[fic] Wired Title: Wire Author: ederyn Fandom: Gundam Wing Characters: Trowa and the mercs Rating: FRM, as per the FR Rating System Warnings: disturbing subject matter Chapters: 1 Status: complete Summary: Children only have one purpose to terrorists _____________________________________________
The last one had gone off without a hitch. Why did things have to fuck up today of all days, when the new so-called commander was here? Commander my ass. He's nothing but a squat walrus with a mustache and a power fixation. How much longer before they'd have to genuflect before this poor man's Kommissar? Commander or no, he was the one who now claimed the title and no one was arguing with him, so Anderson wasn't about to make waves. He'd been trying for years to get noticed by the people who mattered, so why the hell did everything have to go wrong when his first opportunity for advancement came along?
Not that it'll make any damn difference, he reflected as he stripped the rubber coating from the tips of the wires and rolled the ends together. The only real advancement around here was a better bed to sleep in and a little more respect from the grunts than you'd normally get. Still, a decent bed was worth dying for, and lately he'd been waking up every morning with a backache from Hell. How did they expect him to do his job without snags when his back was killing him like this?
Camp commander. Ha! Talk about a Napoleonic complex. What was it Robey used to say? "Don't step on the runts; they go off." Yeah, that was it. Robey knew the lay of the land, which was more than he could say for this pinheaded dictator. He was going to miss Robey. Robey had never called himself commander of anything, but everyone knew he was the boss. He simply commanded respect, and Anderson hadn't lost any respect for him when he died, unlike some of the guys. Anyone could have been ambushed like that—anyone. They all had to bite the bullet in the end, and Robey had died heroically as far as he was concerned.
Robey would have never allowed the kind of crap they were doing now—killing innocents in the name of their ideals—but he'd been followed by a parade of petty dictators with personal agendas. The value of human life went down the toilet in their wake; suddenly nothing was sacred in the pursuit of their holy mission and they became the very enemy they sought to destroy. Ironic, the guardian angels becoming the Nazis.
Then this dwarf Hitler showed up out of the blue from one of the other camps. Some of the others knew him so he must have been legit, but Anderson didn't like strangers appearing from nowhere and taking over. What was this guy's name again? Mannheim? Markowitz? Maraschino? Something like that. Anderson hadn't met him yet, but he was sure he'd find out the fucker's name soon enough. Always good to suck up to your new boss by using his name right from the start, though. He ought to pay more attention, but he was afraid if he got caught and tortured he'd spill the beans if he knew the names. Better to stay ignorant so you could only rat out a handful of people at most. Just the ones in your own camp.
Like this boy. As Anderson threaded the wires around the kid's naked body, he tried to remember who Robey had picked out to succeed him in the event of his death. It wasn't Mannovich or whoever the hell he was, that was for sure. Unfortunately, when he'd told Anderson the name they were both drunk off their gourds, and now that he needed the info he couldn't remember. Damn damn damn. Isn't that how it always goes? Robey loved to drink all right, but he definitely hadn't been drinking right before the ambush. Had he? Nah. Robey would never jeopardize his men on a mission like that. Never.
"Oh, shit." Anderson had been so wrapped up in his thoughts he hadn't noticed he'd crossed some wires. Now he had to unwind them and rework them around the boy's waist. Flat, flat, flat...they had to lie absolutely flat under the kid's clothes. Good thing this one didn't squirm like the others. Why it was always his job to do this he didn't know, but he'd have a talk with the new boss about it just as soon as he could figure out the bastard's name. Shame they had to kill this one—he seemed like a smart kid, and he certainly wasn't a whiny, spoiled brat like most of them. Just getting them out of their clothes was usually such a hassle, but this one just stood there like it was his mommy undressing him to put him in jammies or something. No, you're not getting any jammies, kid. Though you might be seeing your mommy soon.
The plan was simple. Children get separated from their parents at large gatherings all the time. No one would think twice about a crying, lost little boy. Assuming he cried. This one might not even open his mouth, so he'd go totally unnoticed. The mercs had no use for children—no use but one. Children consumed supplies and returned nothing, and there were no teachers, schoolrooms or pediatricians here that a growing child needed. This is actually a mercy. Yeah, mercy. Maybe if Anderson kept telling himself that he'd come to believe it.
