7-11 Gundam Wing

By Psycho Bitch, Desperate Virgin, and Man Hater Goddess_2002

Disclaimer: I'm getting real tired of writing these.but it's better than getting sued, I guess. So, again, for the nth time, we don't own anything. We are also not responsible for any sort of trauma you experience while reading ANY part of this fic. We are also going through therapy, and we don't need the added pressure of you telling us that you're traumatized, as this just may add to our fantasies of jumping off a building. Poor, poor Leslie Cheung.

A/N: Actually, I'm responsible for the entire chapter, since we seem to be writing chapters separately nowadays. Me. Luna Antonio, with the SARS scare. Even I recoiled when I read this. Warning: Possible Trowa x Dorothy. Okay, it's really Trowa/Dorothy. I'm going to get so many flames with this. Also, I hope I don't get flamed for the title, especially after 9-11. A friend just mentioned it to me and I thought it was pretty funny. And besides, give peace a chance, right? Oh, and, our chapter titles don't really make sense in the first place. We don't intend for them to make sense after all.

{~*~}- Let me introduce you to our muse, Ragart. She's responsible for inspiring us, and making us think of new stunts for the pilots to pull and write about. You should give her credit when we update, too. ;)

Chapter 9: And Osama Created Light. And Then There Was Ice Cream and Osama Saw That It Was Good

"Damn, Dorothy, you really ARE stuck," Trowa groaned. He'd tried everything he could to remove Dorothy from her current position. If only you weighed less, maybe we could do something about this, he thought sullenly.

Dorothy decided that it wasn't so bad being stuck in the middle of a dark, deserted 7-11 while two homicidal ex-pilots roamed the store building what seemed to be a rabid meat/condiment god while the floors were covered in all types of cooking oil, as long as a handsome, well-built, sprat serious clown attended to your every whim.

"Really?"

"Uh, no, I'm just kidding your cute little ass off. Yes, I'm serious, dammit!"

So much for Trowa Barton, National Geographic photojournalist, he murmured under his breath.

"What was that?" Dorothy interrupted, halting his fantasies of naked Amazonian women taking him to the land where no men were allowed, where women would roam around naked and every so often would take a handsome foreigner to their village in order to populate the next generation of wild, naked, hunter-gatherer, Amazonian women.

"Armpits," Trowa said in that flat tone of his, while tugging on the stubborn foot. "I was thinking of armpits. Armpits turn me on."

Honestly, the authors do NOT know how Trowa managed to pull that one off with a straight face.

"Oh really?" Dorothy burst out. "Do you like clean shaven ones or the French woman type? Because if you like the French look, I could stop shaving if you like."

"I'd rather concentrate on getting you the fuck out, if you know what I mean."

"Absolutely. I'm surprisingly more important than armpits. I SO agree with you, Trowa. What's the problem? Why aren't I out yet?"

"I can't get you out."

"Is that so?"

Trowa sighed.

"Try turpentine!" Relena called from the ice cream freezer.

"Turpentine." Trowa thought for a moment.

"By the motor parts," Dorothy offered, trying to lessen Trowa's burden by being helpful.

"Hai," Trowa responded. Dorothy noticed that his mind was wandering elsewhere. But this was not a time to delve into the emotions of a Gundam pilot, especially when you had a slim chance of being sacrificed to a sandwich meat and condiment 'god.' Go figure.

Dorothy observed that the motor parts aisle was very near where the sandwich meat and condiment 'god' was still being constructed.

"Trowa."

"Nani?"

"Be careful."

Trowa blushed. He was thankful that the darkness hid the blazing heat of his cheeks and neck, which were very susceptible to blushing.

And without looking back at Dorothy, Trowa crept towards the motor parts section for the turpentine.

*

"Oh my God," Catherine breathed as she slumped on back on the walls of their ice cream freezer prison. "That did NOT happen." She closed her eyes.

Relena and Noin jumped in, fanning her with their hands.

