(whallops QuickEdit and snarls incoherantly at it)

Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W. Don't sue; I'm simply an E-5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

-BEGIN FIC-

07:30 Hours --

Trowa hissed quietly as the bandages were tightened once more.

"Will you PLEASE hold still?"

"I'm trying, Quatre."

"You're not succeeding."

"It's because I'm breathing."

Trowa simply gritted his teeth as the ace bandage was yanked again. He knew this was entirely necessary. He'd broken a rib. And he'd been considerably jostled on their way to this place.

Wherever this was.

They were currently in a dusty, dirty excuse for a single-bed motel room. He was resting upon a wobbly bed which sported naught but a musty, moldy-smelling thin mattress and threadbare sheets. The pillow below his head was hard and unforgiving as he let his skull drift back onto it and returned to the sport of staring at the cracks in the stucco-covered ceiling.

Looking over his smaller companion, he frowned.

The dim light cast by the sky outside of the room's filthy window did not make viewing his comrade particularly easy, but still it did nearly nothing to hide the immense number of bruises that littered his fair-skinned body.

Quatre's dark blue eyes caught his. "You're no better," he quipped.

'Eh?'

"You're decidedly in worse shape than I am. Broken rib, dislocated shoulder, bruises over nearly every inch of your body. Of course, you DID fall rather hard, didn't you?"

Trowa remained tactfully silent.

'Of course I fell hard, you… you were the one who took that jeep over the cliff…' he thought ruefully.

"And no blaming me, Trowa. I landed it upright. You just couldn't hang on."

Trowa's eyes widened as Quatre laughed lightly, patted his head, and marched off to the bathroom.

04:25 Hours --

"I've got lock-picks in the front lining of my boxers."

Trowa felt his face flush a billion different shades of red.

"Listen. Your hands are right at the button of my khakis. Just undo them, and…"

"I don't need instructions," Trowa whispered harshly, his lips turning to form a snarl in the pitch darkness.

'No, I don't need instructions. I need…'

'I need…'

'A drink. God. I'm going into another man's pants.'

"Then hurry it up!"

'Urgh…'

Trowa's fingers were known for their nimbleness and ability to respond exactly to the commands of the mind that directed them. Able to catch thrown daggers, able to caress snowflakes without damaging them, able to handle butterflies or destroy expensive champagne flutes without problems. They were known for their strength and gentleness. For their incredible agility. He was known for threading needles in less than a second, for solving Perfection on his first try, for getting screws out of impossibly small piloted holes in solid Gundanium.

And his fingers were failing him miserably.

'Work, work! C'mon! Work! How many times have you unbuttoned buttons?' he mentally screamed at his fumbling hands.

"Relax."

'Right, relax. We're in a tight situation. We are captured by OZ. We are attempting to escape. The only way we can escape is if we have use of our hands. Our hands, which are currently disabled because of these shackles. These shackles, which are removable, provided we have the proper tools. Proper tools, of course, would be keys or lock-picks. Quatre has lock-picks. We are retrieving the lock-picks.'

'So why am I making such an incredibly huge fuss about this?'

Whilst Trowa went bounding about inside of his skull attempting to rationalize with himself over the morality of what he was doing, his fingers somehow managed to get the button of Quatre's pants undone and unzip the zipper.

"Alright. Now in the inside lining of my boxers, you'll find a loose thread. You're going to have go get into them to find it. Once it's found, pull it. It'll tear away the seam… in that pocket is where you'll find them."

Reaching nimbly into the other boy's pants, Trowa bit his lip, his eyes narrowed with concentration.

Working by touch was such a pain in the ass.

His fingers slowly felt along the silk fabric, attempting to locate the button that kept the fly shut. His fingers grazed over the plastic latch and quickly pulled the simple clasp apart. His fingers snaked around the opening…

And froze as he heard Quatre hiss.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"N… nothing. Your hands are cold."

