Author: Karen The Huntress
Rating: R
Warning: Angst, language, violence, timeline progression
Pairing: 1x2
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters.
Deep Cover Part 1
Six weeks.
Or forty-two days.
Or 1008 hours.
Any way you look at it a whole lotta shit can happen in six weeks, add the hair-trigger hazards of a covert solo mission and the stress factors zoom into the red zone.
True to Heero's utterly predictable no-one-can-do-it-but-me attitude he volunteered for the inside assignment-deep cover as a disgruntled Preventer turned freelance mercenary with proficient expertise in computer hacking, stealthy assassinations or any other brand of corruption beneficial to the Red Dragon Syndicate.
Conveniently embedded in the Preventer's high priority files for the Syndicate's inevitable unlawful retrieval, an extensive dossier of bogus criminal records, an abundance of fictitious Earth/Colonial arrest warrants and a credible alias further substantiates the guise that Heero Yuy, aka Lone Wolf, had indeed become a rogue agent.
So it began-Heero's descent into a malevolent whirlpool that could suck him under so deep he might never surface above the swamping currents.
*********
~Duo Maxwell~
I was pissed off when, without prior discussion of the mission's ambiguous timeframe, Heero accepted the risky infiltration of L1's prime Asian consortium rumored to enforce their drug trafficking and gun running monopoly with a ruthless squad of ex-OZ Special Ops commandos.
After two years of cohabitation with the introversive Perfect Solider you'd think I would've come to terms with our lack of consequential communication and given up my optimistic expectations he'd express an opinion or question orders issued by impotent bureaucrats eager for a rapid rise through the political ranks.
I was also foolish to believe he'd make a concerted effort to overcome Doctor J's blindly submissive indoctrination or stop seeking atonement for past mistakes and trust me to unconditionally guard his heart.
While six weeks can stretch on forever, we had only twenty-four hours before Heero was required to sever all contacts with Preventer and with me.
However there was no intimate dinner; no shagging like horny rabbits, choruses of passion-induced moans or screams of orgasmic release and no sated pillow talk to ease us into the lengthy angst-ridden separation.
No, that dispassionate bastard reverted to reclusive mode, sitting at our kitchen table nibbling on a smoked ham and cheddar sandwich, washing down the crumbs with three bottles of Guinness and pecking on his fuckin' laptop until midnight.
I should've aired my frustrations, confronted Heero's fixation on his perceived obligations to rid the entire universe of all transgressors.
I should've raised Hell, resurrected Shinigami and beat his stoic ass-yet-I didn't want our last night together marred by words shouted in anger or by a physical alteration that not only bruised the body but etched scars on the soul as well.
So I held my tongue, entombed the apprehensive panic and fear of possibly losing my comrade and lover so deeply not even my darkest dreams could exhume the cavernous despondency.
I'm certainly in no position to cast moral stones. Stealing ensured my childhood survival. Trading sexual favors for food, shelter or as a bribe to stay outta jail defined my adolescence. Even Father Maxwell's priestly entreatments failed to make this incorrigible sinner repent.
War offered no better redemption. Cloaked in Deathscythe Hell's gundanium armor I perpetuated the masquerade of immortality. Enfolded in ebony demon wings I dealt destruction and with a single slice of twin Beam Scythes metered out swift and sure retribution on both enemies and innocence victims of the senseless combat.
Maybe Heero's precarious danse macabre with the Red Dragons was intended as punishment for the countless injustices I wrought. Perhaps he'd been condemned to suffer for my reckless disregard of honorable warfare where I won at all costs and the ends justified the means or perchance fate has a really fucked up sense of humor.
*********
~Five weeks~
Silence.
If Commander Une has gleamed reassuring information from her network of informants she's declined to share any glimmer of hope with me. Likewise my personal attempts to gain knowledge of Heero's tenuous situation have resulted in dead ends.
The apartment is quiet but because noisy distraction won't do the trick, I have no desire to switch on the television, radio or listen to my classic collection of "oldies but goodies" CDs.
I need to hear Heero's voice, even if he's complaining about the latest academy class of naïve rookies assigned to his unit. I yearn to be lulled to sleep by his steady breathing or know by his relaxed sigh I've finally massaged the remnants of tension from overstressed muscles.
I've logged considerable overtime in the past weeks, frequently showered and slept in the agent's lounge just to avoid going back to our empty dismal apartment. If the conditions had been reversed Heero would've put up a more credible facade, exuded confidence that everything was going to be all right. Guess I'm not as skilled at masking my emotions.
*********
The sixth week started as uneventful as the preceding hourly measures of days and nights.
Monday crept on with routine reports about my imminent resolution of three minor cases.
