Night Wind
Part II – Let the Night Begin
Chapter Eighteen: Leak
It is only a small oil leak, something Benjiro Mori's children are fairly certain will only take the first part of the morning to fix. They had rolled out of their bed early, as usual, and soundlessly made their way downstairs. They had paused in the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and then they had snagged the keys to their grandparents' seldom-used, blue sedan and proceeded to the garage. They had only just finished draining the old oil out of the dusty engine when their soft, shuffling silence is interrupted.
"Ah, the dream team, already hard at work," an elderly man with a rusty voice says as he enters the garage. "If both of you keep this up..." He pauses to forlornly shake his head of sleep-tossed hair. "The neighbors'll start spreading rumors about slave labor!"
The siblings regard their grandfather with pleasant expressions. He is a welcome addition to their silence. "We woke you," one of them says.
"Sorry," finishes the other.
The old man waves a hand. "Nonsense. Your grandmother's been after me since last spring to get this garage straightened up... Couldn't do it though until she gave up nagging me about it... Hm..."
The siblings feel their lips pull into small smiles. They return their attention to the car. It's time to replace the faulty clamp and refill the oil reservoir.
For another fifteen minutes, the musty air muffles the sounds of their breaths, the metallic motions of mechanic work, and an old man's intermittent sorting. But then:
"Ah!"
Their grandfather's sound of pleasant surprise forces them to look up. He pulls the faded box in his grasp off of the shelf it had been sitting on and places it on the nearby tool chest.
"I'd forgotten about this!" He smiles at his grandchildren. "Here, here. Come see..."
One of them pauses in opening the first quart of oil. The other leans up from peering at the undercarriage.
Their grandfather sets the box's lid carefully on the cement floor. Gently, the old man lifts out the first item in the box.
"It's the town's weekly newspaper," he tells them. "Back issues. A lot of folk 'round here have copies in storage. When the new library is finished, we'll all be donating them so they can make digital files of them." He pauses for a moment, remembering: "They lost all the archives a few years back when the library caught fire. Arson, they said. Just a bunch of kids." He shakes his head. "Such a waste, really."
But then he seems to rally as his gaze skims the front page of the paper in his hands. "These are all from right around the time when you both stayed with us." Left unspoken are tiny handfuls of words that are assumed easily: from the time of the attack... after your father died...
"Some interesting articles in these. Look! This one even shows how downtown used to look. Oh! And here's the old house! This is where your mother grew up. Broke her arm when she was six trying to ski down those steps right there. It was summer but she'd just seen a movie about it and wanted to try it..."
Together, the siblings examine the faded, black and white newsprint.
Their grandfather digs deeper into the box and removes yet another thin packet of small town news. "Ah! And this one! This was printed right after your Godfather came for both of you!"
And together, the siblings look up at the old man.
"Our Godfather?"
"Well, of course! He..." Suddenly, the old man stops as his grandchildren's words are understood. Expression now somber, he states, "You don't remember him, either."
They don't protest the assumption.
Turning, their grandfather sinks down onto a grimy stool and sighs. He rubs his dust-powdered hands through his tussled hair. "We – your grandmother and I – had hoped..." The old man fights for the right words. "We thought you'd both been through a lot... Figured that would explain your memory loss, but... well, we'd hoped you hadn't gone through it alone." He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You were only children. He was supposed to protect you. Better than we could."
"Who was he?"
He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the weight of his emotions. "Your Godfather? He was Benjiro's best friend. From the academy. Although they didn't see each other much after they graduated... Ben won a commission in the Alliance... don't know exactly what Odin did..."
"What?"
The question is breathed so softly, the old man isn't sure he'd heard it.
"His name..."
"... what was it?"
Their grandfather replies automatically, "Odin Lowe... Why? What do you remember about him? Is he –"
The half-formed question is bitten off when the familiar figure of the town's sheriff opens the side door to the garage. Seeing the elderly man and his two grandchildren, she seems to relax slightly.
"There you are! Breakfast's almost ready." The blond woman turns to the old man specifically. "Your wife sent me out here to collect you. She wants your poached eggs."
With a visible effort, the man switches gears and smacks his lips thoughtfully. "She does, eh? Well, if she's started her strawberry muffins then we might just have a deal..." He straightens from his seat and moves toward the door. But as he passes his grandchildren, he gives each of them a comforting pat. They appreciate the gesture even if they do not say so.
An odd silence trickles into the garage in his wake. The sheriff steps in and allows the door to close behind her. She waits until she hears the old man cross the small yard and enter the kitchen before she speaks.
"Ossia. Fiero." She pauses for a moment before plunging in. "Or do you prefer to be called Yokaze and Heero?"
One of them says, "We were called that before, yes."
The other shrugs as if the names have little significance.
