Adagio
Adagio – musical marking, slow and stately (literally, "at ease")
A/N: The mission is sourced from a Marvel movie, with minor modifications. Let it be said that I don't write the best action. Also, attention to all passengers: turbulence ahead, angst incoming. Please remain on your seats with your seatbelts fastened.
Chapter 8: Choice (Erabareshi 選ばれし)
Choice means 'an act or instance of choosing', 'the right or ability to make a selection', 'a course of action, thing, or person that is selected or decided upon'
Erabareshi means 'the chosen one', 'fated', 'selected by destiny'.
It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. — J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Indian Ocean
Latitude: 16N 55' 12.06" Longitude: 72N 56' 7.09"
George Batroc drummed his fingers on his seat, impatient. "I don't like waiting."
"I told you boss." His subordinate replied from his left. "If we want them to pay us... start sending bodies now."
He sent the guy a wry, dissatisfied look. He raised a hand.
"Call the bridge. Tell Durand I want the ship ready to move when the ransom comes."
It was a hostage rescue mission.
The Federal Hostage Rescue veteran gave them a situation report.
"Target is a mobile satellite launch platform, Mary Mærsk, setting up their last payload when pirates took them four hours and fifty three minutes ago."
The lifeblood of a hostage rescue was intelligence. The commander of the hostage rescue team was savvy enough to conduct advanced scouting, using technology and the resources he had on hands to the fullest.
"Hostages are civilians, one corporate leader, engineers, one ship captain, and deck hands."
"How many pirates?"
"Twenty five. Top mercenaries, trained, fully armed, led by this guy here George Batroc," he pulled a man's picture on the display.
He pulled the blueprint diagram of the ship. "We have them monitored. Some of them are in the bridge and in the engine room. A few in the cabins, from the lack of motion presumably resting. Some of them are in the galley, where most of the hostages are held."
"How's the negotiation?"
He shook his head, expression grim. "The group has a reputation for maximum casualties."
"Here is the plan. We are breaking into two groups. Six each. First group sweep the deck and kill the engines, and wait for instruction." He nodded to Heero. "Agent Yuy, to lead."
"Second group sweep the aft, find the hostages. Get them into the life pods, get them out." He nodded to Wufei. "Agent Chang, in charge."
"Everyone else remain here as backup. Medics, get ready." Sally nodded.
Just after he finished saying that, the monitoring officer called out.
"Sir, the mercs just sent another message." His voice tight. "They are going to start shooting the hostages."
The muscles on the commander's jaw clenched.
"Gear up. Move out."
It was a difficult operation. At night, on an open sea, above an unstable ship.
Their options for infiltrating the ship were either approaching using a stealth submarine or parachuting from a helicopter.
They went with the first. Team A rappelled up from the port side, team B from the starboard side. Snipers from each team positioned themselves on the sides of the ships, suspended on stealth mode, ready to aim from the portholes.
Heero positioned himself in the shadows, out of the view of the bridge patrols.
"Team," the commander's voice came in from the communication earbuds. "Give me status."
"Targets acquired," the snipers called in.
"Strike team A positioned," Heero reported.
"Strike team B positioned," Wufei answered.
"On my mark. Three. Two. One."
The sound of explosions echoed through the night. The doors were breached. The sound of gunshots rang out in quick successions. It had begun.
They had secured the control room.
One team member went out to monitor the stairs. The other crouched down, freeing the captain and the deck hand.
Heero's hands flew on the panels, turning off the engines, dropping the anchors.
One of the men they thought had been subdued rose from the floor. He had a knife.
Heero's first instinct was to shoot. Instead he raised his left arm to block the blade. Its sharp end tore into the flesh. Angry grunts of frustration sounded from the mercenary. They grappled, flashes of metal missed his neck and face as Heero evaded. Ignoring the blooming pain in his lower arm, he fought to gain control. He landed a few blows with his left fist and right knee, but it was not hard enough to take the man down. With one hand still gripping a gun he couldn't make a grab properly. He dropped his handgun and was about to pin the man down. A gunshot broke the glass in front of him, blood splattered everywhere.
