(Disclaimer: All gundam characters are property of their creator, any interwoven plotline and unknown characters are similar based on my own muse and creation.)
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Chilly winds swept to and fro across the barren fields, long since harvested. Nested between the reborn and sleeping lands of earth, long before spawned a fair sized town, enough to bustle and skitter about its own interwoven existence. Even so, the houses and street business didn't stray too far from its heart, like a little colony in its own essence, wary of what lay outside the outskirts.
A winter snow crept like a silent shroud over the uneven rooftops and shuffling cars, buried deep in the clouds that carried the white thief. And like the enchanting pull of a deep, un-awakening sleep, the lace crystals fell lazily at first– dreamily, and scattering themselves to fade away on warm landings.
Quiet, life's exhale after the sudden filling of disobedient lungs. Still, instinct ruffled the feathers of the soul, stirring the city with a shiver of unexpected events. New Angeline was not the untouched or untainted.
As war touches all, both directly and by a passing memory, each resident in the unlikely haven gathering had their story with its own eternal scars. Scars of the body, of the mind, of the soul, and of time. Whether they lost the loved ones they held dear, or lost their innocence in its witnessing, each breath of every body held a story; passed on from old to new, no generation outliving such horrors. And like a scuffle on the battlefield, New Angeline was finding itself far too prosperous, too untouched, like the forbidden at a distance. And as proven in history's never-ending cycle of similar change, the peace that came and stayed was soon to depart them again. The better question to its people was: when would it leave them for future chaos?
Fragile, dried threads long browned by age clung to the bark of twigs, flailing their cracked bodies in agonizing bends, the silver blades of ice on the wind unseen but not unfelt. And like the fallen in an eternal battlefield, the shattered bodies fell from their fronts, falling back onto the earth without a mourner's second glance.
Heero's eyes tiredly watched those falling leaves, as if in weeping for themselves and the summer long since passed that left them in their broken state. Like the summer that left them all, the life that was once theirs, even if for a brief moment, and then dropped them like a betraying heart into the ever-winter snows. Blank eyes followed one in particular, left with little to nothing but a frame, still clinging to ride the winds for as long as it could before it fell still along the ground.
It reminded him of many a things, even himself. No center to keep him... just a framed shell, empty, and still somehow managing to cling to an instinct to fight– to live. Why? It was worthless, and useless, after all. After this mission, finally ending the quarreling factions for another span of time, he would follow the other missionaries and crazed soldiers to hide away from a world that hated them for who they were; protecting them or not. That was the soldier's duty, to fight for even the hopeless, to report to duty for one who'd rather not take the risk themselves, and to be banished again in shame whether with victory or defeat. It was the way of life. Reminders were undesirable, and quickly hidden away at all costs.
Stiff shoulders shifted from their fallen rest, arms re-crossing themselves over a sore and heavy chest only just different from seconds before, as if for some purpose other than to disturb the nagging silence. 'That's not entirely true,' came the insistent critiquing of logic. And Heero's mind answered back to the thought, if only to keep him preoccupied. 'Duo's sharing the same room anyway, and he mumbles enough in his sleep to speak for everyone. Then there's everything outside the window, outside these walls, even those crossing back and forth in the hallway. Back and forth, almost too often...,' dwindled the suspicions.
"Goddamnit, this is going to drive me insane. They're just stupid civilians going about their normal routines, the same they do every day. The same they've done the past four days," came the settling remark, curt and annoyed.
"What's wrong with me?" Still, wracking coughs broke the question short and let itself die in the strong, paining bursts of air. A few short and determined breaths steadied the body and its routine again as the youth once again took his stance of before as if nothing more had happened. He felt he had to be more alert than before, at least until one of the others came. His body was already drained and sore from sickness himself, but in the balance of sickness or life, he had no other choice.
Heero's eyes lingered only a moment longer on the window, watching the innocently falling flakes that would soon chill the unpredictable earth and cover it in blankets of white and gray hues. Still, on instinct, the steely blues drug their hazy gaze back across the room, overlooking the second bed. The first was clean, well made, and undisturbed. The second was a tumbling mess all jumbled about a still feverish form that often tossed and turned in undefinable dreams. For now, his features held a calmed pain, resting in unease but submissive in the hands of exhaustion. "For four days you've done nothing but sleep, and you still manage to need more of it than I can get."
