Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ GW-X ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

G-Wing X
By: Dentelle_noir

Summary: Gangs own the inner city, grabbing power and territory from the weak. A new strong has been born: New powers are emerging on the street and when mutants band together, nothing can stop them. AU 3x4, 1x2, 5xS.

PG-13 for violence and rough situations

Chapter One:

“At sunset the wind suddenly dropped, but the sea, which had been running high for so long a time past, took hours after that before it showed any signs of getting to rest.” Trowa read, deeply ensnared.

He was spread across the living room couch in his and his sister’s new home. A trailer was a far cry from the four story home they used to live in when their father, a once well respected surgeon, had lived and had a good name. But that had all gone down hill with one malpractice case. A man was in a wheelchair because Dr. Barton had screwed up.

Trowa and Cathy had taken the change as best they could. Their father, while distant and immersed in his career, was still their father, and they both stood by and took the selling of the house, Trowa’s move from an expensive boarding school to public school and Cathy’s need of a part time job, in stride. Neither complained, neither blamed their father and neither loved him any less.

But when Trowa had come home to find police outside their new economical town house and seeing his sister crying rivers because she had walked in to find their father hanging by the neck from a plant hook in the living room, given up on life and them, then he began to blame him. But Cathy and he had always been the real family, so moving on wasn’t that difficult. And that started almost six months ago, Trowa had just about gotten used to the new rhythm.

The pages of one of his hundreds of books seemed to finish quickly, and he was onto the next, then to the last chapter. He figured he had lain happily engrossed for hours and hours, and he vaguely wondered when Cathy would get home. He heard the door open slowly, almost too slowly and he heard the first step onto the linoleum entrance. He flipped over the page. He flipped the next page. He heard the door touching its frame and slide into the uneven wood with each splinter grating across the doorframe. He finished the next page.

Turning around finally, he spotted Cathy, mid-pose, pushing off the door and leaning towards the coffee table to put down the groceries she carried. Frame by frame.

“Y...OU..’RE...” She said, the sound distorting to an elongated base sound that had Trowa snapping his eyebrows up.

With a sheepish smile, he breathed in quickly and blew it out in a quick woosh.

“...doing it again! I know when there isn’t anyone else around to judge, you subconsciously go into ‘Trowa warp’ but you were flipping pages in that damn book like it was fan. It took me almost 10 minutes to close the door! What if the neighbors would’ve seen me walking in then suddenly stop once I passed the door frame! You gotta remember not to distort time around you when non-mutants are around.”

Trowa stood up and picked up one of the grocery bags, heading the five steps into their kitchen to put them away. “You know I’m not any faster...”

“Yeah, We’re just all slower, I know you can slow up whatever is in your range of sight, and you stay at regular speed, but we don’t feel it Trowa! It just looks like you’ve gone into super speed or something and the clocks are ticking at supers speed!” Cathy groaned as she tried to pry her payless brand heels off her feet, doing the one footed hop in nylons and pinstripes. She was working as a secretary for some too-bit auto place, but she was the most stylish auto-worker within a hundred miles and prided herself on it, even if the little accessories, like the shoes, were becoming cheaper as things wore out.

“Cathy, You’re nails snag another pair of panty hose? Gotta clip those talons.” Trowa snickered as he slid the cookies into the cupboard.

Closing the door, he was not surprised to see four six-inch nail-shaped knives sticking at 90 degree angles right where his head would be, the ends tipped with that lovely sea-blue Cathy had painted on them that morning. “Shut up, Trowa.”

“Whatever, dagger-master” Trowa shot back as he watched Cathy’s fingernails grow back within moments of her shooting them at him--it was a pretty regular occurrence around their house.

Rita Maxwell sighed, brushing the dust off her prized pictures on the mantel and reminiscing, as she packed them into non-descript cardboard boxes that would, hopefully, make the trip from their ghetto home in New York to the Georgia home her family was moving to. At least what was left of her family was moving. Her new boyfriend lived in Georgia, he wanted her to move up. And she had three kids, one 14, one 11, and another 10. He could deal with that many. He hadn’t liked her oldest boy. Her Duo was 17 and he couldn’t for the life of himself stay out of trouble. Three months ago, it was because of him that there were police officers at her door almost daily, looking for him. He hadn’t come home.

There had been a shooting at his school. One of the teachers was almost killed and they didn’t know how. They thought Duo had something to do with it, and Rita knew they were probably right. Duo had always been trouble. He was always doing something stupid. And, as much as it hurt, her other kids would say it was better since he had run away, and sometimes she agreed.