The man went slack. The sniper took the shot.
More footsteps came. There was no time to think.
Heero grabbed the closest rifle from the floor. All around there was that all too familiar buzzing. Bodies moving in rush, shouts resounded in the room.
"Secure the room!" "Get the hostages!"
He aimed. There was no time to hesitate.
He fired.
Ninety three minutes. That was all it took for everything to be over.
It took longer to assemble the team. To get ready, to be on stand by, before the order to move out was given.
It took longer for the sweepers and medics to clear the area. It took longer for them to travel back to the city in the military jet aircraft.
The medics' first priority were the hostages. A few scratches, a few bruises. But safe and sound.
Then the mercenaries, who were badly beaten. A few were hanging on a thread. He knew at least one didn't make it.
The rescue hostage team made it all back in one piece, mostly. Both him and Wufei sustained injuries, along with a few other team members. But nothing life threatening.
Sally won the battle to get Wufei treated, finally making her way to him.
"Don't make me fight you too," she said, the flat line of her mouth humorless.
"There is no need."
She sighed tiredly. "I'll be the one to decide that."
She peeled out the black glove from his left hand, tearing off the long sleeve of the black shirt he wore with a pair of scissors. Both were soaked with blood.
She took a sharp intake of breath, "You will need stitches. Several."
Heero clenched his jaw and resolutely looked ahead. He figured it would be quicker to let her be.
He didn't flinch when Sally cleaned his arm, disinfecting the wound, drying it. He didn't flinch when she stitched it up.
"Done. Just keep it clean and wrapped." Sally gave him a customary 'after-checkup' smile, "Come to the clinic after and I'll give you a tetanus shot. Just in case."
Heero dragged his gaze to the side, his only response to her question. She gave him an odd look, "Did you hear me?"
He nodded mechanically.
"Good." Sally gathered the bloodied rags of clothes, dirty wipes, and cotton balls into a plastic bag, turning to find a place to dump it.
On her way out, she caught her partner picking up his jacket, his posture similarly rigid. Her grey eyes shifted from one former pilot to another, her voice dropping. "And I thought you were being difficult."
Wufei noticed the direction of Sally's eyes. He took into account that Heero had not moved, his jacket and holster dangled on his side, from his uninjured hand. He gave him a measured look. He knew the expression too well.
Wufei continued to pull his jacket on, making as large of a production out of it as he could. Trying to knock his comrade out of it, without having to say anything.
It only partially worked. Heero turned his attention to him, seemingly absent. His eyes were dark and hooded.
He knew the look, but he also knew the man. Knowing nothing was going to come voluntarily, Wufei said. "If it wasn't us, it would have to be someone else."
Somehow, it didn't make Heero feel better.
Heero closed the door to his apartment. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he went to the kitchen table, dropping his bag onto the floor.
He dragged a chair, stopped. Instead of sitting down, he stood there, staring to the front unseeingly.
The curtain was open. The city lights flashed through the narrow window. The hum of the heater sounded loud in the empty room. Cars passed by, red lights, bright white, yellow. Automobiles horn resounded somewhere, further down on the streets.
He turned, lifting the duffel bag up to the table. Rummaging into it, he pulled out a paper bag. The medical team had given it to him.
He turned the bag upside down, emptying out its content onto the table. There were bandages, a tube of ointment, and some medications. A bottle of generic, over-the-counter fever and pain relief, marked with big red letters 'Extra Strength'. A small packet in plain white, marked 'Use as Needed', contained opioids. White oxycodone pills, often prescribed for post-surgery patients, in case the pain went beyond what was bearable.
He went to the cupboard, taking out an empty glass. Heading to the kitchen sink, he turned on the tap. He put the glass down, watching the water filling it up, watching the water overflowed. Just watching.
He turned off the tap, pouring some of the excess water out. He brought the glass back to the table and sat down. He looked at the glass blankly. The glass and the water droplets caught lights from the window. A high pitch sound leaked through the window, through the walls. The sound of sirens. It went louder and louder. Then it passed, the sound slowly fading out.