Trowa felt himself flush again as he continued his search. Shifting his body on the cold concrete floor, he attempted to better angle his hands to reach around the flap of cloth that danced teasingly over his fingertips.

He felt his cheeks continue to burn as his fingers brushed over soft, silky hair.

'Hooo boy…'

'What've I done to get myself into this mess?'

07:45 Hours --

Trowa let his emerald eyes drift open as he heard the bathroom door open once more. The acrid smell of Ben Gay filled the room.

Quatre's face soon obscured his view of the ceiling. "You feeling alright, Trowa?" he asked, concern evident in his soft voice.

"Aa."

'Once my head stops pounding, my side stops aching and my shoulder stops screaming Ow I'll be right as rain,' his mind spat.

"Good. I was afraid you'd be uncomfortable," Quatre quietly sighed.

"Why would I be?"

"These accommodations aren't the best for treating injuries or resting when hurt."

Trowa's subconscious smiled ruefully. 'No kidding,' it said.

Trowa, meanwhile, simply shrugged. "They're fine. But," he said as he slowly sat up, "why a single bed?"

"I wasn't expecting you to go after the Payroll Registrar."

"You were planning on being here alone."

"Aa."

An uneasy silence fell over the two pilots.

04:27 Hours --

Trowa's mind swam in pools of limpid, luxurious lusty golden droplets that were being strewn about like snow in a blizzard. His breathing, having come to a near halt, echoed in the cavity his skull had become, bouncing around mercilessly like a metal Ping-Pong ball propelled by jet engines in a steel pipe. His body felt cold and clammy, his fingers like overcooked spaghetti hanging from twin paddies of shapeless ground beef. A cold sweat was threatening to break out upon his brow, hovering right below the barrier that was his skin, sliding like ice on flesh along the muscles and bone that resided under his tanned exterior.

He was fighting desperately for control.

'Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't focus on what you're touching. Don't panic. Don't rush. Don't make any excessive noise.'

Trowa's exterior remained perfectly calm and composed.

"Left," Quatre's voice hissed softly in his ear. "And watch what you're grabbing."

'Watch, Quatre? Watch what? This pitch blackness that's hovering before my eyes?'

Swallowing, he moved his fingers from the limp flesh they'd stumbled across.

"Keep going, Trowa," the quiet, harsh voice repeated.

'That's right. All business. Thread. Thread. Thread!' Repressing a smug smirk, he gave it a tug. Sure enough, he heard fabric tearing. His fingers quickly fumbled with the fabric, separating folds of it, and found their quarry.

"Got them."

"Great," Quatre replied, his voice still perfectly smooth and composed. "Sit upright. Can you pick locks?"

"Aa."

As Trowa sat upright, he felt Quatre's cuffs slip under his fingers.

"Fabulous. Then get to work. We don't have much time to waste."

07:48 Hours --

Trowa took a moment and glanced around the motel room Quatre had condemned them to.

Cold, dirty, stark.

Those words were what rang across his mind as he looked about.

Nothing but a bed, an end table carrying a rotary phone, a dresser, a table with a chess-set and a lap top computer atop it and two chairs. Not even a television.

And, at the far end of the room, the bathroom that frankly looked almost frightening.

He'd stayed in worse.

Glancing over, he watched Quatre walk over to the table. Pulling one of the rickety, dusty chairs under himself, he smiled politely at Trowa.

"We have a couple of hours to waste before the next act begins. Want to play?"

'Why not? There's nothing else to do at that moment.'

And maybe he could weasel a few answers out of the blond boy.

"Aa."

04:30 Hours --

Trowa rubbed his raw wrists. Then he flexed his long neglected elbows and rotated his shoulders.

He felt Quatre's hand take his own.

"Get flush against the wall," he heard the boy whisper.

Nodding, he complied.

He heard the muffled explosion of small blast-caps to his right, and felt himself being tugged violently by his hand.

Opening his eyes, he hissed as the shock of light struck them. Shaking his head as he ran along after the platinum-haired youth to clear his vision, he returned his attention to his surroundings.