If only Solo had lived, then maybe Duo would’ve turned out better. Solo had been Duo’s older step-brother through one of Rita’s boyfriends. They had lived together for a while, but she stopped seeing him after she found Solo’s father steeling her cash for a few grams. She left, taking her kids with her, but Solo followed, begging her to keep him instead of leaving him with his father. Duo would sneak him food and let Solo sleep in his room after she had thought he was sleeping. Solo pretty much lived there under her nose, but she couldn’t seem to get him to leave.

Unfortunately, Solo was the kind of kid that everybody liked and she couldn’t just throw him out on his ear when he turned on the charm. He was 10 at the time, and Duo was 6. She was pregnant with her second child and things weren’t as tight as they were now. She would’ve taken him in, eventually. Solo was a good kid, he was always smiling and he had such a loud sense of right and wrong. Duo had stolen a chocolate bar from the store once, and told Solo. The entire neighborhood heard Solo screaming at him and watched Solo march Duo back to that store and watched him apologies and give back the Twix, which Duo was going to share with his ‘bro, Solo’.

But as they were walking home, Duo still embarrassed, but even more in awe of Solo, a car came barreling around the corner, and Solo and Duo just happened to be passing an apartment that a rival gang was squatting in. Solo was caught in the cross fire and killed. Right in front of Duo. Solo died in Duo’s arms. Duo wasn’t even scratched, although no one knew where the holes in his shirt had come from.

Rita dropped the picture into the box with little care. He had been uncontrollable since then. No matter what she said, no matter how loud she said it, Duo wouldn’t listen to a thing. His schools began calling almost weekly, but thankfully he avoided major trouble.

Until the shooting.

Rita threw the last picture, the newest of Duo, taken just before the shooting, into the box, then kicked it away from her. There had been officers swarming her house for days, she had condescending detectives camping out in her living room, hopping Duo would call or walk in so they could question him. After the shooting, no one had seen him and he never came back.

And now she had a new boyfriend, one who had a stable job and a two-story house. Her other kids didn’t hate him, and he wasn’t mean to them. She couldn’t fault him for not being particularly warm to them, but at least he wasn’t malicious. That swipe at Alex had been an accident. Georgia sounded like a nice place.

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“Daddy, I hated it there! I just couldn’t stay anymore. I left a note; the head mistress will get it when they notice I wasn’t in class.” Quatre Winner, 16, argued like a professional into his cell phone-- the only way he even seemed interact with his father. And sitting in the back of a cab, turning towards Park avenue, still wearing his boarding school uniform while clutching his suitcase for support and breaking the news to his father that he would no longer attend the school his father loved so dearly (it had year round boarding, so Quatre didn’t even have to go home for holidays then), he felt the sense of power.

It didn’t really matter what his father said from the other side of that phone, because Quatre was already rolling up to the front gate of their Park Avenue home, and the cabbie was removing his suitcases from the trunk. He had already left the school and was home. He had done what he had been threatening for almost six months and no matter how blue in the face his father got, he was miles away at a business meeting that meant more to him than Quatre’s well being ever had.

Sliding a pair of high price sunglasses over his shining blue eyes, he unlocked the gate and rolled his suitcases to the door step, paid the cab driver, and unlocked the door.

“Dad.” Quatre cut off his father’s multi-lingual outburst, “I’m at the Park Avenue house. If you want to talk to me, then come and see me. I won’t be answering my phone, so don’t try and call.” And with that, and every swell of courage that this liberation was giving him, he hung up the cell phone and threw it onto the sheet-covered chair.

He heaved his other four suitcases inside and then, with the door closed behind him and an empty house all to himself in front of him he let out a scream of pure pleasure. Bursting, he plunged into the white dust cover on the sofa and with a mighty haul he flung it off and onto the floor, than ran like a bat out of hell to the next and then up the stairs, laughing like a maniac all the way.

Just because he could.

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Cris sa played silently with her dolls on a relatively clean part of the squat she was in. There were tons of people around her, like usual. Most of the people she recognized. The White Fang was a big gang, but a relatively tight group. They always stayed together, Milliardo, the leader, liked it that way. Milly said it was because they were all family, and family stuck together. Crissa’s daddy said it was really because Milly didn’t want to let any of them out of his sights, because they would stab him in the back.

Crissa wasn’t surprised. She had seen lots of people stabbed in her five years of life. In real life and in her head. Most of the time it was both of the same person. Sometimes it was her daddy that did it. But that wasn’t too bad. He didn’t like to do it, he had to. And he was a good daddy, and she loved him. He took care of her, and played with her. Her daddy paid attention to her while her mommy had slapped her and locked her in her room. Her daddy fought a lot, but he was always gentle with her. He would never let anything happen to her. And neither would Milly.

