Type K: Part 8

By Kira Maxwell

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise, not me. I don’t own the G-boys, so please don’t sue me. You wouldn’t get anything anyway.
Warnings: Yaoi, Yuri, Het, Drug abuse, Gore, Strong language, NCS, Violence
Pairings: 13xR, implied 1x2, 3x4, 5+R, 9x11


Part 8

A pair of icy blue eyes watched as Quatre’s sedan parked and a handsome brown-haired young man was led into the warehouse. Zechs had been watching the building for the better part of an hour now, biding his time for Quatre’s return. He’d also been waiting for a certain someone to slip outside and meet him in their predetermined spot.

At last, he saw the pale, familiar form moving through the cars that crowded the sides of the warehouse. Noin looked truly ravishing in the bright morning sunshine. He smiled faintly, remembering with pleasure a few times before when they’d shared passion—secret words whispered in a dark bedroom, scent of love thick in the air and the feeling of hot sweaty bodies against each other. That had been a very long time ago, but Zechs would never forget. Nor would he ever forget or forgive the woman that’d forever driven a wedge between him and this beautiful dark-haired creature. He felt no love for Une at all.

Nonchalantly Noin slipped into the passenger side of the car and shut the door, snapping on her seatbelt. Without a word, Zechs revved the Monte Carlo’s idling engine and pulled off into the street, gliding off into the murky night like a rolling leviathan.

After they had gone a few blocks, Noin finally spoke. “What are you planning, Zechs?”

The look on the platinum-haired man’s face was tense. He turned the car down a sidestreet and pulled it to a stop, cutting the engine. “Rescuing her, for once and for all. How long will I let my baby sister suffer, Noin? I’m ashamed I haven’t done anything sooner.”

“Zechs, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Noin said slowly, her blue eyes unfocused and staring off into space. Her hands were rested in her lap, pale and soft against the darkness of her wool skirt. “Khushrenada’s been very tense lately…I don’t think he’d take well to her ‘absence.’”

“I don’t care anymore, Noin. I’m bringing her with me.” When Noin glanced over to study her former lover’s face, she recognized a look of iron ensconced in his features. The dark-haired woman sighed deeply.

“If you must. How do you plan to do this without getting us all killed?”

“I don’t know yet, Noin, but I will. With God as my witness, I will.”

Noin snorted softly, shaking her head. “Zechs, I stopped believing in God a long time ago.”

*~*~*

Trowa stepped silently out of the passenger seat of the sedan after Quatre parked. He walked a few paces ahead, at the blonde’s request. He knew that there must be at least a dozen guards in the area, half of which were probably concealed with their guns trained on him. The blonde spoke a few words to a tall, dark man in a doorway located on the far side of the warehouse, and then motioned to Trowa to come along as they were admitted into the compound.

What greeted Trowa’s eyes looked like a nearly empty warehouse. A few crates stood piled up at the eastern wall, obviously moved aside. Uniformed guards strode here and there. There was probably an entire acre of floor space within the gigantic building, the top levels strung precariously with catwalks and concealed rooms. One of those concealed rooms held Treize Khushrenada, Trowa thought. The man who will determine if I live or die now.

A sort of numbness had settled into the mortician’s limbs during the ride from his office to this obviously “secret” headquarters. The whole way, as they passed through rundown neighborhoods, shopping districts, and finally, this old industrial district, Trowa had seen her face, heard her voice.

Trowa, run! Get out of here! She was probably laying there on the floor right now, he mused. The nurse would come in to get him to sign papers for a new entry to the morgue, or an orderly would bring him lunch, and they’d find Cathy sprawled out on the floor with a blank look in her eyes and a hole in her chest. It seemed so unfair.

She’d never done anything except care about him. She’d pestered him to take care of himself, kept after him about doing things he needed to do, and always been a pillar of strength to him, though he’d never admitted he needed her.

Now she was dead, and it was because of him.

