Zero-Two Versus Zero-Five

By APs

A/N – Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are appreciated!

He that is taken and put into prison or chains is not conquered, though overcome; for he is still an enemy.

---Thomas Hobbes

No cameras. That had been the first thing the two others had told him when he'd been tossed in with them, after taunting him about getting caught, of course. Naturally, he hadn't taken their word for it, but after a couple days to recover and a few more scrounging, he had to agree. No cameras and no listening devices, just bare metal, vents, and a door. Hell, there weren't even lights by which to record anything. Apparently, OZ had decided the best way to deal with them was to throw them in a hole and forget. He had to admit, they'd come up with worse plans.

"Dammit," he growled, letting his head fall back against the wall. His everything ached like nobody's business, but that was normal, he could deal with that. It was the stiffness, the pain from lack of motion and welling anticipation that was starting to get to him, working into his brain, under his skin.

"What?" the voice that drifted from the darkness was cold and uninterested, arrogant. Their third, his friend if he could call him that, was away test piloting, lucky bastard. He could imagine the other sitting cross legged exactly where he had been when the door had hissed shut on his friend and their 'traitor'; imagined dark eyes looking toward him in the darkness, black on black.

"Nothing," he snorted, thumbing his nose and sliding his palm under his bangs, "Just rusting my ass away. Don't know how you do all this sitting still bullshit."

"Then move," and he was dismissed, just like that.

"Oh, come on," he drawled, getting to his feet with a stretch, "You can't tell me you're not cramping up. You've been folded like a goddamn pretzel for days." The darkness didn't reply and he felt a grin slip to his lips like a gun to his fingers, disturbingly comfortable. His mental map guided him silently to the other's position, approaching from behind. He paused, senses straining for the dimmest signs of motion. A muted breathe escaping, barely even a sound, caught his ear and he pounced.

The darkness slid against him and he stumbled to the side with a grunt. He clamped his mouth shut and dodged. The kick only hit his trailing braid. He threw an elbow. Connected.

A growl was his only warning. Twisting, a fist breezed past his cheek. They danced. Every noise brought a strike, every footfall, every hissed breathe. They danced in the dark, black on black.

He paused, panting silently, ears strained. Silk whispered by, he swung. Connected, sailed through the empty jacket. Sneaky bastard. Then he was hit by a truck. Hacking, he doubled over, lungs working hard to regain what had been forced out, but refused to go down.

"Are you hurt?" The question drifted over, casual, arrogant.

He couldn't stop the laughter, even if it hurt, "You kicked me in the chest."

"Then you're fine," there was a definite smirk on that statement.

He laughed again, taking a few deep breathes, "So you haven't given up, eh?"

The darkness snorted, "No."

"Good," that grin like a gun rippled through him once more as he shook out the last of his stiffness, "This time I won't be gentle, then."

Justanotheranimefreak – Trowa tends to give me trouble, so it's good to hear you liked it.