It had gone so well the last time. Cute kid, like this one, only he'd been a sobbing mess. Maybe two or three years old. Hard to tell their ages from their size. He'd looked about two years old to Anderson—roughly the same age as this boy. Wired him with an explosive like always and had one of the women take him through the crowd at an Alliance parade. There had been thousands of people there that day; maybe even millions. Somewhere near the VIP tent she let go of the kid's hand and weaved back through the crowd to the car parked in a side street away from prying eyes. Another merc kept an eye on the kid through his camera's zoom lens. With so many politicians and celebrities around, who'd notice one more camera? Or one more cell phone. The bomb was activated by remote control; it wouldn't go off until someone pressed a button. At least Anderson wasn't responsible for that. If he ever stood before God on Judgment Day this was his defense: at least he'd never pressed the button. The merc watching the scene through the zoom lens told the others over his cell when to detonate. The stupid kid was about to wander away from the tent...maybe scared by so many big people around him. Poor kid. Bawling his little eyes out. It was now or never; he was about to bolt. It was all for the best, though. The explosion took every damn one of the VIPs and more than a hundred onlookers. A good day's work for the mercs. And one less kid to feed at the end of the day.
That one had been a real pain to wire. This one didn't struggle. He actually helped Anderson by lifting his arms when it appeared the grownup wanted to wrap the strange cord around his naked little body. The wire was sometimes scratchy against baby skin, but this kid was well-behaved and didn't fool with it much. Sad eyes. Did the boy know what was going to happen to him? Maybe he wanted to die. Anderson would have loved to know what was running through his mind. Probably nothing at all. What do kids have to think about anyway? All they do is eat and shit and sleep and play. They don't give a rat's ass about what's going on in the world outside themselves. Perhaps that was best. It was a crappy world, and this whole mission was proof.
No good...he'd have to start over. Fortunately Malovich was getting a tour of the camp at the moment and wouldn't see his foul-up. Anderson gently tugged the wire from the kid's body, careful not to rip the boy's skin, and checked the connections. Strange kid. He probably wouldn't cry even if Anderson yanked the wire full force, but it would be stupid to test that theory and have the brat scream his head off, attracting attention. Nah, he's not a brat. So far he was the best kid they'd ever sacrificed for the cause. "Hey, what's your name, kid? Can you talk yet?"
Nothing. Well, that was probably for the best too. If a kid had personality you might get attached to him, and children really only had one use around here. The only reaction Anderson got was a tiny smile before the child was distracted by sudden movement in the arm of a mobile suit hidden in the woods behind them. A couple mechanics were working on it, and the boy pointed up in awe at the giant machine. Apparently he'd seen a suit before, for while Anderson sat on the ground straightening out the wires, the boy spread his arms and pretended he was a suit in flight, too young to be ashamed of his nakedness. Anderson watched him for a minute but the kid stayed nearby as he played. Eh, he's no trouble. Too bad we can't keep him. Seems kinda bright, for a kid. The boy was nothing but layers of baby fat, but there were probably shits here who'd love to use him to gratify sick perversions—possibly another reason the brass wasn't keen on keeping kids around. It was also likely the reason he always got stuck wiring them. They knew Anderson would never touch a child that way. He certainly wasn't the only one who could wire a bomb. Why couldn't Hampton do it, or Rodriguez or Myers?
Cute little boy. But so was the last one. Why couldn't the orphans be ugly? Must be God's method for saving them. No one wants to kill a good looking child. Well, don't expect any leniency around here, kid. It didn't save the last one. I'd save you if I could, but I've got no say.
The boy made putt putt sounds with his lips as he spun around and strafed the grass, rather like the sound of raspberries. That was how Anderson took it anyhow as he watched the boy playing in the sunshine. It was a cold day and the sun must have felt good against his bare skin. You'll be back in clothes soon enough, little man. Don't be in a hurry. Once they put his clothes back on the countdown was on, and he was living on borrowed time after that. Anderson had finished untwisting the wire, but decided to give the boy a few extra minutes of life. The kid's last happy memory would be playing mobile suit pilot naked in the sun. After that it was just a few minutes of rewiring the kid's body with the explosive, then a short drive to the OZ press conference that afternoon, a walk through the crowd holding hands with one of the women, a few frantic moments of abandonment followed by an explosion and then a trip to the afterlife, assuming there was one. The whole thing would take no more than forty minutes, and realistically the boy was already living the last hour of his life. Eh, what would he amount to if he lived? Just one more paper pusher in a cubicle clogging an already overpopulated society. "Hey, kid, what do you want to be when you grow up? A suit pilot?"