The softly hoarse scoffing went unheard by the American comrade, leaving him untouched in another empty span of unconsciousness. He'd far improved since their coming, but he clung to the pacifism of recovery as long as he could. Duo, like the others, had no conscious intention of ever wanting to return to the battlefield, and even unconsciously, kept his hold on his R&R ticket for as long as he would be allowed.
Heero's only answer to his gaze was a soft mumble and whine as the still chilled boy shifted beneath the thick blankets.
"You're hopeless, as always. Useless, and I still can't understand why I bother with it..."
And as if in answer to the rhetorical question, a knock wrapped four curt times on the older wooden door of their guest room.
Heero's eyes shot in a silent motion to the entrance. That wasn't the same, lazy knock of their keeper. She was an older woman, sponsored by Sally and a friend of their cause. He was reluctant to shift, the room seeming unbearably loud for being so quiet. The once mundane, tick of the soft bedside clock was now even annoyingly loud.
"Heero? Duo? Trowa? Are you guys in there?" Came the soft call of a familiar voice.
The small, dull ring of the metal knob twisting in its mounting gave away with the door, platinum blonde hair peeking just inside and followed by almost shy cerulean eyes. Quatre kept his voice soft, not quite sure if he'd had the right room at first, the musty old boarding house warm and sleepy in the coming winter days.
Creaking eased and stilled as the oak door quelled and stopped its movements, letting the curious eyes linger in its open space.
Quatre's fluttering heart stilled when his eyes came along the silhouette at the window, slipping a kind smile to his thin lips, Arabian features settling to an ease. The room was kind and humble about them as he slipped inside, hearing the door catch softly with a click as it closed again into its resting state. There was a large, weathered dresser, its bold, velvet black dried and faded by the sunlight, a stand alone, full length mirror keeping to itself in the corner, thick drapes moved aside nearer to the beige walls and two single beds dressed in homemade comforters and quilts, well broken in by previous visitors. Duo's ill form occupied one, and the kind aristocrat went instantly to it.
Light hands graced over the features of the sleeping teenager, checking the temperature and reactions of his good friend with a sibling's worry. A weary groan was his answer.
"Has anyone been in to have a look at him? His fever's still pretty high, Heero."
A cool reply slipped itself from near indifferent lips, the youth dressed in borrowed clothes from one of the older soldiers of Sally's militia. They were hiding everywhere. For now, these were the only safe grounds for them.
"We've done what we would with that side-wound. He still needs medication and a proper stitching, especially if he keeps ripping it out. The fever broke once, but it's stubborn with that extra wound." He dropped his arms and turned his gaze to Quatre, turning on a lamp as he shut the curtains tightly, before readjusting the loose, oversized sweater on his shoulders. The belt held the pants well and fine, he'd only had to roll them up at the bottom a time or two. It was all they could manage to scrounge up. "Probably slight infection. The doctor will be by in an hour or so, they said," he continued, his stiff steps crossing over towards his own bed, finally taking a seat and quickly covering his mouth with a cupped hand, wracking coughs startling his body yet again.
A disapproving look was sent Heero's way, but Quatre knew it was inevitable and the boy always did what he felt he needed to do as it was needed. Still, reason caught him as he stood and without a second thought, took a folded blanket at the foot of the American's bed and unfurled it, draping it over a his companion's shoulders and ignoring the blankly confused look. "How badly off is Trowa? I understand this room is a little cramped... is he down the hall? Or did he go out? Wufei'll be here shortly when he's done with the preparations."
For a good moment of silence, Heero actually bit his tongue, not wanting to answer Quatre's questions so quickly. When the silence seemed unbearable, stabbing like a white hot iron into your gut with a good twist of sickness, he decided that all things in this situation were best kept blunt, logical, and realistic.
"Dead or dying."
Those three little words took a split second to soak into the blonde's mind, as if waiting for the snicker to the end of a sick joke. His voice rose beyond his control, and his eyes snapped up as if to demand that it was a joke, but asked as if in a quiet, squeak that was ready to break. "That's not true, is it?"
