Bishi Pile Challenge:

Major challenge response: Conspiracy, Shadows, Assassination, Organisation

Minor challenge response: Rescue, Games

Word count: 2,872

Series: Friends 2: Friends and Enemies

Author: Karina

Pairings: Zechs + Duo, Trowa x Quatre

Ratings: M 15+ [In Australia] Rated in the event of bad language and violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters.

Many thanks to Katie and ShenLong Deb for betaing this chapter.

Warnings: No apology given for Aussie spelling, but fair warning given.

Character Challenge:

Chapter 17

Waiting, with patience he certainly did not feel, required an effort he could barely muster the energy to apply.

It was necessary that he be patient, therefore he would be patient. He was certainly not inclined to initiate the conversation… or rather, the interrogation. The longer they sat and stared at each other across the gulf of a desk, the more the nanobots worked on his system and the healthier he became. Waiting was to his benefit though it would not be long enough to make any appreciable difference to his overall physical condition. Regardless, every second counted in the struggle for survival.

He was many things, pilot, soldier, stubborn to a fault and no doubt considered to be an arsehole by many, but the most profound of his skills seemed to be the fine art of survival itself.

Ah, a flicker of movement from one. Just for a moment a finger tip dipped to contact the desk top before large black fingers folded neatly together, securing errant digits from betraying impatience, nervousness, or anger.

"I've been told you can be an unreasonable son of a bitch, Marquise, but that you are also grounded in the realities of our profession. I have yet to judge the accuracy of that statement for myself."

Well, that was blunt enough. And an interesting beginning too. They would have read his psych reports, most likely all of them, and he had quite a few in his file. He had taken great pains to ensure that no two of his 'therapists' would agree on his 'condition' and the result was a nicely rounded collection of contradictory documentation. And, yes, he could not argue that he could be a contrary bastard when he wanted to be, to his advantage. He knew the games they played, how to play them, how to read them. How to win them. He could never afford to relax, to let down his guard, and he was uncomfortably aware of how easy it would be for him to make a fatal mistake.

If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that at some point in time, they would try to kill him.

Playing dangerous games with dangerous people he did for a living, and he had no illusions about the fate that ultimately awaited him and others who played this game. At some point, maybe not today or tomorrow, or even a year from now, but at some point in the future they would succeed in killing him. It came to all of them who fought in secret to keep the world ordered.

The math was indisputable.

It was simply a matter of time before the inevitable happened, having come so close to death on this latest occasion. They had almost succeeded in removing him, through the medium of careful planning and the use of a civilian with a grudge against him. He had not exactly let down his guard, yet he had been snared.

That galled him the most. The fact that the prick who had taken him down leaving him to die of the cold in the middle of nowhere, was not a professional killer. It rankled his pride, but it was an abject lesson that he was slipping. It was never a good thing to become complacent, and now that his guard was up it would not be so easy for them to move against him

It was time to cut his losses and move on to something, somewhere else. A little bit of obscurity would be a very good thing for a few years.

"Consider this your debriefing, Marquise."

He arched an eyebrow, careful to maintain a neutral expression, observing in silence, knowing it would irritate them that he watched them as intently as they watched him and maintained silence. He had not actually acknowledged their authority over him and really, what more did they expect of him? Two could play at this game of cat and mouse after all, and they should know better than to treat him as they would an amateur.

They had not even bothered to introduce themselves; how impolite was that?

What they wanted from him was something he was determined not to give them. They would have to wait until hell froze over before they would get an admission of their superiority over him. They would be seeking some indication of how he was taking the attempt on his life, some sign of the degree of urgency required to dispose of him quietly and efficiently before he disrupted their goals.

It was possible they intended to use him as an abject lesson to others with abilities not dissimilar from his own, should he, and they, seek to protest their take over. It was entirely possible, perhaps, that if he folded they might use him to rope in others who might have considered the new regime a danger to their health and the world order.

So many possibilities and no certainties other than the need to watch his back.

With his high profile and unique skills base, and the deadly reputation he had acquired during the war, was he simply considered to be too big a danger to their grand scheme to be permitted to survive? The idea that someone had decided having him on the books as an agent could be a threat to some new world order now making its move might be considered flattering, in a way.

