Title: Foil's Forte
Author: Cuzosu
Rating: M
Summary: Saw the Gundam Wing/Three Musketeers challenge on Clara Barton's profile, had to take it. Will draw mostly from the Disney version of The Three Musketeers (and, of course, Gundam Wing). I make no promises about how bad my humor will get, though.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, nor anything Three Musketeers. Nor am I making money for writing this; it's entirely for the fun of it. And because Clara and Snow were so enthusiastic about the notion.
A/N: Many, many thanks to Clara Barton and snowdragonct, who were kind enough (and enthusiastic enough) to be beta/prereader for me! Anyone reading this owes at least half of it to you two!
A/N #2: WARNING: Will eventually contain yaoi/yuri/het references, though any explicit material will be on AO3 and adultfanfiction . net, under my accounts of the same username.
A/N #3: It's so fun to write this; all futuristic, twisted, and with the GW characters in a Musketeer-ish world, plus my own warped sense of humor!
Foil's Forte
Prologue: The Least Likely Places
Howard wasn't usually the foul-mouthed, snarly sort. His typical demeanor was laid-back and cheerful, with a can-do attitude that made him rather popular. But right now he was cursing a blue streak, because leaving his king to only five Musketeers was considerably higher on his list of Things Not To Do than, say, never drinking straight 'shine again. (Several old friends had once managed to get him drunk on moonshine, the old Earth, undiluted variety. He'd had more ache than head when he'd had to get up for work in the morning, and although the lesson had been hellacious, it had stuck.) Well, so were most things.
In an old-Earth-style Hawaiian shirt and a pair of cargo shorts—that were loaded with more weapons, ammo, and shields than most people would have been able to lift at all—Howard didn't seem serious. There were laugh lines on his face, merry crow's feet at the corners of his eyes—and he'd kept them as the mark of a life well-lived, the same way he'd kept non-debilitating scars received in the line of duty, because those scars, they stood for something. Those scars stood as a sign of his ability, as a sign of his willingness to put his life on the line for a cause he deemed worthy—and there was nothing more worthy than protecting people.
But now his king was down to five Musketeers, and the king was ordering Howard to take the responsibility of escorting the crown prince to safety.
It wasn't that Howard didn't like the boy; actually he was rather fond of the kid. But it was his job to safeguard the king, and he'd already called in L1's notorious Assassin Lord to kill any enemies after the young heir. The boy wouldn't need any more protection, Howard was reasonably sure. Whereas King Dekim Barton had only five Musketeer protectors to save him from an entire castle full of enemies, and frankly those five, while inarguably the best Musketeers in their own equally deadly areas—which was how they'd survived so long with the castle swarming with enemies—were growing old. Sure, ever since the anti-aging processes had come into existence it was impossible to tell just how old anyone was, but eventually the effects minimized and age caught up. Hell, Howard himself was getting a little old too! Just...nowhere near as badly as his Liege's five current bodyguards.
"Sire, please—the boy already has the best protection I can arrange. L1's Lord has agreed to look after His Highness. And, no offense, but I'm in better condition than anyone else here right now. If you must send someone after His Highness, let the other five choose one of their number."
King Dekim thought for a moment. "Fine."
Howard nodded to the five Musketeers who, by rights, ought to have been retired already were he not so fond of their work. "You heard His Majesty."
There was a moment of silent debate between them, and then J said, "I'm the biggest liability, but probably the enemy will misjudge me since I'm so obviously disabled," said J, who had lost a hand on a previous mission. "I'll go."
They parted with minimal chatter; combat was their profession, and woe to any who underestimated them.
J cursed as he hoofed it down a secret passage and leapt out from a facade made to look like an extension of the salle walls. Really it was a projection, but they'd paid a professional hacker to make it look realistic and not cause reflections, and whoever it was had been worth every cent on that expensive price tag, because no one had ever had an inkling the opening was up above them. If he ever met that hacker...all hell will break loose, probably, J admitted to himself. Whoever the hacker was, the expertise is obvious, and the professionalism...I may just have a successor in the Musketeers, if we're lucky.
But Lady Luck was a fickle thing, and well J knew it.
A dark foreboding built in his chest, and he could only hope he'd manage to do something useful today.
Odin Lowe was an assassin, the best in L1, which contained a surprising number of for-hire killers and professional assassins. And because he was the best—the most lethal and definitely the greatest at going unnoticed when he meant to kill a target—he was the Lord of L1 and could really only be called to account by the king himself. So far, that hadn't happened...but the Assassin Lord didn't like the possibility.
