Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Deadly Beautiful ❯ For Now, We Fight ( Chapter 8 )

Disclaimer: Until I take over the world or buy out Bandai/Sotsu and their constituents, I do not own Gundam Wing, the rights to it, or anything encompassed therein. I am making no money off of this endeavour.

Deadly Beautiful - Chapter 8

By danse

Quatre Raberba Winner ran down a spacious hallway of the Hilton with a rifle slung over his shoulder, weaving around corners randomly, trying to elude his followers. He left them behind a turn and increased his speed, moving so fast that he thought his legs would fall off, as he watched behind him to make sure they were gone. When he looked ahead again, he cursed. The hallway was a dead end. Except for the single pink-painted steel door at the very end. Hopefully it wasn't locked. He reached out and grabbed the doorknob. It turned easily, and he hardly slowed down before barreling into the hallway beyond.

One of the last things that he expected to see was a young man with strange brown hair, about to boost himself into a hole in the ceiling. Quatre froze in surprise, stopping dead in his tracks, and saw the other boy get a deer-in-the-headlights look. Shutting down his confused conscious brain and relying on his instincts, Quatre whipped out his ever-present handgun and pointed it at the stranger, who copied his movements like a mirror.

A shout from his left attracted his attention, and Quatre glanced to the side, and then did a horrified double take. There were ten or twelve armed men coming steadily closer. A glance to his right revealed a dozen more. He tightened his grip on his gun as he watched his nervous opponent and the guards in turn, while the two of them circled each other like predators. He let his thoughts resurface, and knew that this unfortunate person before him was trying to escape, too.

Drawing some fast conclusions and leaping on a whim, Quatre took a deep breath and looked past the other boy's shoulder at the guards, now behind him. Raising his gun a little, he pulled the trigger. He saw the boy flinch, but he didn't move otherwise. Quatre sighed with relief as a guard crumpled, and the other boy looked behind him in confusion.

The boy looked back at Quatre, and surprised green eyes met his own. Their eyes locked, for an unending instant, and a flash of understanding passed between them. With practiced ease, the green-eyed stranger fired past Quatre's shoulder, and a grunt reached his ears as a second guard collapsed. Niceties thus exchanged, they got to work.

Twisting around so that they stood back-to-back, the two young men fired at the advancing groups along the corridor. They were both accurate marksmen, and they picked off the guards like fish in a barrel. Bullets twanged off of the metal door and pockmarked the walls and floor around them. Quatre narrowly missed taking one in the knee by shooting a guard in the hand. While concentrating on his task, he always kept half his attention on what was going on with the stranger at his back, and realized that his companion had run out of bullets before running out of targets. Five men still advanced on that side.

With a sigh, Quatre fired one more shot, changed his clip quickly, cleared his throat to get the stranger's attention, and lobbed the handgun over both of their heads, toward the other's outstretched hands. In a practiced motion, he easily flipped his rifle over his shoulder and started firing it at the remaining four guards on his side. He heard the stranger adjust the gun and take out the last standing men.

When every one of their would-be attackers was dead or lethally injured on the floor, the two young men stretched, sighed, and turned to face each other. The green-eyed boy returned Quatre's gun. "Thanks," he said. His voice was indescribable: deep, but not too deep; expressive, but misleading; melodious and somewhat flat at the same time. It was the kind that you would either forget immediately or remember forever. Quatre liked it.

He slung his rifle back over his shoulder and held out his right hand. "Don't mention it. I'm Quatre."

Green Eyes shook his hand, smiling ever so slightly. "Nice to meet you."

Quatre waited for a name, but was not rewarded. Unshakable, he let it slip and carried on. He looked around the hallway, gaze dancing over the bodies before returning to his mystery acquaintance. "Well, we're both trying to get out of here. Do you have any bright ideas about how to do that?"

Green Eyes raised an eyebrow slightly, and then pointed straight up. Quatre followed the gesture and found himself staring at a rectangular black hole, which was currently blowing cool air on his head. He groaned inwardly. Not the air ducts again… But there was no reasonable alternative that would get them out of the hotel unnoticed. He looked back down. "All right. Do you know where you're going?"

"I was hoping that you could relate some of your knowledge of the air system to me," Green Eyes returned coolly.

Quatre blushed. Of course he knew what was going on. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that he was carrying a sniper rifle for a reason. He suddenly recalled details from earlier that day: after spending twenty minutes crouched in that tiny ventilation shaft, peering through the slats on the vent cover, he'd found his shot. He had waited twenty minutes for it because until the target stood up, the wild brown-haired head of a very bored-looking young man had obscured him. He studied Green Eyes' hair. There couldn't be more than one person on the planet with hair like that. He was sitting right next to the target…

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asked distractedly.

"I said, 'Shall we?'" Green Eyes pointed back at the hole.

"Oh. Uh, yes. Should I go first?" When his companion nodded yes, Quatre put his hands on the edges of the hole and heaved himself into the shaft. He nearly fell on top of a stainless steel briefcase, but managed to hop over it. He pulled the case away from the opening, and almost immediately the other boy's head appeared in the hole after him, blocking the dim light from below.

The shaft was about two feet high and three feet wide; Quatre was small enough to just fit on hands and knees, but when Green Eyes tried to do it, he bumped his head hard on the ceiling. He laid his forehead down on the metal in front of him, probably trying not to swear loudly. "Where's my briefcase?" he asked in a whisper.

"I have it," Quatre whispered back. The sound echoed down the metal length of the shaft. "I'll carry it, if you want."

There was a pause, then, "All right."