"Seeing her brother and someone she really hates got her gut, huh?" Lady Une asked Iria.

Iria nodded wordlessly.

"Come on, Catherine, breathe!" Relena said, frantically slapping Catherine's cheeks.

Lady Une restrained Relena's hands from doing any further damage to Catherine's already crimson epidermis.

"You know, inhale, exhale?" Noin suggested.

"Here's some ice cream," Lady Une said stiffly, handing a faux gold pint to Noin.

"Thanks, Une!" Noin said appreciatively.

"She's burning up!" Sally proclaimed after feeling for a pulse and touching her cheeks and forehead.

"Is that a BAD sign?" Relena queried, widening her eyes.

"I'm a doctor," Iria declared, standing up as best she could in such tight quarters and trying to look dignified.

"Yeah, sure," Noin grinned at Sally. "Tell us something we DON'T know."

Everyone who could laugh, laughed.

"And in my profession, burning up is a bad sign," Iria finished lamely.

Lady Une popped open the ice cream container. "This isn't going to be pretty." She looked at Iria.

Iria got the message, all right. "You're joking," she said flatly.

"Nuh-uh. We have to do it."

"Fine. Everyone grab a handful of Merry Cherry Choco Fudge and smear it on Catherine's face and neck," Iria announced.

Relena dove her entire arm into the mushy stuff (at this point, the ice cream was defrosting). She came up with a handful of gooey brown-red mush that really couldn't be called ice cream. And there were tiny pink balls, which Relena assumed were the cherry bits.

"I'm gonna feel so sorry for Catherine when she regains consciousness," she said after a moment's scrutinizing the creamy ice that she smushed with her fingers.

"For God's sake, Relena, stop abusing the ice cream and just put it on Catherine!" Sally implored the young Vice Foreign Minister.

Right now, Catherine was as red as a lobster.

Relena sighed, reached over and smeared the cream on Catherine's face.

She giggled. "It's just like finger painting!"

Catherine chuckled. "Y'know, I read somewhere that ice cream doubles as a face mask! Whaddaya say, girls?"

"I'm game," Noin admitted.

The younger girls gazed at the two older women.

"Well, Une?" Sally jabbed Lady Une in the ribs.

Lady Une took off her glasses and put them in her pants pocket. She also took her hair out of the bitchy bun and displayed a wicked grin.

"She's with us, ladies!" Sally whooped.

Intense female bonding inside the ice cream freezer commenced. Catherine was still unconscious, but the ice cream facial mask lowered her body temperature considerably.

"This reminds me of the time I put sleeping pills in Heero's energy drink and dragged his hot, sweaty, unconscious body into the kitchen and covered him and ice cream and started-"

"SHUT UP RELENA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

To add to the effect, Lady Une pressed a gallon of Phlegm Brulee into Relena's face.

End of that cringe-worthy, something-out-of-Stephen King chapter.

Authorial Ekek: Whew! Anyway, thanks to our three loyal readers, SKYDANCER! You probably make up half the reviews, thanks! Also, doumo to Wufei ::cough cough, most likely not our sexist Chang-boy::, Spooky, and Blades of Ice! Okay, FOUR loyal readers. I'm still sort of traumatized by the Tro/Doro thing. Keep 'em coming! And to the newbies, come on, criticize this! Flame me! Do whatever! Just click on Submit Review and type nonsense! We read everything you post, anyway. And clicking on all the 'Add to Favorites' wouldn't hurt, either.

Ragart (wielding a large butcher knife and drawing on the walls in red lipstick): Red rum! Red rum!

Psycho Bitch (hacking through the door with an axe): HHHEEEEEEERRRREEEE'SS JOHNNY!

~Sorry, we just watched The Shining. Come and play with us, won't you?~

LAST, LAST THING: RIP Leslie Chung, what a voice, what an actor, what a guy (I think). Thou shalt be sorely missed, and thou art totally an asshole for jumping off that building.