It wasn't that Odin didn't like the king, but it rankled to have to answer to anyone he hadn't chosen to, so when the Captain of the Musketeers sent him a comm message saying that the king required his services in safeguarding the crown prince's life, the assassin had stated bluntly that they'd have to pay him for the time he was unable to complete other contracts. Royals having deep pockets, it had galled when the condition was agreed to. He'd wanted them to call it off, after all. But he'd given in, after his young ward had asked him what would happen if some idiot changed things like he'd always talked about.
Political upheaval was great for business at first, but then everyone got it into their heads that they were better off with the assassins dead, and Odin was too well established to want to start a new identity and build a whole new reputation.
I hope I can settle this with minimum expenditure. Beam cartridges are fucking expensive these days.
A young boy with cocoa-colored hair and intense blue eyes watched the screens, fingers tapping rapidly even as he relayed data to the assassin who'd raised him. He had no name, wasn't related by blood, had just been taken in, one more stray adopted by an eccentric assassin. Of course, the other strays were animals and often found other homes, left, or died.
But he was human and Odin had trained him in everything he knew, which was more than the boy had expected from him. Frankly, most people weren't kind enough to even try to raise a kid from the streets, and even fewer would have taught him such survival skills as the assassin lord had. Even if he decided not to make a living out of killing people, he could get by with hacking or, when he grew older, as a bodyguard.
"Movement, fifty feet ahead of you. A squad. They don't look like Musketeers and they're armed."
"Roger," Odin returned, unconcernedly pulling a high-powered grenade from his pocket and hurling it down the hall.
He threw it so hard it whizzed past the first three men and exploded upon contact with the fourth man's forehead. Unfortunately for said man, no one was hardheaded enough to survive a grenade's blast point blank, and his comrades were too close as well.
Unmoved by the dead and dying, indifferent to the stench of burnt flesh, the assassin followed directions from the boy, who had hacked into the royal computers and found a way to the other boy he was supposed to guard. Odin had no problems taking orders from the boy he'd trained, because he knew the training had been thorough and the boy cared for him, even if those cold blue eyes rarely showed a thing. But when he reached the prince, he wouldn't take orders from the royal child; he had a job and he was there to do it. And his ward was there to help him do it, although that was something not even the Captain of the Musketeers knew.
Assassins kept secrets as a matter of life or death because, for them, it often was.
L1's Assassin Lord finished planting explosives around the room and unfurled a small, lethal smile. Brazen little shits, to try for a coup now. Still, that damn law they used to rope me into this is a relic and disguised as an obscure codicil, so perhaps they didn't know just who and what they would be taking on.
J hurried through secret passages, nearly tripping in his haste. According to the info he'd gotten from Howard, the rendezvous point where the prince was supposed to be was just ahead, in the old garage.
Such was his rush that he missed it when his scanner vibrated against his wrist—and he stumbled into a group of enemies. There were gunmen, a grenadier, someone was packing explosives against a wall, and off to the left a redhead typed on a comm unit, managed to bypass the door lock, and started muttering obscenities.
"Shit!"
"What this time?" asked one of his comrades.
"Whoever the hell they've got on security is fucking good! I can't get past them! The locks are disengaged for now, but I'm losing ground!"
"Keep him busy. Having someone closing doors in our faces is the last thing we need. It's bad enough that their new security set up has bought them this much time already. If we don't hurry, we'll either get caught or lose our targets completely and be outlawed! Do your damn job! We hired you for your hacking skills; show us what you're made of!"
The would-be hacker grumbled under his breath, something about frying his brain before he could get the better of his current opponent. J had a moment to think, Is the hacker who updated our system still working on something here, then? I thought programs alone wouldn't hold off professional hackers, and this man seems to know his way around electronics. Then one of the gunmen spotted him, and the old Musketeer leapt into action. He should have been paying attention, but it was too late and this fight was inevitable now.
Still, he would protect His Highness in the only way left to him: he would buy as much time as possible. J had never been one for giving in without a fight anyway, and if he milked this well enough he might even make it out alive.
The nameless boy started moving to join his lethal teacher as soon as the crown prince was in the assassin's sight, having already set up the computers to continue conveying information. So when there was a dispassionate announcement in his earpiece about a large number of enemies converging on aforesaid prince's location, the boy's eyes narrowed minutely. Odin didn't need to hear the child say a thing—or, for that matter, see the boy's eyes narrow—in order to understand that no few of those foolish enough to bear arms against them would be taken by surprise...and would never survive long enough to learn better. No one would see the boy unless they were dying, Odin knew. He was a natural at assassination, and although he didn't often show his emotions, it was obvious to Odin that he had them and acted on them. Last time he'd been hurt, the boy had unleashed a silent, lethal fury and completed the mission without any help from the wounded assassin lord.