The boy smiled and nodded quickly several times in that way children do, like one of those bobbing dogs in the rear dash. It just figured—a mobile suit pilot would be useful around here, especially one the mercs could train from scratch, but the visionless fucktards in camp were wasting the opportunity—literally wasting...killing a little boy because they didn't want to feed him and educate him and take him to the dentist now and then.
"Goddamn assholes!" His raised voice startled the boy and Anderson apologized, lowering his timbre. "Aw, I didn't mean you, kid. Some of the people I work with are complete morons. C'mere, we may as well get this over with. You're better off in a place where you're not surrounded by stupidity. At least you'll go to Heaven. You haven't had time to sin." No time for dating, no time for opening Christmas presents. No time for his first drink, his first crush, his first car. While Anderson wrapped the deadly wire around the child's body again, he mentally rattled off a list of firsts the boy would never experience. Never lose his virginity, never graduate, never make music. "Hey, kid, you have a favorite song?"
The boy's eyes opened wide and he nodded excitedly again, giggling a bit as Anderson wound the wires under his arms. "Heh. You're ticklish, eh? Yeah? Heh heh. So what's your favorite song?"
The boy giggled some more before humming a child's song. Three Blind Mice, was it? Anderson couldn't place it, but what did it matter. Thirty-five minutes from now the kid would be dead. He shouldn't have asked the boy any questions—the more he knew about him, the more of a person he became. My punishment is to remember all the innocent lives we've snuffed out in the name of our freaking noble cause. "Damn, damn, damn."
"Problem, soldier?" a familiar voice asked, approaching from behind. "What's wrong, Anderson? You look like you've lost your best friend."
Without turning around Anderson muttered, "Yeah, I guess I have, Collier. Robey was no fool and he never murdered children. This kid would be more useful to us than half the people here, he's never disobeyed orders and he's way more interesting company. Yet we're executing him instead of them. Robey must be turning in his grave now. This totally sucks."
"Erm, yeah. That it does, Anderson, it totally does, but there's something I need to tell you."
"Wants to be a suit pilot. How many of them can fly? They're useless, the heartless bastards."
"You see the importance of it, though, don't you?"
"Sorry, Collier, but I don't. If we found a dog, you know they'd train it to do something useful, but a child they just slaughter. It's a sad world when children have less value than dogs."
"Yeah, but a dog can hunt for itself and not waste our limited supplies. Anyway, never mind that; there's something I need to—"
"Waste our supplies? It's a waste of supplies to feed a future suit pilot? A future doctor? A future mechanic? I'll tell you what's a waste of supplies. Paying a salary to the camp leaders. Why should the rest of us have to hold down normal jobs and then pay this ass a salary? Robey never got a salary."
"Things are different now. Running the mercs is a full-time job, so the ones in charge can't hold down any other job. Also, having people in normal occupations is where we get our supplies. You steal a little from where you work, Bealls steals some from his job, all the others do likewise and no one gets caught. The mercs have grown since Robey passed away, dude. You know that. There are hundreds of us scattered around now."
"Half of those are probably plants the Alliance put here to spy on us, and we're giving them our supplies. And murdering children they orphaned."
"I dunno, Anderson. You know as well as I do there's a message in what we do. The Alliance will have to listen to us if our cause is worth sacrificing children for. If the Alliance capitulates to our demands then we'll save many more children than we sacrifice. This is an investment in our future, and this boy is a martyr."
"This boy isn't old enough to understand our position, much less make a reasoned decision to die for it. And I notice you're very generous with the lives of other people's children, but how would you feel about killing your own?"
"I dunno, Anderson. I don't have any kids so I have no idea. It's a moot point anyway so turn around and shut up so I can tell you something important."
"There's nothing you need to tell me, Collier. This kid's wired now so hand me his clothes. We may as well get this show on the road."
"Please permit me, Mr. Collier," a strange voice interjected. "Here they are, Mr. Anderson."
