Warnings: alternate universe fic, language, shounen ai, eventual yaoi (male/male sex), reference to yuri (female/female sexual relationship), angst, eventual character death & reference to torture
DISCLAIMER - I totally don't own Gundam Wing, but I do borrow that little corner of Animeland a lot. Without permission.
The main story of "Tomb Raiders" begins NOW.
We now jump forward three years in time to 2012.
Dec 08 2012 Update! Here's the general layout of the fic: Hieroglyphs (prologue), Ruins (3 parts), Appearances (3 parts), Team Work (3 parts), Prom Night (3 parts), The Quest (3 or more parts), and some kind of epilogue. Estimated word count: approx. 170,000. Eish. You can follow my writing progress on my livejournal.
Recommended theme music for "Ruins" - the album "What if" by Earlyrise (Check them out on CDbaby's online independent music store or iTunes.) Their lyrics have a straightforward, "young" quality to them that I think matches Duo and Trowa's ages. Plus, I really like their music style and composition.
If you're following this story on my livejournal, it has been posted in two separate posts there due to LJ's word-count-per-post limit. See "Ruins - Part 1: Plans & Panic"
Tomb Raiders: Ruins – Part 1 (Duo POV)
"Oh, come on, Duo!"
I shook my head. "I don't wanna go, Hilde. Just drop it."
"But it's your senior prom! And you didn't go to any of the other ones. This is your last chance!"
"I'm aware of that," I retorted wryly but with no intention whatsoever of giving in.
Growing up, I'd spent just about every school holiday following my dad and mom to obscure and remote places, to archeology dig sites in South America, Russia, Southeast Asia, and Africa. Just to name a few. I'd been to corners of the world where kids my age and younger had to work for a living, had to learn how to handle weapons before they'd ever touched a computer. So what if I didn't go to my stupid prom? It was nothing but a pointless waste of time and money meant to piggyback on Valentine's Day in order to counter the commercialism whiplash of the Christmas-shopping-spree season. Which we were currently in the middle of.
"You're a pal and a half, Hils," I said, cutting across her next argument, "but there's nuthin' you can say that's gonna change my mind."
"Bet you would if your pen pal asked you to go," she grumbled.
She was probably right. Hell, I'd go to Hell itself and back if Trowa asked me to. Still, I somehow doubted that he'd ask me to go to prom.
He and I hadn't seen each other in the last three years but, thanks to the miracle of communications satellites, we were keeping in touch almost daily. Some days for freakin' hours at a time. Those were the best. The days when I didn't hear from him at all were the worst. On those days, I wondered if he was fighting, if he was injured, if his stuff had been stolen or his cell phone broken and I worried how in the hell I was gonna send him a new one, worried that I'd lost him not just to the anonymity of the eight or so billion people on the planet, but to death itself. A million and a half horrible things could happen to him and I wouldn't know until it was too late, and there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do to help—!
I shook myself.
"You're just jealous," I retorted, rallying my composure. I held the front door open for her and we escaped the school building with the rest of the student body, heading for the student parking lot and our cars.
She rolled her eyes and sighed. Her breath puffed and plumed in the early-December freeze. "I'd have to actually see him to be jealous."
"Hey!" I objected laughing, amused that she'd dismissed me so easily. I was a good catch. Except that rumor had it I was gay. Well, whatever. Maybe I was. In any case, I had zero interest in dating anyone from this preppy prep school.
"That's right, go on and defend your stud muffin invisible friend."
I rolled my eyes. "He's not invisible."
"But he is a stud muffin?" she fished.
I refused to be caught. "No comment." He was, though. He so was. And I could have shared that much with Hilde, since I did have photos of Trowa, but I'd promised him I wouldn't show them to a soul. Who'da guessed he was so shy? He sure was photogenic, though; that was for damn sure.
The latest in cell phone technology had built-in cameras, so when I'd sent him the most recent replacement for the Palm Pilot from three years ago, I made sure to include a model that had all the bells and whistles. By way of thanks (and after I'd practically begged for a snapshot of him: "Hey, you can show off all your cool scars" and "I need it for my shrine to your Awesome" hadn't budged his resolve, but with the simple "Please, Trowa – it would mean a lot to me," I'd hit pay dirt), he'd sent me a photo of himself looking adorably nervous in a threadbare tank top with the pendant I'd made for him three years ago still there resting against the center of his muscular chest. That, plus the sight of his toned arms, had inspired me to redouble my efforts for the school swim team.
God but I missed him. More and more with every day, it seemed. The guy was damn funny and freakin' smart and it burned me up that he was probably never gonna get outta that world of violence and uncertainty on his own. I had to bite my tongue to keep from offering him Solo's old room at my dad's place at least five times a day. I kept it down to about once a month, saving the offer for when he'd had a tip-top-shitty, my-life-reeks-like-rancid-cat-ass day. But soon – just as soon as I got through graduation and my dad moved back to London – I was gonna have the apartment all to myself and then Trowa wouldn't be able to use the old excuse about intruding on my dad.
Speaking of which, I was pretty sure my dad still didn't know that his only living son was hung up on the memory of a three-years-ago, all-night-long make-out session and was crushing harder with every passing day on a South African merc.
Jesus. I couldn't really tell you what I'd been thinking that night. I mean, as a 15-year-old kid, any number of random stimuli'd had the potential to get my rockets charged and ready for boosting, but there'd been something about Trowa. Solid, grounded, quiet-but-not-silent, earnest-but-not-humorless, tough-but-not-callus Trowa. Trowa, whose only self-indulgence seemed to be his iPod and collection of classical music. I'd never met anyone like him. Nor had I ever kissed anyone so dedicated to just existing in the moment.
Not that I'd kissed all that many people before him. Just one. Hilde, actually. And it was a damn good thing she'd decided she hadn't liked my long hair enough to overlook the fact that I was a boy because that meant we could still be friends and she could get on with convincing her would-be-girlfriend, Dorothy, to play for the home team. Seeing as how they'd been going out for something like two years now, that alone told you how persuasive Hilde could be.
But after Trowa? No, I hadn't kissed anyone. I didn't want to. I was still living off of my memories, as pathetic as that sounded. Pathetic but so vivid and, in my memory, he tasted better every time.
Despite the temperature being like nine hundred degrees below zero and despite the ice-crusted snow crunching under my feet, I flushed, sweating inside my wool coat.
"Duo?"
"Huh?" I looked up and realized I'd blindly followed Hilde over to her car. Damn. Where was my head?
Hah. I knew where it was. It was in Ethiopia or Uganda or Madagascar… wherever Trowa was today. And it was busy imagining how a night together with no interruptions would play out now that I was older and wiser (even if I wasn't any more experienced) in the Way of the Hormonal Teenager. (O, sacred path of the young and impatient! Lead me to the light!)
Right. I had to cut this out. I could Kama Sutra myself into a jerk-off session later, in the comforts of central heating.
"Watch out for the black ice," I muttered. But I could tell that the warning wouldn't be doing me any good. I was probably fated to wrap my car around a lamppost or something when I started zoning out on His Hotness again.
"Black ice. Got it." She smirked. Yeah, I guess it was pretty obvious I wasn't thinking about the road conditions. "I'll see you tomorrow, Duo," Hilde said and I got my ass outta there.
