17-May-2004
Title: The Longest Dream
Author: Hope Of Dawn
Legal stuff: None of these characters are mine. Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise, and Sotsu Agency, among others--Xenogears belongs to Squaresoft. For time-wasting purposes only and not for profit, so don't sue, 'kay?
Warnings: Violence, random cussing.
Feedback: C&C appreciated!
Notes: *waves* Hey everyone. Still plugging away at this fic, trying not to disappoint all three of the people still reading it... >__>;; Anyway, I thought I'd give the board a sneak peek--consider this my apology for the cliffhanger in the last chapter. I hope it satisfies--or at least cuts down on the death threats.
(It's still waiting on a beta by Masamune, so any stupid errors are entirely my fault... )
Crawling out of the wreckage, Trowa staggered to his feet, hand pressed against his thigh. His landing had been... less than exemplary, it seemed. His mouth twisted as he surveyed the twisted metal of the lifeboat, half-buried the rubble of the wall it had fallen into.
He still wasn't sure how he'd managed a clean launch, given that he scarcely had time to puzzle out the controls--and in the end, piloting it had proved impossible. The lifeboat had careened out of the grey skies, crippled and under fire, leaving a swathe of destruction behind as it clipped several buildings along its path. Buried nose-first into a retaining wall, the small craft was useless now. Worse, the smoke would draw exactly the kind of attention he was trying to avoid. Put all of that together, and it left him in a an almost perfect worst-case situation: alone, injured, and on the run inside enemy territory.
But as Duo would say, any landing you can walk away from... . He winced at the memory, looking at the bloodstained gun he'd somehow managed to hold on to. Not all of them *had* walked away from this. If Duo was dead...
He set his jaw, refusing to think about it. First order of business: get out of sight. He squinted at his leg, probing the wound with careful fingers. It wasn't too bad--no arterial bleeding, which meant it would be sealed in less than an hour, and healed a day or so after that. Stuffing the gun under his tunic, he moved along the wall, climbing the rubble until he'd gotten high enough to vault over to the street on the other side. The lack of reaction to the crash was beyond strange--the streets eerily quiet, with no crowds gathering around to gawk at the flames or offer assistance. Those few witnesses he saw did nothing but watch warily from the cover of store awnings and doorways, making no attempt to either hinder or help.
Unnerved by the locals' lack of reaction, Trowa darted into the shadows. The presence of witnesses was a problem--but not one he could do anything about. Ignoring their silent stares, he ran down the street on silent feet, heading for the densely populated heart of the city, and the cover that he hoped it would provide.
Bart hit the wall hard, head cracking against the concrete as he stumbled. The metal door clanged shut behind him as his knees gave way, his vision swooping dizzingly and threatening to fade out completely. Focusing desperately on the cracked, cross-grained concrete of the cell floor, Bart willed himself not to throw up even as an abused head conspired with his stomach to protest the beating he'd received. Embarrassment be damned--he just didn't want to live with the *smell*.
As the staccato rap of their jailors' steps faded away down the hall, Bart raised his head, blinking blearily at his surroundings. Yet another cell, apparently--this one with bars and concrete walls. He had been only semi-conscious when they were dragged from the airship, and he had no idea where their new prison was. It was a safe bet they were somewhere in Nicklay's citadel. More importantly, they were on the blessedly unmoving *ground*, which was all Bart could bring himself to care about at the moment.
Well, almost all.
Gritting his teeth, Bart hitched himself over to the bars that separated his cell from the next--and the limp figure in black that lay inside it. "Duo?" he said softly, fingers curling helplessly around the cold metal that separated them. "Duo--can you hear me?"
His only answer was the soft, hitched rhythm of Duo's breathing. Closing his eyes, Bart prayed hard, even knowing it was useless. {{Sophia... please, let him be all right. Don't have him die this way... }} Fingers clenching tighter, he tried again. "Duo. Duo, wake up. Duo... ." Long minutes ticked by as Bart continued to call his friend's name, refusing to give up.
Finally he got an answering groan. "Mmrrrrgh... ."
"Duo? Duo!"
