Author: Karen The Huntress
Rating: R
Warning: angst, language, violence, humor, romance, future lemon
Pairing: eventual 1x2x1
Summary: Two street-harden young men, lost in the inner city world of violence and hopelessness, are saved by the redemptive power of love.
Feedback: Always appreciated and answered.
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters.
Collateral Damage Part 1
Sheathed in a black leather jacket's camouflage a phantom figure paused beside the smelly dumpster and listened for any unnatural sounds. In stealth mode he slunk silently along the alley until reaching his objective's optimum surveillance range.
Ten meters ahead, loitering under a streetlamp's fog-shrouded illumination, the aforementioned objective settled his shoulder against the waterfront warehouse. Curtained by unkempt black hair, the man's face flickered when he lit a cigarette. Just as quickly the discarded match plunged his fleeting profile back into the moon-muddled gloom.
The cigarette's reddish tip brightened. Bluish smoke seethed from flared nostrils to mingle with dank fog drifting in from the harbor. Several deep draws shortened the cigarette to tobacco stained fingertips then the spent butt was tossed aside prompting sparks to erupt before expiring in an oil-slick puddle.
It was no coincidence the two individuals were in such close proximity, however, neither man was there for a clandestine rendezvous-quite the contrary. In fact the Red Dragon Clan's psychopathic Enforcer known only as Akira leaning lazily against the rough mortar brick had no notion his harbinger of death was lurking in the shadows.
With a tiger's predatory cunning, the expert marksman eased forward until a clear shot path was exposed. A faint glint of silver danced over the Glock as the pistol's silencer tipped barrel aligned precisely with his clueless prey's head. Needless to say, since no prior warning would be forthcoming, it was just as well the intended target remained blissfully ignorant of his impending death.
Becoming a natural extension of the gunman's outstretched arm, the pistol held its deadly aim with unwavering focus. Poised over the trigger, an index finger tensed to save the faction of a second needed to finish the pull. A hiss of air through pursed lips and the lethal commitment was made. Milliseconds before the trigger engaged the firing point; a heartbeat before the fatal shot was dispatched, a vapor-ghosted silhouette materialized beside Akira.
Instinctive reflexes barely stayed the shot. Growled curses, muffled by the tinny ding, ding, ding from a buoy marker rocking somewhere in the wind-churned water, accented utter exasperation at the stranger's uninvited insertion into the kill zone.
Although the separation span between the assassin and his assignment was sufficient for an effortless shot, the gap did defy eavesdropping. The gunman tilted his head, hoping the erratic salt-tang breeze might convey a few understandable words or smidgens of sentences. When no clues to the vague conversation could be overheard physical assessments were analyzed.
First observation: At least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier Akira hovered over the shorter, lanky-framed male. Secondly, the smaller of the pair was either naïve regarding Akira's sadistic disposition for impulsive violence or he had balls of steel.
The debate over daft versus brazen was forgotten when the remote exchange evolved into an unexpected interaction. The young man posed his body at an alluring angle, stoked up Akira's inner thigh and fondled his genitals.
Like a cobra strike Akira grabbed the offensive hand, twisted the wrist almost to the breaking point and flung the offender to his knees on the wooden wharf. This time an anguished wail was clearly heard.
Free hand balled into a fist, Akira's arm cocked back and quivered, midair, in euphoric anticipation of the punch that would shatter facial bones or, even more rewarding, summons the Grim Reaper. In either case a body weighted down with three or four concrete blocks stacked nearby and dumped in the water would never resurface.
Envisioning the terror in the young man's eyes, knowing from experience how his heart was hammering and each breath pounded in his lungs, the gunman took aim. The Glock discharged with a muffled pop, the muzzle flash momentarily setting the mist on fire.
A split second before the fist crashed down the bullet hit its mark, dead center in the temple, and exited the opposite side in an explosion of bone, blood and brain matter. Akira froze. His death-lax hand loosened its painful grip and slide away. In slow motion the Red Dragon Enforcer collapsed with a conclusive THUD into a contorted heap.