"We had no other choice, we were ambushed. On all good account, Quatre," came the stronger, cool reply, "they've all the data and things they need from him. He gave us cover as I got away with Duo, and he's not only a spy, but a traitor and a threat to them. There was a single shot in the end... it's near impossible otherwise."
Passion igniting, an unnatural tone spat itself from usually peaceful lips, growling low in a bitterness. "Near but NOT impossible! How could you give up so easily and just give him up for dead!? That's ridiculous and you know it!" His sitting position was impossible and soon he was on his feet in a simmering, quiet rage.
Duo shifted with a long groan, giving a broken whine at a pressure along his side and a few coughs to echo it, before he unconsciously tossed again as if hoping to find a comfortable resting state.
Still, Heero was the one to remain motionless, at first, before deep velvet blues turned cold as stone and cutting as knives. "I took the liberty of checking myself, Quatre. I'm no idiot, regardless of our up-bringing and your quick jump to fight it seems today. I checked through Oz, through all their files and surveillance and for every unit in the area, and nothing came up other than the report on the little scuffle and that three were thought to be there but only one was ever found. They didn't go any further. Thereisnosignofhim, Quatre. Being adamant about it won't bring life back to the dead."
The pacing steps faltered and froze in mid-stride before falling to a resting position at the sharp words of the Japanese youth. For as much as he hated to admit to any of it, he knew questioning Heero's final statements was usually a bad idea, because they were not made without much intent research and thought. 'Damn it, not now, not again.'
"H..He might.. Like last time...", the thought was all but lost just trying to escape the mouth of the shaken aristocrat. Such an idea seemed to break him already.
"It's as rare of a possibility as it was then, I will give you that. The odds are stronger against it this time, Quatre. Believe what you want, but don't live it in a fantasy. We're still fighting a war." This time, his words eased back and kept cool, but not nearly as heartless. It was just illogical to try and believe something so far out of reach.
Quatre's mind and heart took in the idea of it all, and finally his hands stretched, shaking, to grasp onto the nearest support it could find. He fell, more rather than leaned, back into the dresser, closing his eyes tightly for a moment that lasted a lifetime. He didn't even bother to answer the question or acknowledge the second creaking of the old oak door, hearing it click shut in the back of his mind and knowing Wufei was there, but not seeming to care. It just seemed too hard to care right now.
A cuss bit itself with a sharp snarl from usually indifferent features, the poker face of the sad clown broken by a deep grimace from time to time. Still, as calming breaths were taken and a few more curses found their way from unlikely lips, Trowa repositioned the torn cloth back over the homemade patch. One end of the sleeve wrapped tightly around bloody fingers, the second end held between gritted teeth to steady it, a sharp pull snapped it tight without hesitation or thought of the pain to come.
Still, the brash movements didn't quite stop the pain, just the blood flow for a moment or two as it dampened the cloth pressed relentlessly to it now. The throngs of white fire running up and down from the wound along his shoulder teased without subsiding, stretching down his back, into his tired mind, though his arm, and into his chest, leaving his lungs to feel heavy and frantic for air with more of a struggle than anything.
Panting breaths soon found their way through parted lips, making quick gasps as the world spun for a moment or two before settling and the breaths calmed themselves. Trowa's eyes closed wearily, not daring to move any weight onto his twisted left ankle. It still burned and stung, giving bold throbs to any shift made around it. Like an old bounty hunter with his new catch for reward, Trowa had been handcuffed and made to follow behind the jeep of the higher ranking officers, his escorts kept at their own pace behind him, guns trained and trigger fingers itching. The trek back through the icy conditions and muddy terrain had been torture he tried to hide. Still, even such bravado was hard to keep up in a bitter darkness, hiding all the uneven steps and upraised roots.
Hell was just starting, he was sure of it. And that was his grand entrance into the front gates of this lovely resort.
"By now, they should be off of this winter fortress and back to making these guys miserable," came the hopeful remark, knowing that when given an offered operation of strategic means, that at least Heero wouldn't stop come hell or high water until it was completed. That was perhaps his biggest downfall if it could be manipulated right.
