|
"Incendiary"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Yaoi, wrongful imprisonment, Newtypes,
internment camps, eventual rape/noncon Pairings: 3x4, 1x2, 5xS Summary: A group of wealthy college kids are murdered.
There are no witnesses, but there is a suspect. From within the simmering
sludge of irrational fear and prejudice, conspiracy theories are born
and innocent people pay the price. "Incendiary" Quatre shut the front door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. What had gotten into him? He couldn't believe he just accused Trowa of wanting to sleep with his client. He knew Trowa wasn't interested. He could read it off him without even tapping into his mind. He knew how Trowa felt about it. He supposed the stress of the situation just overwhelmed him. The tension of dealing with this woman and her spiteful, vindictive thoughts was exhausting. How anyone could live like that was beyond him. He hated the fact that Trowa had to deal with her. He knew his husband could handle himself, but it was so aggravating not being able to just tell her what he really thought of her. They'd been married for four years and while it was a wonderful, strong, and stable marriage, it wasn't without the typical bickering and occasional fights. It wasn't easy living with one person day in and day out, learning to adjust to their personal habits, their idiosyncrasies. They'd been together off and on for a total of twelve years, meeting when Quatre was only fifteen and Trowa, seventeen. Sadly, Trowa really didn't know his true age at the time, having been only a baby when his parents were killed and his older sister lost to him. Later, when the two siblings reunited, Trowa's identity was finally confirmed, his sister told him he'd been born in August, AC 178. He'd wept in Quatre's arms that night, confused by his own poignant reaction, but elated all the same. Trowa had had some flings before settling down with Quatre seven years ago. Quatre'd had only one. A Maguanac whose name was Asadel. Five years older than Quatre, he was exotically handsome with olive skin, dark eyes, and black wavy hair. He'd wooed the, at the time, emotionally vulnerable Quatre, who'd been pining for Trowa. The man was amorous, passionate, but also gentle and romantic, and Quatre was swept off his feet before he even realized it. Rashid was furious when he'd discovered their relationship, under the impression that Quatre was being taken advantage of. Quatre vehemently defended Asadel, but broke off the relationship anyway. It had been fun, but it wasn't what Quatre wanted, needed. He threw himself into his work, refusing to even entertain the idea of dating, despite pressure from his family and the media. He rubbed his temples, blew out a breath, not happy with himself for drudging up thoughts of a very difficult and lonely time in his life. Trowa had been slow to come around, but when he'd finally decided that knew what he wanted, his affection could not be contained. His convictions firmly in place, he seemed to feel the need to make up for lost time and heartache. He came at Quatre with everything he had, all strong arms, eager hands, passionate kisses, and exalted eyes. They'd moved in together after four months of whirlwind romance that still left Quatre dizzy with euphoria when he thought about it. He moaned softly, involuntary, at the memories, head lolling against the door, grinning like a love-sick fool. He'd have to do something special to make it up to Trowa for his behavior. Maybe a nice dinner and Trowa's favorite movie, a massage. He deserved it. He was an amazing man with unlimited amounts of integrity and decency. That decided, Quatre ran up the stairs to the bedroom to change his wet socks. Anxiety was bubbling in his stomach and he rubbed it, attempting to soothe the butterflies. This particular client gave him horrible vibes and they seemed to get worse every time Trowa met with her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and peeled his socks off, tossing them into the hamper, one just missing the mark. He sighed and got up to grab the sock, dumping it into the basket. He selected a fresh pair out of the nightstand, pulling them on and walked to the closet to get his shoes. Shoving his feet into a pair of loafers, he headed back down to the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes. The food was only half cooked, the eggs congealed. Quatre wrinkled his nose and tipped the pans' contents into the garbage disposable. Though he hated to waste food, his stomach churned at the thought of eating. He placed his cooled coffee into the microwave and heated it up, though it probably wasn't the best idea to be drinking coffee at the moment. He quickly washed the pans and placed them back in the cabinet. Grabbing his mug, he wandered into the office, picking up the morning paper off his desk. He plopped down in the chair, the springs creaking slightly, and skimmed the headlines, the mug resting gently against his lips. Among the numerous front page stories of political contention and squabbling, and weather forecasts, the biggest story this morning was murder in the booming districts of West London. A group of young Oxford students found dead in a vacant alley while bar hopping in the vibrant area of the city popular with young college types. It was rich with arts and culture, loaded with bars and clubs, galleries, trendy bookstores, and coffee shops. Quatre and Trowa frequented the spot often, especially loving the eccentric, but delightfully creative independent theaters, and a high end club, favored by many lgbt patrons. Illegal activity was typically limited to the exchange of designer drugs and drunken fisticuffs. Extreme violence was rare. One victim was said to be the oldest son of a senior member of Parliament. There were six victims in all, gunned down in their prime. Quatre scanned the article. Apparently robbery was not a motive because their wallets, purses, phones, and jewelry had been found with the bodies. All their money and credit cards were accounted for. So, they were going with a random act of violence, or a personal vendetta. But a personal vendetta to whom? One of the students, or to the student's Parliament father? Was there a political precedent? A message to Parliament? An act of terrorism? There was no sign of the weapon, no suspects, no witnesses. Odd, considering the highly populated area. Because these were kids who came from privileged backgrounds, one who's father was a prestigious member of government, a nation-wide manhunt was underway and it appeared they were pulling out all the