1 steampipe rock. Me being silent apparently was a precursor for such havoc.
Also contrary to popular opinion, I was not the prankster of the group. None of us were, but Heero was perhaps the closest. What? You don't think so? What did you think it was when he stole parts from 'Scythe? A fuckin' love letter? No, that was a prank, and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
"Duo?" Trowa frowned, and glanced at my plate. "Is it not okay?"
"No, it's great, man," I assured him, and took another bite of the steak.
I guess they had some idea of treating me--no idea why they would, I mean, hello, we're former comrades, not former or even current buddies--and earthside red meat had been the evening's theme. I thought I was going to be ill. My gut just wasn't used to that, and I'd been drooling for fresh fruit on the shuttle ride down. They were both staring at me--one worried, the other suspicious--and I sighed and picked up the conversation again. I don't know what I talked about, and don't fuckin' ask me. I was just doing the same as I'd done since blood got spilled at a little coffee shop on the corner of one-thirty-fifth and Waterson: just filling the blanks with nothing of any importance, and clocking off the time.
"So," I said, leaning back and wiping my mouth with the napkin. Normally I'd wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, but I rather liked the look of shock on Wufei's face. Maybe it was about time he discovered that even I know what a damn napkin is. Not saying I always use 'em, but I do know what they are. "What's really going on?"
Trowa murmured something noncommittal and sipped his wine. Wufei just stared at me, both eyebrows raised.
"My appointment's with Une tomorrow, at two." I looked around the restaurant, trying to appear interested and hoping I didn't just look green. Any chance of a fresh fruit dessert was going to have to wait. I didn't have the room in my stomach. "I never said anything about a ride, or dinner."
"Une notified us when she got your confirmation on the meeting," Wufei replied. "It seemed only reasonable that we debrief you."
Shit, they were involved. And here I'd halfway hoped he'd say it'd seem only reasonable to, oh, y'know, something normal and human, like just get together for dinner. Hang out. But nope. Business, only business. Figures. I stifled a sigh and gave him my best I-don't-care smile.
"Debrief away," I told them, waving a hand dismissively. "Have at it."
The next half hour was the most cursory overview on the case. They both spoke as though it were another regular assignment--working at dismantling an alleged Crow-71 ring that covered four colonies and seven earth-side regions. Nothing that wasn't already in the news, and nothing I hadn't discussed with Une when I'd told her my plans. I nodded and smiled and asked my questions and the rest of the time I stared at the way Trowa's hand rested on the table, toying with a fork. Wufei, without even looking, moved the fork away, prompting another of those sideways flashes.
Those two looked dangerous, and capable, and in control. They also looked totally in love, but not in a sappy bring-me-flowers kind of way. They just... oh, fuck, I don't know. They finished each other's sentences. Hell, the only time I've ever done that was with Hilde, and that was only if we were talking business or engines. The rest of the time I wanted cue cards and a Woman-English, English-Woman dictionary. Bout the most I learned in ten years of friendship was that if a woman says "does this make me look fat?" that it's time to clear the premises. You can't win with that one.
So I kept nodding, and carrying on--I'm good at that, won't be the first time I've multitasked; look at all the business meetings I've had where I've successively plotted out how to kill every suit in the room while never letting on--and I took in the details. The silver hairs in Wufei's jet black hair--not a lot, but a few, and they glimmered under the restaurant lights. Trowa had wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled; they flashed like talons coming down for a kill, too quick to see but there nonetheless.
Trowa's hair was even shorter. Some folks let their hair grow; in ten years, Trowa's hair seems to be receding. Now it's just past his eyebrows, still barely masking his green eyes but not that sheet of red-auburn down to his chin. I never did figure out how he could pilot with that hair in his face, but I guess the same goes for Heero, too. Trowa's legs stretched far enough that his feet were sticking out from under the table on my side, but my feet were practically under his chair, too. If Quatre were here, there'd be no room for Wufei's legs. Ah, hell, Wufei's only five-eight. He doesn't need any room. I stretched out further with gleeful abandon.