I unlocked the driver's side door of my piece-of-shit, four-door sedan and slid in behind the wheel. The engine turned over after a grumble of protest and the heater whined at me when I cranked it all the way up. It really was a crap car. I could have bought a new one like most of the student body here had, but I'd decided to save my trust fund allowance for, Trowa willing, a one-way airplane ticket from wherever in Africa to New York plus what it was gonna cost to get him suited up for life in the Big Apple: a driver's license, a GED, maybe even a permit to own and carry a gun. (I wasn't sure if he'd want that last option or not, but I'd checked around and saved up for all the hoopla that went with it and OMG hella lotta hello hoopla.) Hell, I even had enough money saved up for an additional round-trip ticket to Africa just in case I had to go and drag his ass back here with me.
So, I had a shitty car. Everyone assumed that I hadn't gotten a hot new set of wheels because I'd pissed off my dad. Well, they could go right on thinkin' that. I had bigger and better things on my mind.
Heh, speaking of which…
As I waited for the engine to warm up, I pulled out my cell phone and opened up the photo album on it, smiling at the picture of Trowa in that tank top. I couldn't see much else, but I got the impression that the tangle of shadows over his shoulder was the corner of his bedroll. I liked that he'd sent me a photo taken of himself sitting up in bed. I liked being able to imagine that the hand holding the phone up for the shot was actually hooked around the back of my neck, pulling me down to join him. Yeah, I liked that a lot.
In the second photo of my password-protected Trowa Only Folder, he was dressed in his fatigues with the jacket sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sitting on the hood of a battered Jeep smiling bashfully. Then, at some point, his troupe buddies had snitched his phone and snapped candids of him. There was one of him cooking over a camp stove, stirring a pot that looked like it was big enough to feed all fourteen guys in his troupe and their egos twice over (Trowa actually looked kinda irritated in that shot). And another of his profile against a cloudy sky as he took watch somewhere at the edge of a jungle (his eyes had never looked so hard). And there was one shot of him cleaning a rifle while wearing his earphones (I remembered that look of peace on his face very clearly). Finally, there was a photo of the whole troupe posed together. It amazed me that these big, rough, battle-scarred and war-hardened guys could still smile. Trowa stood off to the side, looking miffed that the older guy he'd called Bryce had dared to put an arm around his shoulders and give him bunny ears.
I was pretty sure that if I gave him bunny ears, he wouldn't be miffed. Hm. I'd have to ask him about that later.
I sighed and buckled my seatbelt. As I pulled out to join the line of cars leaving the student parking lot, I thought about how it was getting harder and harder (Hah! So true.) to keep our conversations from going into the realm of heavy flirting. This had not been an issue back when wireless Internet service had still been patchy at best, but somebody somewhere had pushed some big, red button or other to make the whole shebang just groove and now we didn't have any "lost carrier signal" alerts to interrupt our chats which were veering toward the realm of intense with increasing frequency.
Time and time again, I had to tear my thumb away from the Send button on my iPhone, delete the text message I'd just entered, and start over. Yeah, I wanted to know if he still thought about my last night at the dig site in Egypt. Yeah, I wanted to know if he felt hot all over and his lips tingled and he got hard remembering it like I did. It was killing me to not send those messages, but I was planning to ask him to come and live with me (and I wasn't gonna take "no" for an answer) and I didn't want him to feel like I wanted him here just because he was hot and I was horny. (Both of which were totally true, but I knew, intellectually, that they should not be the most important factors in making a life-altering decision. Damn it.)
Since I was off from work today (the old ladies at the neighborhood Super Mart would have to bag their own groceries tonight), I went directly home. I wanted to get as much of my stupid homework done as I could before Trowa texted me later. My dad was still at the office, so I grabbed a peanut butter sandwich and cracked my books open on the kitchen table. I was almost ready to shove my calculus homework down the garbage disposal when my iPhone buzzed with an incoming message.
It was from Trowa.
/All clear?/
/Clear enough. Who needs calculus, right?/
/Not I. I'm pretty sure all you need is Beowulf. He'll slay it for you. In extensively descriptive prose./
I laughed. /Been doing your homework, huh?/
/For better or worse./
I'd been sending him lists and links of the reading material I was doing in my classes over the past three years. He didn't have time to do all of the work, and he sure as hell wasn't writing papers on any of it or taking any exams, but we chatted about the stuff he managed to get through. I loved getting his take on it. Sometimes it was like talking to someone from another planet what with the weird ass, pure genius shit he'd come up with. Once or twice, I'd passed on points he'd raised to my classmates and teachers during actual class discussions just to see what happened. I never claimed the ideas as my own in my papers, or anything, but Trowa got a kick outta some of the reactions I'd reported back to him.
He sent me a second text message. /Beowulf needs to stop getting his friends killed./
/No kidding./ Being the last guy standing was not a ringing endorsement for a hero in my book.
/Actually, he reminds me of James Bond. Cocky and unbearable, but able to deliver./
I snorted. /Don't you dare let that psychopathic glory-seeking demon-fucker on your team./ I paused and then added, /Or Beowulf./ I wondered if my jab at Double-Oh Seven had made Trowa laugh.
He answered, /They'd make decent human shields./
I could imagine. Frowning, I typed out, /Just so long as you're not one of them./
/I'm always careful./
/And you're always Trowa. Even better! Hey, what would you do if you caught me giving you bunny ears in a photo?/
I sent that message and waited… and waited… and waited a bit more. I slouched back in the wooden chair, crossed my feet at the ankles, and tried not to acknowledge how nervous I was. I was flirting with Trowa. Flirting was off-limits. But I wasn't gonna back down now, so I prompted him with: /Shall I rephrase that in the form of a multiple choice question?/
/As long as A, B, and C involve a private room, lack of clothing, and a big bed./
I cackled gleefully. My hands trembled. /I'm thinkin' you're gonna go for "D, all of the above."/
/Yes./
I clenched my jaw. My fingers tightened around the phone. Jesus, I wanted him. /You still think about that night?/ I sent it before I could second guess myself.
/All the time./
I did, too. /Can I call you?/ I wanted to hear the sound of his voice so bad. So, so bad. Even if I'd only just talked to him last weekend. It was rare that he had the privacy to speak to me but when he did his voice dropped into a low register that was reserved for moonlight and rumpled bed sheets. The topic, however mundane, was irrelevant. His voice was magic.
/I'm sorry. We're trekking to a new location now. I'm in the bakkie with Martins, Bryce, and the captain./
It took me a second before "bakkie" clicked: a pickup truck. Close quarters, that. Definitely not the place for a private conversation. I chuckled. /Ah./ I sent that and then typed out a second message. /On a scale of 1 to 10, how risky is this new job?/
/1.5/
/?/
/We've been grafted to guard some international company's apartment complex for the year. Cush job./
/Where?/
/Lagos./
I scowled. /That is not a "cush" place. You watch your ass, Tro, or I'll come over there and kick it./
/You make me laugh./
/Somebody has to./
There was a long pause after that and I wondered if he was having the same kinda trouble I was breathing around the whatever that was sitting in the center of my chest like a ton of bricks. I cleared my throat and typed in a new message.