In big cities like the one he lived in now, it was not very uncommon to hear siren sound. Sometimes it was the ambulance, sometimes it was the police, sometimes it was the fire department. Most times it was a false alarm. He thought he had gotten used to it.
Tonight though, the echo didn't seem to leave his ears.
He stood up, grabbed his keys, and headed out of the door.
He strode towards the elevator, pressing the up button. After a short few seconds, he changed his mind and made for the emergency stairs.
He climbed the set of stairs in a rapid pace. The doors to each floor were marked in big letters, the numbers passed by in a blur. Five, six, seven, eight...
He didn't stop when his breath shortened, when his lungs started burning. There was a twinge on his left arm, the wound reopening. That didn't make him stop either.
He pushed the door marked nineteen, emerging into a dimly lit hallway which led outside. The few chairs and a BBQ machine, previously left out for the residents to use during summertime, were no longer there.
It was past midnight, in the dead of the winter. No one was there.
His breath came out in white puffs.
He walked to the edge of the rooftop, looking up.
When he lived in the space, he used to watch the Earth. He watched the sky now. When he couldn't sleep, he used to slip to the edge of the colony. He would wander around, finding an open window facing the Earth, or as close as it could be. He would sit there, watching the Earth turn, watching the blue, green, and white mixing and swirling.
He couldn't see anything now. The sky was dark, there was no star anywhere. Only the crescent moon sat there on its lonesome, hanging low on the sky. Air pollution and light pollution had obscured the night sky. The bright city lights lit up the haze in the air, making it impossible to see any stars.
He took a deep breath, consciously unlocking his jaw. He took another.
Stargazing used to be a pastime, a diversion, a way to make time pass agreeably. Just thinking that she was there, on Earth, in the same universe, used to be a solace. It used to make the feeling of being alone and lost disappear. Like it was okay for him to be anywhere in the world. And he could breathe more easily, down to the core of his being.
He couldn't breathe now.
He knew she was there, under the same sky, much closer than how it used to be. The breath still came up short.
He turned to the east, towards the direction of her home in Brussels. The city lights sparkled in the distance, glittering like stars.
He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back, inhaling and exhaling. It felt very little of the air went into his lungs. He couldn't breathe still.
He stood like that for a long time, until his hands and his feet and his face felt numb. Until he couldn't feel anything.
Then he turned back to the door and went inside, into the dimly lit hallway, back to his apartment.
All hostages were safe, the news reported. A few wounded, but no casualties on the rescue team side either. All around it was a successful mission.
None of the public news channels made any mention of the mercenaries. No one really cared.
Only the internal report mentioned further details. There were twenty five mercenaries on the ship. All of them were in custody. Bloodied and battered, but amazingly alive. Except for one.
Relena read the document. One of the pirates was dead.
Sally had told her that Heero had refused to get his wound treated. The older agent had shook her head, commenting that Wufei tended to do the same. She managed to force both men to sit and applied first aid. But the cut on Heero's arm was pretty deep. She asked if Relena could persuade him to visit the infirmary. It would be bad if the wound was to fester.
The concern in Sally's eyes belied her lighter tone. Something in it told her that there was something else.
As subtly as she could, Relena went around, asking for a more detailed report. The man killed was a mixed race, age unknown, approximately in his thirties. He was of unknown origin, having had multiple aliases in the criminal database, Joseph Durand was one of them.
There were several injuries to the body but the cause of death was a gunshot. The report outlined that one of the snipers took the shot through a window on the ship's side. It was determined that the man was a threat to one of the agents in the assault team and the hostages in the room.
There was no name mentioned. Neither the sniper nor the agent.
There were only three Preventer agents participated in the rescue. Sally was on the backup team, primarily in charge of getting the hostages out and supervising the medics.
Wufei and Heero were on the assault team. So the agent referred in the report was either of them. She really had no way to know, but she was sure it was Heero.
"Heero."
Relena didn't open the car door. She slid to the middle seat instead, leaning to the front. She waited.
He turned to her, his eyes unreadable. There was that look again, like a door was slammed in front of her. She pushed the hurt to the side.
