by Anne
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu Agency. I promise to return the boys (and other characters) more or less intact when I'm finished, honest.
Warning: character death ahead. This chapter may contain some disturbing imagery for which I thank my brother, Pete. He gave me such wonderful medical info and related gory descriptions that I just had to use them.
Thanks to: Bast, Megan and Marlene for beta reading. Also Jessie and Sarah, *that* paragraph you especially wanted kept in made the finished version ;)
Quatre paced outside Dr J's office waiting for the scientist to return as he tried to ignore the slow ticking of the large ornate wall clock. He glared at the clock, aware that it was taunting him with a reminder that the life he'd grown accustomed to was about to end. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say to Dr J - just that whatever words he used would be the last of importance he'd have to worry about for some time.
Quatre jumped, halting his trek across the floor in mid-step, his eyes darting towards the heavy wooden door as the creak of its hinges alerted him to Dr J's return. The elder scientist paused as he entered the reception area, his brow creasing into a frown as he noticed that he had company. He peered at his assistant through thick spectacles for what seemed like forever, one finger playing with the ends of his long moustache as Quatre shivered, suddenly aware of cold eyes examining him carefully.
Quatre spoke quickly, hoping his words might help dispel the trepidation sweeping through him, as Dr J continued to focus his attention in his direction. This is ridiculous, he told himself firmly. Dr J always does this and it's never bothered you before. Strange how little gestures that he had previously taken no notice of were now unnerving...
"I need to speak to you about something of the utmost urgency," Quatre said. He realised how formal the words sounded, but if he managed to keep the emotion out of his speech he had a better chance of succeeding.
Dr J continued giving him the once-over before finally speaking. "So, young Winner. What is this subject that requires the utmost urgency?" He enunciated the last two words slowly, mockingly. Quatre fought the urge to turn tail and run, sure that somehow the other man knew what he had taken days to find the nerve to say. He clenched both fists, then uncurled them, taking several deep breaths before following Dr J into the office.
Dr J settled behind his desk in the same chair that Quatre had occupied several days before, offering the younger man the other seat in the room. The blonde hesitated, then declined, deciding it would be better if he stood. It suddenly occurred to him that, if he were already on his feet, he had a better chance of making it to the door once he'd said his piece. It's too late to plan an escape route now, he thought. He'd just have to take whatever was thrown his way, hoping it would be quick and painless.
He swallowed hard then cleared his throat, noisily. "I wanted to talk to you about the project," he began hesitantly, shoving his hands into his lab coat pocket to prevent wringing them over and over. What had happened to the calmness he'd felt last night when he'd made his decision? Reality and fear had kicked in, banishing good sense with their arrival. Quatre glanced up, meeting Dr J's gaze directly, and decided he didn't like the hardness in his eyes. Had it always been there or was he just noticing it for the first time? There was so much he should have seen before but had chosen to ignore. He deserved whatever came his way. Ignorance was no excuse, nor was deliberately choosing not to notice.
"When I joined this project I was under the impression that we were developing this weapon for use in peaceful applications only," Quatre began. "I have recently learned that this assumption was incorrect."
As Quatre started speaking, the inner calm that he had felt the night before returned. Even though he was quaking inside, there was no sign of it in his voice or his outward appearance. Putting his opinions into words for the first time was bringing him a sense of taking control of his life in a way he'd never felt before. Everything in his life had led to this point in time, this standing up for what was right. Ironic that the one thing he needed to do was what he'd been fighting. No way he'd fight destiny again, even if it killed him.
"And how, might I ask, have you learned that your assumption was incorrect?" Dr J's voice was as calm as Quatre's but there was an underlying tone which very clearly said: 'don't cross me.'
"I found a letter from the Nazis that stated that you've been working hand in hand with them." Quatre felt pleased that he'd managed to stay calm when he'd made that statement. Dr J seemed pale, reminding him of the reaction his father had given to his comments a few nights previously.
"You found a letter? Pray tell how did you manage to just happen to find this letter? Am I correct in my understanding that you have been going through things that do not concern you, Herr Doktor Winner?" Dr J pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped a layer of sweat from his brow before leaning heavily on the desk.
"'Do not concern me'?" Quatre said, his tone changed to one of ice. "May I remind you, Herr Doktor, that I have been with this project for over a year and my calculations have been instrumental in the great leaps forward we have achieved. If there are plans to use this device, I believe I have every right to be informed. And for your information," he continued. "I found the letter by accident while I was hunting for a pencil. I didn't deliberately go through your papers as you are attempting to imply."