/A 1-year contract, huh?/
/Tentatively. Renewable every 3 months./
/Good, 'cuz I've got an offer for you, Trowa Barton./
/?/
/From June. Including room and board./
When he didn't jump to reply, I quickly texted, /Just think about it./
/You're all I think about./ This reply popped up with satisfying speed. /The guys are getting siek-n-sat of all my daydreaming./
/I feel your pain. My classmates have been demanding proof of your existence./
/A photo? ? ?/
Three question marks. Holy crap. I could just imagine the wide-eyed look on his face and the sweat dewing at his temples: Tro-caught-in-the-headlights-of-oncoming-destiny.
I quickly answered. /Don't worry about it. I'm stronger than their peer pressure./ I sent that and then added with blunt honesty, /Besides, if you really were just a figment of my imagination, you wouldn't be halfway around the damn world, headed for Nigeria./
/In that case, I almost wish this was a dream./
I grinned. It wasn't a promise to take me up on my offer in six months, but it was promising.
I startled as I heard the rattle and slide of the key in the front door. /Dad's home. Watch your back, Tro, and all the other bits, too./
/Always./
I slid the phone back in my pocket just as my dad entered the kitchen. "Which friend was that?" he asked, loosening his tie.
"Trowa," I answered. I wondered if he was asking out of habit or because he was holding out hope that I was finally showing an interest in one of the girls from school.
"Didn't you speak with him just last weekend?"
I tracked his movements as he pulled down a tumbler from the cupboard and poured himself a glass of water. "Yeah," I said. I didn't tell him that I was in contact with Trowa just about every day. That might freak him out a little bit. It was one thing for me to be helping Trowa with his education. I wasn't sure how he'd take it if he figured out we were joined at the digital hip. I said, "You know I send him my school assignments. When he has time, we go over 'em."
My dad turned and smiled at me. I smiled back. "You're a good friend, Dominic. I'm proud of you." I grinned wider as he patted my shoulder. "How's your schoolwork coming along?"
I shrugged. "Calculus makes me feel like I'm a couple evolutionary steps down from an amoeba. Other than that, I'm great."
He chuckled. "So I see."
"How was work?" I probed, wondering how much of a holiday we were gonna have this year. Christmas was always hard what with mom and Solo being gone. Even though their Cessna had gone down in Kamchatka something like eight years ago, it was still a bitch and a half getting through those damn family holidays. Dad and I traveled a lot doing the tourist thing, mostly to escape how empty it was here at home. Twice since Egypt, we'd gone to other dig sites, one in Peru up in the Andes and another in the Arizona desert. My chest ached at the memory of how painfully similar but how agonizingly different the Mohave had been from the Sahara.
"Work is manageable," my dad answered, giving me a smile that I recognized. It was the same one he'd given me before announcing that I was going to Egypt with him to see an actual dig site at an ancient tomb. Three years ago. Where I'd met Trowa. I knew that my dad wasn't about to suggest a trip to visit him, but my heart started racing so fast it just about caused my chest to explode. Whatever he had planned was gonna be special; the Andes and Arizona sites hadn't warranted the ol' grin-an'-sparkle.
"And?" I pressed, feeling my hands fist.
By way of answer, he fished out an envelope from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and placed it on the table in front of me. I picked it up and blinked at the air tickets inside. "Vientiane, Laos?"
"Laos," he confirmed. "There's a site in the south I'd like to see, a place your mother was researching. What do you say we make a holiday of it?"
I grinned. "Bonus. This totally PWNs."
He laughed as he got up and pushed his chair in. He reached over and mussed my bangs. "If I'm not mistaken, that means I've just scored the game-winner."
"Big time, dad. Big time."
The buzz lasted long enough for him to give me the 101 on traveling to Southeast Asia. There'd be a medical checkup and vaccinations involved (whoo-hoo) but it wasn't like we'd never done that song and dance before. I got on the Internet and started looking up useful phrases in Lao for us to learn and I researched all those putzy-yet-strangely-exciting details like reliable transportation throughout the country, the dependability of emergency medical treatment, and the morbidly interesting tourist scams that were currently fleecing the unaware.
It wasn't until I'd relocated to my bedroom, iPhone in hand, and had just typed in a message to Trowa that my enthusiasm dulled and dimmed. /Dad and I are going to Laos in a ten days./ I stared at the text, wishing the letters would rearrange themselves, wishing there was a G in the name of our destination. Sighing, I sent it and then set my phone down before forcing myself to dive back into the eighth circle of hell, otherwise known as calculus.
About an hour later, just as I was starting to seriously consider burning my textbook and starting a movement to end the cruel and unusual torment that was rampant in the American school system, Trowa messaged me back. /That is not much of a holiday destination./
I scooped up my phone and swiveled around in my desk chair to kick my bedroom door shut. Y'know, just in case. /I know. I've been looking it up online. But we'll be fine. Dad knows judo and aikido./
/Stop joking about this./
/It's what I do!/
/Damn it. Now I know how you feel when I take on a new assignment./
I blinked at the phone screen. He was worried about me? Well. Would wonders never cease. I typed back, /Hey, you know you're the first person I'd call if I needed a lookout while I kicked someone's ass or encountered a jar of peanut butter I couldn't open or something./
/Ja, and I'll just wiggle my ears and magically appear./
/Can you do that?/
/Magically disappear and reappear? It's called stealth. Limited range only./
I snorted. /No, smartass. Wiggle your ears! Can you do that?/
/Can't everyone?/
/Um, NO./
/I guess that makes me special./
/No shit, Tro. Tell me something I didn't know five minutes ago./ I hit Send and then got one more comment out there before I could get too distracted imagining the endless possibilities concerning his wiggle-able ears. /Save your ears. Use a plane ticket./
/Easy for you to say./
I winced at the reminder of his troupe's financial insecurity. It tore me up that Trowa was risking his life every day just to stay alive. Those kinds of dangers ought to translate into something that would one day help him get ahead of the game. It was so unjust I could puke.
I told him, /I've been saving up my spare change./ I sent that and kept right on texting, /But I'm hoping to use it to invite you to my place for the indefinite future, so I'd better not have to kick ass or deal with any stuck jar lids while I'm there./
There was a long pause after I sent that. In fact, it was so long, I started swiveling my desk chair back and forth as I waited for his reply. And then, surprisingly, my iPhone rang. It was Trowa's number. Damn. He usually asked before he called. Or warned me. Or something.
"Trowa?" I asked, picking up.
"You thought you were texting someone else?"
Oooh, his voice. It was my drug of choice. "I was sure hoping I wasn't."
"Hm," he purred. He probably didn't mean for it to be a purr, but it freakin' came out like one.
I bit my lip and took a deep breath. "So, what's up, man?"
There was a beat of silence and then he murmured, "We ought to be having this conversation in person. Barring that, the sound of your voice will do."
"Conversation?" I squeaked. The hell? That sounded… fateful.
"'The indefinite future'?" he quoted, turning those three words into something that made my throat go dry, my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth, and my heart pound painfully.
"Duo?" he prompted.
"Yeah. The indefinite future," I confirmed. "I, uh… You…" I took a deep breath and blurted, "Look, you're not about to break up with me, are you?" Shit. Could I sound any more pathetic?
"Break up with—!" He bit off whatever he was about to hiss next, paused, took a deep breath, and said, "No, I am not breaking up with you."
"Oh. Oh, that's good," I answered lamely, slumping bonelessly over my computer desk in relief. "I did tell you we were going steady, didn't I? At some point?"
"Not exactly," he replied. "But I sussed it out."