A deep sigh rose in Trowa’s throat as they headed up a long flight of steel stairs, but he checked it. The blonde headed up after him, keeping a close pace. The mortician felt Quatre’s eyes burning into his back. Oh, Cathy, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I’m sorry that you’re dead.

Almost as if having read the mortician’s thoughts, Quatre remarked, “Your sorries won’t save her now, Doc. Her problems are over. Yours, however, have just begun.”

*~*~*

Khushrenada knocked lightly on Relena’s door and stepped in, not waiting for a reply or a by-your-leave. She was his property, after all. He could see her whenever he wanted to.

“Relena,” he called out loudly, “Get out here and make yourself presentable. We have company coming.”

The sound of water running in the bathroom came to an abrupt stop, and a few moments later a decidedly wet and irritated Relena stepped out from the bathroom, a soft towel wrapped around her body.

Instead of saying a word to him, she simply shot him a venomous look and stepped into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Treize chortled pleasantly. At least the little spitfire was in a good mood this morning.

It was a half an hour later that Relena appeared dressed in a light colored suit, the skirt ending at mid-thigh. Her slim, enticing legs were encased in white thigh-high stockings, the muscles made taut by a pair of stiletto heels that matched her suit. Treize took her in at a glance, and then smirked. “You look a bit better than you usually do, my dear. Shall we go?” He offered his arm to her.

It didn’t surprise him when Relena sneered, spit at his feet, and walked out the door without him.

*~*~*

The mortician and the blonde were waiting patiently in the makeshift conference room when Relena and Treize entered. The ginger-haired man smugly seated himself at the head of the table, and Relena rigidly joined him at his right. She seemed to be distinctly uncomfortable even within six feet of the handsome man. Her contempt permeated the air, making the tension mount even further.

Quatre cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Sir, may I introduce Dr. Trowa Barton, a mortician at St. Anthony’s Hospital. He’s the inventor, manufacturer, and proprietor of Type K.”

Barton’s expression was cool, distant. His lips were pressed in a thin line of hate.

“Well, welcome to my current place of residence, Dr. Barton. May I offer you a drink? You seem a bit weary,” Treize said, offering the mortician a glass of red wine he’d carried in from a sideboard. Trowa shook his head.

Nodding a little, Khushrenada seated himself and got down to business. “Well, my good doctor, let’s get to the point. You have, in all your talent, created a very interesting substance called Type K. I myself have used it and found its effects to be altogether pleasing. A great demand has been placed upon me for this drug, but sadly, I am unable to supply it. We both stand to make a great profit by this if we work together.”

Barton listened to Khushrenada’s offer with a deaf ear. He stood up with a sort of feline grace and replied, “Mr. Khushrenada, I thank you greatly for your offer, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it. It seems you won’t be able to meet any of my required conditions.”

The ginger-haired man propped his elbows on the table, placing his fingers into a steeple, and raised an eyebrow. “What could those conditions be, Dr. Barton?”

Barton cleared his throat nervously, then forged on ahead. “Your employee here, Quatre Winner, has killed an orderly and kidnapped me. I don’t appreciate this, as my office was a place that had to remain secure for me to produce Type K. However, I have no doubt that St. Anthony’s morgue is swarming with police officers by now, who have probably already broken into the room where I stored all that I have made of the drug in the past week, not to mention my notes and formulas. You’ve effectively ended all production of the drug, Mr. Khushrenada.”

A look of fury passed over the handsome boss’s face as he glanced at Quatre, and then composed himself. “I’m sure I can arrange for a couple of my employees to infiltrate them and get away with your notes, Dr. Barton. Until then, consider yourself my guest and make yourself comfortable.”

“I do not want to stay,” Trowa blurted before he could stop himself.

The look on Treize’s face was dark. “You do not have a choice, Dr. Barton.” He then motioned for Relena to follow, and both left the room.

~TBC~

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Kira Maxwell

KiraxMaxwell@msn.com

On to Part 9!