They were barreling wildly towards a door that was opposite of the cell they had recently inhabited.

Quatre released his appendage, turned the doorknob and hurriedly rummaged through the equipment stored therein.

Trowa's eyes narrowed considerably.

'Where are the guards? And why…'

'Why is a weapon-closet unlocked?'

His thoughts were interrupted as a .16 gauge rifle was shoved into his hands, along with a bag that rattled of bullets. "Take these!" Quatre hissed as he pulled a very familiar .357 Magnum from the closet's back right corner, yanking it free from under a pile of dusty tarps.

"Aa," Trowa automatically answered, already in the process of loading his newly acquired weapon.

Quatre turned and nodded to him. "Follow me. I've already got an escape route planned."

Trowa didn't bother attempting to refuse the boy. An escape route was already planned, and that was fine with him.

Running towards the door, Quatre paused for but a moment to turn the doorknob. They burst into the awaiting hallway -- and into chaos.

07:50 Hours --

Trowa slowly arranged the chess pieces on the board, all the while studying the smiling blond before him.

There were so many questions he wished to ask…

But for some reason, now didn't seem the proper time.

"Black or white, Trowa?"

"Eh?"

"Do you want to go first?"

"Sure."

Turning the board, Quatre kept smiling at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Trowa?"

Trowa's emerald eyes narrowed slightly as he shifted in his chair, attempting to get more comfortable. "I was wondering how it was that you already had such an escape orchestrated."

"Hmmmm… questions should be asked later. We're not out of the woods yet, my friend."

Trowa blinked.

His confusion must have been visible in his eyes, for Quatre simply shrugged. "If we are to be captured again, I don't want you able to give the enemy any viable information. There are other people besides you and I in danger here, Trowa, and I'd rather you not know their identities, their roles, or their purposes."

Operatives?

"To reveal them would be to derail the entire plan."

Trowa's narrowed eyes critically analyzed the boy before him.

So sweet and innocent looking…

So deceiving…

"It's your turn."

Trowa reached for his knight.

05:15 Hours --

"I'm out!" Trowa shouted to his companion as they raced down the hallway.

His quick reactions were all that saved him from being smacked in his forehead by the pistol that was tossed his way.

They'd been running for what seemed to be forever down twisting dark tunnels and through lab after lab of computer equipment.

Both boys were tired and worn.

Trowa focused his attention on Quatre as they kept their manic pace down the hall, watching as the blood-coated blond leapt almost casually over yet another body that had fallen to the dreaded blast of the gore-slicked Magnum in his right hand.

Dropping his empty 9mm, Trowa lifted his new gun - a Colt 45, by the feel of it - and fired as rapidly as he could, squeezing four shots into the guards who'd just stepped into the hallway before them.

Racing right past those bodies as well, they ran full-tilt around a corner.

Trowa nearly bowled over the smaller pilot as he came upon his still form.

Quatre neatly lifted his gun, aimed, and fired.

Two men fell as one, both with wretched cries, both in incredible sprays of red liquid.

Running once more, they came into a garage.

'Garage?'

'Of course!'

Trowa resisted the urge to smack himself upon his forehead. Glancing about, he quickly selected a vehicle, noticing that the keys were still hanging in the ignition, visible through the clear window.

"Over here, Quatre!" he shouted.

Nodding, Quatre quickly tossed Trowa another pistol, a 10mm acquired during their panicked flight through the base's labyrinthine corridors, then ran over and jumped into the driver seat of the vehicle Trowa had pointed out. "Watch the door while I get the code for the bay entry!" he shouted as he started the jeep.

Trowa took position.

Body after body fell as he defended Quatre, waiting as patiently as possible for the boy's rapidly dancing fingers to hit the right combination on the keypad within to open the garage's huge bay door.

Finally, the rumble of success filled the dark garage. Turning, Trowa nearly ripped the flimsy Jeep door off its hinges and leapt in. Without taking the time to buckle in, Trowa turned in his seat and resumed firing even as Quatre took them out of the garage as quickly as the vehicle could take them.