Yeah, it was pretty obvious how far gone I was for him. Still… "You realize how sexy your smart is, don't you?"
"Duo," he answered, a bit of a growl entering his tone. I shivered. "Are you asking me to come to the States to live with you… permanently?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause. "I can't do that."
"You can. If you want to." Oh, how I wanted him to.
"I'd need a visa and a miracle. My passport is good enough for travel within Africa and maybe other places with very loose standards for foreign visitors, but I'll never get through immigration in the States or Europe."
I took a deep breath. "Promise me you won't get mad," I intro'ed.
"What have you done?"
"I… I asked our family lawyer to set you up with all the right paperwork. He's just waiting for you to say yes, man."
"When did you do this?"
"Uh, a while ago."
"Duo," he insisted.
I squeezed my eyes shut. "Right after we got back from Egypt."
He was silent for a long moment. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You kept shooting me down every time I offered to put you up at me an' my dad's. But once I'm done with school this summer, he's goin' back to London and I was hoping… I mean, since my dad wouldn't be an issue, I thought maybe you'd…" I forced myself to shut up. I was not going to start whining. I was not.
"Are you sure? You want me t—" His voice actually broke. "—to live with you?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure. I've been sure for three damn years, Trowa." I took a deep breath and then I took the plunge. "I want you."
Suddenly, I was glad he could hear me. There was no way I wasn't blushing bright red right now, but my tone was factual, soft, and hopefully conveyed my need to just spend time with him. Yes, I had sex on the brain (who didn't at my age?!) but Trowa was my best friend and the distance between us has been slowly killing me ever since I'd forced myself to climb into the Jeep for the last time at Professor Merquise's dig site. I'd looked back until the camp had disappeared from view, wondering if I'd get one more glimpse of Trowa, waiting for him to burst out of one of the tents and… I dunno. Wave goodbye. Watch me go. Something.
He still hadn't said anything, so I asked, my heart in my hands, "Are you gonna give me a shot?"
A weird, little sound echoed through the connection. Had he just hiccupped? I frowned and opened my mouth to ask if he was OK…
He inhaled sharply, like he was trying to suck the snot back into his nose. "D—uo," he said thickly.
"I know I'm asking you to leave your family behind, and that makes me the worst kind of selfish dick imaginable. I just…" I just had no idea how to convince him to be selfish and do something for himself for a change. If he did, in fact, really want out of that life. Maybe he didn't. Maybe I was the only one who needed help here.
"Stop. Stop talking, Duo," he ordered softly, unevenly. "You're killing me with every bloody thing you say."
I bit back the apology that jumped up from my gut. I listened to the sound of heavy, uneven breaths and the rasp of cloth passing over skin, like he was wiping his face with his jacket sleeve. Shit; I'd made him cry.
I waited, wondering if he was gonna refuse me. I didn't know what I'd do if he did. Could we still be friends? Could we just go on like this? Forever? Could I just stand by and let him risk his life again and again when it was within my power to help him help himself?
Leaning back in my chair, I blinked up at the ceiling, hoping the heat in my eyes would evaporate harmlessly.
"Yes."
My heart stopped. "Yes?"
He took another breath and replied in a steady tone. "Yes, I'll go to America. Or wherever you're going to be. I'll be there."
I grinned up at the blurry ceiling. "Awesome. That's… that's awesome, Trowa. I'll tell Mr. Noventa to email you so he can update your visa application and stuff. It's still gotta go through the immigration offices and whatever—"
"What should I do?"
"Stay alive."
He laughed.
"I'm serious."
"I know," he replied, an apology in his tone. "But you worry too much."
"Well, I gotta do something with all this pent up energy. And if you suggest that I take up yoga, that'll only gonna give my wild imagination more material to work with." Which it did not need, thank you very much.
"Hm," he remarked, sounding amused, and then cleared his throat. "Duo, are you sure…?"
"Yes. But if you're not, don't tell me, 'K? You can break it to me after you get here."
He sighed. "Whatever happened to trusting me?"
"Dude. You did not just say that. I trust you like whoa."
He contemplated that for a minute before saying, "Do me a favor."
"Anything."
"Trust yourself."
I inhaled sharply. It was easy for him to say. He of the hotness and mad soldier skills, he of the super smarts and sharp wit, he of the depthless gentleness and warmth once you cracked his blank-faced armor, he didn't have anything to worry about. I was just a geeky rich kid with long hair and a crush that made me cream my pants twelve times a day (and that last point was probably a recognized medical condition).
Before I could argue, he told me, "I'll be with you soon. I promise."
No, it wasn't just a promise. It was a vow. I shuddered. "But the troupe…?"
"I go where I'm needed, where I want to be. I'll talk to the captain. He'll understand." I gulped, feeling so thankful I couldn't think of anything to say. Trowa continued, "What's more, I don't think he'll even be surprised." He chuckled roughly, like he was tripping over another tear or two. "He'll be happy for me."
I would, too. I would be happy for him if he just got the hell outta there. The rest of it – the staying with me and the spending time together and the whatever else – didn't even come close. Even if I did fantasize about it waaaaay too much.
"I've never—" I took a deep breath. "It's never felt like this—" I stumbled again. "It's you, damn it," I told him. "You do this to me and don't you dare even think about apologizing for it."
"Turnabout is fair play," he rasped in reply.
I laughed, wiping at my cheeks with my sweater cuff. Christ. I was acting like a damn girl.
"I have to go," he told me after a moment. "Pit stop's over."
"Back on the road again?"
"Yah."
"Wear your seatbelt."
"Yah, auntie."
I laughed and, on that note, we hung up. I clutched the phone in my hands. I was shaking. Jesus, this was the part where God looked down, noticed how peachy my life was, and decided to send a lightning bolt at the person I loved most in the whole damn world.
Yeah, it was true. I loved him. After three years, it was kind of inevitable. I hadn't told him yet, but he was a smart guy. I was pretty sure he'd already figured it out, maybe even before I had. I grinned. Yeah, I could always count on Trowa to know the score.
Hilde more or less pounced on me at school the next day, demanding an explanation for the goofy grin on my face. I confessed to the trip to Laos, but not the rest of it. I could tell she was suspicious that something else had happened, but I gave her my Grin of Titanium Stubbornness and she let it go in favor of hunting up Dorothy for a round of kissy face before the bell for first period rang.
Although, our exchange made me realize that didn't know exactly why we were going to Laos in the first place. I mean, what was so great about that ruins or archeology site that had piqued my mom's interest? And then there was another point to consider: she'd been to dozens of ancient sites, so why was my dad so interested in seeing this one? I didn't have a chance to really ask him about it until we were already on the plane. (Well, OK, I could have made time and asked him sooner, but he couldn't squirm his way out of answering with some lame excuse about having to work or something once we were trapped in a pair of first class seats together. This was my chance and I went for it.)
I grabbed his complementary eye mask and headphones, fully prepared to negotiate their safe return for satisfactory answers to my questions. I suppose he could rout my offensive by asking to borrow some from the heir-to-some-mega-company Chinese kid across the aisle, but the guy looked like he was wound up tighter than his shiny, black ponytail. My dad seemed to come to the same conclusion: he turned toward me with a long-suffering sigh.
I pounced. "Why was mom so interested in where we're going? And how come you've suddenly decided to go there?"
