Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W. I'm simply an E-5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.
-BEGIN FIC-
00:48 Hours --
Trowa had long ago lost track of time.
Laying in the smothering black shadows of the cell, he groaned, his head still pressed to the dirty, cold floor that lay below him. His arms had long since lost feeling, having been held tightly to his back by his shackles since his capture.
Only the sound of his breathing met his ears. Calm and steady. Deep.
Cracking open one eye, Trowa suppressed a sigh. It didn't matter if his eyes were open or shut. The information they transmitted to his brain was exactly the same. Utter darkness.
Instead, Trowa closed his eyes and focused on his body.
Immediately, he regretted that mistake as every injury he'd received as he was thrown into this cell came raging to life in his weary mind, flashing little white stars of pain across his vision.
Turning his thoughts once more away from his body, Trowa strove to focus his mind's eye upon something else.
The fate of the other young pilot who had also been captured
22:19 Hours --
Trowa stumbled as he was dragged into the brightly-lit cell. Raising his gaze, he frowned, his hands flexing slowly, testing the bonds that were clamped tightly around his forearms.
Glancing back, he frowned. The soldiers who had bound him entered the room, dragging their second captive with them.
Positioned before the entire group was one well-dressed officer. Standing tall in his dark OZ uniform, his black hair slicked back and framing a face regal and angular to compliment the stylish cape he wore to advertise his high rank in the OZ organization, he screamed of power and dignity. Dark brown eyes focused on everyone gathered, and slowly narrowed. "Johnson, Browens, stay to control the prisoners. The rest of you are dismissed."
With a resounding, united cry of, "Yes sir," the company departed, leaving only those five people in the room. Trowa stood uneasily, feeling the man identified as 'Browens' tighten his grip on his left wrist. Stealing a glance to his left, he noted that Quatre was in the same situation with his guard. Still, he kept his stance tall and proud, his eyes rock hard and his face stubborn.
Trowa had to fight his facial muscles to keep from smirking.
That one look at his companion told him all he'd wanted to discover. There was no way their enemies were going to wrest any information out of them.
Trowa was quickly dragged one of the two seats in the otherwise barren room. Being forced down upon the hardwood stool, he grunted his annoyance with the soldier behind him before straightening his position on the seat. The officer sat himself down upon the folding chair directly in front of him with graceful delicacy.
They stared at one another for a few moments before the officer opened his mouth.
"You wear the uniform of an OZ soldier."
"Hai," Trowa replied, nodding.
"Give your name, number, rate and rank, soldier."
Trowa's eyes hardened considerably. "Rodgers, 905258-A14. Rate, EWT. Rank, Private."
The officer raised a thin brow, his smile showing him to be thoroughly amused.
Trowa simply stared at him in return. He knew that information was viable. He'd made certain to memorize it off the identification card of the soldier from whom he'd gained his current uniform.
Nodding with satisfaction, the cape-wearing man inclined his head in the direction of the blond pilot in the room. "And your knowledge of him?"
"I know nothing."
"You identified him as 'Quatre', soldier. Explain yourself."
Glancing over, Trowa frowned. The other boy's expression didn't change one bit.
"He looks like Quatre Raberba Winner, sir. I was startled upon seeing him."
"Oh really. And how did you come to that conclusion?"
"Don't you watch TV, sir? If so, you'd know that this boy strikes a remarkable resemblance as well."
The officer grinned, seemingly getting quite a kick out of Trowa's answers.
Trowa, meanwhile, kept his face schooled in its stoic mask.
"I believe you're lying to me, Private," the officer quiet said, pressing his gloved fingertips together.
Trowa remained silent.
"Quatre Raberba Winner is not one for public appearances, nor for appearing with the media. Also, given the amount of time any soldier employed at this base has for indulging in television, I highly doubt that you have seen him in any of the few televised appearances he may have made."
Trowa's eyes caught the slightest hint of movement to his left. Quatre's stance had stiffened.
"Also, as I recall, Private Rodgers was a bit heavier set than you are, 'sir'."
Uh oh.
"Now you will tell me why you are here, and what you were intending to do."
Silence filled the room, as dark green eyes peered darkly at the man in the folding chair.
"He was following my directives."
Trowa and the officer turned as one, both setting surprised gazes upon the short blond boy who, until now, had stood silently.
"Do tell," the austere man said with a smirk.
"His name is…"
'NO! What do you think you're doing, Quatre?' Trowa's mind screamed in rage. 'You're going to blow everything!'
"Samuel Whitney."
'Eh?'
"Really," the OZ officer said, arching both brows. Rising from his chair, he walked over to the slender boy.
Quatre seemed to suddenly weaken, his face showing fear for the first time since Trowa had laid eyes upon him, his lips trembling. Taking a step back from the man who suddenly seemed to tower over him, Quatre's wavering eyes looked with what could only be called the highest degree of utmost terror and respect. "Samuel Whitney. Following my orders."
Trowa stared.