Dr J opened his mouth, then closed it again, his skin taking on a distinctly greyish hue. "You are working on this project merely because it pleases me to use your intellect. What I decide to do with the plans has nothing to do with you."
"Giving them to the Nazis is wrong," Quatre told him. "Think of all the deaths that will result from this! If you presume that the Nazis will not use this bomb against their enemies you are more naïve than I ever was."
Dr J sank back into his chair after pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher that he kept on his desk. Quatre kept talking, keeping his eyes on his superior. Once he called for a guard or reached for the phone Quatre's life would be over. At this stage of the game he needed get his point across so he could go to his death knowing that he'd done what he had set out to do. It was pessimistic, but realistic. Once he started on this journey there was no turning back. His life, or what remained of it, would change forever.
"I mistakenly thought you were like me, working for the advancement of all mankind. The people that the Nazis are targeting have as much right to life as you and I. We are not God, Herr Doktor, we do not have the right to judge and that is what we are doing by working with the Nazi party." Quatre took a deep breath and continued, warming to his topic. He was in full rant mode now, as Iria would call it. He suspected she would be proud of her younger brother. Iria. Will I ever see her again? "We can still change this by destroying the plans and refusing to give them the information they need."
Dr J took a sharp intake of breath and mopped his brow again. The man looked distinctly unwell. Quatre's head began to spin along with the room and he sought refuge in the chair he'd refused earlier.
"How dare you presume to tell me what I should be doing?" Dr J shouted. Quatre had never heard such anger in his superior's voice before. He'd disciplined members of his staff, but this time there was an inflection in his voice never heard before. Gone was his customary calmness, his voice rising in both volume and pitch. "I do not need to explain myself to anyone, let alone someone such as yourself. You might be used to getting what you want because of your privileged background but don't presume to think that matters to me. There is no way I will be allow you to leave here; there will be consequences for speaking such treason."
Dr J swayed slightly in his chair before standing, gripping the edge of his desk firmly. His knuckles were white and with every breath Quatre could hear a whistling sound coming from the man's throat. "You little upstart!" the scientist continued. "This is and has always been my project." He paused again, taking another sip of water, before rubbing briefly at his left arm with his free hand and replacing the glass on the desk. Quatre had to stop himself from asking the scientist if he was feeling alright. At the moment, he was far too angry with the other man to be distracted by compassion.
Matching Dr J's cold glare, Quatre allowed himself a glance towards the water pitcher as he fought a sudden urge to take a draft of the cool liquid. His mouth was dry and his heart beating so fast he wouldn't have been surprised if it had leapt out of his chest. He winced as a sharp pain hit him between the temples but he fought the urge to put his hand to his head. There was no way he going to show any sign of weakness and give Dr J the victory.
"Our benefactors will be here within the hour. I'm sure they will be keen to hear your point of view, Winner," Dr J said, reaching for the phone. Quatre rose to his feet, his eyes darting toward the door. "Feeling worried now are we?" Dr J laughed, a short sharp sound that suggested he was anything but amused by the situation, and Quatre felt a chill run through him. "You should be."
Time seemed to slow down as Quatre watched the scientist begin dialing the numbers to bring the SS. Acting more on instinct than anything else, he reached out towards the phone, knocking the receiver out of Dr J's hand. For one long agonising moment they both froze, staring at the black handset and each other until the staccato sounds of the ringing tone coming from the ornate earpiece registered in Quatre's mind as a signal to act further. Wondering at the source of his sudden courage, he leaned over, placing his index finger firmly on one of the square silver buttons, effectively cutting off the connection.
"Winner, what the hell are you doing? How dare you." Dr J stretched out his hand to seize the phone from Quatre but was met with a strong grip on his wrist, as Quatre matched his glare. Dr J stood, pulling himself free from Quatre's grasp, the veins standing out on each side of his neck signposting the fact that he was clearly unused to having his authority questioned. "Once my superiors arrive you will regret this. I will…" His voice tailed off as he let out a cry of pain, one hand clasping his chest. "I. Will. Not. Tolerate…" The scientist moved jerkily, reaching out for Quatre, pulling the blonde towards him by shirt lapels in a sudden unexpected movement.
"Get your hands off me," Quatre hissed, trying to disengage the man's fingers. Dr J jerked again, his body thrashing violently as he pitched forward towards the desk, stacks of papers flying in all directions in protest.