"Uunnh... 'm awake already. Stop shouting." Duo shifted minutely, as if to try and roll on his back, but even that seemed to be too much effort. Bart couldn't see his face, but the small shudder that rippled through that curled-up body was evidence enough. "God... "
Bart bit back the urge to ask if Duo was all right. Under the circumstances, that probably qualified as a stupid question. "Sorry, Duo. I was afraid... " he trailed off lamely.
"-'m not dead yet." With a deep, painful gasp, Duo rolled on his back, tilting his head towards Bart. "Even if I wish I was." His face was pinched and drawn, devoid of humor. "Billy?"
Bart shook his head. "Not here. Getting patched up, I hope."
" ...lucky bastard." Duo grimaced. The large areas of stained cloth that covered his torso, red- brown against the darker black, were visible evidence of how much blood he had lost. "I take it... they don't plan to waste that kind of thing on us."
Looking at the rusty-red stains that had smeared the concrete from Duo's movements, Bart's eyes darkened. No fresh bleeding was visible... but internal injuries had killed far too many of his men for Bart to find that reassuring. "We're Lambs," he growled, angry for his friend's sake. What would it have cost Nicklay to give Duo some basic first aid--or at least a painkiller or two? "And unless you've got something they want, Lamb equals expendable to assholes like them."
"Great." Duo stopped, panting--Bart listened to the measured breaths, and belatedly realized the careful control behind them. "Good thing I'm... not as delicate as I look." He gave Bart a thin-lipped grimace. "Some days it pays to be the lab rat."
"You mean--" Bart started, then stopped short, shaking his head. "I'd heard the story from Citan, but... I guess I never thought about it much. You can really--you're really going to be okay?" He felt like a proper idiot for asking, but right now he desperately needed the reassurance. Bad enough he'd gotten them captured. If he'd gotten Duo or Billy killed as well... he didn't even want to think about it.
"Eventually. This shit... doesn't heal overnight." Duo gave a tiny snort, face twisting. "Let those bastards stuff *that* in their pipe and smoke it."
Bart sighed. "I'm glad," he said simply. "I was afraid I'd gotten you both killed."
"Newsflash, kemosabe. Was our plan, remember?" Duo retorted, his voice unusually harsh. "Shit happens. Wasn't anybody's fault the thing went fubar."
About to argue, Bart hesitated and asked, "Went... foobar?" instead, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar English word.
"Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition," Duo said, and snorted. That proved to be a bad idea as he convulsed around a spasm of coughing, and long minutes passed before it subsided enough for Duo to talk again. "Damn bullet holes... why couldn't they have shot me in the *leg*?"
Despite his worry, Bart couldn't help but grin. "Next time I'll make sure to ask 'em to shoot more carefully."
"Fuck that." Duo stared up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowed and cold. "Next time I'm gonna be the one making the holes."
"If we get the chance," Bart said gloomily. Considering where they were, that was by no means guaranteed, and his optimism had all but disappeared under the burden of repeated failure.
"It ain't over until the fat lady sings," was Duo's bizarre reply. At Bart's puzzled look, he clarified. "Time enough... to give up after we're dead."
Bart snorted. "Knowing you, you'd probably just dig yourself back out of your grave, too."
"Claw my way right out of hell," Duo agreed with morbid cheer.
Carefully easing himself down full-length to lie on the floor, Bart found an unexpected smile creasing his face against the cold concrete. "Live forever or die trying, eh?"
"There are worse things." Duo's gaze turned inward, growing dark. "And one of them is me."
Breath rattling in his lungs, Trowa crouched in the shadows and watched another set of green-uniformed patrols pass by. Nicklay's hounds were thorough, he had to admit, and they'd harried him through most of the day. Early on he'd replaced his Aveh-styled tunic and pants for something with a more local cut and color, stolen off a laundry line; unfortunately it hadn't made much of a difference. No doubt the Kislev soldiers had a thorough description, not to mention whatever passed for photos in this world. It had made evasion difficult, and heading towards the center of the urban landscape had only made it worse, not better.
The city of Nortune, he'd found, was a sprawling maze of slum warrens, industrial factories and retaining walls around massive, archaic train-styled transports. The main streets were choked with checkpoints and wary, armed soldiers. That left the back streets as his only option--and a problematic one at that. After hours of running, he wasn't lost, per se--but only because he had no idea where he was supposed to be going in the first place.
