Pressure of a Blade

Title: Pressure of a Blade
Disclaimer: I do not own or make a profit from the GW characters. It'd be nice, but nope.
Pairings: 3x1 Don't like it, don't read it.

AN: I do not mind flames as long as they have merit. I do not tolerate or bend to flames simply because of the pairing I choose. Levelheaded explanations of why you don't agree with my choices are accepted and might even get a response from me. If there is a problem with the mechanics/grammar/plot of the story, by all means, voice yourself. Otherwise, I don't really wanna "hear" it.

Supportive comments or constructive criticisms are always welcome.

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Trowa climbed the steps to his trailer after a show. He was still damp from the shower he’d taken to wash away the sweat, towel draped around his shoulders, and pants clinging to the moist skin. It had not been a difficult show, not really. His skill left anyone watching amazed at his athleticism. His only real competition was himself. Trowa pushed himself to come up with new combinations, new risks, incorporating everything he could imagine into new brilliant maneuvers.

Which was one of the reasons he was currently so drained. The other was his itch.

The itch was a feeling that overcame him when he was static. When there were things going on around him that he knew he should be involved with. It was the reason he knew where to be to ‘get recruited’ by the Barton Foundation both before Operation Meteor and their ruse with Mariemaia. It was a constant companion, and one of the main reasons he was still alive.

The itch had begun about a week ago, and hadn’t left him alone since. In all actuality, it had probably started before that, but he had been in the middle of a very strenuous new idea involving combination aerial acrobatics with a series of tightropes and three trapezes. For about a month he only slept for about four hours before a show to prepare. Otherwise he was in the training arena the manager had set up for him working the kinks out of his brain child. He barely ate, hardly slept, and Cathy was beside herself with worry. He almost regretted that part, but he was driven and would not back away from the challenge.

He had finally gotten it right, could finally drop the net and show the others. Trowa never used a net when he could help it, but he was no idiot. His new routine was not only counting on his aerial prowess and immaculate sense of balance, but his timing as well since no one was swinging the trapezes for him. He would not trust his life on the timing of others. No, he had weighted the bars himself, making the calculations of velocity and mass, the trajectory of the rope lengths. He had finally managed to sequence everything perfectly, the ropes pinning the trapezes in place, until he wanted them to start their journey, were released with devices very similar to the detonators he’d used in the wars, and everything was perfect. Five days ago he presented the act to the circus performers he had come to reside with; it was included in the new season’s roster without question.

He slept for a solid day, missing that night’s performance completely, but none could wake him, which irritated his soldier’s instincts. The itch had begun around the day he nailed the act down, and hadn’t left him alone since.

His first reaction was usually one of seeking out what caused the itch and putting together preparations for departure. But he couldn’t bring himself to this time. He had earned his peace, hadn’t he? Why did it have to be him?

For all of his life, he had been fighting, and he was growing tired of it. Tired of the constant movement, tired of trying to build a peace within him that reflected the state of the stars he once called home. But it had never come to that, and he was called away to fight again.

This time, something rebelled inside him, and he didn’t want to go. So he ignored the itch.

But it was still there a week later, only stronger. No longer an itch but like the skin on the back of his neck was sunburned, but he still refused. Wasn’t it about time others stepped up into his place? It had been three years since Dekim Barton had been taken down and the Foundation dispersed for good. Cut off the head and the beast will die, or something very similar.

What was it now that caused such a raw spot on his conscious thoughts?

So it was no surprise when he entered his trailer to find that he had been contacted during the performance. With something close to resignation, he listened to the communication.

He was surprised and a little disconcerted; however, when it was Heero’s face that greeted him when the vid rolled.

Trowa had to consciously slow his heartbeat at Yuy’s appearance; this meant things had progressed further than he would like to admit.

Heero’s soft voice shattered the quiet of his trailer. “There are situations which require your assistance. Secure lines and contact me at this number. Time is irrelevant.”

The screen went blank and Trowa’s brow furrowed. The number Yuy used was not his home or office number. Whatever the situation was, it was forcing him to remain in an off base location for extended periods, if not constantly. The burn on the back of his neck erupted into flames that poured down his back. He hated being ignorant of a situation, but he really didn’t want to be dragged into this again.

‘Maybe I am just getting old.’ He thought with deprecating amusement.

