Type K
Watching the car pull out of the Quickie Mart’s parking lot, Zechs quietly started his little Montecarlo’s engine and pulled out after them, following them at a discreet distance. He’d followed the blonde from the mortician’s office back to the warehouse in the industrial district, and now he tailed them to an apartment building in a neighborhood that was actually pretty nice. He didn’t know who the blonde worked for, but he had an inkling that if he followed the man long enough he’d be led to Treize Khushrenada. However, he’d spotted the security that was so zealously guarding the warehouse the blonde had entered and been unable to enter the building. With a crowd made up of kids twenty-five years and younger, he’d stick out too much. He wasn’t more than thirty, but he certainly didn’t look like the kind of man to frequent raves or parties. Besides, if that warehouse belonged to who he thought it belonged to, they’d recognize him anyway and he’d lose everything. That was something he couldn’t risk, not now when he felt he was so close to finding her again.
Zechs parked the car half a block away from the apartment complex the blonde’s car pulled into, watching the door they entered with a pair of night goggles. After spotting the room number the blonde and Chinese man entered, 23A, he threw the old military toy into the passenger seat beside him and sat back to relax. Now, at least, he had a concrete lead, and there was nothing else to do but wait. Reflectively he pulled the worn picture out of her out of his pocket, studying her blonde hair and blue eyes that were so unlike his own. He’d been searching for her for a long, long time, and now he wasn’t sure he’d ever find her. Still, he had to try. He’d lived for this one reason for an entire year, having lost everything the night she was kidnapped and his parents died. Worse, he’d borne the guilt knowing that his family’s demise was all his fault.
Zechs glanced up, his line of thought broken, when he noticed that the blonde’s sedan was pulling out of the apartment complex’s parking lot. Stuffing the picture back in his pocket and cursing, he revved the engine to follow.
*~*~*
Quatre was feeling restless. After a cup of bitter coffee and watching the evening news, he paced into the kitchen and grabbed the car keys, calling to his friend, “Wufei, I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”
“All right,” the Chinese man replied from his bedroom. He was bent over his desk, tapping away furiously at the little laptop he kept God knew what in. Taking a deep breath of relief that he’d not been questioned further by his friend, Quatre stepped out of the apartment and headed down to his sedan, getting in and starting the car. Telling himself he was only going for a drive to ease his nerves, the blonde pulled off and began heading instinctively in the direction of the morgue.
Fifteen minutes later he cursed softly when he found himself in front of the hospital where he knew Dr. Barton resided. Glancing at the reserved parking lot, he noticed Barton’s car was still in its space. He must be pulling an all-nighter. Cutting the headlights, Quatre left the car idling in an alleyway a block down and stealthily slipped into the hospital, headed for the mortician’s office.
*~*~*
Dr. Barton rested his head wearily on his desktop, fighting inevitable exhaustion. It had been a long night, tedious hours of monitoring and measuring chemicals in his cramped, secret little lab in the back off the morgue. His neck, back, and arms ached, and he had a roaring headache. After wearily closing up and locking the tiny lab for the night, he’d turned off the lights in both his office and the morgue itself and decided to spend the night sleeping against his desk. He was too exhausted to drive himself home.
Hand trembling softly, he reached for a small vial on his desk and pulled out a syringe, injecting himself with the amber liquid. Feeling the rush of immediate pleasure in his limbs and mind, he smiled and shut his eyes.
The mortician’s euphoria was interrupted when he heard the soft clicking of a lock being picked on the outside laboratory door. His eyes snapped open, and he quietly opened a drawer in his desk, carefully pulling out the pistol he kept in it at all times. Listening to the slow, stealthy steps as they entered the morgue, he saw a figure with blonde hair illuminated from the light spilling in from the hallway and aimed the gun, hand shaking unsteadily from the drug. Trying to sound threatening, he said in a low voice, “Stop right there, or you’re dead.”
The person entering the morgue froze, and Dr. Barton saw his silhouetted hands lifted up in a sign of surrender. Then a voice he recognized filled with mirth said, “Well, that’s quite a way to greet me, Doc. Mind telling me why you’re sitting here in the dark?”
Barton’s jaw dropped. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The blonde quickly reached over and flipped on the light before the mortician could protest, smiling amiably. “Just paying a visit, Doc.”
“Why?” Barton lowered his gun but continued to stare at the handsome blonde suspiciously.
“Being friendly, that’s all.” Quatre casually took a seat in one of the chairs the mortician kept for visitors in the office, leaning back and putting his feet on the edge of the desk. The blonde’s sheer brazenness stunned the doctor. He struggled for words.