The possibilities were endless.

With the forced changing of the old guard, the replacement of the established command structure and constitution, really he had no other option than to cut his ties with this group. Though he had yet to thoroughly investigate this new order, he strongly suspected they, as in the organisation itself, were no longer seeking to simply maintain the balance between the powers that ran the world and the colonies. The group he had signed on with and supported had sought to maintain a working balance, but he suspected this new order had more direct, and far less subtle, measures in mind.

To directly influence world shaping decisions, to guide events to their own set designs.

To rule from the shadows through strategically placed puppets.

So familiar.

Remnants of Romefeller?

He had witnessed it before, during his days with Treize Khushrenada in Oz. He had watched Treize manipulate enough people and events to be able to recognise it in a multitude of forms; and it was not just Treize and Romefeller who had manipulated world events. History was dotted with events of such a nature, the names of the shadow masters sometimes being revealed in the fullness of time, but most often not.

The shadow men and women of the world had ever been more dangerous than a fully armed soldier in the height of action. If you were even the slightest bit serious about observing the power brokers of the world, then you could not help but observe active politics with a jaundiced eye. It usually did not take a lot of looking to find the first signs of manipulation; to watch as subtle strings were pulled, affecting the plays of power. Usually such puppet masters were cloaked in many layers of obscurity, hiding themselves away, directing the game from their safe shadows. Masterfully keeping their identities secret from all but a favoured few.

Those people who were seen to lead the world forward, in peace time or war, were rarely the individuals who needed watching. An astute observer would look amidst their aide's and followers for the real power.

"Report, Soldier."

His eyes flicked to the military man; active service still, undoubtedly. The snap of command in his voice was unmistakable, a command any active serviceman in a military organisation was conditioned to obey. Well, it sucked to be active military, didn't it? Blessedly those days were long behind him, and he had never entertained that 'never think for yourself, obey' attitude. He was not in the military, had not been for years, and if they considered this take over to be a military action then it was all the more reason for him to vanish.

They needed to be put on notice. He needed to make a big enough impression to ensure they must be ever alert, perched on their toes, looking over their shoulders. They must be aware he was lurking 'out there'. Somewhere. Always watching and waiting to strike should he feel the need to interfere in their grand design. It might not crimp their actions, they were probably made of sterner stuff if they dared to make this move, but it would hopefully make them look nervously over their shoulders once or twice a day, aware that he might strike from his own set of shadows. From the front even, or from their blind side.

He just needed to make them think that he would act should he feel the need to take action against their power plays.

One of their number had made a move; had spoken directly to him in a manner that required a direct response. It was about time too. He had begun to wonder if any of them were capable of speech after that initial brusque commentary, and much more of this staring, taking the others measure, would have them at each others throats in sheer frustration. If they thought to intimidate him with their presence, or the very unsubtle suggestions of rank separating them, then they had underestimated his pride in his own blood lines… and in his own capabilities.

He was a Peacecraft and power ran in his veins. He had learned the genteel art of deception, deceit, threats, bullying and bullshitting at an early age to facilitate survival.

"I have a team I work with; an officer I debrief to." The 'You are not them' he left hanging silently.

There was nothing to say he had to play the game their way.

He watched, seeking the small signs that would betray their reaction to that not so subtle barb. They were not on his support team, nor were they any part of the command structure he was familiar with within the organisation. It was a simple tactic, quite transparent, and they should have expected it.

There was always the possibility that he might have been taken by another organisation, and that they sought to dupe him into a debriefing to the detriment of the group he worked for.

It might have been a possibility. Well… You never knew, did you?

Anything was possible.

Except there was Marcus, and the medical team who had infused him with an entire series of unregistered nanobots to be factored into the equation. They had warned him, not in so many words as much as by their actions. There were also a few things about the asshole who had abducted him and thought to kill him that had to be considered. There were questions about how that incident had been managed, let alone how it had actually been achieved, that set up alarm bells and presented him with a list of questions he needed answers to. A list that inevitably grew like a rampant weed and would, for a time, continue to grow.