~Tuesday and Wednesday~
Once again I took night duty to utilize Preventer's extensive eavesdropping resources, including the recently launched Star Gazer 700 Surveillance Satellite, to hunt for electronic traces of a swiped ID card or redeemed purchase credits that might give a clue to Heero's enigmatic whereabouts.
~Thursday afternoon~
I'm summoned to Une's office.
"Yuy made contact." the Commander states in a matter-of-fact tone which immediately intensified my resentment of her nonchalant mind-set to dangerous levels.
Having been on the receiving end of Une's strict disciplinary procedures I suppressed the impulse to vent my anxiety-fueled irritation instead, "Has he obtained substantive evidence to launch an offensive?" is inquired with deceptive composure.
"More than enough." the very pleased Commander declares, "Agent Chang is assembling a strike force team in Ready Room 3. Be prepared to depart in sixty minutes."
*********
~Ninety minutes after sunset~
Attired from head to toe in body-hugging black combat fatigues and encased in bulletproof vests, a dozen Preventer agents prepare to raid a secluded warehouse serving as the Red Dragon's temporary base of operations.
Sporting Combat Master assault rifles plus their personal preference of pistols holstered on their hips the SWAT team crouch together for a final sortie assessment.
"Five guards." Lieutenant McNeil confirms as he peers through night-vision binoculars.
Wufei studies the amber images focused in the crosshairs of the sniper rifle's infrared scope. "Roger that." he concurs with the count.
Luckily the pre-war concrete block structure is safeguarded by an antiquated alarm system. It also lacks proper security lighting and dust-encrusted windows assure an undetected approach.
Moreover in the team's favor, bolstered by a sense of false security the sentries are lounging about the main entrance; displaying an apathetic attitude in both slothful posture and the sloppy handing of weapons.
One Asian wearing a grungy Alliance uniform jacket, most likely purchased at a salvage store, leans a modified shotgun against the pitted concrete wall, fishes out a cigarette, lights up and inhales deeply. Slouching against a gnarled tree trunk bluish smoke drifts lazily from his nostrils.
Rifle dangling from his shoulder, another of the smoker's compatriots huddles under the rusted tin roof's overhang to evade chilly vapors constantly whipped by wind while the remaining blas¨¦ trio engages in unmindful conversation accented with vague gestures.
Kneeling between McNeil and Maxwell, Agent Chang pauses in his remote observation. "If those inattentive sentinels are the only line of defense I should pick them off from here."
Duo regards the suggested course of action, "Can't get information from dead men." he reasons logically.
Always pragmatic, Wufei reevaluates. "I suppose a stealthy line of attack is more prudent. Maxwell's team shift left. My team flank right."
With final instructions spoken slowly for emphasis, Chang cautions. "Remember Agent Yuy is most likely inside so don't fire unless you're certain of the target. Questions?"
Nods of "no" verify all directives are understood.
"Move out!"
*********
Four stunned guards, held in place by rifle barrels rammed into the base of their skulls, "kiss" the stony ground. The fifth obstinate man, who took exception to Duo's impolite foul-mouthed order to copy his buddies' prone positions, is sprawled semi-conscious, moaning and bleeding profusely from a broken nose.
Relieved of their weapons and hands cuffed behind their backs the subdued sentries are easily watched by a single tenacious Preventer. Just as resolute the remaining eleven members poise outside a tarnished metal door; the last barrier to completing a successful mission.
Busting in like raging bulls, the ebony clad invaders utilize the element of surprise to their full advantage.
Overhead flickering florescent lights lends a surreal aspect as if the battle scene is being played out across an archaic movie's grainy age-flecked celluloid.
Red dots from laser scopes dance over human silhouettes that, like startled rabbits, dive for cover or scurry for the nearest exit. Authoritative shouts to halt and warning shots reverberate until the discordant clamor disintegrates into fragments of sounds.
In the pandemonium of spectral shapes and the strobe effects of muzzle flashes it becomes increasingly difficult to discern friend from foe. Add to the disorientation the probability Heero Yuy is entrenched in the chaos and each Preventer's aim has to be damn sure.
Cloaked within a gloomy corner's camouflage Duo struggles to isolate his partner from the muddled confusion of blurred bodies in motion; to discern specific characteristics recognized solely by the God of Death who shares his life with the Perfect Soldier.
Without warning a distinct profile materializes from the shadows. As the head turns Duo sucks in a breath for, even in the diffused light, a steely glare eliminates all doubts.
"Heero." Duo whispers lowly, afraid if too much volume is assigned to the name his lover might vanish like morning mist evaporated by the sun.
A glint of silver redirects Duo's focus. The familiar contours of an OZ standard issue P99 automatic appears to float in the blanched smoke. A millisecond more, in the same spectral manner, a phantasmic gunman emerges to take aim at the unsuspecting agent whose rogue status has clearly been compromised.
TBC...
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