But the truth was, they were both damn fine-looking men. They'd been handsome as children, or perhaps that's just my memory, softening the edges of our faces and our wills and our crimes. But they'd grown into breathtaking men, and it didn't help my maudlin mood when the conversation mysteriously segued back to personal matters, like the recent birthday party for Relena's elder child. Quatrina was six--something like that--and a total hellion, into everything. No sport, no skill, nothing she wouldn't try at least once, and the Maganacs were more than happy to let her try everything, as long as she was wrapped in bubble-wrap and duct-taped inside a cushiony mattress to protect her from even a paper-cut. That meant the hooligan spent most of her time trying to dodge the Corps who'd dedicated their lives to Quatre and his wife. Trowa seemed amused; Wufei rolled his eyes and snorted.
I just smiled and kept talking, moving the conversation along and trying not to think about how little I'd really have to offer. If they stopped to ask me what I'd been doing, what would I say? Oh, I lost my best damn friend to some stupid jacked kid, sold off my business, and my duffel bag's got the most important things to me, and what's it like to be married, anyway?
Naw, I'll grow that third nipple first, thanks.
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Heero wasn't there when I showed up at Preventers' headquarters the next day, but I guess I wasn't that surprised. Trowa and Wufei and their business dinner was probably about it for my social interaction for awhile; they'd done their duty and seen me off to my hotel with polite goodbyes. So I stood in the grand lobby in my clean jeans and button-up shirt, able to see my reflection in the polished marble, and tried to think of myself as doing just fine to be one person. It felt weird to come to a meeting--any meeting--and not have Hilde at my side.
I charmed the girl at the front desk, showed her my ID, stood around and perused the mural on the wall from 195 and made faces at the folks I could name. I wasn't on there. None of us five were, and curiously no Gundams, either--just a lot of generic mobile suits but I guess political art's always a bit unrealistic.
"Mr. Maxwell," Une's voice rang out.
That time, I did show my shock. Couldn't help it. First, the woman still scares me just a little, and second, she's the fuckin' director--and she came downstairs to greet me. That was definitely unexpected.
"Director Une," I said, and shook her hand.
She showed me into a side office, and I realized the deal. It wasn't an honor; I just wasn't allowed upstairs quite yet. I settled into a chair, tilted it back, swung it in a circle, and waited for her to get to the point. She didn't take long.
"This address, Mr. Maxwell, will be your base of operations," she told me. "You won't be reporting to work at headquarters. You will use the equipment at that address to contact Assistant Directors Chang and Barton as needed. They will be your only contacts within the organization."
"Excuse me?" I sat up, taking the paper from her. "But I thought--"
"I'd rather have you freelance," Une said, with a mysterious smile.
I kept my own face expressionless but damn if I didn't want to smile right back at her and show her how it's really done. Then again, this was two-faced Une. She could give lessons in scaring small children--and fifteen-year-old Gundam pilots. Good thing for me I was a twenty-seven-year-old pilot, no Gundam attached any longer. Hopefully she wouldn't expect me to self-destruct or anything dramatic like that.
"Staying out of headquarters means you will not be identified as an agent," Une continued. "Assistant Director Barton suggested this, in case you're wondering. He thinks it will be of more use for your whereabouts to fall under the radar as a non-agent."
"Yeah," I muttered, and tucked the paper away. "In that case, I should be moving along, Une."
"Good, Maxwell." She didn't miss a beat, did she. Bitch. She stood, hand on the door, not letting me leave quite yet. "And the pay scale and title is the same. Just not on premises, and--" Her gaze traveled down me and up again-- "No uniform code nor hair length code when working freelance."
"I'd like to see you try to get me to cut it off." I gave her a wry smile, both at her words and the fact that I was now a full head taller than her. Hey, anyone who spent their adolescence stuck at five-one would know the joy.
"I have some sense of self-preservation, Maxwell." She opened the door, and I scooted out, still grinning.
Twenty minutes later my taxi pulled up in front of a nondescript office building. Trudging up the steps--stupid elevator broken--I passed an accounting office, a teacher certification company, and a family adoption service. Top floor, a travel agency. See, now there's a cover. I've already traveled all over the fuckin' earth sphere, and I blew up shit everywhere I went. Where am I gonna go I haven't already been, hunh, Une?
Right across the room and into a creaky seat with a broken lumbar lever, that's where. Damn government budgets, but the systems fuckin' rocked. I spent four hours setting some things up, and just checking other things out. Didn't matter what I broke or fixed; Heero would redo it all, if he were anything like he used to be. Probably was, too. People, like I keep saying, just don't change that much, once you get right down to it. Heero would still be Heero, and I would still be me, and we'd get along okay and work together just fine and at the end we'd go our separate ways. Because getting along okay and working together just fine are good, but I'd already learned they aren't enough for a real friendship.