He leaned his head back against the high-tech headrest. "How did I know you wouldn't wait until we checked into the hotel?"
"Um, because I'm your son?"
"Right. There's that."
I waited for a second, giving him an expectant look. When he didn't volunteer the answers to my questions, I cleared my throat.
He blinked at me guilelessly. OK. Time to haul out the big guns. "Last chance to spill the beans or guess what I'm gonna tell the flight attendant is your favorite food in the whole universe?"
"You wouldn't."
"Try me, Big D."
He laughed. It was an old joke between us. He was the "Big D" – "D" as in "dad" – and I was the "Little D" – "D" as in "Dominic." It'd been ages since we'd called each other that, though. Dinosaur ages. And I wasn't so little anymore. I kinda wondered how I measured up against Trowa now, actually. Damn. Imagining myself standing toe-to-toe with Trowa was not helping my concentration.
"All right, Dominic," my dad relented. "So long as I have your word that you will not ask the flight staff to set aside a chicken dinner for me."
I smirked. I knew he hated airline chicken with a passion. The things you learned about your parents when you were traveling, right?
He reached under the seat in front of him and pulled out his carry-on bag, tugging out a letter-sized manila envelope and handing it to me.
"You recall I went back to London last month?"
I nodded. The company's headquarters had been moved to New York when he'd married my mom, Helen, but they'd been in London for decades before that. It was still a huge office and he had to travel between the two about every six weeks. Once I started college, he'd be transferring himself back there permanently and reinstating it as HQ. Thank God he wasn't expecting me to team up with him and become the next Maxwell Mogul anymore. Corporate management was so far removed from my dream job it was laughable. That's why I'd stopped going on business trips with him last year. He'd finally believed me when I'd told him I was going to Columbia University for my undergrad degree in Egyptology. It was either that or I was gonna adopt no less than sixteen Pomeranians and name each and every one of them after him. As he was violently allergic to dogs, it was the perfect threat. And as he knew I'd rather gouge out my own eyes than make him miserable, he knew I meant business. I didn't know who the next Maxwell Mogul was gonna be, but it wasn't gonna be me.
Sighing, he admitted, "While I was there, I drove out to the house."
The house. I could barely remember it. The last time I'd been there must have been when I was about seven years old. All I could recall about it was that it was massive and awesome and it had a dumbwaiter that I'd had an unnatural fascination with. Oh, and the groundskeeper geezer had been pretty cool. Freaky, but cool.
"Howard must've been happy to see ya," I remarked.
"We had a pint," my dad admitted and I could just imagine it: my dad with his shirt sleeves rolled up sitting across the island in the kitchen from a skinny, balding dude in sunglasses and an Aloha shirt, a couple beers sweating on the countertop. Hell, he might have even convinced my dad to blast a roach with him. Looking back on my memories of the man, he was a dead ringer for a pothead. Heh. Good ol' Howie. I hoped he was a not-so-good influence on my dad. The man needed to live a little.
He continued, "I went to your mother's library and looked through her notes, the ones in her safe."
I followed his gaze down to the unopened envelope in my hands. Spilling the contents onto my tray table, I squinted at page after page of sketches, diagrams, maps, and notes. "This isn't just for Laos," I realized, identifying something that looked Russian, something maybe Chinese, another something that had Mount Fuji labeled on it, various notes in Egyptian hieroglyphs and what looked like latitude and longitude coordinates (also written in ancient Egyptian). All kinds of crap.
"No, it isn't," he agreed. "Helen loved history, but what captivated her was legend, mystery. And this is perhaps one of the most obscure of all. Of course she had to uncover it."
"What is it?"
"A gateway."
"Eh?"
"Legend has it that there exist gateways which connect our world to other dimensions."
I blinked at him. "Seriously?"
He shrugged. "I'm simply repeating what's written there."
"And mom was looking for these?"
My dad nodded. "Yes, for nearly a decade. In fact, when she and Solo were—were killed, they'd been on their way back from the island of Sakhalin which is… here," he said, sifting through the yellowed pages and pulling out a map.
I studied it, frowning. "But their plane was found way up here, in Kamchatka. What were they doing so far northeast?"
When he didn't answer right away, I looked up. His expression was thoughtful and older than I could ever remember seeing. He'd met and married my mom late in life, but it kind of hit me suddenly that he wasn't in his prime anymore. My old man was, well, becoming an old man. He confided, "For a long time, I wondered about that, too. I suppose I wasn't ready to know, not until I went back to the house in November."
"So there was a reason?" I pressed.
"Oh, yes. Absolutely."
"But you're not going to tell me," I guessed wryly.
He nodded to the papers in my hands. "After you get through reading all that, I think you'll understand why I'm hesitating to share my suspicions."
I groaned. There must be something like fifty hand-written pages here, all with faded ink. Going through all this was gonna give me a monster migraine. "Oh, c'mon. Gimme a preview."
He shook his head. "I'm not telling you because… it's completely crazy."
I smirked. "Crazy, huh? Well, mom always was one to think outside the box."
"As are you."
I looked up, startled by his somber tone.
The look on his face kind of scared me. It was so… vulnerable and sad and a billion other things… like he was watching his life flashing before his eyes. "You take after her in so many ways."
I gaped at him. I didn't have a single, solitary clue as to what I ought to say to that: uh… thanks? I stared at him stupidly as he unbuckled his seatbelt and lurched into the aisle on the way to the lavatory. He almost bumped shoulders with another passenger, a tall man in his thirties with carefully styled, short auburn hair. There was something about him that caught the eye, something that made me think his silk dress shirt and swanky suit should have been breeches and a waistcoat from some long-forgotten aristocratic heyday.
"I beg your pardon," the man murmured politely as he passed my dad. He caught my gaze and gave me a bland smile before sliding into his seat which happened to be directly behind mine.
For some reason, I really didn't like knowing that he was possibly looking over my shoulder at my mom's legacy. I shuffled the pages together and hunched myself over the tray table as I began to read. I left the airline conveniences I'd been holding hostage on my dad's seat as a peace offering.
When my dad came back, he didn't say anything about the release of his sleep aids. He put on his eye mask and plopped his headphones on. I let him rest. I was busy being impressed, amazed, and terrified. Jesus Christ. My mom's notes made it sound like she'd really believed that there were portals to other worlds right here on Earth but, according to her research, only one had the potential to unleash a power of destruction that would be undefeatable.
"I must find the key," she'd written, her handwriting turning into a scrawl in her passion or haste or fear or excitement. I would never know which. "Even one of its halves would suffice. The portal is nothing without the key."
The key. Well, I guess it'd be pretty irresponsible to leave a gateway like this hanging open somewhere unlocked.
I shook myself. Did I honestly believe there actually was a mystical, God-power gateway that needed to be locked shut with a key? This was nuts. Nuts, but apparently the reason for why I'd just gotten vaccinated six ways to Sunday.
I continued reading, getting caught up in my mom's passionate narrative. It was disturbing on so many levels: I'd never even guessed that she'd felt so strongly about anything. It made me wonder what else I hadn't known about her, what else she might have kept hidden from me. It made me wonder if my life, if the world, really was the open book I'd always assumed it was. I felt naïve. I didn't like it.
I could kinda see why dad had wanted to tell me this after we'd gotten to the hotel. International flights weren't the best places for life-altering epiphanies.