Either way, if their plans to get to outer space were a success or a failure, it made no difference to him now. He was still stuck in the same dark, small, square cell with no furnishings and the only light coming from a peeping window at the top of the door too small to even fit a full hand through.
His breaths echoed about him, every once in a while a stray thought making its way across his tired mind.
'Well, no name, you picked a hell of a time to go without a meal. No doubt if I see food or water here, it'll be in taunting anyway.'
Even the casual observation seemed a little awkward in his mind. What was the use? He was surprised he wasn't dead. 'Not yet at least, give them time to get a bit more frustrated with me.'
A smirk actually tugged this time at his lips in the dark, masked away to only his own knowledge. Not dead yet? It was only ever a matter of time, the occasion spoken of more frequently with soldiers and those of a more dangerous taste. Normally, it didn't matter. What did it matter now? Why did it matter now?
"I told Cathy I'd be coming back," was the weary response to no one at all. "I guess it'll be a bit longer than she wants. She'll be upset with me again," trailed his own thoughts, shifting as emeralds fluttered closed in his confines. He may as well rest while he could.
Still, the thud of boots on a tile floor along with the faint squeak of the rubber against the tile when one was of a quick, determined stride, floated at first like dull beats that rumbled in and out of time. And much like a distant storm sounds before it cracks and shatters itself over the waiting in its path, the boots drew closer in sound, halting just outside his door.
"Come in," spilled a soft sarcasm, keeping his eyes closed even against the blinding light of the hallway, paying no heed to the silhouette in its frames.
Esperanzo shifted beneath the blankets, tugging them with a drowsy hand up and over her copper tanned features. The nasty little sunlight was blocked again by the warmth of darkness, and she curled deeper into her flannel sheets.
"Mnph, sleepy time.." broke the muffled words.
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep... called back to the young woman as if in mock laughter at her.
A frustrated scream found itself from angry lips, chased out quickly by, "Oh good gods, you stupid, sorry, ungrateful little mothers...!" The words trailed off themselves in a long, lazy yawn as a slam of the determined palm fell hard on the snooze button. "Next time, she's taking those damn birds with her."
Zoe, as she was often called by her peers, pushed herself up with reluctance and glared at the doorway with dark hazels, upset that her morning wake up call only hours before her alarm had its chance. Instead of the natural, signature beeping, her dreams were interrupted by two squalling banshees who's songs were more like nails on a chalkboard. "One of these days, I'm going to have a barbeque and you'll both be main course!"
Again, her response was a chirp or two innocently from the other room.
Still, a tired hand brushed back the long bundles of braids, letting them fall back into place, hanging heavily in ebony strands just above the knees. A stretch or two was made as Zoe pushed herself from the queen sized mattress on box springs. Renting an apartment was hard enough, renting a house so she'd have the room for herself and Andi's things, was a bit tougher. It's not like she needed the bedframe. It's wasn't like they needed a lot of other things either, but that's the problem living with two opposites.
Zoe made due with what they had, or did without. Not only was she prone to accepting it, but to being lazy on top of it. Besides, cleaning was ridiculous. Neither girl could ever find anything when it was cleaned, but when the house was a mess, they found everything with the simplest of ease, as well as the lost city of Atlantis, only every other scavenger hunt.
That's where an easy life would be too except that Andrea always had her good say. Keep it neat and organized, cozy and clean and she was happy. She already had her troubles finding her memory, much as she would her head except that it was the only thing attached.
Still, Zoe had to admit, she wasn't far behind Andi in her own misadventures with memory, but unlike her good friend who often became a little too flustered with it, she preferred to lay back, nap, and let life take its course.
"Ugh, it's the weekend and I'm still working. This isn't even fair," she called, if not to the birds, then to the possible higher powers that might take pity on her and randomly give her a million dollars. Well, it was a hope.
As routine as the sun rises and sets, reluctant fingers brushed their way through a pile of clothes, the only difference between the wrinkled bundles of clean and dirty were the food stains or the smell. Snatching out a white dress shirt and black dress slacks, she tossed them into the dryer, the only other sound in the house as glistening silver flakes drifted and danced outside the windows.
