[FIC] Do not Go Gentle... (2/?)
As long as I'm writing my quarterly performance review, I might as well post some other fiction. Maybe this will be more entertaining.
Title: Do Not Go Gentle...
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Genre: Action, mystery, psychological
Pairings: 3x4-ishness in this chapter
Rating: T
General disclaimer:The Mobile Suit: Gundam Wing universe is owned by Bandai, Sunrise, theSotsu Agency and other people who are not me. This story is for free entertainment purposes only. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night is by Dylan Thomas.
Chapter One is here
Quatre could not dissuade Rashid from taking Trowa's television apart. Truth be told, he hadn't put up much of an argument; the concern that etched wrinkles in the Maguanac's forehead when he had learned of Trowa's suspicions was enough to let him know that arguing would be a waste of breath. He understood why it needed to be done, but he couldn't bear to actually take part in destroying Trowa's property; instead, Quatre poured himself a glass of wine, sat on the sofa and tried not to cringe every time a part came free from the set.
"I suppose you've done this before..." he asked feebly.
"No, not really."
"Oh." Quatre put his hand over his eyes as Rashid extracted a length of ribbon cable from the back of the LED screen. His hand stayed there for the next few minutes before Rashid announced that it was a perfectly ordinary television and there didn't seem to be anything suspicious about it.
However: "It seems that Trowa--or someone--has taken it apart before. It looks like something is missing here." Rashid pointed with the tip of his screwdriver.
Quatre looked at the small, empty hemisphere molded into the bottom of the casing. It was just about the right size and shape to hold a miniature omnidirectional microphone. "The television doesn't respond to voice commands. He must have removed the mic."
"That seems like a good possibility, considering Trowa's concerns about surveillance." He lifted the repaired set and placed it back where it belonged. "You had something to show me?"
"Yes, just a moment." Quatre rose and went to the bedroom to retrieve the envelope, relieved to see that the hair he had pasted over the drawer was still in place. He brought it back to the living room, where Rashid was occupied with placing containers of food out on the coffee table. Once Quatre saw the spread, he forgot all about the envelope and his stomach made a very loud, very embarrassing noise at being neglected for so long.
Rashid gave him an amused look. "Have you missed my cooking that much?"
"If that's your lentil stew, then yes. Yes I have."
"Then eat." Rashid held a bowl of stew out to Quatre with one hand while reaching for the envelope with the other. Quatre made the trade gladly.
"There was a note," Quatre said once the edge had been taken off of his hunger, "but it was written on flash paper and it burned up. It said something about not trusting the media and going to the source instead. I presume that's the source he meant."
Rashid, who was studying the photographs, nodded. "Some of these are more than thirty years old, according to the date stamps. Most are more recent." He picked up one of the photos and frowned at it. "And quite odd."
"Odd how?"
"Look at this." Rashid handed him one of the photographs.
From the date stamp Quatre could see that it had been shot in June of AC 171. It showed a green field with a number of rather handsome brown and white cows roaming in it, cropping the lush grass. In the middle distance was a low hill with a broad chestnut tree casting an inviting pool of shade on the sun-drenched landscape. In the background, snow-capped mountains defined a blue skyline. It was pretty, in a dull, prosaic sort of way.
"And now, look at this."
The second picture had been taken in AC 205, only three years ago. It was only by comparing the views of the distant mountains that Quatre could tell it was taken from the same perspective as the first photo. The cows and the tree were gone. The grass had given way to tall weeds. A three-story redbrick building dominated the shot, but it had obviously been abandoned for some time. The windows that hadn't been broken were boarded up, and the crumbling driveway was home to more weeds. On the edges of the photo, Quatre could see corners of other buildings, wooden ones with peeling paint and mossy roofs.
He wasn't hungry anymore. "It's a military base," he said, handing the photos back. "It was obviously abandoned after the war. I wonder why Trowa wanted me to see that?"
"The other photos seem to have been taken at roughly the same location," Rashid said. "Different views at different times with different subjects, but at the same location." Rashid handed him one of the news clippings, and Quatre noted the name of a town in the byline.
"Ste-Cecelia. I've never heard of it."
"Perhaps it doesn't exist anymore. Even before the fall of Sanc, the separationist factions had developed a habit of swallowing entire villages whole. For the good of the people, of course."
Quatre was sorry to hear the bitterness in Rashid's voice, but not entirely surprised. "Maybe the town is still there, only under a different name. Even if it isn't, there's got to be something there, something that Trowa felt was worth investigating."
Rashid didn't appear to be listening to him. He was peering intently at a bundle of newsclippings. "Yes," he said in a slow, distracted voice. "Enough that he took the time to do extensive background research. Here, look at these." He handed part of the bundle to Quatre while he continued to read the rest.