The two teens shuffled forward through the dim tunnel, lit only by the occasional vent cover, which they had to maneuver around so that they didn't knock them out. It was slow, arduous going. Quatre would lift the briefcase each time, move it forward a few feet through the air, and then set it down as gently as possible before shuffling up beside it. Green Eyes crawled behind him. The air around them was cool, and Quatre felt his nose turn icy cold as they went.

After ten minutes, they stopped to take off their shoes, to make less noise. They tied the laces together and slung the shoes around their necks, to keep them out of the way. After that, they continually had to adjust the laces to keep them from digging painfully into their necks, but they were nearly silent.

They took a few turns, and Quatre peered through the slats on the vents to see where they were each time, slowly navigating to the place where he knew they could get out of the building. Twenty minutes later, he stopped suddenly, and Green Eyes nearly ran into his feet. Quatre slowly turned around. He could barely see the outlines of Green Eyes' body in the dim glow from the rooms below, but he found his head and whispered in his ear.

"We're going to go up a vertical shaft now," he whispered softly. "We'll come out on the roof. We're going to go barefoot, bracing against one side and walking up the other." He stopped to fish a climber's clip from his belt, and put it in the other teen's hand. "Take your case and hook it into your belt with this. We must be as quiet as possible. Do you understand?"

Quatre heard a faint, but unmistakable 'yes,' and smiled in the dark. He sat down carefully and took off his socks, stuffing them deep inside his shoes, still around his neck. He took his rifle off of his back and slung it on backwards, so that it hung on his front instead, and edged forward. He knew, from memorizing blueprints, that this part of the shaft was a four-way intersection, with a vertical tunnel rising from the middle. It went up for fifteen feet before curving into a roof shaft. There was a grid at the very end, but he could knock it out.

He made his way into the middle of the intersection and slowly stood up, with one hand held above his head. It encountered nothing, and he stood to his full height, trying not to stagger. His back and legs were so stiff! He found the sides of the shaft around him and oriented himself. After stretching upwards to loosen his muscles a little, he backed up against a cold metal wall, spit on each hand and braced them against the walls on either side of him. Starting with his left foot, he pushed up and placed them against the wall opposite him. The metal felt unpleasantly cold against his feet. His knees were slightly bent, and he walked up the shaft fairly easily, stopping often to let Green Eyes catch up below him.

They progressed quickly and silently, and soon Quatre was at the top. It was the type of vent that rose straight out of the roof for a foot or two, and then curved so that it could catch the breeze. Unfortunately, Quatre was positioned backwards, with the opening behind his head, while the shaft curved up and behind him. He growled in frustration, craning his head upwards as much as he could to look out. All he saw was the shiny metal top of the shaft.

He needed to check the outside before they could get out. What could he do? He braced his feet more comfortably against the opposite wall and used both hands to check his utility belt for anything he could use. Climbers' clips, a pouch with fresh ammunition, a small GPS… his hand closed around a tiny desert survival kit that he always kept handy. He knew exactly what was in it at all times, and he mentally ran through the list: a balloon for holding water, a super light canvas to build a shelter, matches, fire starter, and a tiny mirror for signaling planes with the sun.

His eyes lit up and he put the kit in his lap to fumble for the mirror. His legs were getting tired. He found it and held it out toward his knees, angling it to see outside. He had to raise it and tilt it down, and he saw the upside-down image of an empty rooftop through a grid of wire, shimmering hot in the late afternoon sun. No one was out there, that he could see.

Triumphant, he stowed the tiny mirror away and carefully removed his rifle from his shoulder again. Turning it so that the butt faced him, he held it above his head, braced his feet again, and swung it three times, as hard as he could, at the mesh cover. The mesh bent under his first attack, and then the frame clattered down onto the pebbled roof surface.

Taking a deep breath, Quatre willed himself to succeed at his next maneuver. He edged up the shaft until his head was above the curve of the metal, holding his rifle ready, then flexed his legs, and in one Herculean move, ran up the curve of the shaft, flipped over, and landed on the roof with his upper half still inside the pipe. He pulled his head out and swept the surroundings quickly, looking for hidden assailants. He found one lurking behind a doorway leading to the stairwell. The man was talking on a radio, and didn't see him yet. He raised his rifle and fired once. The radio dropped from a lifeless hand and landed on the rooftop, still squawking.

The talented young sniper ran across the roof, bare feet burning on the hot, rough pebbles, to the radio. As Green Eyes climbed out of the shaft behind him, he sat on the roof and put on his shoes, listening to the squabbling transmission. Green Eyes joined him, with only a glance for the dead man next to them, and put on his own shoes.

Quatre looked up, and blue-green met emerald again, just as electric and vibrantly as before. He gestured with the radio. "This man was the only one up here, so far. Apparently they found the bodies in the hallway. One of them was still alive and described both of us. They're all on their way up here now. They're trying to get a response from their horrible excuse for a lookout. I figure we have ten minutes before we're in it too deep." He dug out the handgun again and returned it to Green Eyes, with his last full clip. "I think you might need this."

Green Eyes accepted the gun. "So where do we go from here?" he asked.

Quatre stood up. The heavy gold light of the late afternoon sun backlit him, limning his features like an angelic halo. He found his GPS and pressed a few particular buttons. His backup group would receive the message and in five minutes, they would bring their helicopter to pick them up. They only had to hold their position for that long. He put the GPS away again, and held out a hand to help Green Eyes stand up. "For now, we fight."

Green Eyes refused the proffered hand, rising easily to his feet. He checked his gun; his once-navy suit was rumpled and dusty. His tie was loosened and a sleeve of his jacket had ripped a bit. He smirked, one visible eye twinkling behind his shock of unruly brown hair. He stuck out his right hand. "My name's Trowa," he said.