An indifferent glance at the gruesome aftermath was the gunman's only visible reaction. In an emotionless monotone, "Mission accomplished" affirmed the successful termination.
He pivoted and, like ink through rice paper, began to blend back into apparitional obscurity.
Two steps. *Stop.* murmured inside his mind.
*Keep walking.* his sensitivity detached training demanded.
An unpredicted twinge of conscience countered the command. *Disregard.*
Another, longer look at the redeemed man, still on his knees and held in place by horror induced incapacitation. *Not your concern.* was inwardly argued in favor of immediate withdrawal.
"Shit!" emphasised his aggravation as the callous assassin failed to heed his foremost self-imposed rule: Never Acknowledge Collateral Damage.
*********
Stunned by fate's sudden violent intervention, the redeemed man trembled from a combination of debilitating shock and icy wind whipping across the wharf. Mere inches from a dead man with sightless eyes and half a head engulfed in coagulating blood, his altered perceptions didn't notice the murky outline emerge from the darkness or see the Glock held at the ready.
Now in plain sight the enigmatic shooter was offered up-close-and-personal scrutiny. Maybe sixteen, the cowing male wore threadbare jeans and a faded red tee shirt, a denim jacket too flimsy for the chilly March climate and scuffed cowboy boots.
Two silver hoops adorned his left earlobe. Wisps of reddish brown hair feathered around his blood-splattered face as ashen as the swirling white vapors. Stringy bangs partially obscured wide eyes emitting an odd blue/violet shimmer.
These additional details provided comprehensive situation analysis which compelled the gunman to ponder protocol's prime directive: No Witnesses.
With this absolute authoritative rule ingrained in his no-shades-of-gray psyche the Glock sight-leveled at the unfortunate subject who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
*Kill him!* the cancellation command ordered.
At the imminent threat the secondary target flinched in fright and scooted backwards until the warehouse blocked his escape route. Panicked eyes searched his executioner's impassive expression for any spark of empathy but the stony glare imparted no hope for the slightest measure of compassion.
Turning to face the wall, which exposed a braid so long it coiled under his ass, the young man resigned himself to the pang of pain that would transport him into death's soulless abyss. With a surrendering shudder and low moan he covered his head with his arms and closed his eyes. Even though there was no doubt a petition for mercy would fall on deaf ears, the condemned man made one final pitiful plea. "Please."
*********
"Please." echoed in the gunman's ears, striking a familiar cord. As if an icy gust intervened to sweep halo mist from the moon, eclipsed memories glimmered like dying stars. In undulating circles vague recollections rippled through his mind to exhume the long buried past.
The urban soldier never knew his father. At ten years old his mother's heroin overdose made him an involuntary orphan who cleverly eluded the cops and Social Services. Finally, at thirteen, his feral preservation instincts impressed ex-military mercenaries who recruited the piss and fire Euro-Asian bastard and trained him to kill.
Now, after four years of absolute obedience, completing each selected assignment with ruthless efficiency, he hated the mercenaries-hated himself. Rage ruled his senses until he didn't give a fuck about anyone or anything. Yet that single word "please" had undermined his damnable tenacity and threatened to crack the thin veneer of his tenuous sanity.
*Finish it!* the icy inner voice demanded. *NOW!*
Nervous tension tingled through the gunman's trigger finger. A rough swallow scarcely dampened his dry throat and a frustrated puff failed to shore up the pistol's aim that had suddenly become shaky.
*NO!* screamed as the mental obey vs. refuse tug-of-war continued. "No." repeated faintly under his breath as muscles relaxed to lower the gun by his side.
Plagued by unaccustomed hesitation, "Hey you." was called with faltering conviction.
At the husky baritone resounding at his back, the pardoned objective cringed and drew up into a tighter ball.
Reckoning a softer pitch might be more practical, "I won't hurt you." was stated with sincerity underscoring the promise.
In gradual degrees the young man's head turned. The reddish brown braid brushed between tense shoulders but he wasn't quite ready to fully expose himself. Not that it would matter should the dubious assurance of safety prove false.