stops to catch the killer, or killers. Every possible resource was being tunneled into this investigation. Of course, the Preventers were all over it, Quatre had no doubt. Large amounts of money were likely changing hands, some of it probably less than lawful. Quatre knew how the system worked and found himself grateful that he'd left that life behind. Politics was a dirty business, justice was often bought, money and power always had its way. He did not miss it one bit. He jumped when the phone rang, tossing the paper down on the desk, and reached for the receiver. "Bloom Investigations, how may I help you?" "Jeez, Q, you sound like a proper secretary," a jovial voice snickered into his ear. "Duo?" Quatre checked the phone base, the ID readout displaying the name 'Duo Maxwell'. The voice scoffed, "You're surprised? Ch, I'm insulted, really I am." "Oh, stop it. And I'm not a prop - I'm not a secretary." Quatre propped the phone between his ear and shoulder and reached across the desk for the weapons' inventory file. "Okay, Q, sure you're not." "Shut up," Quatre shuffled through the folder until he found the document he needed. He smirked, "Where's your lover? Isn't he supposed to be calling me?" "Oh, I see. Too good to talk to me, are you?" Quatre chuckled, familiar enough with Duo's humor to know he wasn't actually offended. "We're having an issue with one of our distributors. He's gone over to give them a little...incentive...if you know what I mean." "He makes a very effective mook." "He'll probably take that as a compliment." "As well he should. What do you have for me?" "Right down to business, eh? No small talk? You sound like Heero." "What do you want, the laundry list of mundane daily chores?" "Oh, come on. I know your life is more exciting than that. Come on, work that brain magic you got there. What am I thinking right now?" "Duo, you know I can't read you over the phone, but I'd be willing to bet it's probably extremely perverted and I'm actually incredibly grateful that I can't right now." Duo guffawed so loud, Quatre had to pull the phone away from his ear for a second to spare his hearing. "Touche, Q, my man, touche. Okay, I have one unit of tear gas comin' to you next week and - did you get the pepper spray yet?" "No, but I'm expecting it today, or tomorrow. I sent the payment last night. It should arrive in your account this afternoon." "Sounds good. I'll send you the invoice as soon as it clears. Any other orders for me?" Quatre uncapped his pen and checked off the unit order, scribbling in the ETA. "No, not at the moment. We're pretty well-stocked otherwise." He set the pen aside, laid the sheet back in the folder, and slid it into metal box on top of the desk. "How are you guys? Business going good? Heero never tells me anything." "He never tells anyone anything. It's like pulling teeth," Duo sighed, exasperated, but endeared nonetheless. "Oh, it's good. Things are good. You know Heero, all work and no play. He forgets that he's human and needs to relax and unwind sometimes. That's when my gundamium handcuffs come in handy." Quatre could practically hear Duo's eyebrows waggling on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, did not need to know about that, thanks." "Hey, you asked." Duo paused. "Are you - I mean, you still have that...one client?" Knowing exactly who he was talking about, Quatre huffed, rubbed the side of his mouth in agitation. "Yes." "Ooh. Tough luck, kid. She's still barking up the wrong tree, huh?" Duo asked, though it was obvious he already knew the answer. Quatre groaned, "Yes, she is." The annoyance made his voice low, grating. "Hey, I'm sorry man. Didn't mean to bring up a touchy subject." "No, it's okay. I'm not annoyed at you. Just the situation. I just want this case to be over with. Trowa just left to meet with her. Really hoping he gets the footage he needs to close this." "I don't blame you. I'd be pretty pissed, too. You know, I know a guy who could...take care of that problem for you," Duo whispered conspiratorially. His voice was husky, mischievous. Quatre barked out a laugh, his head tipping back. "Don't tempt me. Trowa would kill us both." "Eh, what kind of friend would I be if I didn't at least offer?" Quatre suddenly had a vivid picture of Duo sitting in Heero's chair, feet up on his desk, shrugging nonchalantly. "Are you still coming out next month?" The two couples got together twice a year, once in the summer, and once in the winter. Quatre and Trowa would travel to the states for one trip, and Heero and Duo to London for the other. It was something that Quatre always looked forward to. It reinforced their bond, kept their friendship strong. "As long as there aren't any surprise problems, yep. Wouldn't miss it." "Can't wait to see you guys." "Same here. Oh - Heero just walked in. You still need to talk to him?" Quatre scratched his head and lifted his mug. "No, I don't think so. I think we've got everything settled. Just tell him I said, 'hi', and I'll talk to him next week." "Will do. See ya soon, Q." "Yeah, bye, Duo." He pressed the 'end' button on the phone and set the receiver back on its base. Leaning back in the leather office chair, he rested his elbows on the arms, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His eyes caught the large headline on the front of the newspaper. Something about it set him on edge, but he didn't know what. It gave him a bad feeling. Even worse than that of Mrs. Seigried. Something ominous, but intangible settled over his mind like a dark cloud. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, mentally berating himself for his paranoia. He swiped the remote control off the desk and flicked on the telescreen. A news conference, the head of Parliament delivering a resonating speech, speaking on behalf of the shooting victims and their families. The man was ardent as he vowed swift retribution, his fist raised in the air, then slamming down onto the pulpit to punctuate his biting words. Dozens of microphones were mounted under his chin, recording every passionate word. He spoke with righteous indignity, the blinding flashes of the cameras not fazing him in the slightest. What sent chills racing down Quatre's spine was the large scare quotes at the bottom of the screen. 'Newtype Responsible for Murder?' The uneasy feeling came surging back with forceful clarity. The question mark at the end was irrelevant. Quatre was well aware of how things worked. Opinions were being formed, the seeds of prejudice planted. They'd found their suspect, or at the very least, a scapegoat. "Oh, damn." This would not end well.
~ * ~ |