Lips quirked ever so slightly at the corners, Lowe admitted to himself that he couldn't have picked anyone more suitable to adopt. But it was time for business, judging by the sheer numbers arrayed against him. He raised one eyebrow slightly and said, "You think to take the boy? Not likely."
When seven of the first ten people to step into the room triggered traps, the rest became more cautious. This annoyed Odin only slightly, because frankly he wanted the whole situation done with, although he dispatched the first three to succeed quickly enough.
One man drew a pulse rifle but went down with a throwing star embedded in his eye and another wedged in his jugular. Sometimes the old ways are best, Odin grinned. No one thinks to guard against them any more. It's all energy shields and antidote shots on hand. Wouldn't want to die prettily or without a trace; have to leave an impression, however gory. Pfft... Amateurs. Another took a blaster shot to the neck, because the assassin liked to aim for the vital points that were generally left unguarded. The third fell victim to a wire so thin he didn't see it, and when L1's Assassin Lord flicked his hand to one side a crimson grin gaped just under the man's chin. He went down gurgling and didn't get up again.
Then an old man, disabled by wounds new and old, staggered into the room and blinked at the assassin through the blood streaming down his face. One eye was probably a lost cause; shrapnel looked to be the problem. But for a man with such immense difficulties, he was adapting remarkably well, and Odin's eyes narrowed.
"And who are you?" he asked lowly. Howard had given him a list of names he could supposedly trust the prince with; it had been short, very short, and apart from the king and captain themselves, only five names were present.
"J," said the man, and coughed. Blood speckled his lips lightly, an indication that he needed a doctor ASAP, but presumably the man knew that and could hie off and get his injuries seen to if such was his wish.
"...I'm Odin Lowe. The lad is where he should be." As is mine, but no potential enemy needs to know about that unless he decides to reveal himself. Still, he identified himself as one of the men on the trusted list...
One good eye locked on the assassin sharply. "You've seen him?"
Ear piece beeping an all-clear (the boy had set it up to scan automatically for electrical signals that would indicate hidden tech of whatever sort, and the castle programs the boy had hacked were already set up to alert body heat to the guards, so it had been simple to tap into that network as well), Odin snorted. "I've got probably the best hacker in the world on my side; when he's directing me and says the boy is here, I assure you he knows what he's talking about. He helped me keep things under control while I set up a perimeter and now he's on his way to back me up in person." Of course I've met the boy; somebody had to direct him to a safer spot than the middle of the gods-damned room!
Perhaps J was still disoriented from the explosives that blew up and left shrapnel in his eye, because he said musingly, "Hacker? We had a hacker in to update our security system not too long ago. Never saw him, but he did a good job; with the old system they'd have managed to catch us entirely off guard." Then a thought came through. "Wait, what are you doing pulling in a hacker? Hackers aren't good in fights!"
A snort escaped the lord even as he took potshots at the enemies working their way through the traps toward him. "He's brilliant. Mind like a computer. I've seen him talk to them, you know." More shooting, and Odin had to duck as some lucky bastard nearly singed his hair. "And they obey him. The kid can make anything technological do tricks you've never seen, given only a few hours. Oh, and don't knock his combat potential; boy's a badass," the assassin grinned tightly.
Those last few sentences broke through the post-explosion shock, and J said, "Kid?!" Even through the bloody mask his face had become, the astonishment was palpable.
"How do you think I met him?" drawled Odin. "Some street brat hacked my comm system!" There was a momentary pause as he shot some poor sod with a pulse blaster, and then, "I tracked him down and took him in, of course."
How the hell is it of course for an assassin lord?!
Cocoa-colored hair waved slightly as the boy ran, intent only on two things: his surroundings and the information flooding his ear. If Odin were in need of help, the data would tell him.
No cognizant thought crossed his mind, but he was determined to do everything he could to help the man who had helped him. If there was one thing the boy believed in, it was balance—in life as in death, in strength as in mind.
Unfortunately, balance was hard to maintain.
The boy ran on, occasionally pausing just long enough to snipe enemies from hiding. There was work to be done.
When the alert came in that there was a large group heading toward the dilapidated garage, Odin swore. J might be a Musketeer, but he was old and injured on top of that. There would be little, if any, help from that quarter. The boy was on his way, but first Odin would have to hold out, and that was where he would have trouble. So many enemies, so little time... Tch.
In times like these, Odin wondered if he ought perhaps to find another person to have as backup. Desperate last stands were not his style; after all, he was an assassin, and the Lord of L1, too. He was more the kill-them-quickly kind. Still, the downside to extra people was more chance of slip-ups and info leaks. Backup was something he didn't want the added risk of having, so he'd have to live or die by his own skills until the boy arrived to aid him.