Anderson rose to his feet and turned around sharply, then took the offered clothing from the squat walrus with a mustache.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Anderson. The new boss is here," Collier explained. "Commander Martenhauser, this is Anderson, one of our best soldiers, believe it or not."
Martenhauser. That was his name. But not the name Robey mentioned the night he was drunk. Sounds like a fucking Nazi.
"A pleasure to meet you, Anderson. I've heard a lot of good things about you. You're considered an honorable man. I need honorable men. OZ and the Alliance are evil, and sometimes it requires great sacrifices from the good in order to defeat evil. You mentioned the possibility of Alliance infiltrators in the camps—are you aware of anyone specifically who's, shall we say, serving two masters?"
Ah. This was one of those bastards. No wonder Robey hadn't named him as his heir. Well, Anderson would be damned if he'd rat out anyone for a witch hunt. "No, I don't know any undercover Alliance agents here. It was just an opinion."
"I see. Well, I wonder if I might test your honor, Mr. Anderson. And your loyalty. You say you want to save this little boy. Is he worth giving your life for?"
"Huh?"
"It's like Mr. Collier said. If our cause is noble it's worth sacrificing for. And dying for. The nature of the OZ press conference this afternoon won't permit us to simply plant a briefcase with a bomb in it on site. Someone is going to have to die in order to achieve our goal. Are you willing to die in place of this little boy, Mr. Anderson? I'll make a deal with you. If you take his place, I promise the mercs will raise him to become a useful, contributing member of this camp. He'll live to see adulthood, if you're willing to make the sacrifice in his place."
Collier looked from one to the other, not believing the turn things had taken. "Anderson, forget it. This kid is nothing. We need you."
The little boy shivered, still naked but wired for death now. The sun had moved and the shade was chilly. Still, he didn't complain or make a fuss, and Anderson took his little hand and led him over to the sunshine a few meters away before bending down on one knee and unwrapping the wires again. "Collier, do me a favor. You watch over this kid for me, eh? You know what perverts some of the guys are. It wouldn't pay to save him if he's just going to be traumatized later on. Fucked up kids do us no good."
"Anderson—"
"I mean it. You're the best friend I have now, Collier, and this is important. The most important thing in the world, you know? This is our cause. Right here. Get it?"
Collier was about to say something, but saw the futility. Anderson was a stubborn man when he wanted to be, and there was nothing that stirred him up quite like injustice. In resignation, Collier sighed before answering. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it."
"Okay." Anderson removed all the wire from the boy's body and the kid immediately began rubbing one patch of his arm. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry. Here, let me rub it." Anderson rubbed the boy's skin to take the sting out of it and then kissed it, much to his own surprise. "All right now, eh?" The boy nodded in that way of his and Anderson turned toward Collier. "Here, put his clothes on him and get him some food, okay? He must be starving, but he don't talk much. He won't tell you when he's hungry or in pain."
"Anderson—"
"Please?"
Collier reluctantly took the boy's hand and grabbed the clothes. "Fine. You want to throw away your life, go ahead." How the camp was going to get along without Anderson, Collier didn't know. He was one of the few men who did what was needed and seemed to know how to do pretty much anything, without demanding medals or trophies for it. This kid had better be everything he said. There were probably pebbles and stickers in the grass so Collier hoisted the little boy in his arms and carried him back to the camp, while the boy peered over his shoulder at the strange man removing his shirt in the sunshine. When Anderson looked up the boy waved bye bye, and Anderson waved back.
"Take care of yourself, kid," he mumbled too low for the boy to hear, and started wrapping the wires around his own chest before putting his shirt back on. "This should do it," he announced to Martenhauser once he was finished.
"Excellent. The actual detonation will still be done by another, in case you get any funny ideas about fleeing the press conference. If it were only you who was affected I wouldn't mind, but if you escaped you'd put all our lives in danger. I'm only thinking of the mercs."
Not of your own humiliation if I got away. Of course. What a guy. Always putting the mercs before yourself. It's a wonder Robey didn't make you the king, you fucked up little twat. Anderson buttoned his shirt and headed for the car while Martenhauser continued his tour of the campsite. The little bastard was probably counting the seconds until he was rid of the troublemaker. Anderson was fine with that. As he drove away on his last ride he suddenly understood why the little boy hadn't struggled or tried to escape his fate.