Quatre felt an odd sensation of dread settle in the pit of his stomach as he skimmed a condensed history of the region.
Beginning in AC 179, as far as he was able to determine, this lovely, quiet, pastoral community had been slowly taken over by the military, most likely by an early incarnation of the Alliance. That in itself was not so unusual. The Alliance had established hundreds, if not thousands of small installations all over the earth early on in its career, which was why it was able to slowly and gradually become accepted as a normal part of life for most of the population. This included the village of Ste-Cecelia.
The installation was, indeed, welcomed at first. It brought a moderate economic and cultural boom to the region, and relations between the newcomers and the natives were friendly. Several of the earlier articles mentioned mutual celebrations and generous donations from the military to local schools and libraries.
Statements from the spokespeople emphasized the installation's purpose as a primarily scientific operation, dedicated to increasing the region's already rich agricultural resources. Several local farmers were made moderately wealthy by selling their cattle, sheep and goats to researchers on the base. What the researchers actually did with the animals was unclear.
When he came to the end of the printed articles, Quatre reached for the socket drive. He plugged one end into his laptop and then slid the earpiece over his left ear and flipped the mini-screen over his left eye. He pressed the commands to let the sounds and images play over the laptop's monitor so Rashid could listen as he read.
The news reports were heavily censored, obviously lifted from government archives, but they told roughly the same tale. A modestly prosperous village had become the focus of a military research group calling itself Project 119. Their goals were stated in disturbingly vague terms: to develop methods to help prevent and arrest the ill effects of outer space exposure on the human body, and perhaps in the process to help eradicate certain diseases--which diseases and the exact nature of the research had been censored out.
The last clip, taken in AC 196, was a brief piece about the official disbanding and withdrawal of the project. The audio cut out before any details could be given, but the last few seconds of video were most disturbing.
A satellite map zoomed in on a region south of Sanc, where a local camera picked up and displayed a paddock full of sheep. Most were dead. Those that weren't were pacing restlessly around the perimeter, treading carelessly on the bodies of the dead ones and bleating. When one live one passed another, they bared their teeth and snapped, sometimes engaging in a minor tussle before going their separate ways.
Quatre was wondering what the hell that was all about before a dark, indistinct shape flew toward the camera lens and made the visuals go black with a sudden violence that made him push himself back and throw himself into a defensive posture. "What was that?" he asked, tearing off the headset.
Rashid, looking disturbed, simply closed the lid of the laptop and shook his head. "I don't know, but you're about to go running off by yourself again, aren't you?"
"Rashid, something went wrong there. Something might still be going on." He raised his eyes from the tangle of electronics in his lap and was met by an understanding look. "I have a very bad feeling about this."
Rashid smiled sadly. "I know I can't stop you from going, but do me a favor before you go. Work in the basement tomorrow morning. You may suffer an accident."
"What are you talking about?"
"In the course of rendering you first aid, I will have to bandage your ankle."
Quatre nodded, suddenly understanding. "Of course, Rashid." He leaned forward to embrace his friend and was swept up an a mighty bear hug that plainly conveyed Rashid's love and his fear...and his trust. "Thank you."
"You've always come back before. Please try not to break your track record," Rashid said at last, standing up. "Now, on to our second course. Do you still like cucumber salad?"
##
The accident went off fairly well, Quatre thought. He had cried out in the manner appropriate for one whose leg was trapped under a pile of rebar, the straps that had been holding them against the wall having been artfully scissored by a 'rat'. The packet of fake blood he had pilfered from Trowa's workroom added a nice touch when spattered on his lower leg.
Rashid was first on the scene, of course, and had body-checked the others out of the way while he examined Quatre's ankle. The crowning touch came when Quatre hissed in real pain while the tracking chip was inserted under his skin.
"What are you looking at?" Rashid had bellowed at the others when he was finished. "It's just a broken ankle. Get back to work!"
The Maguanac standing nearby, braced by their leader's voice, had stood aside as Rashid carried Quatre out of the building and into the rush-hour crowd in the Poet's Square, where Quatre had been finally been able to run free.
##
Trowa called that afternoon just as Quatre had finished changing his clothes and was beginning to pack up his travel bag. "Hi there. I hope it's not too late for a chat," he said. He seemed calm and was even smiling a little, but Quatre could see the tension around his eyes and mouth.He could also see quite a few people milling around in the background; some in coveralls, some in street clothes, some in fantastic costumes, and some in nothing at all. Trowa was obviously letting him know that it was the middle of a dress rehearsal and that the possibility of eavesdropping was not out of the question.