What the? Quatre wriggled, managing to break free of the vice-like grip, pushing the falling body away from him as he tried to avoid being trapped beneath it. There was a sickening thud as the back of Dr J's head connected with the sharp end of the heavy desk before he landed in a heap at Quatre's feet
"Dr J?" He whispered, dropping to his knees, fingers frantically searching along the man's neck for any sign of a pulse, any sign of life. No! He can't be dead, he can't be.
He leaned down, placing his palm in front of the scientist's mouth, waiting, hoping to feel the reassuring warmth that suggested some hint of breathing, but not expecting to find any. He forced himself to open the mouth, to check for constriction to the windpipe and back-pedalled. The tongue was half bitten through, the incisor still maintaining a death grip on its prize. Quatre wiped his own brow, noticing how the temperature of the room had risen over the past minute, then pulled himself together, knowing he still had one more task to perform before he could allow himself to stop fighting his body's reaction to the scene in front of him.
Edging forward, chest heaving as he finally remembered to take a breath himself, he reached under Dr J's shirt, cringing at the feel of the clammy but still warm flesh under his fingertips, as he brought his head down to listen for any sign of a heartbeat.
Nothing.
No. This can't be happening, he repeated. He felt frantically for any sign of life again, noticing how clammy his companion's skin seemed, how blue his lips were. Blue lips. He remembered Iria telling him once that that colour only appeared after death, not beforehand. Her words repeated like a litany in his mind, reinforcing what he now knew to be fact.
"They don't usually get blue lips until death, although I've had two or three come back from that, but never to a normal brain function."
Dr J was dead, one lifeless eye staring up at him, the other bulging unnaturally half out of its socket, as he lay in the ever increasing pool of blood which even now was spreading across the only rug in the room. White Persian carpet staining crimson, another piece of symbolism reflecting the growing bloodshed which was such a part of his life, an end result of both of his action and inaction.
Dr J was dead and it was his, Quatre's fault. If he hadn't tried to free himself Dr J wouldn't have hit his head on the side of the desk, there wouldn't be all that blood coming from the open wound where his skull had connected with the sharp edge of the desk. Had the head wound made the difference to his mentor's survival?
He reached for the same telephone that moments before he'd tried to stop Dr J using, began to dial, then paused as realisation hit home. What was the point of trying to phone for assistance now? It was too late for medical help. Dr J wasn't breathing and wasn't about to come back to life, barring a miracle.
He doubted the Nazis would believe his story, especially with the way he'd been behaving over the past few days. He remembered clearly in hindsight the grey hue of the scientist's skin, the laboured breathing, the way he'd clutched at his chest before collapsing. Heart attack? Possibly, but it was his word against Dr J's or rather the state of Dr J's body. He laughed nervously. Dr J was dead, and how much was his word really worth? At first glance it would appear that death was the direct consequence of a blow delivered to the back of the head from behind, a blow delivered by the only other person at the scene of the crime.
Even in death the look on Dr J's face mirrored the disgust he'd felt about Quatre's revelation regarding his opinion of the project, a look which could be interpreted by the Nazis to suggest he hadn't died peacefully. Whoever thought that the recently departed resembled someone in a state of sleep or that they seemed 'at peace' needed their sanity checked, he decided. He swallowed, trying to ignore the bile rising through his digestive track; the longer he was in close proximity to the body, the harder it was to keep calm and think rationally.
What am I going to do? He couldn't stay here, that much was obvious. Eyes darting around the room, he took deep breaths as he tried to slow his own heart, regulate his own breathing. The last thing he needed would be to follow his superior's example. Calm down, Quatre, calm down.
He reached over to pour himself a glass of water from the pitcher he'd noticed on the desk before, the glass wobbling in his trembling hands. The water did nothing to quell the dryness in his mouth. A few sips later, it slipped from his fingers, shattering as it hit the floor.
The sound ricocheted through him, stretching his nervous system to breaking point. Unable to ignore his body's reaction to the previous few minutes any longer, Quatre dropped to his knees, bending over the waste paper basket as he vomited repeatedly. His stomach continued heaving for a few minutes after expelling its contents, as he moved into a half standing kneeling position, wiping the back of one hand across his mouth.
He wrinkled his nose at the strong stench of what had once been breakfast, stumbling backwards, pulling papers off the desktop as he reached out blindly trying to steady himself. At this rate, it wouldn't matter that Dr J hadn't managed to make that phone call, the noise would suffice as an invitation to anyone passing to enter and investigate.
He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He had to pull himself together, try to act as though nothing had happened. Maybe if he left the room before the body was discovered he would have a chance of surviving this. Glancing down at his hands, he noticed the thin trail of blood from where he had cut himself on the broken glass. More blood, that's all I need. Aren't I responsible for enough bloodshed already?