Guess it's time to really get started. He subvocalized the password that remotely activated the explosives he'd established around the perimeter, dragging J behind cover just in time. Good thing the prince is in hiding; killing the person you're supposed to protect is not a good way to up your reputation... I get caught up in the action faster than my boy does, after all. It's probably a good thing he can ID the prince from his time redoing the castle security; that boy's got a mind like a trap—anything that goes in, stays in. Ten to one he'll show up just in time to save the day.
Perhaps other people would have found it odd, this immense faith he had in the his protege's abilities, but Odin had trained the child personally—and he'd been the best pupil the assassin had ever even thought of taking on. Who knows, maybe he'll make friends some day, too. Stranger things have happened.
But for the moment, there were so many people to kill in such a short amount of time... A little annihilation wouldn't go amiss, right?
Cold blue eyes assessed his surroundings even as the boy's mouth twitched up at the corners almost imperceptibly. Odin's triggered the explosives he planted around the enemy's routes. He's getting serious. The aftershocks of noise and simulated quake hit a split second later, but that split second's warning was all the boy had needed; he barreled onward, unperturbed.
Two men were ahead, neither wearing Musketeer insignia nor seemingly royal; the boy leapt up and whipped a garrote over the first man's head, momentum doing the rest of that job. The second man took a knife to kidneys and, as he fell to his knees, a blaster shot in the face.
No sense in leaving wounded enemies alive to do more damage, after all.
And then there was only the sound of hushed running footsteps on stone as the boy rushed onward.
I'm so bored... There's nothing to do here! Why did they tell me to be here and then not show up? And then that guy Howard sent told me to lie low in this van because the windows are one-way so I'm out of sight... But out of whose sight?
It wasn't that the crown prince wasn't intelligent—he was—but rather that he was young, impatient, and used to being active most of the day. He had yet to spend more than a few hours bogged down in paperwork, and intrigue was not something he had much practice with. No one at court considered him to have enough potential to manipulate him, so far. And while in some ways this was a good thing, in other ways it was extremely detrimental.
Primarily, it meant Trowa Barton was highly unprepared for a coup. And while his looks might buy him time, sooner or later that time would run out. After all, not everyone liked brown hair, long bangs, and green eyes.
His feet swung again, beating steadily against the seat. So bored...
J was starting to really respect this eccentric assassin. Not only was he smart, but he also had come prepared for all hell to break loose. Trip wires, laser sensors and even remote detonators were among the items that could unleash his dastardly setup—and the old rogue of a Musketeer was decidedly in favor of anything that could annihilate enemies. Even if he wasn't particularly thrilled about being knocked to the stone floor, he appreciated the thought for his person, because any average saboteur would have left him in the blast zone, unshielded. Of course, Lord Lowe was anything but average.
Still...
If we make it out of this alive, I'll have to find a way to repay him for the help. Howard probably played on his conscience to get him to do this.
Little did J know that such was not, in fact, what had changed the assassin lord's mind. From the mouths of babes, indeed...
Who the hell is taking out all of our people?! wondered the brunet lieutenant. But in a way that was immaterial now.
Drawing an explosive from his belt, he pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade down the hall into the room so inexplicably lethal. He didn't know who had set the traps or who was shooting them, but damn it he had a job to do! And if this asshole obstructing him didn't die soon, he was fairly sure the mastermind giving him orders would annihilate him. Death was not a pleasing prospect.
Peripheral vision caught movement at the corner of his eye, and Odin had just enough time to mentally curse the fact that his reflexes were faster than his eyes.
The shrapnel grenade blew up on impact with the blaster shot, and there was nothing to hold on to as the room tilted on its axis and sheets of red washed everything crimson.
Wait—red? Shit, I'm bleeding...! It hurt to move, but Odin reached into a pocket, intending to pull out gauze padding and bandages. He didn't know what had happened to J—presumably he'd been caught in the explosion too—or when he'd fallen to the floor, and there were enemies flooding the room. Fuck, how do they have so many reinforcements? Some snide internal part of him insisted they bred like rabbits, but Odin's ears were ringing and he didn't hear. The hand not groping for bandages and padding felt through a different pocket for his weapon of last resort, and even as one man noticed movement from the assassin and raised his rifle, a calloused thumb pressed the button.
Too late, fucker, came the spiteful thought right before the room went to pieces.
Blue eyes widened fractionally as an explosion rocked the stone around him, then narrowed. He's in trouble.
Without conscious thought, his body was moving faster, his fingers pulling triggers to kill anyone who didn't get out of his way. There was a debt, and the boy liked balance.
Odin Lowe had trained his protege well indeed.