"It's not too late at all. How are you?" Quatre sat down on the sofa in front of his laptop and tilted the screen to give Trowa a view of the living room, complete with the dead eye of the television.
"I'm doing well." Trowa's effortful smile slipped as he eyed the background in his own screen. "Did you find the present I left you?"
And now, the dance. "Yes, it's very intriguing. How did you find it?"
"One of my aerialists brought it to my attention. She had family in the area."
The past tense did not go unnoticed. "I see." Quatre didn't bother to keep all of his trepidation out of his voice.
"I was calling to let you know that I was planning on coming back next weekend. I'd really like to see you--" that part, at least, sounded sincere, "--but I understand if you have other plans."
"I'm afraid I do. I have some business to take care of up north. I hope to be back soon, though; I've really missed you."
The smile was back, and this time it didn't look like it hurt to wear. "I've missed you, too. Know who else misses you?"
"No, who?"
"Wing. I think you should call him."
Dear Trowa. He was subtle as a brick sometimes. "Yeah, it would be good to talk to him. I'll try to get in touch with him tomorrow."
"Good. I should go, it's getting late."
"Good night, then. I hope to see you soon."
"Same here." Trowa looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. "By the way, you have soup on your collar."
"What? I--" Quatre pulled out the collar of his shirt, attempting to find the stain, but before he could protest that he wasn't that barbaric, Trowa rang off, laughing.
##
Borders shifted and even geography changed, but getting directions remained the same. Quatre rented a nondescript dark blue sedan with no problem, obtained maps and a GPS and was even given a credit chip good for discounts on for goods and services, but none of that prepared him for the difficulty he encountered when he attempted to find Ste-Cecelia. The name was no longer on any modern maps, and no matter where he stopped and asked, no one could give him any better clues than "It's up north somewhere".
So, he drove north. For two days he zigzagged across the countryside, stopping at every town, village and hamlet he came across to try and get his bearings. He attempted to contact Trowa, but Trowa was notoriously difficult to get hold of at the end of the season and Quatre doubted he would be able help anyway. It would have been nice to hear his voice, though.
Rashid was slightly more informative. He had found some older maps and was able to tell Quatre which roads led there. Unfortunately, those roads did not actually seem to exist anymore. Had Quatre not been so tired and frustrated he might have wondered about that, but when he stopped for good on the evening of the third day, all he wanted in the world was a hot shower and a soft bed.
Quatre checked himself into the only hotel in town, and it was only force of habit that made him ask the girl stationed at the desk if she knew where the town of Ste-Cecelia might be.
"Ste-Cecelia? My, I haven't heard that name in a very long time," she said, pausing in the act of filling out Quatre's registration card. She was a pale, insubstantial girl with lank hair tucked under a flowered kerchief and a vague, distracted air about her. Quatre, who feeling less than charitable at the moment, wondered if she was a bit mentally challenged.
"So you have heard of it. Do you know if it's around here?"
She gave him a vague smile. "That's what this town was called before the soldiers came." She slid the registration card toward him. "You have to sign here, please."
"This is Ste-Cecelia?" Quatre blurted out, hardly daring to believe his luck. He had only stopped because he could not drive any further without sleep, and he hadn't realized he had actually reached his destination.
She nodded. "The soldiers changed the name a long time ago. It's called Fort Lorraine now."
Quatre slid the signed registration card back to her. "Why don't you just change the name back?"
"Oh, the soldiers didn't call it Fort Lorraine. We did. They called us Project 119, but that wasn't a very good name for a town." She spent a long time comparing the signature on the card against the signature on his passport.
"What was Project 119?" Quatre asked once she finally returned his identification.
"Something that happened before the war." A furrow creased her brow momentarily before she brightened again. "It was so much fun at first. We had lots of parades and there were men and women in beautiful uniforms, and they even built another little village over there," she pointed toward the arched fireplace in the lobby. Quatre was willing to bet that the crumbling base lay in that direction.
"Did your parents tell you all this?" he asked the girl, who could not have been older than twenty, and most likely a year or two younger than that. But then, he was tired and he might have been letting her childlike mannerisms affect his judgment. Or so he told himself later.
"No, I saw it all myself. I have a picture book somewhere." She started to wander off.
"No! Wait, miss..."
"Sophie," she said, turning back.
"Sophie. I'm Quatre. Will you be here tomorrow? I'd love to talk to you about the town, and I'd like to see your pictures."
She blushed suddenly. It made her look almost pretty. "I'd like that, Quatre."
"Good. I'll ask for you tomorrow morning, but right now I'd like to sleep. Good night."
"Till tomorrow, Quatre!"
He waved at her over his shoulder while taking the stairs two at a time. He had never wanted to contact Heero so badly in his life.