But he was going to need to find a safe hiding place soon--fatigue and blood loss were slowing him down, making him sloppy. The people here were also more ragged, more wary--he was no longer so sure that his progress had gone unnoticed. There were a great deal of mutants and demihumans among these beaten-down and dirty crowds, far more than he'd ever seen before. More than once he had been forced to move downwind to evade a sharp nose, and he'd caught flickers of movement on the edges of his vision, though nothing he could pin down.
So he wasn't all that surprised when he rounded a corner only to find a couple of the locals waiting for him at the mouth of the alley, arms crossed. Muzzles wrinkled into sneers on canine faces, and thick black claws tipped the ends of humanoid fingers. The shorter of the two shifted his weight, scratching idly at his bicep, and Trowa noticed a brand there--some kind of crude symbol, burned whitely against the darker fur.
Another appeared behind him, this one more ratlike in appearance, and carrying two dully gleaming knives in its paw-hands. Trowa grimaced--apparently he'd successfully evaded the authorities, only to fall afoul of the local gangs. No doubt he'd covered half a dozen pieces of 'turf' throughout the course of the day. Now this group was about to take exception to him setting foot on theirs.
For a moment they did nothing, watching him warily. Then the largest stepped forward, sniffing the air.
"Whatchoo running from, ceeteezen?" The edges of his lips lifted, revealing impressive fangs. "Mebbe we can help?"
Sliding his feet a bit wider, Trowa didn't bother to respond. He listened to the snarling laughter coming from the others--no doubt they had already caught the bloodsmell from his wound, and thought him easy prey. Demihuman, definitely--and canids, for the most part, not felines. An old, well-worn memory floated its way to the surface. Pack hunters, which meant that the speaker was most likely alpha. Which also meant... his eyes narrowed. One on three wasn't impossible odds, but it would be better to bring it down a bit.
He had spent enough time with the circus lions to know if you acted like prey, that's what you were. And if you didn't... He raised his head, locking his gaze with the largest canid, the one who had spoken. In a fight between alphas, chances were that the others wouldn't interfere--he moved forward, prowling smoothly towards them, hands curled loose at his sides. The other two shuffled uneasily, making fidgety little movements. They'd been ready for screams, pleas, attempts at escape; not a fearless human who moved like a levinwolf.
Their leader paid no attention to the others' restlessness, his eyes still locked with the human they'd ambushed. "You think you can leave, ceeteezen?" He flexed his clawed hands consideringly. "Try it, human... " A full-fledged snarling smile curled upwards. "And try not to bore me."
Trowa lunged. The canid slashed at him, black claws tearing through the air as Trowa slid under the strike. He struck back in turn, driving an iron fist past the ragged vest and into a furred torso with all of his strength, feeling ribs crack and give way under his knuckles. Wounded as he was, he couldn't afford to show mercy. He drove a second punch deep into the curved abdomen as the demihuman gagged and choked for air. Blood streaming from his muzzle, the canid tried another weak swipe, panting. Trowa casually blocked it, then wrapped crushing fingers around that same wrist and twisted, forcing the canid down to the ground in submission.
"Bored yet?" he asked with disinterest. The entire fight had taken only seconds.
The other gang members were growling, but uneasy. Their prey had proved to be unexpectedly dangerous, and they made no moves to enter the fight, sidling uncertainly. The alpha canid panted in pain, eyes squinted shut. "Karst--ah!" He choked off a gasp as Trowa's hand tightened, bone cracking under the relentless grip, and whined, "Whatchoo want from me?"
"Information." Trowa watched the other two with seeming casualness. He had to work fast, before the shock wore off and they decided that three against one was better odds. "What's the fastest way out of the city?"
The cringing alpha gave him a snarling smile. "What do you think? Main gates, ceeteezen--" he broke off, yelping as he found himself ground nose-first into the pavement. "Whaddaya want? It's truth!"
"Let's try this again," Trowa said calmly. "What's the fastest way out of the city--*if* you don't want to be noticed?" It was a risk, giving away his precarious position like this, but they didn't seem the type to be friendly with the authorities.
"Isn't one," the alpha said, sullen. Trowa's grip tightened again, and he winced, hissing, "Truth! I swear! Whole city locked down on karsted Kaiser's orders... can't so much as sneeze near city walls. No one comes or goes except soldiers!"