Speaking of epiphanies, my mother seemed to have experienced one on the final page of her notes:
"This portal must never be opened. It will be the end of everything. If even one half of the key can be destroyed, then it will be impossible to open the gateway and the power within will never be permitted to be unleashed."
I squinted at the attached scrap of paper. On it was a partial translation of what looked like Chinese characters. She'd written as many as five words in places, scratching them out, unsatisfied. Words like "universe", "mirror image", "polar opposite", "annihilation", and "unstoppable" were barely legible. Looking at the attempt at translation, I could kinda see why she'd decided that the portal was best left alone and unopened, wherever it was. But, what was more, she wanted to make sure that it could never be opened.
As I flipped through the papers, my gaze snagged on a map of a long island north of Japan and east of the Korean peninsula: Sakhalin. With a flash of insight, I realized that she'd gone there with Solo to find one of the halves of the key to destroy it. I thought back to the crash in Kamchatka. There were a lot of volcanoes there in northeastern Russia, active ones. Had she found what she was looking for on Sakhalin and then been planning on dropping it into the mouth of a volcano?
Dude. How Lord of the Rings was that?
Dad was right; this was crazy. But why else would she have chartered a Cessna and flown up there if it hadn't been for the purpose of destroying this evil key thing?
Still, if one of the halves of the key had already been destroyed, then there'd be no point in taking this trip to Laos. Which meant that my dad believed that the first half of the key was still out there somewhere. Why he believed this I wasn't sure. For the first time, I wondered about the forensic aspects of the plane crash. Had it gone down on their way to the volcanoes or on its way back? Had one of the halves of the key turned up somewhere and that's what had prompted dad to schedule this trip?
I glanced at him, scowling when he snorted out a snore in his sleep. Damn it. I guess I'd have to wait for answers.
And then I laughed at myself. Christ, I was acting like I believed this shit. Oh, man. I needed to have my head checked. There was no such thing as a mystical portal of doom, no halves of a strange key. This was a myth, a legend. That's all. I glanced at my dad again and shook my head ruefully. We weren't heading to Laos because he'd fallen into the same trap as my mom. But if that wasn't the reason, then what was?
As I shuffled all the notes back together and slipped the manila envelope into my backpack, I contemplated my dad's motivations for doing this. He wasn't young anymore. I'd noticed how his business shirts were getting looser and looser in the neck; he was losing muscle and strength of body. Maybe he was afraid he was starting to get too old for these jaunts around the globe on exotic, off-the-beaten-path excursions. Maybe he was thinking about his own mortality and wondering if there might be something mystical and metaphysical out there in the world. Maybe he just wanted to feel closer to my mom and this adventure was meant to accomplish that somehow.
Well, whatever the reason, we were headed for the ruins of a forgotten temple in Southern Laos where my mom's notes speculated that one half of this mysterious key might be hidden. There were several other locations that were likely candidates. Nine in total. They all met one of two vague, archaic geographical descriptions that had been left behind by some unknown guardian centuries ago. Nine locations and two halves of a key which was necessary to open a terrible portal somewhere on Earth.
The scary part was my mom had seemed to think she'd known where that specific gateway was, but she had refused to name the location. I was sure it was in these notes, though. Maybe in some kind of code.
Well, anyway. I knew she'd looked in at least one of these places. Sakhalin was one of the likely candidates for the first part of the key, so I was pretty sure that the trip she and Solo had taken there had been an expedition to search for it. I doubted that they'd actually found anything, though. I mean, if they had, then this artifact thing (or some record of its discovery at least) would have ended up getting shipped back to the States with all their other stuff. Well, what could be salvaged from the Cessna's wreckage, anyway. Unless the plane had gone down after my mom had disposed of the artifact. But what if the Cessna had crashed on the outbound portion of the flight?
I frowned. Was it possible that the key was not only a real thing but was even now lying somewhere in the mountains of Russia's most northeastern peninsula? Well, even if it was just sitting on a patch of grass or buried under loose rock, how would anyone recognize it as a key? "Key" was a pretty general term and, given that this legend predated modern locks and keys, it probably wouldn't be recognizable as a key to most people.
Maybe that was why we were going to Laos first? If we found that half of the key, then we'd probably have a better idea of what the other half of it looked like. Hm, yes. That sounded like a definite possibility.
And then I turned and let my head fall heavily against the wall of the plane. Dammit, I was buying into the legend thing again. I sighed.
Well, OK, I wasn't buying into it, per se, but my mom had believed it was real, and if this was a quest to understand her obsession with it, then I guess it was safe to assume that the artifacts themselves were real even if the legend aspect was just a story meant to scare the kiddies around the primeval campfire.
I tried to sleep, but I just couldn't get my brain to shut off. I kept thinking about obsessions and legends and plane crashes. Can you blame me for not taking advantage of all the comforts first class had to offer? It was a relief to feel the skid and rush of landing and be able to shuffle off of the damn thing.
Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I followed my dad toward immigration. The phrases I'd learned in Lao weren't really needed; the immigration officer spoke English as did the customs dude. It looked like the taxi was my last chance to prove my language prowess. Which I did. In epic style, naturally.
"Where would I be without you, Dominic?" my dad asked as we pulled up in front of our hotel.
I smirked. "Pantomiming in the backseat."
He chuckled.
We had a single suitcase apiece which we wheeled into the lobby of the modest and slightly worse-for-wear establishment. Maybe it was weird that we'd arrived in first class and then made reservations at a mid-level tourist factory like this, but it was all about priorities. They were, in fact, the same priorities that made me buy a junker car for my first vehicle and work at the Super Mart to help pay for my car insurance and maintenance. Oh and the cell phone bills for both my service contract and Trowa's. It's kinda hard to explain, but it comes down to being real, I guess. I didn't want to be one of those snobby rich people who didn't know how to change a flat tire or couldn't talk to people on the street. It was easy to lock ourselves in our bubbles of good fortune and ignore the rest of the universe. Too easy. I guess that made me a guy who liked a challenge.
A challenge. Yeah, I did like those. I thought about Trowa. I thought about when I'd arrived at Professor Merquise's dig site and had just about fallen out of the Jeep thanks to the deep depression on my side of car… and then I'd almost tripped over the sand wrapped around my shoes when I'd shut the car door behind me… and then I'd practically had a heart attack when I'd looked up and found a soldier's blank-faced stare on the other end of my gaze.
Jesus, he'd scared the crap outta me. I hadn't even seen him when we'd driven up and parked, but there he was. Perfectly still, motionless, a statue. It hadn't been until his gaze had flickered down to my lucky T-shirt and his brows had twitched slightly that I'd realized he was only my age. My age and standing there with a semi-automatic rifle dangling from the shoulder strap across his chest.
He hadn't done or said anything, but I'd simply known I'd be making it my unofficial mission to figure him out while I was there. Little did I know I'd end up falling head over heels for the guy on the other side of those passive, green eyes. Passive. Hah. Trowa was passive like Kilimanjaro was a bump on the ground.
While I had the opportunity, I sent an email off to object of my thoughts, letting him know that a plethora of photos from Laos would be forthcoming so he might want to find an "Oh, shit!" handle to hang onto.
"Trowa again?" my dad mused in a too-casual tone as he unpacked and hung up his raincoat in the tiny closet by the room's door.
"Uh, yeah," I muttered, trying not to blush.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"
Mission Do Not Blush was failing. "Uh… like what?"