"A quick shower, throw on the uniform, and it's off to another wonderful day at work! Woohoo!"
Somehow, the lingering sarcasm wasn't nearly as convincing to the youth as she turned on the faucet, realizing and not seeming too concerned she was already running behind. She'd just have to sprint to work instead of walking...
A perky smile lit the young Latina's lips as she took a second or two more to scratch out a few key words on her misshapen and overused notepad, before dropping both the pen and booklet back into her apron pocket as natural as a breath would be before continuing.
"All right, I'll head on back and get breakfast started for everyone since you all look so hungry," eased itself in a kindness that was only half fake for as early as it was, "and be right back with those biscuits so the kids can get started."
An appreciative thank you and smiles from both parents of their three unruly children was kept in Zoe's mind as she made her way back to the kitchen. Ducking behind a dividing wall and dropping the smile she didn't feel, a large yawn took its place and she stretched with much less haste than she'd projected only moments before. "'Morning, Rick."
The unnaturally chipper manager smiled his wide smile, giving a courteous nod as his full cheeks lifted with the smile that was yet to drop. "Well God be praised, she is alive!" Hearty, warm laughter rumbled softly as the kind-hearted, middle aged man stepped out of range of the service computer and let the drowsy server go about her work.
Zoe couldn't help but laugh at how odd it seemed to hear him every morning, just as the sun was gleaming over the wall of picture windows, and every morning the rest of the staff couldn't pull their minds out of sleep enough to join in. "Exactly. So we give it an hour, close the dining room, pull the buffet, have breakfast, and then go to bed."
"Sounds good," echoed from the older staff, along with "just give us the day off."
Rick simply shook his head and straightened his blazer, his unique ties always a subject of the day. "Oh, it's not that bad. If our guests are awake, then you'll all be fine. Besides, you all look so thrilled to be here!"
Zoe simply rolled her eyes and keyed in the order, leaning back against the counter as Rick's hand smoothed down the animated tie, depicting eight tiny reindeer trying to pull a large slay far too overfilled and not simply with toys. "Hey, don't make us suffer because you're getting older and get to take five naps a day."
Another chuckle followed her as the youth passed back behind the doors to the kitchen and she went about setting up breakfast for her table. "Well, that's half of the privilege of being manager and being old. You can't stay out for very long when you're a vampire, sunlight isn't all that great for the skin."
A series of grumbles followed again as the young woman deliberated with the idea of a "quality check" of the bacon on one of the plates being set up before her. "Fine, buy me breakfast and I'll be nice today." And reason held her against the act, though not without regret.
Manager and staff alike let the conversation dwindle and die behind the scenes of the restaurant doors, like an overused joke that still roused a chuckle or two on the odd chance of the right timing.
The once quiet room of empty tables soon began to rouse itself, in both the grumpier and cheerier aspects of life. Faces came with stories and emotions of every style and size, for better or worse, and always turned with a smug fulfillment as time drew on with the waking hours of lunch. And as always, those clad of the apron and pen bustled to and fro between the maze of chairs and aromas, the "Perma-grin" stuck in place without falter.
Zoe slipped back from her last table, sneaking away to drop the rag and spray bottle off in their designated holders, the dishes clattering on a cocktail tray before being left on the slop covered dish window. A welcome chair, long since worn and all but crumbling sat empty in a corner, hidden from the eyes of the many, and with a coaxing thought or two, welcomed the sore youth. Change jangled as she sat and removed her cash and paperwork from its pockets in Zoe's apron. Tips were skimpy today.
"Great, I'm really gonna pay all my bills AND eat on this. Thanks, everyone," fell the grumble from her lips. People seemed more demanding on the weekends, as if they were the only ones that ever faced a bad day and needed their own slaves for an hour or so with nothing more than a buck and the knowledge that most wouldn't remember your name. "Hmph, not even minimum wage, between paycheck and tips. Son of a..."
"Hey, hey... we shouldn't talk like that about the guests," came the deep voice, a soft but kind reprimand from the dining room manager.