But anything was possible and nothing should be discounted.

"Your regular unit and support team have been disbanded. All field teams have been recalled and suspended, pending an investigation into discrepancies in the records and certain… inefficiencies."

Interesting. The military man was taking the conversation on himself, leaving the others to observe and evaluate his responses. Pre-planned? He was an interesting choice of the three. He would have expected it to be the one with the overwhelming superiority and confidence of a politician thinking he held all the keys. Definitely the politician and not this military man. A surprise, but not a disaster by any means.

But the bastards did hold all the keys, if they succeeded in taking over the organisation and having the few others with similar talent to his own work for them, without question. Some would succumb to pressure and give in, that was unavoidable, but a notable few would not work so blindly.

What was happening with Marcus whilst he was stuck here playing footsie with this mismatched panel of game masters? Game Masters? Or might they themselves be more puppets dangling from another's strings? If he needed to get out of here fast, and that possibility was growing more certain by the minute, then he would prefer to take the Celt with him and Marcus had always been one to ask questions and stir the pot.

This entire place screamed danger to him. It was riddled with the stench of the rotting dead, a purely psychic scent he was all too familiar with. These three in particular reeked of it.

He needed to treat it as a warning, not a threat. He could not allow it to dominate him. He could not afford for it to dominate him.

His thinking was muddled and his body was protesting this enforced activity. He had limits, everybody had limits, and he was pushing his, but whilst they sat here and played word games his body had the chance to take some rest from the physical inactivity. He was afraid that if he fudged this conversation there would be no more time for rest. Things would become physical very quickly.

He really was not up to the fight.

His best bet for learning exactly what was happening inside the organisation was to get into the head of one of these men. It would not help him now, at this exact moment, but it would help later, when he had the time to work. They could not understand exactly how he did what it was that he did. He had been told that often enough by people more familiar with extra sensory abilities, that his talent was 'odd'; but that was good. Their inability to understand how it worked, and exactly what it was he did, was to his advantage. All he would need to learn everything he needed to know was a quiet place to relax and the time to fully ensnare one of them in sleep.

Once they succumbed to sleep he would be able to read them like a book, and then he would know what was really taking place. To his benefit everyone had to sleep.

But he had to survive to get that chance and he had to set a barb, a hook, for him to contact them at a later time.

"You can consider this the first session of the official enquiry of the investigation. I am well aware of your reputation, but let me tell you, mister, it does not impress me, nor am I afraid of you. You are an agent under obligation to this organisation and you are required to answer my questions. Now, where have you been? We need the names of everyone involved with you during the past week, and we will require a detailed time line of your activities during that period."

Well, there was indeed a reason why it was the soldier doing the talking. Fine, he had a better understanding of how they wanted to play this now.

"Up a mountain somewhere in Sanc, dying of exposure. I have no idea what day it is, let alone what time it is, so I will regrettably have to decline the detailed account until I can place myself on more familiar terms with 'when' I am."

Huh. They had not actually expected him to give them that much, and he had offered it up front and in as expressionless a tone as he could muster.

He had surprised them, good. No disguising that reaction, small as it had been. Let them think on that for a minute or two and he could use the time to get familiar with the 'feel' of the three individuals and pick which it would be best to target. For what he intended to do at some point in the future he would need to be able to identify that unique 'something' that marked each man. No two people had the same psychic footprint and the unique psychic 'flavour' of the individual minds of the three was his goal now. He did not need to know their names to work on them; he merely needed to be within a certain distance of his subject and to know the 'signature' that was unique to the individual.

Some information he would volunteer, here and now, but some information he would refuse to offer up to them. Unfortunately they knew about the part played in his rescue by four of the former Gundam Pilots. Unfortunate, but there was nothing he could do about it, but he did not have to give them everything. He certainly would give them as little information as possible about his rescuers, and even less information about the one who had actually gone up the mountain for him.

He owed Duo Maxwell, and he would do what he could to send them on a blind hunt away from that particular individual. It was the least he could do.

End

Karina Robertson 2012