"What about supplies? Food? I don't see a whole lot of farms around here."
The alpha canid snarled. "Supplies? They come in airships. Soldiers have 'em--bring 'em in, give us leftovers. Told you. No one leaves!"
Trowa raised a skeptical eyebrow. No civilian traffic in or out of the city? That was taking paranoia to a whole new--and disturbing--level. But every heightened sense he possessed indicated that the demihuman was telling the truth... at least, as far as he knew it.
About to release his captive, he tensed as his ears picked up the sudden shift and ebb in the crowds outside their little alley--but it was already a moment too late.
"You there, in the alley! Show me your hands, all of you!" Green uniformed soldiers shouldered their way out of the crowd, weapons at the ready. At least ten of them, perhaps more. Bad odds. There would be no talking his way out of this.
Trowa flung the alpha into the startled arms of his fellows, who wasted no time in scrambling away. He followed suit, sprinting down the street as the soldiers opened fire. Kislev's military obviously had no compunctions about shooting civilians, much less suspected escapees. Shots sizzled to either side as he weaved and dodged, using what little cover there was to confuse his pursuers.
Left with no other options, Trowa tucked his head and ran into the depths of the cramped and dirty alleys with every last bit of his flagging strength. The ragged slum residents scattered to either side with startled shouts--and the occasional shriek of pain as a stray shot found a victim--ducking into doorways or behind walls. While it was obvious the locals hated his green-uniformed pursuers, they feared them even more, doors and gates slamming shut on all sides. He ducked under trailing clotheslines and vaulted over a small stack of tumbled crates, grimacing as he felt a warm trickle seeping down the outside of his leg. All of the stress he was putting on his leg wound was only making it worse. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford to stop.
His own harsh gasps were loud in his ears as he skidded to a brief stop at the confusing intersection of two alleys, one street, and one of the near-random steel two-story walls that seemed to be a part of Nortune's infrastructure. More shouts were raised as a second squad spotted him; unable to break for open ground, Trowa chose the narrower of the two alleys out of desperation. His greater speed was keeping him ahead of the soldiers, but only just, and he frantically searched for an out as he ran--a fire escape, a door, *anything* that might lead to escape or concealment. But there was nothing, just dirt, trash, and the dirty grey cinder-block walls to either side, dotted by the blind eyes of tiny, high windows.
The alley narrowed abruptly--and Trowa found himself skidding to a stop as another high plated-steel wall reared up in front of him. A dead end... in more ways than one. He pivoted on one heel, glancing back the way he came; he could hear the tramp of feet as Nicklay's dogs came for him, confident that they had brought him to bay.
He turned again, running frantic fingers over the alley walls, searching for a crevice, a handhold, anything he could climb to escape this trap. The walls proved to be proof to his fingers, old surface paint and filthy plaster crumbling, the only crevices too small for even an ex-acrobat to wedge his hands into. Trowa had just turned his attention to the piles of trash, rummaging through them in a last-ditch attempt to find something that might give him enough height to reach a window--
--when one of the piles trembled, lifted straight up, and a steely hand yanked him under by one ankle.
Trowa tucked instinctively as he was flung down into the revealed hole. The sliver of light from above disappeared as he landed, rolling in sludgy dirt. He reared up, hands out, ready to defend himself from his attacker as his eyes fought to adjust to the sudden lack of light.
A white slash of a grin gleamed against the darkness. "Are you Earthers always so much trouble? Or am I just lucky?" came a familiar slow rumble. Trowa squinted, and a shock of flame-red hair coalesced out of the dark as a mutant dropped down from above, green skin almost indistinguishable against the tunnel walls. "Dunno why you're here, kid, but you've stirred up a whole lot of trouble all over."
"R-Rico?" Trowa asked slowly. He'd only ever met the man that once, a few months ago. But then, someone Rico's size--and color--was hard to forget.
"Yup." There was the shuffling of feet, and Rico grunted, sliding a steel pipe into place across the underside of the hatch. "C'mon. We gotta make some distance. This place isn't going to stay hidden for long once they start tearing things apart aboveground."
He headed down the passageway without waiting for a reply, and after a brief hesitation, Trowa followed. Even if he had no idea what Rico was doing here, or why... an uncertain chance was still better than none at all.
End Part 21
(:./hope/dream21)