And that's just the way it goes, but I had three massive drives and two flat wide-screens, with connects hardwired into several direct lines. Speed, baby, and power, like nobody's business. It was enough to fill more of that empty space, pass the time until the next moment comes and it's got to be filled, too.
Besides, I knew of a great site where I could download a whole slew of freeware games. That would keep me busy for a little while.
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"How long did you take to break it?"
Heero's flat voice interrupted a kickass game of Keris. I was making mincemeat of those stupid graphical shapes, yellow bubbles exploding left and right. I looked up, and the next shot was a red bubble. Fuck. Game over. Bastard.
"I didn't," I replied, and shut down the game.
He was framed in the doorway, that same old thick thatch of messy brown hair shadowing his eyes. He looked taller, but probably not much more than an inch or two past Wufei, judging by his height compared to the door. Maybe five-ten, at most. His shoulders were broad, chest defined beneath a blue long-sleeved t-shirt, tight enough to show ripples of stomach muscles. I had a flat stomach but I'd never have a damn six-pack, let alone one defined enough to show through synthetic cotton. Powerful thighs, legs braced shoulder-width apart. He might have spent the past decade in a school library, but he still looked and moved like someone lethal.
Well, only one way to deal with that. I reminded myself that I'm not exactly a newbie on the kill-rate, either. I can be just as intimidating, and moreso because I've got a sharper smile. I pulled it out and slapped it on, just for his benefit. His expression didn't change, but I expected that.
I leaned back in the chair, and patted the arm. "This is my chair, Heero. Steal any parts off this baby, and I'll shoot you three times."
Heero snorted, and rolled in a chair behind him. With a flick of his wrist, it glided across the floor to lodge itself under the other table. Figures. Wufei is an amateur bastard, a mellowed bastard, compared to Heero.
"You bring your own damn laptop, too?" I stretched, cracking my back, and smirked when he unpacked a sleek silver laptop from his black bag. "Ow," I said, lowering my arm. "Say, Dr. Yuy, it hurts when I do this." When he turned, I gave him the bird, and grinned widely.
"Good to see you still have a sense of humor," he observed, in that same dry tone. He continued plugging his laptop into the system, and flipped the top up, punching in a long string I couldn't catch. I was too busy processing the odd statement.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I probably sounded like my hackles were up, but who gives a fuck. That was one bizarre response. I've always had a great sense of humor! I'm not the humor-retarded one in the bunch.
"Just that after Hil--" He stopped suddenly, and ducked his head, leaning over his laptop like it'd suddenly become the most interesting thing since vacuum cleaner bags.
"Don't go there," I told him, instantly angry.
He hadn't made it to the funeral. Something with school, same story as he'd had since he'd gone to college at eighteen. Five years. An engineering degree and a bloody mathematics degree at the same time, but that wasn't enough. He had to get a Master's degree in something unpronounceable, and from there straight into a doctoral program, finishing a six-year program in three years. And every wedding, every funeral--and stars know, there'd been enough of both--even every baptism and baby shower, he had school. I didn't need to hear him say jackshit about Hilde now. How the fuck would he know, anyway?
Fortunately for his lifespan, Heero didn't say anything else. He just hooked his foot around his chair, pulling it out from under the desk. He sat, and went straight to work, his back to me the whole time. I stared at the frozen game of Keris, and contemplated throwing the screen right off the desk and storming out. His shoulders were stiff and all I could think was: great fuckin' start, Maxwell.
One glance at him cycling rapidly through everything that had taken me four hours, and I wanted to shoot him. Empty the whole magazine into him, which was kinda pointless since I wasn't carrying. Not a gun, at least. Okay, so I'd compromise for burying all nine knives in him, just on principle. Hilde was my best friend, and maybe sometimes at night I'll admit my only friend, and Heero sent flowers to the funeral but no card, no note, no phone call. I got word about school deadlines from Quatre, at the funeral. Ever the diplomat, Quatre had graciously relayed his regrets for the bastard who couldn't be bothered to do it himself.