The sheriff continues, "Look, I know you have your share of secrets and then some, but I need to know... Why would someone send out an APB on your rental car?"
They stiffen.
"Are you in trouble? In danger? Do you need help or...?" The sheriff runs a hand over her face in aggravation. "For God's sake, the two of you were my closest friends once upon a time..." She takes a deep breath and tells them straight-out, "You know I've got to report the car, right?"
A determined gleam flashes in her eyes. "I won't ask you to come in with me. In fact, I won't mention you at all. No one's seen you except the three of us," she tells them with a wave of her hand toward that encompasses herself and the house.
In two quick strides, she crosses the distance to the wall and scoops up the keys lying on the nearby shelf. She tosses them toward her friends and tells them, "Take the car if you need to leave." And then she sees something in their expressions... or perhaps in the way the young woman's fingers curl around the keys she'd caught in mid-air. The sheriff guesses, "So it is bad..." She nods sadly. "Then go," she tells them, turning toward the door. "Just... just be careful, okay? You have grandparents and a friend who'd like for you to visit them again." An instant later, the garage door closes once more, leaving the siblings alone.
It's still early when a late-model sedan with a fresh oil change rumbles down the vacant street. There are no witnesses. And thus, all the neighbors will still assume that the garage beside the quaint, two-story house is concealing a mid-size sedan. It will be days before anyone reports it missing... if it is reported at all.
...ooo...
Wufei stares at the still-encoded communication files and tries to comprehend the evidence that is staring right back at him.
This... can't be...
But it is.
How this could have happened, Wufei does not know. The motivations behind the informant's generosity remain a mystery. In fact, had the informant turned out to be anyone else, Wufei would not be nearly so concerned.
But he is.
And now the consequences of his quiet investigation are so much more severe.
Wufei stares at coding that he is unable to break but able to identify. This pattern – this interweaving of a dozen or more different encoding techniques – has not been used since the war. And even then there had only been time to code and translate a maximum of four per message. But then most of the messages had been short themselves, not like these seemingly detailed reports. Or are they instructions?
His hands fist on either side of the keyboard as he stares at the screen. Someone is influencing Preventer administration. Someone who has the capability to utilize code better than a Gundam pilot.
Five years ago, shortly after the destruction of the L1 rebel base, Wufei would have automatically assumed the informant could be none other than someone who had trained the Gundam pilots. But over the last half decade, Wufei has dedicated himself completely to confirming the deaths or cataloging the existence of anyone and everyone who had ever had a role in the colonial rebellion. Five years ago, he would have suspected one of them. But now...
Now he remembers Heero and Yokaze's strange quietness in each other's company shortly before their hasty departure.
Now he remembers that instant of knowing Quatre was keeping a secret from him.
Now it seems far more likely that the informant he is looking for is not a creator of the Gundams and the pilot-training programs at all.
Very unhappy, Wufei is forced to admit the unpleasant truth: In this day and age of peace, there are very few people who are capable of creating a code that a former Gundam pilot can't crack. In fact, an unbreakable, intricate code such as this one could only have only come from one source: another former Gundam pilot.
Wufei glowers at the screen and considers his three suspects, all of them close friends. Perhaps he does not have the level of objectivity needed for this investigation, but if he does not follow through with it, he's fairly sure no one will.
In the midst of taking a deep, centering breath, the vid phone beeps. Quickly channeling his attention toward it, he picks up the line and greets the unfamiliar face of a fair-haired woman. She introduces herself as the regional sheriff of a small town in southern France before telling him something that will decide which of his suspects he will pursue first:
"Agent Chang, we've located the Yuys' rental car..."
...ooo...
Two figures lie in the middle of the large hotel bed. Their clothes are wrinkled. Their hair is wind-blown. The comforter on which they rest with their backs pressed tightly together is scratchy against their faces. But they do not sleep.
In the darkness, a whisper emerges: "My enemies are the ones who are after my life."
And in the darkness a confirmation is offered: "They are the ones who toy with my life."
They will identify the enemy.
They will formulate a plan.
They will eliminate this threat at all costs.
End of Chapter Eighteen
End of Part II
Author's Notes: Yes, it's the end of Part II but don't worry. I'm not done with the story yet! Heero and Yokaze's sudden weirdness is about to be explained in Part III. I can't guarantee that you'll like it, but it will be there. I'm also debating adding an Intermission next. If I do, it'll be within the week.
Thank You's: Again, I want to thank anissa32 and Stacey for their lovely reviews. You guys totally rock. I wish I could assuage your curiosity and give you a few hints... but you wouldn't want me to ruin the surprise would you?
Announcements: I'll be moving overseas within the next two weeks so don't be alarmed if you don't see any updates before June 2005. I haven't forgotten or died or anything. In all likelihood, I'll be awaiting a DSL hookup in my new place.