The crown prince's green eyes flew wide as he lost his balance and fell to the floor of the van, brown bangs falling over both eyes briefly on impact. Tinted windows kept anyone who might be near from seeing him, and the stranger who'd escorted him here had told him to keep low and move as little as possible. On the floor next to him was the ray gun the man had left just in case, and fear tightened his throat at the thought that he might have to use it.
Something just blew up. I'd better be ready for trouble.
But he'd left it too late, and realized only when the door opened behind him and somebody called out, "I found him! He's over here!"
Whoever it was clamped arms around him to hold him immobile, and Trowa almost whimpered when he was lifted away from the gun, still lying out of sight under the seat. Pride kept him silent. These people could kill him, but they wouldn't break him, and if he survived...
If I make it through this, I'll never be a victim again. Green eyes burned with furious determination even as the thought surfaced.
Had he been older, wiser, perhaps he might have opted not to defy fate in such a manner; after all, fate was reputed to have an unfortunate sense of humor when people attempted to disregard it.
Information flooded the boy's ear, and ice cold blue eyes surveyed the scene. The prince was held captive. That would have to be the first priority. Once that was done, he could check on Odin.
It wasn't the way he would have preferred, but the assassin had trained him well. The job came first. Revenge could come later, after the pay was in hand.
In his ear, an alert sounded. Six men were surrounded, falling one by one to superior numbers. The boy's own special scanning system noted life functions remaining in five of the men, although the readings indicated they were probably unconscious now. Whoever the sixth person was...was out of luck; no signs of life were detected. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the boy wondered if they were the others who were supposed to be on the prince's side. He spoke, just enough to power up and operate two of his med-bots, sending one to assist the five survivors and the other to Odin Lowe.
And all the while, his feet kept him going.
Balance was everything.
Beep. Four humans heading on a collision course with Route Two. Repeat, four humans on a collision course with Route Two.
Well, that would be simple to remedy. He was alone, and they were a quartet. But he was deadlier than they were, and they had more reinforcements in the castle. So he would balance the scales a little more.
Green eyes stared dully at the motionless form of the stranger who had tried to help him. This was a lesson Trowa would never forget, should he survive the day. Being helpless was like painting a target on the backs of one's self and all around. It wasn't a feeling the young heir liked, and he vowed to himself that he'd never let this happen again.
Then movement made the boy blink. He'd been learning how to look expressionless, and he hoped he was succeeding, because whoever that was rushing silently through the hall sure seemed pissed at the guys holding him hostage. Maybe if the other person caught these guys off guard, they could team up or something?
But as the person neared, Trowa realized this was a boy about his age, with chocolate-brown hair and cold blue eyes. He slumped slightly, disappointed. What help could someone his age be? They were kids! Useless...
Apparently he shouldn't have even thought that, because suddenly the man who'd been holding him was down with a ruptured throat, and Trowa was pretty sure not even a doctor could fix a cut that big in the neck.
The next guy fell victim to a thrown weapon in the spinal cord—it flashed past so quickly Trowa didn't see whether it was a knife or some archaic armament—but the third person caught movement as one of his comrades went down and spun, drawing a blaster pistol. He didn't have time to shoot it, because as soon as it was clear of the holster he took a ray beam to the eye. Burnt flesh wasn't a pleasant smell and if the beam shot hadn't captured the attention of everyone in the room, the scent definitely did.
"- the fuck!? He's just a kid!"
Open mouth, insert...shrapnel grenade? Works for me, shrugged Trowa, somewhere between bemusement and shock. He was so nonplussed—and coming down from a fear-inspired adrenaline high—that all he could do was watch the chocolate-haired boy commence one hell of a killing spree.
Beep. Med-bot two reporting: fatal injuries. Target sustained fatal injuries, numbing agent applied.
Blue eyes burned with a cold, cold fury. He didn't think; that was too cerebral an action. Rage filled his gut and moved his limbs.
The first enemy took a beam shot in the face, the second a throwing knife to the stomach. Then he was in close quarters, and he showed no mercy; something inside him, some insane incarnation whose intentions were murder and mayhem, was laughing with gleeful, vengeful menace. It could have been his inner street rat, happy to dish out a little justice to the other side...or it could have been his inner assassin, gone kill-crazy with...probably shock. Yes, shock was the most likely; hearing that Odin wasn't going to make it was quite a blow, and in the back of his mind, part of the boy was rational enough to realize that.
A blaster pistol pointed at him and the boy deliberately fell sideways mid-dash, shooting three of the more distant enemies as they ran to aid their comrades. Rolling to his feet, he surreptitiously slid a garrote into his hand, counting on the thinness of the wire to keep it from being seen.
"It's a kid!" shouted one of the enemies, the last word strangled as the boy used his own body as a counterweight on the other end of the garrote.