I consoled myself with the distant hope that I could still pilot circles around Heero. Far as I knew, he hadn't even owned a car for the past ten years. Useless. I sank down in my chair, arms crossed, and glowered at the screen. This wasn't how I'd expected to be meeting him again, which made me want to laugh. How had I expected it? Maybe Wufei's drugs had rubbed off on me, not paying attention, not being willing to remember the crap from the past ten years. Yeah, I'll forget, but I don't know about forgiving, and it's damn hard to do either when the first words out of his mouth--okay, second words, I guess--were about Hilde.
And thing is, she liked him. Not the crush she had on Trowa, which once I grew up and learned about hormones, I gave her no end of grief on--but a sincere, deep respect. I don't know why; I don't recall them meeting except maybe once or twice on Libra, after the end of the first war. But he'd made an impression and every now and then she'd push me to take a break, head to earth and show up on his doorstep, surprise him. I couldn't do it, and she knew it, too. Business was always hectic, but it was a nice pipedream.
Hey, buddy, I'd say. You were my first friend on Earth who was my age. Can't a guy come visit his first friend? Can't a guy come visit the oldest friend he's got? Yeah, Howard's a friend, but he's older 'n dirt. Heero was different. He was another Gundam pilot. And the friends I knew on L2--well, they're all dead. They'd been dead when I tried to get off L2. That's ancient history... but then so is my friendship with Heero, I guess.
After a half hour of staring at his back while he worked, I gave up. I'd get some coffee, chill out, buy myself some dinner, and take a walk around the neighborhood. Sounded like a plan.
"All right, Dr. Yuy," I announced. He didn't even stop typing. I gritted my teeth and put a smile in my voice, stretching my arms over my head before grabbing my jacket. "I'm gonna go for dinner, get some coffee. How about I bring some back and we can start over? Y'know, get off on a better foot?"
"Our feet are just fine... Mr. Maxwell," Heero replied.
I wasn't sure what to say to that. I wanted to nod, wanted to laugh, wanted to pretend like the hole in my gut punched out by some druggie wasn't back in full force for some stupid inexplicable reason, reopened by his bland tone. I'd worked hard for a year to grieve, and get better, and deal with Hilde's death. And all it took was one fuckin' asshole thing to say and here I felt like I wanted to go buy myself a fifth of whiskey, sit in my hotel room, drink, and then get up tomorrow and pretend like it never happened. I got through a lot those first few months that way--not the alcoholic part, just the lots of pretending part--but I doubted getting drunk'd be a hot idea. The second part had promise, though.
"Yeah, well... " I couldn't bring myself to say it. I wanted to say, fuck you, and the goddamn laptop you rode in on. Who do you think you are? I'm just trying to be friendly. But I didn't say any of it. Instead, I settled for giving up. Easier, these days, or maybe I'm just more jaded. "I'm gonna call it a night. I'll see you at seven hundred."
I closed the office door behind me too swiftly, not willing to hear one more response from him. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd said I didn't need to come back. But it wasn't his best friend that got taken out by a Crow-71-eating moron with a knife. It was mine, and under it all, this was my mission, and my goal. The Preventers were useful for the time being, and if I could get information through them, I'd use it. I might give up on everyone else--not seeing much reason why not, right then--but I wasn't gonna give up on my goal for love or money.
No matter how boring the surveillance or dead-end the time or miserable his company.
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The problem with going out to drink--by yourself, no less--and ponder the unanswerable questions of the universe is that invariably you start seeing there're three sides to every damn coin. Maybe Heero was joking when he'd arrived; he always had a peculiar, deadpan sense of humor that could be hard to catch if you weren't in the right mood. Or maybe he was apologizing for Hilde, but it was still a little on the late side for that.
I stared at the shot of whiskey, downing it and leaving a few dollars on the bar for tip. Shrugging my jacket on, I zipped up and headed into the spring weather, startled by the fresh air, blue-pink twilight sky, and the scent of cherry blossoms drifting on the breeze. Nothing at all like my home for the past ten years, and I had a sudden compulsion to buy a bike--or steal one, if I were desperate--and start riding for the coast and never stop til I saw the ocean again.
I didn't, though. I walked back to the stupid office, hiked up the stairs, and found the place was locked up and dark. I stared for several seconds, before picking the lock and heading in. Heero's security was remarkably easy to disrupt, or perhaps he'd left it simple to taunt me. It's possible. That's his kind of sense of humor--to be offensive by not even bothering to try to keep me out. Kinda like being in boarding school again, and let's so not go there. Those uniforms still give me nightmares. I wore a fuckin' tie. I've never sunk that low before or since, but I will quote it as proof that I can be as dedicated to the cause as the next pilot.