08:12 Hours --

Trowa watched as Quatre calmly castled his king and his rook.

Trowa responded by bringing his bishop forward into play. Glancing at the boy's face, he fought the urge to frown.

Quatre's smiling face led to absolutely no hints about his moves.

Still, it was a fairly even game.

"You've played chess often?" Trowa ventured.

"Hai, very often. I love this game."

"It's a little too foreign for me. I can't relate with it," Trowa muttered, moving another pawn.

Quatre nearly jumped on his own pawn, making Trowa immediately regret his move. "It's easy to relate to."

"How so?"

"I don't know. I just relate to it easily. Chess is… it's like life. It helps me think, helps me strategize. It's like I can take all the plans in my head that relate to life and test them on the board to see if they work."

"You strategize using a Chess board?"

"Hai. And it usually works very well. Chess… it's very insightful. It replicates real life so very well… all the unpredictable pitfalls… all the plotting that's required to reach your goal…"

Trowa let the slightest hint of a smile reach his eyes.

06:02 Hours --

Their pursuers had yet to relinquish them to the forest road they were attempting to escape down.

Trowa growled as he fired the last shot he that had available from his .32 shotgun at one of the approaching vehicles. His shot was right on topic - the man's face exploded in a violent, greasy array of red blood and flesh tinged with white bone. The Toyota swerved violently and took its passengers into a nearby tree, then promptly exploded into a gigantic ball of orange flame.

The following vehicles swung around the decimated SUV, keeping on the little camouflaged Jeep.

"Dammit!" Trowa heard Quatre growl.

"What?" he questioned, turning slightly, ducking as instinct directed him to.

"Almost out of gas."

'Damn,' Trowa's mind screamed, even as he looked to the windshield and noted the bullet-hole that'd appeared right where his head was but a moment ago.

"Hold on. We're gonna do something a little drastic. Better get your last shots in now, if you're going to use them."

For some reason, Trowa really did not like the sound of that.

Turning in his seat, he grabbed his last remaining gun, another 10mm, and fired at the tires of the vehicles chasing them.

One careened off the road, bursting into flames as its predecessor the Toyota had as it rammed into yet another aged tree.

Suddenly, the pursuing vehicles were stopping.

Trowa stared in confusion.

Suddenly, his stomach was meeting his throat, his brain was reaching for the sky, and his eyes were filled with realization as he watched the road vanish and be replaced by a hillside. Looking up, he stared as the trees that had loomed so closely before were reaching for the sky, primly propped upon the cliff they had just flown right off of.

His next sensation was a bone-jarring wrench as his head slammed down to meet the vehicle's rear passenger compartment and his intestines were squished onto the headrest of the seat he'd been leaning over.

Finally, the ground was rushing towards him, its lush green grass looking inviting and cool as it screamed towards his face in an absurdly slow-motion rush.

Everything went black.

08:15 Hours --

Trowa frowned at the move Quatre had just made.

It didn't compute in his mind. All he was doing was moving his pieces into the path of danger.

Looking over the board, Trowa nodded and swung his knight over, capturing the piece.

Quatre's hand immediately swept his rook halfway across the board.

"Checkmate in 7 moves."

Trowa stared at the board, then at the boy who was still smiling pleasantly at him.

He didn't see anything pleasant in that smile any longer.

Especially not when it was being worn by a boy who'd just made as calculated and cruel of a move as he'd just made.

Trowa returned to the board, staring at his suddenly excessively dwindled options.

He was aware that Quatre was a vicious strategist, but he'd never expected him to use the maneuvers he'd just used.

If Quatre plotted his maneuvers in life as he did on the chessboard as he'd stated but a few moments ago, Trowa had every reason to not trust the boy.

Especially one who smiles at a play such as the one just completed.

Trowa frowned. He didn't like play that was this dirty.

He didn't like pawn sacrifice.

tbc...