Impossible

A Gundam Wing Fan Fiction

Rambled Off by The Manwell

Book Three: PARTNERS

Duo Maxwell

HQ, we have a problem.

Getting Heero to talk about the details of his assignment including the people he'd met, the conversations he'd had, the things he'd done and thought and felt had been way too easy.

Creepily easy, in fact.

I'd always been wary of easy battles... and this is most definitely not an exception.

Ensconced in my workroom, I stab half-heartedly at the somewhat-disassembled carcass of a rusty, antique food processor someone had left out on the curb for the garbage collectors last month and sigh. I'd taken up trying to repair and modify the thing during Heero's mission but I'm pretty sure it's a lost cause. Too much damage. But playing with the thing gives me an alibi. With Heero mucking about in my kitchen trying to make a semi-palatable meal from my extensive collection of non-perishables and me desperately needing some quiet time to study the information I'd gleaned from my partner last night, this had been the only place for me to go. I know I look engrossed in my task, which is the important thing. I don't want Heero to wonder what I'm thinking about. It's imperative that I appear to have everything under control.

But I don't.

And while that's bad, the possibilities that have arisen since last night are worse.

So, I sit at my worktable which is cluttered with all variety of mechanical bits and pieces and pretend to give a damn about the gizmo in my hands while replaying the story I'd carefully prodded out of Heero about twenty hours ago.

He'd told me everything I'd asked to know. Without hesitation and in as much detail as I'd wanted. But if he'd really been brainwashed by someone who'd known what they were doing, that shouldn't have happened. There should have been some resistance as I'd probed his memories. Something unaccountably and inexplicably vague. Evidence of significant time loss. A toneless quality in his voice.

And what had I found? Nada. Zilch. Zero.

Fuck.

And because it pertains to this situation, I'll think it again: Fuck!

So, one possibility is that the guys who'd planted the false memory about Heero contacting me aren't just good at brainwashing, they're fucking geniuses. Not a comforting thought, that. But I'd rather deal with this option than the second I'd reluctantly acknowledged this morning.

Damn the Devil's advocate half of my brain, anyway.

So here I am, glaring at the grimy remains of a twenty-year-old food processor trying to figure out what to do next while I'm praying to God I can keep my developing suspicions from coming across to Heero.

I'm still glaring when my cell phone rings and I absently scoop it up. I know it's not Une. She'd already called and ordered me to haul Heero in so she could "council" him on his options as soon as possible. I'd told her to push off – in the nicest possible way, of course – and I'd very reluctantly offered to see what I could do... maybe. To say that Une isn't my favorite person right now would be a hilariously bad understatement.

I glance at the caller ID display and arc a brow at the phone number.

"Yo, man. Whaddya want?" I sing into the phone as I peer into the guts of the former appliance.

Wufei sighs. "I'll forgo the obvious inquiry as to which illegal stimulants you've used to sound so infuriatingly cheerful and just get to the point, shall I?"

"Aw, you're no fun," I quip even as I feel a smidgeon bit of sympathy for the exhaustion and anxiety in his voice. Only Wufei, God, and Une know exactly how much time he's putting in at the moment what with the situation being what it is. And, if you ask me, God's damn lucky Une keeps in the loop at all. I guess she figures having an omniscient being on our side might come in handy some day. You'd think she'd be happy with three former Gundam pilots on the payroll... but whatever.

Wufei manages a bit of humor to address my funless-bastard accusation: "Regardless, you were ready to marry me for my cooking a month ago."

I bark out a laugh at that. "Oh, how quickly doth I forget," I dramatize.

His immediate reply is a dismissive grunt and I know we're moving on to the actual topic of his call. "Where's Heero right now?"

"Trying to make something edible for dinner. I'm gonna give him another ten minutes before I call for delivery again."

"Good," he says curtly and I know he's talking about the fact that I'm alone. He doesn't give a good God damn what Heero's doing or how much junk food I've eaten in the last forty-eight hours. "I've been examining the virus that's been attacking the systems at the Lunar Base and I think you need to take a look at this before I submit my report to Une."

"Uh... okey-dokey, I'll swing by tomorrow morning. Gonna be bringing Heero with me, though."

"Fine, get him in to see Une while I give you the disc and my notes. Hopefully that'll keep her from stomping around the building for ten minutes so I can brief you on how the case is coming so far."

Wufei's admitted rationale doesn't fool me. He's not really going to brief me in person; the case is still open and the information too sensitive to risk like that. No, he'll put everything he needs to tell me on the disc. Besides, even with Une breathing down his neck, he would have figured out a way to bring me up to speed if he'd really wanted to. The truth is that Wuffers doesn't want Heero to know he's giving me the data on that virus or the latest news and events concerning the Lunar Base. Interesting. And disquieting.

"I'll call you when I get there, 'k?"

"Fine. Good night, Maxwell." And with that exhaustion-infected grouch, he hangs up.

I stare at my phone for a moment and start to contemplate all of the possible variations of bad news Wufei could deliver but the screech of the kitchen-confined microwave forces me to put it out of my mind. I tuck the phone away and deliberately rearrange my thoughts and body language. Whatever Wufei had uncovered, I can't let my speculations ruin all the progress I've made with Heero. I think I strain a critical mental muscle group in the process, but I manage it.

"So, when are we calling out for Chinese food?" I holler in the direction of the kitchen.

There's a telling pause. I imagine Heero giving his concoction a tentative taste. And then: "As soon as you tell me which speed dial number it is!"

I laugh. We may be former Gundam pilots, once-feared fighters for justice and peace and colonial independence, but even we can't work miracles.

I try not to let that last thought bother me as I shout back the correct number and my order.