Barely audible above the frigid water lapping hungrily at the wharf's support pilings, the braided man wondered in a subtle Irish brogue. "What ya goin' to do to me?"
"Damn it, get up." the gunman growled.
Not wanting to provoke the man with the Glock, the Irishman settled on his hip. Staring at his battered boots he paused to slow the pounding in his chest. A deep breath to bolster willpower then, hands braced on the wall, he pushed to stand up, swayed on wobbly legs and waited, for what he was not certain.
Now face to face it was his turn to study the assailant cloaked in dank fog who didn't appear as imposing. Seventeen or eighteen and four inches taller, with a lean muscle athletic physique, the man's skin tone was two shades darker and tousled brown bangs offered glimpses of eyes the color of a cloudless sky.
A bit braver the Irishman switched strategy. "Look, mister, I ain't nobody. Got no clue who ya are and sure as hell don't care 'bout ya squabble with the dead guy." Grasping at any sensible logic to make the homicidal hooligan reconsider he added "Besides down here on the docks no one cares, even the cops don't give a shit. So what ya say? Let me walk away."
"Can't do that." the gunman responded obstinately. "You have to come with me.
Daring to tempt providence the Irishman retorted, "Ah, come on, why ya gotta be so stubborn?"
"Because I'm under orders not to leave witnesses so you're supposed to be dead now."
"I am? Then why ain't I?"
An edgy interval passed as the indecisive assassin mulled over the question and struggled to find an answer. "I don't know." he shrugged as the conflict resumed over his decision to defy the prime directive.
Tucking the automatic in his belt for easy retrieval, "Move." was ordered in a stern tone that left no option for refusal.
Skirting Akira's prone body swamped in tacky black blood, the self-appointed watcher and his coerced tagalong reversed course down the alley. A zigzag route avoided halogen security lights mounted over shipping/receiving platforms behind MacMillan & Sons Transport.
Their hurried pace continued up 6th Street passed Bob's Discount Liquors, Vixen Den Adult Books and Movies, Ace Bail Bonds and three boarded up storefronts then the peculiar pair jaywalked across Bayside Avenue which, at midnight, was void of traffic.
As they navigated the dismal cityscape the Irishman remained in sync with his surroundings. He lagged a step behind picking out hidey-holes among the maze of side streets, overgrown lots and deserted buildings, all the while figuring an opportune moment to bolt. Alas the Glock proved to be a very persuasive deterrent to keep his impulse to flee in check.
By the time they reached 10th and Main, curiosity had whittled away the Irishman's habitual street smart cautiousness. Tilting his head to read, "Anthony's Bar and Grill", spelled out in scarlet lettering, the garish neon glinted off twin silver hoops as he wondered, "Where we goin'?"
"Where I'm staying." was replied matter-of-factly.
"You gonna kill me then?"
"No."
Right turn at the corner. The watcher wondered. "What's your name?"
In reflective silence the Irishman contemplated his superstitious grandma's belief-if someone knows your name they gain access to your soul-before disclosing the only thing he truly owned. "Duo."
"Duo." the watcher repeated with a smirk of amusement. "What kind of name is that?"
"It's my name." Duo retorted with unpredicted impertinence.
"Last name?"
"You got all you need to know."
A thin lipped smile softened the watcher's stoic demeanor. "Okay." he conceded to the Irishman's brashness.
Since the introductions were one-sided and turnabout was fair play Duo felt justified in his own query. "You gotta name?"
"Heero. Don't ask for my last name."
"Ain't none of my business." A chilly gust prompted Duo to stuff his hands in his jacket pockets. "How much further we gotta go? It's fuckin' cold out here."
The explicit term "fuck" recalled Duo's lustful behavior with Akira so Heero asked bluntly. "Are you a prostitute?"
Momentarily taken aback by the out-of-the-blue question, Duo slowed his stride. "Nope. Sometimes I turn tricks to get money to eat or trade sex for a warm bed but I'd rather steal than whore, hellva a lot easier and not as messy."
Heero shrugged. "We do what we have to." he stated with an ever so slight hint of regret.