What the boy heard was, "It's a kill!" He knew this was not what had been said, somewhere in his mind. But the phrasing made him grin viciously inside, where no one could see and use it against him.
Shooting the next two in the chest and stomach to make sure they stayed down, the boy prepared to move.
Green eyes blinked as the prince was shoved toward cover.
"Get down and stay there until I say it's safe," the other boy told him. "I'll keep them from you and draw their attention."
The tone was cold and professional, which made the young prince's respect for him rise another notch. But he'd seen those blue eyes narrow at the sight of that fallen stranger, and it didn't take a genius to connect the dots. Whoever the other boy was, he knew the stranger well and was not happy the man had been killed. And from the looks of his retaliations toward the enemies so far, he was taking his anger out on them.
Good, came the pragmatic, heartfelt response. Anyone who comes in here and even looks like they're trying to kill us will die at the hands of one they missed.
It wasn't nice, but it was justice...balance. And Trowa was coming to appreciate balance more and more. So he turned again to face the other boy and spoke with quiet determination.
The assassin boy's blue eyes blinked when the prince spoke, not because of the tone or the fact that the other boy was speaking to him, but because of the words and the tone that quite obviously meant them.
"These guys are killing anyone who tries to help me. I don't have the skill to take them on, but you do. Would you balance the scales for me?"
Blue eyes stared into green for what felt like a long moment but was probably less. "Are you requesting a contract on them?"
"Contract?" Like...something that could be taken to court?
"A contract is a verbal or written agreement detailing who to kill, when, and in some cases how."
"Oh." Those eyes darkened to jade green as he considered this information, and the young assassin felt curious even though he was unwilling to act on it and would be for some time. "Yes, I want a contract. I don't care how long it takes; I understand you have to protect me first, but kill them. They killed all the kitchen staff and even the sleeping guards, I overheard Howard telling J on the comm system earlier. For coming after me, you'll probably kill anyone who comes close anyway, but for killing people who didn't have anything to do with this at the time, I want them all dead." Besides, they're trying to hurt people I care about. It was more than he could articulate at the moment, but the young prince wanted vengeance for the fallen and safety for those who remained among the living. Since he couldn't do so, the green-eyed brunette would use his royal prerogative—and money—to hire someone who at least stood a much better chance at success.
He thought this was the last of the prince's reasoning, but the green-eyed boy spoke again.
"This can't happen again," Trowa said softly, intent on recent memories. Very recent indeed.
The young assassin considered, nodded shortly. "Done. Seventy-nine of two hundred and fifty-one are currently dead or dying. The rest will die either as they encounter us here or once I track them down after. We'll discuss the fee later; I'm a little busy right now." And then he turned to do his job.
Trowa felt a profound sense of relief at the assassin boy's words. He would never have to go through this again. This other boy, whoever he was, would help him, and when he was safe he would have Howard find someone to train him to defend himself. In the meanwhile, though, all he could do was wait.
Howard came back to consciousness with a groan. There was no part of his body that didn't hurt like hell, but all things considered he felt better than he ought to after being in such close proximity to high-powered explosives.
Wait a— His thoughts skidded to a halt, forcibly yanking his attention to the fact that by rights he shouldn't be alive. Even if he'd survived the blast, he should have died of blood loss. And the only people he knew were on his side who hadn't also been present...were the assassin, the prince, and J...and he doubted they'd made it out easily. So why the hell am I still alive?
Glancing around between winces, he noticed a strange-looking little robot treating G. It was unmarked, which made Howard suspect it belonged to the assassin. But I never asked him to go to such lengths... Why...? He couldn't even finish the thought, because he didn't quite know which why he wanted answers to.
His comrades groaned, spurring Howard to action. He checked King Dekim's pulse but couldn't find it. Despair welled, a raging current so fast and deep that Howard almost didn't hear the short burst of static from the robot before a harsh young voice spoke.
"Status report says four of you there will recover. When you're able, press the silver button on the 'bot and it will lead you to the prince. It's programmed not to lead people into enemy patrols, so as long as you can move you should be fine."
Howard wasn't sure who this was, but it wasn't the assassin he'd contracted. He didn't know if whoever it was would hear him through the robot, but he had something to say. "You aren't the man I contacted for help, so why should I trust you?"
Another short burst of static, followed by the sounds of blaster fire and people in agony. "Apart from the fact that I had my 'bot heal you and am with the prince right now? Assassins don't like to give away trade secrets, Captain."
How does he know? Howard hadn't said his name or rank, so how did this unknown male know who he was? And why does he sound so young?
"If you truly need a more concrete reason, fine. I have a contract with your prince, and I would like to be able to do my job. Which I can't until the prince has someone else to guard him."