'He's acting,' his brain informed him. 'Look at those eyes. Fear on the surface…'
'But calculating underneath. He's acting.'
Trowa straightened as the officer turned back towards him. "Is that true?" the man's deep voice rumbled.
'May as well act along. I have no idea what he's planning, but it seems there's no other option than to go with whatever he's doing.'
Trowa let his frame sag, his face bow towards his knees. Thickening his voice with fear he did not feel, he croaked out, "Yes, sir. I… I was just following what orders I'd received this morning."
"And those orders were?"
'Damn.' He glanced over at Quatre for any sort of hint the boy could give him.
Quatre just stared at him and gave him the tiniest semblance of a shrug.
"To observe operations at this base and note your watch shifts to schedule our next attack."
"Hm," the officer grumbled, his fingers rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Turning towards the man behind Trowa, he nodded. "Browens, take him to the brig. Since we apparently have the ringmaster of this little operation in our hands, we have no need of him at this time. I don't want them conspiring together. We'll question them separately."
"Yes, sir!" the soldier replied, saluting before he roughly grabbed Trowa's arms and hauled him out of the room, paying no mind as the boy's feet entwined with the stool legs and sent it careening into his body.
Trowa paid careful attention to the passageways he was being hauled down on their journey, storing the information in the recesses of his mind for the inevitable attempt at escape he would be making later.
'Mission failure.'
'I lost the disk.'
'But giving up is not an option. I still have to make it out of this alive.'
00:59 Hours --
Trowa slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. His side was beginning to ache from being laid so heavily upon, and his shoulder was most certainly getting bruised from supporting most of his weight upon the hard concrete floor.
Managing to get himself firmly positioned on his bottom, he frowned, his head hanging loosely from the limp noodle his neck had become.
'What is Quatre up to? And why has he been away for so long?'
'How long has it been, anyway?'
'Doubt they left my watch on.'
'Damn.'
22:45 Hours --
Trowa grunted as he was thrown roughly against the wall of the cell, but managed to keep his footing.
He didn't remain in an upright position for long as a foot lashed out and swiped his legs right out from under him.
His breath rocketed from his body as his attacker's foot caught him sharply in his ribs.
"Just stay down," the nasal voice uttered. "Stay down, and we don't kill you."
He laid perfectly still, in accordance to their orders.
00:00 --
He remained perfectly still, his forehead pressed into the concrete, his fingers intertwined.
He was listening carefully to the conversation that was taking place outside of his cell between two soldiers.
"So you heard that these guys are from the Rebellion?"
"No shit."
"They're still questioning that little smart-ass. Cap said that something just didn't sound right with that kid's story. Keeps runnin' around in circles, giving him shit."
"And this guy here's probably tied with him, you think?"
"Yep. Probably end up stringin' 'em up together once we get a straight answer out of one of 'em."
"Why don't they try this one again?"
"'Cause the other one definitely knows something. Cap said that much was obvious. He's just running around in circles, trying to not tell us anything."
"Rat bastard."
"Yep."
"Hey, there's Cap again! What, this is the second time in 15 minutes he's needed a break, eh?"
"Hey, Captain!"
A new voice entered the fray. Trowa shivered as he recognized the voice of the man who'd been interrogating him earlier. "Hello, Johnson. Lesley. Is this one behaving?"
"Hasn't moved an inch, sir."
"Good," the captain's voice continued.
"The other one cooperating yet?"
Trowa listened with amusement as the man sighed in obvious frustration. "Not at all," he muttered. "He eludes to one thing, then completely abolishes any suggestions he gives with his next statements."
"Sounds like he's going to need some persuasion to tell the truth, neh, Cap?"
"Yes, he will."
Trowa frowned. He didn't like the sound of this.
"Get Sargent Waverly. He should be able to offer some interesting insight on what is to be done with this irritating little captive of ours."
"What about this other one, sir? Aren't you going to question him again?"
"Why bother?" the captain's voice grunted. "All of the other boy's stories point to the fact that this one is simply following orders. And the other boy was, after all, the one who managed to break into our systems. We have our mole in the interrogation room, gentlemen. Bolt the door, and leave this one to rot. And if we get nowhere with the other, then we'll consider letting this one see the light of day again for further questioning."
01:05 Hours --
Trowa closed his eyes with a moan.
He didn't have his disk. He didn't have any weapons. His hands were bound behind his back, and thus were practically useless. His side was aching from what most certainly was a cracked rib. What sounded like a high quality, thick deadbolt had his door firmly locked into place. The utter silence of the environment he had been trust into allowed him to hear the light scrapping of the boots of the soldiers who patrolled outside of his cell door. He was beaten, weary, and drained of energy.
Escaping seemed like an impossible dream in the crushing darkness of the hell his cell had become.
Laying back down on his back, his body screaming in pain as it was pressed once more to the unforgiving floor, Trowa opened his eyes to stare into the black air that hung above him, mocking his attempt to view his surroundings.
He was trapped more thoroughly than an invalid lion tethered in a cage.
He couldn't escape.
tbc...