He gave me a look and one of those I'm-trying-not-to-smile smiles. When he glanced pointedly at the phone in my hand, I gave him a big, fake, cheesy grin. There was no reason for me to feel like he'd just walked in on me performing maintenance on the equipment I kept in my shorts. No reason at all.
"Nothing," he finally said, moving to put his shaving kit in the bathroom.
I let out a breath of relief. I was so not ready to have The Trowa Talk with him yet. Hell, maybe I wasn't ever gonna be ready to scale that father-son peak.
"Let's go see about our visitor permits at the park office," he said from the bathroom and I jumped up off the bed, stuffing my feet back into my Converse All-Stars.
"Sweet. Race ya to the lobby."
He reentered the main room and looked a little taken aback. "You're carrying your backpack around with you?"
I guess I didn't have to, but I didn't want to take the time necessary to dig my wallet and guidebook outta the damn thing. "It's my training for hiking through the jungle." I did the classic strong man pose and showed off my impressive biceps.
Dad looked heavenward as if divine intervention was hiding up there with the crispified bugs in the ceiling fan light. "What has the swim team done to my son?" he lamented.
"Less than the football team or the wrestling team or the basketball team would have. Or, worse yet: golf. Count your blessings."
We had a lot of daylight left of our first day in Laos after we exited the park office, our applications submitted and undergoing review. Our passes would be available after lunch the next day so I proposed a caffeine jolt followed by some touristy stuff. I took so many photos I was pretty sure my iPhone was going to explode before I could send them to Trowa.
When we dragged our asses back to the hotel that evening about an hour before sunset, the first thing I did was kick off my shoes. Then I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting until dad called dibs on the shower. I could tell from the way he didn't mention it that he knew I'd be sending photos off to Trowa as soon as he left the room. I focused on counting the dead bugs in the light fixture to keep from blushing again.
As soon as the door closed behind him and the water started running, I had my iPhone in hand and was texting like mad, forwarding one photo after another. Around photo number twenty, I decided to give him a little time to digest those and I finished off my show-and-tell with a snappy line – "This program has been brought to you by way hella OMG too much caffeine. You're sorry you missed it, aren't ya?" – and then, just for the hell of it, I started scrolling through the photos myself. Gradually, I noticed something strange.
Sitting up, I squinted at the crowd of people in front of the temple that dad and I had visited. I went back to an earlier photo of an impressive memorial arch in the city and studied the faces in that crowd. Then I pulled up the photos I'd taken of the farmer's market we'd wandered through and…
I swallowed. The same faces were in each photo. What. The. Hell.
"Dominic?" my dad called from the bathroom and I just about jumped outta my skin.
"Yeah?"
"Did you go through my shaving kit?"
"No." And then I thought to ask, "Why?"
"It's a mess!"
I sat up straight and looked at our room with new eyes. Had our suitcases been moved? It sure looked like it. I got up and opened mine. Sure enough, the T-shirts I'd carefully rolled up and crammed into the space were all mashed and tangled together. Yeah, it was possible that customs had inspected my bag at the airport, but wouldn't they have put one of those nifty stickers on the outside if they had?
"Dad, I think you should check your bags."
He came out of the bathroom in his striped pajamas, frowning. "What?"
I gestured to my suitcase which was lying open on my bed. "Someone went through my stuff."
"Likely just a random security check at the airport."
"Yeah, but check yours, OK?"
I clutched my phone as I sat down on my bed, Indian-style, and watched him open his luggage. It looked like someone had stuck a live grenade in there and closed the suitcase back up. OK, one of our bags being selected for a random screening was possible, but both? It still wasn't impossible, but it was not nearly as likely.
Before I could prompt him, he reached for his carry-on bag. He frowned into its depths.
"Is everything there?" I asked.
He nodded. "But it's all jumbled up. Someone's been through our things."
Yeah. The state of his carry-on bag couldn't be explained by random airport passenger screening or a clumsy maid knocking it over while checking to see if we needed any towels. I decided that now would be a good time to mention the other thing. "Some people were following us around today," I told him, holding up my phone. "I got photos of them at the temple, the arch, and the market. Maybe the restaurant where we ate dinner, too. I haven't checked those pictures yet."
I looked at him, at a loss. He looked at me, a quiet horror widening his eyes.
"Dad?"
He held up a hand. "Let me think for a moment." Hesitantly, he reached for his cell phone and just stared at it, debating.
In my hands, my iPhone vibrated, just about scaring the bejesus outta me. It was Trowa and he was calling me.
"Hey, Tro. Can I call you back la—"
"No. I saw the photos. There were five men following you today."
"Five!?" I'd only seen three.
"Yah. Professionals. Get out of there, Duo. Now."
I gulped. "Are… are you sure?"
"What do I do for a living?" he just about snarled.
"OK, that was a stupid question," I admitted.
"Let me speak to your father."
I passed the phone to him. "It's Trowa. I sent him some photos. He picked out the guys following us today. We're in deep shit."
Normally, my dad would have scolded me for cussing, but he merely took the phone from me. "Mr. Barton, what do you advise?"
I would have given my braid to hear the conversation that transpired. Well, "conversation" wasn't the word for it. My dad mostly listened, nodded, and asked half-questions. He then handed my phone back to me and grabbed a change of clothes before disappearing into the bathroom.
"Tro? Fill me in, man. What's the plan?"
"You need to leave as soon as possible. Get to the embassy or the airport. If they have your room wired, then they'll know that you suspect something, so you have to move fast. But, if they haven't bugged your room, then you need to make sure you leave quietly. Travel light and leave under cover of darkness if possible. Take the back door, go over a couple of streets, get a car or a taxi, and call me when you're secure."
"OK."
"And don't forget your cell phone charger and adapter."
I was tearing through my backpack even as he spoke, looking for it. I dumped out my ebook reader and headphones and all the miscellaneous junk I'd carried onto the plane with me, stuffing my windbreaker, a hooded sweater, an extra pair of pants, some underwear and socks and a couple of T-shirts into the space in front of my mom's notes. "What're the odds that we're over-reacting? They could be government shadow guys, right? I heard tourists in China have to put up with that."
"If that were case, they wouldn't be carrying concealed weapons."
I hadn't noticed any weapons – concealed or otherwise – in the photos, but Trowa was the expert. Hell, the only reason I'd noticed the weapons that Trowa'd been carrying in Egypt was because I'd been looking for them. And, yeah, I'd been staring. It'd taken me a coupla days to figure out why, but I'd clued in eventually.
I said, "Ok, so maybe they're a group of muggers hoping for an easy score."
"Then you make it as difficult as possible for them to get to you. Bugger and fuck, Duo, people are killed in muggings!"
"Right. Point." I looked up as my dad came out of the bathroom, dressed for travel. "We're ready to go. I'll call you back in thirty minutes or something."
"Watch your back," he growled and hung up.
I hefted my backpack. My dad picked up his carry-on satchel. "Get the lights," he said quietly. I did. We waited, letting our eyes adjust to the low light from the north-facing window, and then he opened the door, checking along the hall before motioning for me to follow.
We headed for the stairs and took them down to the first floor. I was gonna feel really stupid if we were panicking over nothing, but if Trowa was worried… Well, I trusted his judgment.