The room spun wildly, as memories of the dreamscape from the night before bombarded his mind, and he forced himself to focus. Reaching into his pocket, he bound his cut hand with his handkerchief, then used the clean end of it to wipe the crimson stain seeping into the briefcase leaning against the side of the desk. Why was he bothering? asked the small portion of him still trying to hold on to some semblance of logical thought and reason. There was no way he could the rid himself of this much bloodshed, no way he could undo what had happened. In a gesture of frustration he threw the leather case against the desk, a sense of what he knew to be twisted satisfaction taking the remainder of his nausea with it.
Bright, Quatre, really bright. He sighed, crawling around on his knees, ignoring the hardness of the floorboards through the light fabric of his trousers, gathering the files that had flown lose in the collision as the flimsy lock on the case had parted. He paused, eyes automatically reading the title of the file he was holding with one knee, as he let out an audible gasp. He didn't believe it. The file he'd been leaning on was the one pertaining to the project. Flipping through it quickly, he shook his head, the excitement entering him in an adrenaline rush.
This was his chance to put things right, to achieve what he'd come to Dr J's office to do. He hurriedly shoved the file back into the case, rose to his feet, then paused. What exactly was he going to do? Yes he could prevent the Nazis from obtaining the information, as he now had in his hands the only copy in existence but surely they would be aware that he was only too capable of replicating the information? He would have to destroy the file, then disappear himself.
He shook his head. Disappearing wasn't going to be easy, the Nazis had spies everywhere and he didn't have any connections, anyone to ask for help. Death wasn't an option. He couldn't do that to Iria, not after she'd spent so much of her energy taking care of him when no one else had wanted to. If the Nazis had planned to use the device against others, someone had to get the information out to the rest of the world. It didn't matter that the intended victims were enemies of the Fatherland, no one deserved to die by the weapon he had helped to create. He sighed. Where the hell was he supposed to find the people he needed? And if he did how was he supposed to convince them to trust him?
Click.
Quatre spun around, the noise of the office door closing breaking him out of his reverie. In one fluid movement he gripped the briefcase firmly under one arm and bent to retrieve what was left of the broken glass, holding the jagged edge in front of him in a feeble attempt to defend himself.
A calm gaze met his own as the newcomer took in the situation at a glance, one eyebrow raised in an unspoken question. Emerald eyes flickered onto what had once been Dr J, then back to Quatre, finally coming to rest on his precious cargo, the briefcase containing the cumulation of what had once been his dream, a dream which could now better be described as a never ending nightmare.
Quatre debated for all of a second his chances of success if he tackled him head on, then decided against it. For starters the Corporal was taller by at least two inches, his lean body probably hiding a well-developed physique. He also had the advantage of military training, something Quatre himself was sadly lacking. He knew the rudiments of using a gun, but as he didn't possess one, that fact wasn't going to be of much use.
Quatre edged back a step, taking comfort in the solidity of the desk digging into his back, the sensation giving him something to ground himself with as his mind tried to place the pieces of the puzzle together. His opponent must have some degree of intelligence, that much was obvious by the inquiring look on his face, the way his eyes seemed to penetrate his own, searching for answers. There was a depth to those eyes, to the man behind them, Quatre suspected, that very few people ever saw.
How much had the brunet seen? It was hard to read anything from his expression, whatever he was thinking was kept well hidden, the curtain of hair half hiding his face helping to maintain the facade. Briefly thinking back over the past week, Quatre now wondered if he had acquired a shadow. Had those half glimpses of the SS soldier he'd put down to paranoia been in fact truth?
If he surrendered now everything would be over and the Nazis would win. He wouldn't give up, he couldn't. Quatre gripped the glass fragment tightly, ignoring the pain as the rough edges scratched against his palm, the crimson liquid seeping into his shirt cuff already stained with the blood he'd unsuccessfully attempted to staunch. He stepped forward, waving the glass fragment, as he tried to look menacing, fully aware that on a scale of one to ten he wasn't achieving even a one.
They stood staring at each other, or rather Quatre stood staring as his companion leant back casually against the door without shifting the gaze of his one visible eye. After a few minutes, in which the only audible sound in the room was that of Quatre's own ragged breathing, the Corporal pulled himself to attention as he took a step forward, holding out his hand for the makeshift weapon the blond was holding. "Doktor Winner…" he commented, the tone of his voice low but even as an expression of disbelief fleeted over his features. "One of the most brilliant minds in this institution, and this is the extent of your plan?"