"Come with me." His brow furrowed. "It won't take long."
She knew he felt cornered. She had purposely arranged for him to escort her home that day.
"I promise."
He let out a short breath, nodded. She led him inside, past the guest drawing room, towards the private living room at the center of the house. The one without surveillance cameras.
She didn't look back, didn't take his hand, trusting him to come with her.
She sat down first, gesturing to the open seat beside her on the sofa. He eyed it warily, before coming over to sit down as requested. She turned to the side table, opening the drawer, taking out a medicine chest. He made a move to withdraw and she quickly went to him, putting one hand on his knee, another on his shoulder. She didn't exert any pressure. She knew she couldn't really make him stay if he didn't want to. Not by force.
She caught his eyes. The dark blue eyes were cold, sharp. Almost ferocious.
She called his name, once. They had a staring contest.
"Let me," she said firmly. Unbending. "Please."
His acquiescence was tense, guarded. He settled back down onto the sofa.
Understanding his patience was rather thin, she proceeded quickly. She remained silent the whole time, undoing the bandages, treating the wound, applying new ones.
His terseness relaxed by degrees as she worked. She could feel his eyes on her, the muscles under her hands loosening. She focused on the wound, refusing to look up.
He watched her wordlessly.
Her movements were precise, efficient. Still gentle, but without the warm sentiment she had when she applied a band-aid on his finger months ago.
He couldn't find it in him to remain indifferent.
"Please lift your arm up," she broke the silence. "Is it too tight?"
He shook his head no. Still not looking at his eyes, she nodded. She busied herself putting everything back into the wooden box. He sat there, waiting. There was something disenthralling in surrendering to the inevitable.
She closed the lid and finally turned to face him.
"You have been avoiding me." Her eyes were sad. Angry and hurt, but mostly sad. There was an unvoiced question in them. Why?
He didn't know the answer either. It might be the revived senses of having been thrown back into real combat. He felt on edge all the time. He didn't want to lash out and hurt her. ...probably too late for that.
It might be that the had practically broken the promise. The promise not to kill anyone ever again. It was the very first promise he made himself, with her as the witness. It was as if he was violating something sacred.
It might be that over the past few months together he had seen her best qualities first hand. How beautiful the world looked like from her eyes.
In order to be a part of her world, he always thought what he was missing.
He was reminded once again that what he had was too little. He couldn't even keep a single promise. How could he keep her?
She looked at him, blue eyes intense, searching.
At times she looked at him as if she could read him, truly see him. Usually, it felt like a comfort. She often understood without him saying a word.
For once, he didn't want her to look too close. He feared what she would see then.
"Sally told me you never drop by the clinic."
He lowered his eyes. It wasn't just her, he had been avoiding everyone.
She took his left hand, very gently.
"Is this punishment," she whispered, "...for breaking your promise?"
That snapped his eyes back to hers. They were wide with surprise, anxiety. Self-hatred. And maybe a little bit of fear.
"You didn't kill the man."
"I could have." He didn't ask how she knew. "I might as well have."
She closed her eyes, both hands still holding his. There was an ache in her chest.
You are too strict to yourself, Heero.
More than anything, she wished she could take some of his pain away.
There was a thought at the back of her head. A thought which she found hard to voice out loud. If she was being honest it might be part of the reason she waited days to talk to him. She was afraid too.
Releasing his hand, she took a breath, composing herself. She could do this. She had to do this.
She looked into his eyes, "We talked about the future, not too long ago."
"Of the past. Of doing what have to be done." Her voice trembled. She continued, pushing the tremor away. "Do you recall?"
He looked at her, acknowledging her silently.
"You have spent your whole life doing exactly that." The ache in her chest became so painful, she had to remember to keep breathing. "There is no reason you should have to continue."
"I wouldn't want to force you to stay."
He looked at her, comprehending. The hurt, the anger, and the sadness he saw in her eyes weren't hers. She was concerned for him. She was feeling hurt on his behalf.
It was on the tip of his tongue to call out to her. To say no. To say he had never considered leaving.
