Random ficcage from the bottom of the well
Yo. As has been the case for many others, it appears, I haven't really been up for writing lately. Mostly I'm attributing it to stress, though I've also felt more emotionally stable lately, which apparently translates into 'emotionally dead with no interesting thought in my head.' But last night as I was flipping through my anime pictures folder, I came across one that I'd always meant to write a story for, and for some unknown reason I went ahead and did just that. (I must have been possessed by demons.) It's not an emotionally deep or moving story, but it was fun just to get some words down on "paper" again.
So if anyone's still interested in Trowa, here's a quickie...
Title: Brace for Impact
Author: Lukoni
Characters: Trowa, Heero, mention of Trowa/OMC
Word Count: ca 900
Summary: Trowa finishes up a job and prepares to withstand the fallout.
Rating: PG
Warnings: References to gritty spy life, humor, as many metaphors for ‘junk’ as I could think of, minimal plot.
Notes: Set post-EW. Inspired by an old piccie by Kashie Chan . I’ve always wanted to write a story to go with this! No idea why I did it now, but I’m not complaining.
Brace for Impact
If Trowa were one to feel silly about his appearance, he might be feeling it now. In a sleeveless black body suit trimmed with stark white lines forming a cross on his chest and highlighting his long legs, his nails painted to glow in the dark. A black leather strap was buckled around his bicep, and brown leather encased his waist, cinching it in to curve like a woman’s. But Trowa was not one to be bothered by such things. He’d worn what he needed to infiltrate the night club; he’d slept with Senator Bokudo, copied his hard drive while the man was showering, and even been tipped 200 creds. Une probably wouldn’t approve of his methods, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She wanted the data, he got the data. No questions asked. That was their deal.
No, Trowa did not care a whit what he wore. The embarrassing thing, the truly humiliating conclusion to this job was his shuttle. If any of the other pilots ever caught sight of him he’d never live it down. He thought back over the chain of events but really couldn’t come up with anything else he could have done.
The senator’s security man must have been better than Trowa thought, since an alert went out only a few minutes after he slid out the back door of the club counting his money with wry amusement. In moments the streets were crawling with flashing lights and Trowa was cut off from his escape route. As was his backup escape route. He just barely made it down a seedy alley into the Sidemark Dens to safety. Well, relative safety. The Dens were no place for civilized humans, but Trowa had never really considered himself part of that demographic. And the place actually offered a kernel of hope to a black ops agent on the run from the best the Colonial Security Forces had to offer and whose own superior would deny all knowledge of him if caught. His wits were his only ally. And, he thought with a hint of a smile, his body. And there were stream runners here. He was approached by three puff dealers, two whores and a drunk looking, ironically, for a circus, before he found a runner willing to supply him with what he needed. With the aid of Bokudo’s payment and generous bonus, Trowa found himself the proud owner of a rickety, one-man Likursky 438-F that could have been purchased new by his grandfather, whoever he may have been. It was cobbled together with parts from the 532-C, the 8810-X and what looked like a toaster, but it ran, and that was the important thing. Stream runners used these things to glide from colony to colony on the power from solar flares, coasting wherever the energy waves would take them. They weren’t designed to jump LaGrange points, but Trowa had a few modifications up his sleeve.
Actually, he had no sleeves. But that was beside the point. The point was now Trowa was crashing down to earth in a heap of bolts that not even Duo would have bothered to salvage, nursing the last fumes of his fuel, trying to hit the coordinates Heero had sent him in the godforsaken outback for a discreet pickup and that meant Heero would know, would see him actually emerge from this scrap pile. Assuming he survived, that is. He knew the emergency brake on this tub was antiquated beyond measure, but if it was good enough for a street rat with a death wish, it was good enough for him.
He kept his eyes glued to the readout, one hand on the thruster, one foot on the glide pedal, the other braced against the comm panel since apparently stream runners didn’t believe in safety harnesses. Reaching for the release lever, he waited, a glance at the wind speed gauge, judging the amount of drift.... wait for it... wait for it... and there it was. He pulled hard, cut the thrusters and plummeted toward the ground, his stomach in his throat. He just had time to think that this was what he should have expected for a measly 600 creds before a hard jerk informed him that his chute had deployed successfully. Letting his breath out slowly, he could do nothing but brace for impact.
It came with a deafening crash and a shower of sparks along with a few stray screws. And a loose panel door that tried to take off his head but only clipped his shoulder. He sat quietly, waiting for the beast to settle. Several clunks and a couple of lurches later, he finally deemed it safe to exit. He kicked open the jammed hatch, and hopped down to the parched earth with a soft thud. And there was Heero, looking skeptically past the returning pilot.
“I got the data,” Trowa said, trying to draw his friend’s attention.
“Hn,” said Heero, still gazing in wonder at the rubble of a museum piece.
“Not a word,” growled Trowa, striding past him toward the waiting jeep.