“W-who are you, anyway?”
“Quatre Raberba Winner, pleased to make your acquaintance,” Quatre replied, giving a short chortle. Trowa looked at the blonde apprehensively. The blonde certainly looked handsome in the dim light provided by the office lamp, his skin soft and smooth and warm—
“Anyways, Doc, what’s your first name?”
“Trowa,” he replied without thinking, turning a little red. He was growing confused by the moment, his clarity of mind inhibited by the drugs he’d injected into himself only a few minutes before. He folded his hands on the desk and tried to keep them from shaking.
Quatre sat up in the chair and looked at the mortician, smiling disarmingly. “That’s a beautiful name.” Privately the blonde wondered if he was losing his mind. He shouldn’t be here talking to the mortician. He knew exactly why he was here talking to the doctor with the smooth face and brown hair, and he knew the boss certainly wouldn’t approve. In fact, that was putting it lightly. Considering what had happened with Maxwell and Yuy, he was flirting with a dangerous line that, if crossed, could mean he’d lose his life.
Examining the doctor carefully, the blonde took in the other man’s slim form that seemed almost emaciated and helpless in the orderly uniform, the white doctor’s coat long ago abandoned on a coat rack in the corner, the long brown hair that fell mysteriously around the doctor’s face, the mortician’s bewildered green eyes. He was a bewitching little creature, Quatre thought. The perceptive blonde also noted the doctor’s trembling hands and the discarded syringe and vial laying on the tabletop. He read the little label, Type K, and arched an eyebrow.
“Doc, I hate to butt in on your business, but don’t you know it’s dangerous to do that stuff? It’s new, real new. You could be screwing yourself over.”
An irritated look appeared on the mortician’s face. “It’s none of your goddamn business as to what I take and what I don’t take. In fact, I’d venture to say it’s none of your goddamn business to even be here. You have illegally trespassed into my office. I should have shot you when you walked in and—”
Quatre raised a hand to silence the mortician and said quietly, “You wouldn’t have shot me, Doc. There’s still nurses on duty at this hour. They would have heard the shot if you fired on me. Besides, what I’m saying’s for your own good. You shouldn’t be doing that shit. It’s dangerous.”
“Why do you even care?” asked Trowa suddenly.
“Let’s just say I’m, ah, concerned,” Quatre replied thoughtfully, looking at Trowa earnestly. He noted the way the doctor fidgeted with nervous energy as he stood up and stepped around the desk, looking down at the mortician. Tension built as they stared into each other’s eyes. The blonde reached out a hand and almost touched the doctor’s cheek, but remembered himself at the last moment and stepped away, throwing a casual wave as he walked out. “See ya later, Doc. Remember what I said.”
Before Trowa could reply or protest, the blonde was gone.
*~*~*
The ginger-haired man stepped out of the shower stall, feeling refreshed. Grabbing a towel and rubbing his hair dry with it, he walked out into the living room of his temporary living quarters naked and unafraid. Walking to the small bar, he poured himself a tumbler of sherry and took a seat on the couch, stretching out lazily. He felt pretty good tonight. Though the bitch had been vicious, he loved it when she resisted him. She was one of the few women who still fought him even after this long, no matter how much she was abused. Khushrenada had to grant that she had spirit, at least. That little bitch had lots of spirit.
Treize was reveling in the afterglow that came over him only after a particularly violent struggle with a woman like the one still locked in his office down the hall. Sipping the sherry, he mused that this was better than any drug, even that Type K stuff that’d he tried a few nights before. He’d undergone a short high on it that was pleasurable and decided to buy a little more for casual use.
Pulling one of the little vials from the drawer of the end table by his couch, he examined the amber liquid carefully. The little bottle was marked with a “K.” Curiously he wondered what the K stood for. Shrugging, he also found one of the several fresh needles he kept with his drug stash and injected himself with half of the vial’s contents. Most people used up the whole vial at one time, he’d heard, but he always shorted himself on narcotics so he could keep a clear head.
The rush of euphoria was immediate, even faster than it had been the night before. He lay back on the couch, letting an indolent smile spread over his face and his muscles go lax. He felt warm and good. Real good.
Gotta do this more often…
Khushrenada woke up from his little “trip” after what seemed like only a few minutes later. Feeling something warm and wet on his face, he wiped his nose and was shocked to find a smear of red on his knuckles.
“Oh shit,” he mumbled. What was that Type K doing to him?
~TBC~
Kira Maxwell
KiraxMaxwell@msn.com_________________
On to Part 4!