Heero's laptop was gone; no surprise there. Throwing myself into my claimed chair and ignoring the squeaking wheels, I started up the computer I'd chosen, only to discover Heero had introduced top-grade security--and no sign of a password or algorithm anywhere. Double bastard. I went through twenty possible code words, and nothing worked. Fuck.
In desperation, I tried a back door on the bios, which got me the desktop and one of the connects out to the net. Limited pages, but that'd never stopped me before--what a secretary would use on nanny-ware security like the setup on this program, I could work with. No problem.
See, Heero likes to do things the hard way. If it can be done in ten steps, he'll do it for efficiency, but if he's left to his own devices, he gets more and more complex. I couldn't believe some of the crazy shit he did to Wing, but after that time he'd spent with Trowa, some of that tendency had lessened. His curiosity about things purely academic was toned down, I guess, after a good dose of exposure to such a purely mechanical mind like Trowa's. And now I was staring at proof that ten years of school had let Heero go wild and crazy on programming, eschewing the simplest applications for one with multilevel code and complex layovers.
Those are usually the easiest to break, and I'm no hacker. Just look at the presets... and by the same token, Heero would never think to nannyware some of the biggest search engines. So all I had to do was access the Preventers' database--easy enough, since it was a Preventers' direct connect--and get Heero's cell phone number. Then reverse it on the search engine, and I had an address. If he were smart, he'd already have a bogus address, but there was only one way to find out if he were smart.
I grabbed my coat and headed for an address, eight blocks south.
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Eight blocks is more time to think, which is dangerous for me. Gives me time to think twice, and bad enough to think once--that can get you killed if you're not careful. Maybe it was a stupid thing to track him down, but I had to admit his skills would come in handy. I had to keep my eyes on the goal, and rise about any stupid past shit with him, or Trowa, or Wufei.
I didn't have much tense crap with Quatre or Relena, but they'd always made a point of hooking up whenever they were within a reasonable distance. Relena sent cards for Hilde's birthday, and I have a whole scrapbook of pictures of my honorary niece and nephew, even if the most I could manage to do was build crazy toys as birthday presents. And we always got thank-you notes from the little hooligans, lettered neatly with an extra note from Quatre or Relena. One of them should've taught Heero about thank-you notes. Y'know, nothing hard. Thank you for being my friend, sorry I was an asshole and ditched you after the wars.
But the truth is--feet pounding on the sidewalk cement, checking out the alleys and cars parked along the street--I ditched him, too, I guess. We went our ways and just figured there'd be plenty of time and eventually we'd get together. You just don't realize one day you were eighteen and the next day you're standing at your best friend's gravesite and trying to figure out how the fuck you got from point A to point D and where the years went in between.
So maybe I just needed to apologize for that, and we could start over. Maybe he'd learn by example--he'd done it well enough with Trowa, those years ago, right?
I really wasn't sure what it was that I thought I'd say. I just had this idea that maybe if I knocked on his door and he opened it, then the words would show up, and we could go back to the crazy-tense understanding we'd had during the wars. I know everyone else said we were opposites, but I didn't work with Hilde even half as well as I had with Heero. I guess all I had to do with Heero was think of what I'd do, then do the exact opposite, and there he was. Okay, not that extreme, but still. The basic idea is right.
I came around the corner, checking the rows of apartment buildings. This part of Bremen was older, not run-down so much as just apartment buildings for government people who were never in one place long enough to care. I'd figured I'd find a place in this neighborhood myself, once I knew what my budget'd be like.
So I was noting things like 'apartment for rent' and 'room to let' and suchlike, tracking the building numbers on the old rowhouses with a lazy sense of nonchalance, when I saw a door open up ahead. Four houses down; the house in front of me was seven-two-five-one, which meant the house ahead was where Heero had taken up residence. I paused on the sidewalk, drifting sideways and forward along the iron railings perched on the low stone walls. Dinky little front yards, but it provided shadow and cover on the darkened street.
Heero stepped out from the building's foyer, turning to lock the door behind him. He pocketed the keys and turned without looking either way. He was intent, head down; I knew that look. Preoccupied, getting himself into a mindset. Undercover, I thought automatically, and moved a little closer.