Except that he had. He knew in his head that someday they had to say goodbye. Perhaps it would be easier to do it now.
"If I were to leave–," he stopped, the same cold feeling from that time when they talked about the future spreading on his chest. The thought of being forgotten. He couldn't stand it. "...could I still come and see you sometime?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. He searched her face with trepidation. He might have imagined the inaudible 'yes'.
She broke eye contact. Just before he could succumb to urge to hold on to her, her eyes refocused on him.
There was a quiet resolution in them. Now it was his turn to feel like running.
"I told you that I was happy to fight by your side."
He remembered that.
"You were, you are my strength." There was a hint of smile in her eyes, as if responding to his disbelief.
"It was like that before. It has not changed since."
"It wouldn't change even if you were to leave." Her gaze was stronger now. "You didn't have a choice then. You have one now."
"No one deserves peace more than you."
He wanted to ask: And you? What about you? At times it seemed all peace brought was more burden on her shoulders. More expectations and demand. More danger threatening her life. Didn't she deserve peace too?
"You have your whole future ahead of you. Other paths to explore. A life to live."
It felt like she was gently pushing him away. Do I mean so little to you?
"If after all that you decide to come back, you are welcome to. If ever. Whenever it is."
There was nothing demanding in her voice, nothing pleading.
He had seen her exerting influence over people, either openly or subtly. He wished she would do so now. He didn't want a choice...
Her blue eyes were still on him. Her earnestness both calming and frustrating. Believing, trusting him to make his own decision.
If he was to leave, where would he go? Back to L1?
He spent months living there on his own the year before. The year after the Eve Wars was quiet. There was no more mission, no more marching orders. Ironically, there was no feeling of freedom. He was on pins-and-needles, anxious for a reason to do something, anything. When Dekim Barton staged a coup, rather than discomfited by the call back to the battlefield, he felt something akin to a relief.
What was left for soldiers who never knew peace? Who didn't know how to stop fighting?
What was the use of people fighting, if they didn't have something to protect? Looking into her eyes, he realized that his choice to protect was made a long time ago.
Quatre once told him that he was different, that he was changing. The observation surprised him then.
Wasn't this guilt and fear he felt now due to him changing? The him from before wouldn't bat an eye on pulling the trigger.
If he had changed, it had to be due to their time together.
If he were to leave now...
He felt numb. Just like at that time inside Wing Zero, above the Presidential bunker, his Twin Buster locked on target. He thought of the lives inside. If there was a moment of hesitation, if his aim was amiss...
The could-have would be her. He didn't think there was any possible way to recover from that.
Why was he fighting this? Leave now.
It all boiled down to a choice. Leave now and don't look back.
He had a foreboding sense that if he were to leave he would lose something important. That he would undo all the changes she wrought in him. That he would return to the numb nothingness he felt when he was on his own. It wouldn't be all that different, would it?
Or stay. Stay with her. Could he trust himself to? Would she want him to?
"Am I welcome?" he heard himself ask.
"Always."
"Even now?" Her eyes changed at his question. The numbness faded, replaced by a sense of impending doom.
"Can I stay?" Or impending happiness. Hope actually hurt, he learned.
Her yes was audible this time. An acute wave of relief washed through him. There was a mix of emotions in her eyes. Concern for him?
She placed a hand on his, "You don't have to stay if you don't want to."
"I want to." He was surprised at the conviction in his own voice. She smiled fully then.
"As selfish as it sounds, I am glad that you are staying," he listened to her voice, turning his palm up to hold her hand. "I always feel stronger when I am with you."
Selfish? She was the most selfless person he knew.
"If you can't stand it anymore, will you tell me?"
See? Despite everything, he felt like smiling.
"I should be the one asking you that." He took her other hand in his, the pain in his arm forgotten. "Gap year? Traveling the world?"
She let out a soft, quivering laugh. It was golden. "I'll need a bodyguard, won't I?"
It felt good to hold her close. He had been missing her. "No need to post the job."
I won't come back to you broken. I won't stay away too long. Even if words I've spoken, seem to still come out wrong. — Marianas Trench, Who Do you Love