“Nice parachute,” was all the man said. Trowa refused to look behind him, settling himself sullenly into the passenger seat as Heero started up the engine. The rearview mirror offered him a glimpse of bright polka-dotted cloth with what appeared to be a giant pig in sunglasses and a bikini billowing in the wind. Trowa prayed in vain that Duo would never find out about this.
~ fin ~
So if anyone's still interested in Trowa, here's a quickie...
Title: Brace for Impact
Author: Lukoni
Characters: Trowa, Heero, mention of Trowa/OMC
Word Count: ca 900
Summary: Trowa finishes up a job and prepares to withstand the fallout.
Rating: PG
Warnings: References to gritty spy life, humor, as many metaphors for ‘junk’ as I could think of, minimal plot.
Notes: Set post-EW. Inspired by an old piccie by Kashie Chan . I’ve always wanted to write a story to go with this! No idea why I did it now, but I’m not complaining.
Brace for Impact
If Trowa were one to feel silly about his appearance, he might be feeling it now. In a sleeveless black body suit trimmed with stark white lines forming a cross on his chest and highlighting his long legs, his nails painted to glow in the dark. A black leather strap was buckled around his bicep, and brown leather encased his waist, cinching it in to curve like a woman’s. But Trowa was not one to be bothered by such things. He’d worn what he needed to infiltrate the night club; he’d slept with Senator Bokudo, copied his hard drive while the man was showering, and even been tipped 200 creds. Une probably wouldn’t approve of his methods, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She wanted the data, he got the data. No questions asked. That was their deal.
No, Trowa did not care a whit what he wore. The embarrassing thing, the truly humiliating conclusion to this job was his shuttle. If any of the other pilots ever caught sight of him he’d never live it down. He thought back over the chain of events but really couldn’t come up with anything else he could have done.
The senator’s security man must have been better than Trowa thought, since an alert went out only a few minutes after he slid out the back door of the club counting his money with wry amusement. In moments the streets were crawling with flashing lights and Trowa was cut off from his escape route. As was his backup escape route. He just barely made it down a seedy alley into the Sidemark Dens to safety. Well, relative safety. The Dens were no place for civilized humans, but Trowa had never really considered himself part of that demographic. And the place actually offered a kernel of hope to a black ops agent on the run from the best the Colonial Security Forces had to offer and whose own superior would deny all knowledge of him if caught. His wits were his only ally. And, he thought with a hint of a smile, his body. And there were stream runners here. He was approached by three puff dealers, two whores and a drunk looking, ironically, for a circus, before he found a runner willing to supply him with what he needed. With the aid of Bokudo’s payment and generous bonus, Trowa found himself the proud owner of a rickety, one-man Likursky 438-F that could have been purchased new by his grandfather, whoever he may have been. It was cobbled together with parts from the 532-C, the 8810-X and what looked like a toaster, but it ran, and that was the important thing. Stream runners used these things to glide from colony to colony on the power from solar flares, coasting wherever the energy waves would take them. They weren’t designed to jump LaGrange points, but Trowa had a few modifications up his sleeve.
Actually, he had no sleeves. But that was beside the point. The point was now Trowa was crashing down to earth in a heap of bolts that not even Duo would have bothered to salvage, nursing the last fumes of his fuel, trying to hit the coordinates Heero had sent him in the godforsaken outback for a discreet pickup and that meant Heero would know, would see him actually emerge from this scrap pile. Assuming he survived, that is. He knew the emergency brake on this tub was antiquated beyond measure, but if it was good enough for a street rat with a death wish, it was good enough for him.
He kept his eyes glued to the readout, one hand on the thruster, one foot on the glide pedal, the other braced against the comm panel since apparently stream runners didn’t believe in safety harnesses. Reaching for the release lever, he waited, a glance at the wind speed gauge, judging the amount of drift.... wait for it... wait for it... and there it was. He pulled hard, cut the thrusters and plummeted toward the ground, his stomach in his throat. He just had time to think that this was what he should have expected for a measly 600 creds before a hard jerk informed him that his chute had deployed successfully. Letting his breath out slowly, he could do nothing but brace for impact.
It came with a deafening crash and a shower of sparks along with a few stray screws. And a loose panel door that tried to take off his head but only clipped his shoulder. He sat quietly, waiting for the beast to settle. Several clunks and a couple of lurches later, he finally deemed it safe to exit. He kicked open the jammed hatch, and hopped down to the parched earth with a soft thud. And there was Heero, looking skeptically past the returning pilot.
“I got the data,” Trowa said, trying to draw his friend’s attention.
“Hn,” said Heero, still gazing in wonder at the rubble of a museum piece.
“Not a word,” growled Trowa, striding past him toward the waiting jeep.
“Nice parachute,” was all the man said. Trowa refused to look behind him, settling himself sullenly into the passenger seat as Heero started up the engine. The rearview mirror offered him a glimpse of bright polka-dotted cloth with what appeared to be a giant pig in sunglasses and a bikini billowing in the wind. Trowa prayed in vain that Duo would never find out about this.
~ fin ~