12th Street was flanked by an eight foot chain link fence encircling an automobile salvage yard. Without warning three Rottweilers with vicious attitudes charged around a mangled minivan. Muscles quivering, teeth bared and menacing growls rumbling deep in their chests, the trio of canine sentries made a startled Duo thankful he was on the outside of the honeycombed enclosure.
Heero's and Duo's final trek down a potholed gravel road, poorly lit by an archaic streetlamp, was hindered by the forsaken remnants of a car that could've been an escapee from the salvage yard. Once red paint had faded away to the primer coat, the busted windshield let in the rain and four flat tires rooted in place. Adding to the apocalyptic ambiance a hoard of beaded-eyed gray rats had taken up residence in the gnawed seats and, in panic mode, scurried away from the passing pair.
The gloomy lane, littered with cigarette butts, broken bottles, used condoms and a smattering of dirty syringes, ended at the rear of a dilapidated two story brick building. A rickety wooden door resisted Heero's initial pull to open it. He yanked harder and rusty hinges, screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard, gave enough to allow the pair to squeeze inside. The shrill squeal was repeated as the door slithered shut.
Inside a dusky piss-stench hall of pitted wallboard, every inch "decorated" with gang graffiti, stretched ahead. Duo recognized the spray painted artwork of the Hellbenders, a nasty bunch who ruled by brute-force intimation supplemented by an extensive weapons arsenal.
Duo speculated if Heero had deliberately invaded the gang's territory, still he was confident the proficient marksman could handle himself against any thugs who made the mistake of starting trouble.
On the left, illuminated by a single bare bulb, an equally dim staircase disappeared into the shadowy heights. Dusty treads groaned in the vacancy, each step betraying their attempts at noiseless ascension. Heero didn't like being exposed in the narrow space, too easy to be trapped where the restricted area put his maneuverability at a dangerous disadvantage.
Clearing the top step Heero paused when he heard Duo wheeze. A sideways glance confirmed the braided Irishman's breathing was raspy and his skin chalky. Placing his hand on Duo's lower back for support, "You all right?" was asked with concern.
"Yeah just need to rest." Duo answered with a dubious version of the truth.
Down the hall, third door encrusted with several flaky layers of oak varnish and identified by 6 stenciled in black. The supportive hand slid away. Heero extracted a brass key from his jeans pocket, guided it into the keyhole and turned until the lock clicked.
Glock retrieved from his belt, Heero raised his free hand in a silence signal to hold position. Duo nodded, bracing his shoulder against the paint-peeling drywall on the door's hinged side, partly to hide but mostly in an effort to remain upright.
Shifting his weight Heero rotated the doorknob and nudged the door back with his boot. Pistol at the ready should he encounter unauthorized personnel, eyes darted and ears strained to pick out faint noises. A prudent step carried him through the doorframe.
The sparsely furnished room had no television, no phone. A single unmade bed aligned along the right wall. The saggy mattress was overspread with rumpled dingy white sheets and a tattered navy blue coverlet. A tan armchair with stained cushions set aside a round table marred with scratches and water rings which supported a sage green ceramic lamp with matching shade that refused to stay straight.
The free-standing wardrobe set on the right. Kitchenette beneath a window with tightly drawn curtains occupied the back section. Bathroom, toilet, sink and ancient claw-foot bathtub was situated in the corner but the opened door confirmed it was as devoid of intruders as the rest of the dreary space.
Heero placed the Glock on the table and returned to the hall where he wasn't surprised to find Duo waiting. The idea Duo might flee in his temporary absence had crossed Heero's mind, yet, despite what had transpired on the docks, he somehow knew Duo would still be there.
The second, more perplexing, revelation was the mysterious magnetism rippling between the Assassin and the Irishman. "Come on." Heero gestured toward the door.
Duo pushed off the wall. Two unstable steps. Without warning an acute cold sweat breaded on his flushed face. A low moan and he pitched over.
"Hey!" Heero exclaimed as cat-like reflexes intercepted the slumping body just in time to save Duo from crashing face first into the floor.
TBC...
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