"Maybe we should be paying them to come in and eat then," was the sigh of defeat, Zoe's sarcastic smile falling and reminding her that yet again, she'd have to wait another week to get new shoes. All that walking, day in and day out wore out the soles faster than anyone else, and still, there wasn't enough extra in her hold for the time to dwell in such luxuries. "Winter's not making it easy to get by, is all, Rick. My car's acting up, Andi's got her own dilemmas to deal with, and we're skating by on minimum payments right now as it is. I'll just have to get another job until business picks up if life goes on like this. But for all the time that doesn't add up in tips that I spend here, it's nearly impossible to go and find time for another job."
Not to be one to give up so easily, the older man sighed and nodded. "Busy season's coming again. Just a little longer and everyone will be back here. Besides, people are already sick of winter. They'll be out soon. We go through this every year."
"Yeah," scoffed the young woman as she stood, swooping back her long pony-tail pulled taut atop her head. The hair rippled and fell down her back, natural curls keeping their smooth waves over the distinctly white shirt. "And each year, we get behind, and just as we're almost ahead of everything, dead season comes back and pushes us further back each time. This just waiting tables isn't working as well as it used to. Look, I just wanna cash out so I can go home."
"Sound's like a plan," was the defeated reply.
Quickly sorting out the tips from cash that had to be paid back to the restaurant, Zoe snatched for her hoodie in the guest coat room and slipped her wallet from her apron into her front pouch. All she wanted to do was go home and soak in a hot tub. Lunch and dinner would have to be a quick, cheap burger from down the street and hope it lasted.
Pushing past the front doors of the dining lodge, a blast of arctic air took the place of the heat from the vents and left a strong chill racing up and down Zoe's body. Stuffing her gloved hands into the front of the pouch, her trek started with a few unsteady steps over the icy cement before they steadied.
"Where's the sun when you want it?"
"The tropics, where else!?" Followed behind the girl, her ducked head turning to catch an older woman bundling herself up to brace the winds as she walked to her car.
"Think it'd come back," was the chattering retort, a smile in place, " if we renamed the place?"
Laughter at the random thought echoed from the older woman. Many of the day serving staff were older men and women, those with children either getting ready to leave the house, or already left and starting families of their own. It was random and rare for "youngen's" as they called Zoe and her peers, to be in the same working group. True, most younger adults were either in class for college, worked other, more "acceptable" jobs for their stations that often didn't require nearly as much work, or worked the night shifts. Zoe took whatever came her way and was available. Just like her hard-working mother.
"Only you."
Zoe smirked. "If I'm such a rarity, why aren't I making a few hundred dollars an hour for the talent? I bet there ain't another one like me anywhere else, so why am I still making $3.00/hr plus tip?"
Again, another small spout of laughter came. "It'll look up, so quit bragging. You aren't walking home again, are you Zoe?"
"Yep."
"In this weather? You'll freeze or get sick."
"Or both, but I don't have much choice," followed by a coy smile was the stubborn response.
A look of disapproval caught the older woman's face and held its place there. "C'mon then. I'll drive you home, it's not that far out of the way."
"Toni," a sigh bit itself off. She hated to ask for help, especially if it was a bit more of an inconvenience.
Stubbornly, Toni gave a sharp look Zoe's way. "If you don't, I'll just run you over and drag you behind my car."
A hesitant laugh came to Zoe's lips, eyebrow raised in skepticism, but didn't doubt the older woman's intentions. "Fine. But as long as you don't throw me in the trunk and drive to the border, I'll agree, just this once..."
Steps turning, Zoe changed her direction, a small flinch all that came from the older woman's chuckle of triumph. If she was sealing her death wish, then there really was no other way the day could get any worse. Right?
The metal frame of the strict chair refused to warm itself, even against the continual touch of the young man's flesh, though it was not at his wish that he was there. The cold cutting discomfort of the handcuffs along his tender wrists were already enough of an agitation, holding their prisoner trapped against the metal chair. Trowa kept his eyes down, not very intent on any of the words exchanged between his two interrogators or their flustered actions.
Weariness pulled at him, but the once dulled throb of his arm now gave a jolting stream of seizing agony as the muscles stressed and strained, intensifying with every movement asked of them.