We snuck out of the hotel like thieves, like cheats, like cheapskates. Under other circumstances, it might have been exhilarating. Y'know, before the guilt hit. Right now though, it was all I could do to keep from screaming as the tension tightened my guts into knots and bowties.
The emergency exit at the end of the hall beckoned even as it stretched out further and further in the distance with every silent step we took. It seemed to take for freakin' ever just to get close enough to put my hands on the handle. I checked over my shoulder to make sure my dad was right there.
"I'm first," he whispered, stepping around me and opening the door, cutting off my half-formed thought about coming up with a game plan before the shit hit the fan.
All I could think of was the faces of the guys in the photos I'd taken. I'd noticed three of them, but Trowa had made five. The other two unknowns were seriously distracting me. I recalled a big, bald guy at one place, but couldn't recall seeing him anywhere else. And there'd been some college kid taking photos at two of the sightseeing spots, Japanese or Korean by the look of him, but he'd been minding his own business… hadn't he?
Well, I could kick myself for not getting a better look later.
We stepped out into the alley and started for the furthest exit. I guessed Trowa had given my dad the same sales pitch about picking up a taxi from a completely different street. But, to do that, we'd have to cross a few major thoroughfares. The sun was setting. It was abnormally dark in the shadows but it seemed preternaturally bright out in the open by comparison. Two foreign tourists skulking out of a dark alley were so gonna draw attention.
At the alley entrance, my dad glanced up at the sky, frowned, and then gazed out at the street. There were two cabs in sight, idling in front of other hotels just across the street and down the block. I wasn't familiar enough with the cab culture here to be able to tell if they were available or not. My dad hesitated, probably thinking the same thing.
"I can't tell if they're waiting for a fare," I whispered, damning my useless tourist guide.
"It's too close to our hotel," he decided. "We'll cross the street and head down that alley there." He pointed and I nodded.
We waited until there was a break in the traffic and then we started jogging across the street, trying to look like we didn't wanna get mowed down by a passing mini-truck instead of running for our lives.
It was a moot point, anyway. A Jeep burst out of the alley we were headed for just as we reached the opposite side of the street. I back-peddled faster than my dad.
"Go! Go, Dominic!" he hissed urgently and I sprinted down the sidewalk looking for another alley or a police station, a post office, or anything public and brightly lit and official. Or, hell, a shopping mall would do. Someplace where we could lose these guys and have a nice selection of witnesses to choose from.
A shout from behind me had me glancing back and then skidding to a halt.
"DAD!"
He was struggling with two massive guys, and one of them was the bald dude I'd seen earlier. The other, I didn't recognize, but the driver of the Jeep looked familiar.
"GO!" he shouted back.
I stood there, torn. I couldn't… I couldn't just leave him!
"RUN, DOMINIC! NOW!"
I shook my head. No. No, I was not gonna—!
A second Jeep pulled up, jumping onto the curb behind me, caging me in. Two guys swung out of the vehicle and hit the ground running… right at me.
Oh, shit.
The only options I had were to try and find a door to disappear through on this block or take my chances in the evening traffic.
Exits. I needed exits!
I dived for the road just as the nearest guy reached out a hand to grab my arm. And then the whine of an approaching engine broke through my panic. Suddenly, a motorcycle was spinning off of the street and burning rubber in a tight arc between me and my would-be abductors.
"Get on!" the rider shouted and I had a brief impression of messy, brown hair, blue eyes, and vaguely Japanese features. The college kid tourist.
I hesitated. I didn't know who to trust, what to do, where to go.
"GET ON!" he demanded, revving the engine and pulling a gun from inside his jacket.
That decided me. I'd take my chances with the traffic.
"K'SO!" I heard his curse as I lurched-spun-dodged my way into the middle of the street. And, I wasn't sure if it was exceptionally bad timing or good timing, but a cab screeched to a horn-blaring halt right in front of me. I raised my hand and dived for the door.
The cabbie barked at me irritably as I slammed the door shut behind me. "Sorry! Khaw thoht!" I choked out, gasping for breath. "Talat Sao!" I commanded, coughing up the first name of a shopping mall that came to mind as I dug out my wad of Lao kip bills.
His suspicious look melted into one of satisfaction. He was probably going to fleece me, but I couldn't bring myself to care. We sped away and I watched, helpless and furious, as my dad was shoved toward the first Jeep. The kid and the motorcycle were both gone. And then a livestock truck started gaining on the taxi from behind and blocked my view.
God damn it!
Shit. Shit shit shit.
FUCK!
I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket and started to dial Trowa's number. But no. No. Even though I wanted to call him first, by necessity he was gonna have to be second. There was nothing he could do for me right now except tell me to calm down and call for help.
I pulled up my contact list and dialed. It was the sound of my own breaths echoing back to me from the surface of the phone that made me realize I was hyperventilating.
I struggled for calm. I had to be calm. I had to get my dad back.
Right. OK. One step at a time.
"Noventa, Darlian, and Une," a pleasant voice announced.
"Sylvia!" I just about shouted. So much for calm. "It's Duo. I need your help. It's an emergency."
Mr. Noventa's granddaughter and intern didn't miss a beat. "All right. Take a deep breath, Duo. Good. Now let it out. Very good. Now, tell me what you need."
A freakin' miracle. "I need you to talk to someone for me. His name is Trowa Barton." I gave her his number and instructions for what she was going to do once she got ahold of him. "And I need you to put me through to your grandfather. Now."
"Done," she assured me and the line clicked as she transferred the call.
"Dominic?" I heard Mr. Noventa say, calm and steady. The man was a freakin' rock and I clung to him in lieu of the one voice that I desperately needed to hear. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"
I took another deep breath and began what was bound to be a long explanation, "Dad's been abducted."
NOTES:
As far as I know, the tourist features (which are mentioned very vaguely) in Vientiane, Laos are accurate as is the name of currency, the shopping mall, and how to apologize in Lao (but I dropped the accents for the sake of avoiding text/character errors and funkiness). The park permit procedure is fictional. The number of taxicabs in the city might not be accurate (i.e. tuk-tuks might actually be more plentiful). (And, on the subject of taxis, in South Africa, a taxi is a minibus or a shuttle, not a single-fare car-for-hire like it is in the U.S., so when Trowa tells Duo to get a car, he means a taxicab, and when he says to get a taxi, he means a bus.)
Also, from what I've gathered online, I kind of doubt that the traffic in Vientiane is really terribly fast or that someone could be grabbed off the street like Duo's father, but just go with me here, people.
And, yes, that was a glimpse of Heero Yuy. We'll be hearing more from him later.
South African terms and slang:
Antie (spelled "auntie" in Duo's POV) = a bossy, female authority figure, like an aunt
"Bakkie" is South African slang for a pickup or utility truck. (I imagine that the Barton Troupe has several with lots of mounts for weaponry and such. Not that they'd drive around on public roads with guns mounted on their trucks, but they'd have that kind of equipment.)
Grafted = hired ("graft" means "work" or "to get work")
Siek-n-sat (siek en sat) = sick and tired (of something)
Suss = to look / to figure something out
Trek = to move or pull
Ja/Yah: In Trowa's POV comments and in text messages (any POV), I use the spelling "ja" (which means "yeah" or some variety of affirmative, casual response). However, in Duo's POV moments, when he hears Trowa say "ja", it's spelled "yah" because that's how it sounds to Duo.