The words were so unorthodox for an assassin that Howard was momentarily speechless. But as he glanced around he realized that his comrades were coming to, and he knew without a doubt that nothing would stop them from saving the prince...because they hadn't been able to save the king. "Very well."
Odin Lowe hurt like hell, and he knew he was dying. The fact that the med-bot wasn't treating him was proof of that, not that he needed further confirmation than his own assessment. Assassins knew the lethal areas; it was good business sense.
But he had a message he needed the kid to hear, and the med-bot was close enough to record it. He subvocalized the activation phrase, voice rough due to internal bleeding. It felt like he was gargling blood, but then close encounters with explosives did things like that to a person.
When the med-bot beeped and confirmed the start of the recording, Odin Lowe left his final lesson.
Howard had never known this passage even existed. S, G, H, and O followed him as he trailed the 'bot, and the air had a downcast feel to it as everyone kicked themselves for failing to protect the king. Oh, it wasn't really their fault; they were only human. And, in some small part, they knew that. But that didn't stop the guilt from running rampant, bombarding their minds with horror and trepidation...and instigating a lethally honed determination to see their prince safely through this disaster.
Some short time later they burst through the doors and skidded to a halt just before a set of traps. The sight that greeted their eyes was so bizarre that even they, veterans wise in the ways of combat, stopped dead in their tracks and stared.
Bodies littered the floor. Scorch marks lined the walls. Blood pooled on the cold stones, just now drying at the edges. Here and there were the gutted corpses of exploded transport vehicles, and—there! There, just beyond the crater—and gods knew what caused that!—Is that a boy?
Stocky body, short brown hair, and—as they drew close enough to see—cold blue eyes. Male. A young boy, dressed in garb he'd previously seen only on assassins. Logically, then, this must be the boy who claimed to have a contract with Prince Trowa.
Silver blurs whipped past the incoming group as the boy turned. Howard noted distantly that the little brunet had an arm outstretched and had only a moment to wonder what had been done. Then light glinted off of falling, severed trip wires and throwing knives hit the wall with dull clanks before gravity pulled them down.
"If you walk straight to me, your path is safe," the boy stated tonelessly. Turning away again but maintaining the same angle between himself and the Musketeers, he raised his voice slightly and said, "Alright, Your Highness, they're here. No enemies in the immediate vicinity. Should be okay to come out, but stay with your men or I can't guarantee your safety."
Another brunet appeared, clambering cautiously around the remains of a corner and through a burnt-out HOV-SAV (shattered tinted windows, melted tires, deformed flexsteel frame) before catching sight of the Musketeers. His Musketeers.
Trowa's eyes bespoke his relief at seeing them, but he'd seen firsthand how much the assassin boy's no-nonsense approach to danger helped keep them both alive. He frowned slightly as he asked Howard, "Do we have anywhere uncompromised we can wait?"
"I'm...not the one to ask; I tasked J with setting them up," the balding captain admitted. It was his turn to frown. "Where is J, anyway? He was supposed to be with you."
The prince looked pained for a moment before his expressionless mask settled again. "He's...here somewhere." Turning to the assassin boy, he asked, "Do you know where, exactly?"
"With my other med-bot," the boy stated, pointing toward the fallen form of Odin Lowe. "Just past my predecessor's corpse." A twinge of pain ran through him at the words, but he ignored it; other things were currently more important. Like staying alive.
Even as intent as he was on finding J, one word caught Howard's attention. "Predecessor?" he asked sharply. Corpse?
Snorting, the blue-eyed boy retorted, "Just how often do you see assassins as young as I am?"
"You're the first," conceded the captain, gesturing two of his comrades to fetch and rouse J. "But he didn't say anything about having help."
"He wouldn't. Assassins are paranoid."
Can't argue with that. "Then why are you speaking so freely?"
Head tilting slightly, the boy's first thought was, Shock. Odin's death was unexpected. But assassins never revealed weaknesses, so he said, "Frankly? It's going to be enough of a hassle to establish credentials with L1. Consider this as me saving my efforts for where they're going to be needed."
Trowa just watched. He knew the boy was upset by his mentor's death - hell, he himself was still upset over his father's death! But since there was nothing either could do except avenge them, he held his tongue. It wasn't his place to spill secrets that didn't need aired.
As S and G carried an unconscious J over, Howard had to ask, "Say I accept that Lowe took you in and trained you. What makes you think the other assassins in L1 will do the same?"
"They won't," the boy said simply, coolly. "But they won't be able to kill me, either, so they'll have to give in eventually."
Confident. The boy's eyes were scanning the area constantly, alert for the slightest change. ...he'd be tough to take out, from what I can see.