At least he didn't have to walk or stand for the time. With the continual pressure, the twisted ankle shrieked with a blinding pain with each use; horribly tender even at rest. Often times, it even collapsed him, not responding to his mind's needs and demands.
"You know, for as much trouble as you keep giving us, it had to be just dumb luck that you managed all that yourself for as long as you have. Because if you had any smarts, you'd give in right now and save more than just us, but yourself a hell of a lot of trouble." The younger of the group, a man probably in his twenties, private by his rank markings, loomed closely in front of him. His every breath and word were hot and felt against the younger's turned cheek, having no intention to join in their lovely chat. "You wanna help us out a bit and tell us what those other two were up to, even where they're going, and a lot of people won't have to get hurt or uprooted for us to smoke out the other four."
Again, silence danced between captive and captor. It should have been routine and expected. Still, Trowa's mind drifted elsewhere to find a content thought or two. What else was there to do? 'There would be no room and much practice ahead of me, but I could always start a new routine. Well, for when I do get back to the circus.'
"I think," came the lieutenant colonel's tired words, the man quite a bit older than his counterpart, "that he's just being shy. Maybe he needs a bit of help refreshing his mind. After all, he mustn't be too comfortable there and those injuries are probably interfering with his memories."
A small snickering laughter came from the latter man, listening with pure amusement as devious thoughts spawned. "I think you're right, Sir. I never realized," trailed the remark as he reached out.
Trowa gave a small flinch in anticipation as emerald eyes caught sight of where the larger hand was readying to place itself. When it clamped down hard over his wounded arm, his teeth grit together hard, still unsuccessful in drowning the low growl that came at the suddenness. His eyes closed tight in concentration, he could feel the slow curl of fingers, prodding against the bullet wound in his flesh, digging into the slow healing area and bruising the tender muscle.
It was is if fiery acid were poured into the already opened flesh, dispersing quickly and leaving stabbing, burning stretches over his entire arm, crossing his shoulders and ripping down his back. His chest seemed to tighten as his stomach twisted on itself, his lungs feeling half crushed in the sudden attempt for quiet, unspoken, begging release in each trial for a fleeting breath. It felt as if the onslaught would last for hours, the grip tightened and released, retightening harder each time. Then, it ebbed away, leaving the wrenching aches behind as a reminder.
The laughter and taunting weren't heard right away, the youth's vision rolling as burning eyes forced themselves to keep from flowing, a thunderous roaring of his pulse pounding in his ears, leaving his body rigid and suddenly overheated for a few minutes more. The instant shock overwhelmed him, but not quite strongly enough before it began to fade away. His hearing slowly returned, like tuning into a radio to find the music between the static, his tossing vision steadying itself, and his breath opening and easing. He didn't even place or feel the sudden slap against his right cheek, tossing his sketchy balance for another dizzy spell before the dull ache forced its way into his cloudy mind. At least he resisted the want to black out, for the time.
"Shit, the things I do trying to be nice. Now I've gotta clean that crap up."
"Yeah, because you were the one to do it. It's not my fault he's bleeding all over. Look, Private, just go take him to the infirmary, dump him off in his cell when you're done, get this cleaned up, and we'll go tell the general about this. He's uncooperative, but I'm not sure the general's gonna want anything else to do with him. We've already got all his statistics and data and if he isn't gonna talk, he'll be useless."
"Yeah," was the bitter grumble, "I guess." He quickly undid the handcuffs from their mount on the back of the chair and hefted the half conscious teen up from his place, catching him with a cuss when the young pilot collapsed almost the same instant.
Trowa felt that familiar sear of pain race through his leg again and wasn't quite as ready as he'd hoped to stand. The hard jerk of his own falling weight on his uninjured arm gave a painful pull but he again bit off anything but a soft burst of a growl.
It took a few minutes to get back to his feet, the private determined not to do any more work than he had to and refused to help or drag the boy to their destination. Trowa detested the man as he was sure was a mutual outlook from the elder. Making it with minimal aid and support, he took on the heavy limp once again, following after his captor. Pride was not much of a thought left here to have, but any extra pain he could spare himself would be well and welcome.