But Milly liked her for a whole other reason. Milly liked to ask her what she had seen in her head. She was always right. Even though it was hard to explain the things she saw, her daddy and Milly had said she was always right.

Her daddy was a good person. He was really, really young when Crissa was born. Her daddy was only 19 now, but he worked in a convenience store to buy food and toys and clothes for her. Some of the other people who they squatted with were jealous of her, and lots tried to get her daddy’s attention using her. But she could see right through them. She knew her daddy had a fate higher than one of the hookers or crack heads that tried to get his attention.

A booted foot came down hard on her doll’s hair, pinning it to the ground. “Outa my way, snatch-ling.” Ground out a cocky young boy’s voice. Crissa looked up, seeing die-red hair pasted into points and a grimy T-shirt. She didn’t recognize the face, so he must’ve been one of the newest members.

The boy snapped his fingers and an ember burned, a tiny flame dancing on his fingertips. He was a fire mutant. She hadn’t seen any of those in Milly’s gang ever. “Move.” He taunted, grinding her doll into the floor with his boot, even though there was plenty of room for him to go around.

Crissa didn’t like fights. She didn’t like to see people hurt. So she glared and pulled her doll out from under his boot silently, and stood, ready to move it that was what it took to make him feel big.

But when she was up, the boy grabbed her elbow and shoved her hard back down to the floor. A pulsing sting began in her knee, and her lip began to tremble.

“Shit!” One of the more experienced members exclaimed, hitting the boy in the shoulder. “What the hell are you doing!” He berated the new guy.

“It’s okay... you’ll be fine...” the older member frantically tried to calm her. Crissa latched onto the words, not wanting to start anything. She was trying to calm herself. It was just a skinned knee, nothing more. If she made a scene, the boy would be sorry.

The boy slunk off the older member’s hand. “I ain’t gonna bow to a fucking kid.” He snarled. And with a snap he sent that little spark onto the ground, and into the hair of her doll. The thing lit up in a moment, and Barbie began to burn.

Crissa felt her lip tremble, and she just couldn’t hold it back anymore. She started to cry, tears streaming down her face as she watched her doll burn and soon she was sobbing, wailing, while the experienced members ran.

Milly looked up from his planning when he heard the raising of voices. But his attention was called back by the snaky looking member that was talking to him, “my cousin is on the inside, he knows some people that are going to be on parole soon. One, he said was damn strong, and tough. Said this guy don’t take shit from no one, and he’s a mutant. He’s interested in defending our kind from the injustice of the masses, or some poetic shit. Real smart guy, my cousin says...” But when Milly heard a sniffle, then a sob, and saw most of his gang spring towards the edges of the room he didn’t even have the time to reach over the table to his right hand man and restrain him before he had jumped up from his chair, sending it flying backwards and splintering with the force. He was already half way across the room by the time Milly had figured out who was crying.

The new guy had just enough time to marvel at the two beautiful angel-white wings arched powerfully up, as if ready to fly, and the deadly blue eyes on the almost impassive face of a man wielding a lead pipe before he lunged for the boy’s neck. Half strangled, the boy was wide eyed and terrified, recognizing the man about to kill him was the famous Zero.

Zero let his throat go, just to imbed his fist into the boy’s face. Once, twice, than three times. He didn’t recognize the boy. He had to be new, and young by the looks of it. Heero dropped him, letting his trembling body hit the dirty floor in a puddle of god knew what, and then kicked one steel-toed and buckled boot into the boy’s stomach, making the kid roll onto himself in the fetal position. “If you ever go near my daughter again, I’ll kill you.” Zero said so calmly, so matter-of-factly that the entire room shuddered.

Heero crouched down over the charred remains of the doll and brushed it away. Moving in closer to his daughter, he saw the little trickle of blood, dried now, on her knee and gave it a light kiss. The best medicine for any skinned knee. Crissa had calmed her cry down to a sniffling that just wouldn’t go away and she couldn’t seem to stop her lip from trembling.

Heero thought it was adorable. He reached out his hands, his strong arms coming under his daughter’s arms and he lifted her up, standing as he did so, and deposited Crissa on his hip. “How about we go to the store and buy a new doll tomorrow, after I get paid? You try to decide what doll you want, okay baby?” Heero asked softly, letting his daughter cling to him like a koala.

Crissa nodded, but didn’t leave her daddy’s side all that day, and crept into his bed that night, snuggling against him against the cold that drafted into the homeless squat from the rotting walls when the night wind blew

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TBC

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