Then I got a look at him, and had to think: what kind of fuckin' undercover is that shit? His movements down the step pushed the long black coat away from his body, revealing black leather pants... and no shirt. Okay. Not what I expected, especially when the cab pulled up to the curb and Heero leaned into the passenger window, talking to the cabbie. When he straightened up and moved to open the backdoor, I got a better look. He had what looked like black belts crossing his chest, in an X. Not exactly my idea of a shirt, but I've been on L2 for a decade. Maybe we're a bit behind the times when it comes to fashion.
I scratched my head at that, noting a few other quick details of Heero's clothing as he slipped into the taxi. Taking advantage of his distraction--he was looking away from me--I moved to the sidewalk's edge in time to catch the license plate of the taxi, and the call office number. Digging out my cell phone, I punched in the number, waiting for someone to pick up.
"Officer Maxwell of the Preventers," I said, in my best official business voice. "I need to know the destination of a cab."
"We're not supposed--"
"Right, right, I know," I said, chuckling. A female voice, and sounded young, too. I laid on the charm a bit. "It's not illegal to give out cab destinations, Miss, only passenger information. Just tell me where your taxi, ID six-alpha-charlie-nine-alpha, was sent."
"Oh. Please hold."
I waited, tapping my foot anxiously. If Heero was already undercover on this mission, I was going to give him a piece of my mind, and then tell Wufei and Trowa a thing or two--and I'd walk my ass into Preventers' headquarters if I damn well wanted to. Okay, so maybe I'd make sure Une was on her lunch break when I did it--preferably a lunch break in another country--but I'd still do it. Raise hell, all that good shit. The phone clicked, and the girl came back online.
"Providence and Thirty-eighth," she told me.
"Great." I told her my location, and asked her to send a cab to get me, same destination. Hanging up, I put the phone away and stared down at my black jeans, red shirt, and black leather jacket. I wasn't dressed half as dramatically as Heero. I didn't have silver chains around the ankles of my boots, and my boots were scuffed and beaten. I'd seen a glint in his ear when he'd turned and I thought it might have been my eyes--jetlag can take a few days to recover--but maybe he did have a pierced ear. Who knows what that man would do for a mission, hell, he finished a doctoral program in three years.
The cab pulled up a few minutes later, and the cabbie said nothing on the fifteen-minute drive. I stared out the window, lost in my recollection of fighting in these streets ten years before. I wondered which reconstructed buildings had been smashed by my scythe, and decided it wasn't worth asking. Hell, that's assuming the cabbie speaks decent Standard.
A block from the destination, the cabbie warned me of it, and I told him to pull over. I had twenty, and promised him another twenty if he'd wait. He made a face and shrugged.
"Your dime," he said.
Dime, I wanted to laugh. It's been a hundred years--five times that--since once could ride anywhere for a fuckin' dime, but whatever. Getting from the cab, I strolled down to the corner and hung a right, not sure what to expect.
I stayed by the shadows, moving forward as casually as I could. It's a way of moving, of thinking, that says: I'm not here. This is just shadow, so you can walk right on by. It works; three girls in leather cat-suits--including the ears, tails, and leashes--walked within three feet of me and didn't even notice. Fuck yeah. I was tempted to punch the air in victory; haven't lost my touch. I followed, ghosting along behind until I was close enough to see the business' sign. It was the correct address, the one I'd gotten from the cab company--more cabs were pulling up, and several people dressed like Heero were getting out: black coats, black leather pants, that kind of thing. A bouncer met each of them, checking ID and taking money. It didn't appear to be a private club; there were no signs as such.
On the other hand, I was tired, aggravated, and in no mood to deal with a situation I hadn't scoped thoroughly. I studied the club's name--Paradiso--and turned around, heading back to the waiting cab. I wasn't sure what kind of club it was, but Crow-71 was a drug for the younger, rougher set, not people with money for taxis or who wore leather with collars, toying with leashes while they paid their entrance fee. I scowled, and knew I'd be up for a few hours once I got back to the hotel, figuring it out.
This was my vendetta, not his. He was just along for the ride. If he could care less whether I lived or died--regardless of how confusing that made the question of why he'd fuckin' signed on in the first place--it didn't matter so long as I could shut down something, anything, connected to Crow-71.
But he would not, under any circumstances, leave me out of the game.