J was in bad shape. Blood leaked sluggishly from minor cuts and he somewhat resembled a pincushion with the amount of shrapnel in him, but considering he'd been caught in three explosions he was doing fairly well.
"Sir," reported S, "he's alive but we weren't able to rouse him."
Howard was somber as he turned to the boy. "Can your med-bot do anything?"
Not bothering to reply directly, the boy tapped his earpiece and recited a code. A light on the med-bot closest to them blinked twice in confirmation before it moved. With a slight hum, it settled next to J and raised a screen. Light played off the ragged Musketeer's face, but there was no response. The med-bot also attempted audio stimulation, once again to no effect. Touch garnered no response either. So the med-bot injected a stimulant.
In a few minutes, J's eyelids twitched. He was stirring.
The assassin boy gazed about restlessly, feeling the need to be moving, to be doing...to be killing. There was a job to be finished, and he had no one else to rely on now.
Then J groaned, stirring. His comrades didn't look, too busy manning the perimeter; they knew J would do the same if the situation were reversed.
"J," said Howard. "There's a boy here who claims he was the pupil of L1's Assassin Lord. Should we trust him?"
He squinted at the blue-eyed boy, one eye covered with drying blood, and asked faintly, "Assassin?"
"Yes," affirmed the boy. "Why?"
He grunted, but that hurt his throat and made him cough. When he could breathe again, J said, "Lowe told me how he met you. Said you hacked his comm system."
Nodding the boy confirmed it. "I did. He didn't appreciate it at first, but we came to terms eventually."
Terms? This had the remaining Musketeers and the prince curious.
"I handled the electronics and helped him on jobs, ordered his supplies. He provided the residences, food and clothes, and trained me." The boy shrugged. "Much better than trying to eke a living on the streets of L1. Death rate's through the roof there."
There was a moment of silence as they digested this, and then Howard remembered why he'd had J roused in the first place.
"Do we have any uncompromised safe houses?" he demanded of his subordinate.
J had to think for a time. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out what had been a MemAudio (programmed to respond to voice prompts and memorize data, disguised as a key). It was broken. The Musketeer sighed. "Sorry, Captain. The sites I have memorized are safe for Musketeers but wouldn't be for royalty. And I can't access the rest of my data without a safe terminal, which won't be found here."
Howard frowned. He was just starting to think when a voice startled him from his musing.
"Take mine," said the boy. "Assassins always have multiple safe houses; it's good business sense. We've used them before and not had problems, so you should be fine." Who would expect royalty to hide with assassins, anyway? "Enough unpleasant surprises await anyone trying to force their way in that you'd have enough forewarning to run, if need be," he added. Walking over to the med-bot that had led the survivors to him, he pressed a sequence of buttons no one else saw, reached underneath it and pulled out an RTMap. Returning, he handed it to Howard. "Pick the area you want; it'll show you to the closest safe house. Just...when it goes into minute details, follow the instructions; we set up traps."
Without further ado, he walked away, even his posture changing as he went on the hunt.
J watched him go, then turned to Howard. "Captain, I think I've found the one I want as a successor."
Howard shook his head. "The new Lord of L1...as a Musketeer? He's an assassin, J; I don't think it will work."
"You never know until you try," murmured the injured man.
The captain shook his head again. "Well, it's your choice, but for the time being...let's get moving." Really, I suppose I should have expected J to find his successor in the least likely of places. Unorthodox is definitely his style...
(Time skip, a year. The coup is over, the would-be assassins have been taken out by L1's new Lord, and J has succeeded in talking the blue-eyed young assassin into becoming his successor. He has named the boy Heero Yuy, after the man who almost pulled off a peaceful revolution but who was killed and then followed by the Barton monarchy, which ruled with a sometimes heavy hand. For the last six months, in addition to his role as the Assassin Lord, Heero has been training as a Musketeer under J's tutelage.)
Heero Yuy wished that whoever was at his door would go away. That incessant doorbell was really irritating. He'd just woken up after finishing the last of his current jobs and was eating breakfast, but it looked like he wasn't going to be able to finish just yet.
It wasn't a secret that he lived here; this was the official residence of the Lord of L1, so of course he lived here. At least part of the time. When no one was seriously after his life, anyway. And he dropped by fairly often just to see if there were any requested commissions in the mail, even when his life was at risk.
So it wasn't as if he thought he was in danger; this place was booby trapped to hell and back, there were weapons stashed all over, not to mention all the secret passages, trapdoors and surveillance. Still, he drew a handgun and checked the security footage to make sure his visitor was alone. He was.
Heero opened the door to find a purple-eyed boy around his age on the porch. The other boy's hair was long, brown, and braided, and his eyes burned with fury.
"I want you to kill the Lord of L2!" he snarled.