With a deep breath, he began. After tapping into the communications lines used by the circus, he jumped into and over five different systems, connecting all of them to his line electronically. He booted up a program that sent out different communications to a thousand different ISP’s at random until he created a spiderweb of false calls surrounding and enshrouding the one he was about to make.

There were too many leaks in vid calls to rely on any form of security, all the pilots knew this; this ruse was the easiest and most successful way of frustrating potential leaks, but even this manner was susceptible. If anyone listening had voice recognition software tuned into the message he had just played, the web would only deter them for perhaps two minutes.

But whatever Yuy needed, it was obviously needed quickly. After the web was constructed, Trowa sent the call to the number displayed with the last communication.

The call connected almost immediately, like he had been sitting there waiting. The vid connected and Heero Yuy sat before him, silent as ever. Coordinates and an address on Earth were sent directly to his database.

“As quickly as you are capable.” He said, referring to the arrival at said address.

“Any specific reason?” Trowa knew the answer before he asked, but he felt rather put out. Off to fight again, uprooting with no notice. Always the life of a soldier.

Heero scowled. “There’s a potential uprising, armed with mobile suits that went unnoticed for long enough to cause significant problems.”

Yuy hadn’t been with the Preventers long, but Wufei had been there since his dance with the spawn of Trieze ended. To have missed something this big must have burned his honor badly.

“Infiltration?” He replied blandly.

“Situation has progressed too far to bring it down from within.” Heero replied visibly annoyed. Whether he was annoyed at the situation’s progression of Trowa’s demand for information was not known, probably both.

Green eyes flicked to the chronograph: 16 seconds and counting, before fixing once again on the former Wing pilot. “My role?”

“We need to discuss logistics.” Getting information out of Heero Yuy was like drawing water from stone, but Trowa had a deciphering mind capable of understanding the silences of what wasn’t said.

“Of mobile suits?” He prodded.

An unfriendly look preceded, “Of a mobile suit. Bring any comforts you need, we live where we work.” And the transmission ended. Apparently Heero decided he had shared enough.

Quite frankly, though, the fact that he shared any information on a patchy line meant Trowa’s role was absolutely necessary for success of the mission, and Heero would make slight concessions to get him to Earth as quickly as possible.

Which suit didn’t need to be stated. There was only one reason Yuy would want to talk logistics with Trowa Barton, and that was because it revolved around Heavyarms. But why was another issue entirely.

Trowa was tempted to contact the others for further recon to see if it was a joint meeting. Maybe their purpose was to combine the best traits of all the suits into one, but that made little sense. Heavyarms was designed for long range combat, destroying enemies before they closed enough to do damage to you; whereas, Deathscythe and Sandrock were close range suits. Wing and Nataku both had some long range capabilities, but their main weapons were close range.

If there was a desire to combine weapons systems, Heavyarms would be the last one considered, the heavy ammunition alone slowed the suit monumentally. Heavyarms’ thrusters had to be three times that of the other suits to compete in speed, and even then the maneuverability wasn’t a match. Trowa’s piloting capabilities were the only reason Heavyarms was a match for their enemies in hand to hand combat during the wars. The switch blade in the suit was only meant as a last defense in case an enemy closed too quickly to be countered with his guns.

Besides, if this situation was as serious as it sounded, there wasn’t time to build a gundam. Maybe modify old military suits? But that was unlikely as well. The main reason the gundams were so successful against overwhelming numbers was their durability. They could take ten times the damage the mobile dolls could take, the Taurus and Leo armors were like paper compared to gundanium.

So where did that leave him? Apparently living in the same quarters with at least Heero, probably the others as well, while the logistics of a counteractive weapon were discussed. Just like old times, eh?

Trowa’s “comforts,” as Heero had named them were his bed role, a tablet of scratch paper for wherever his mind took him, two pencils, and his toiletries. Everything else, like his weapons, his laptop, rations, and climate appropriate clothing were considered necessities in about that level of priority. Plus all the paraphernalia he wore on a day to day basis. It all fit in one duffle bag save for his bed roll which he strapped to the bag. As a last minute thought, he grabbed the med kit and shoved it into his bed roll before checking departure schedules and making travel arrangements to get to the given destination. If Heero wasn’t picking him up, then there must be a high risk of being tailed. Survival instincts, which he hadn’t had need of in years kick back in with a vengeance.

Trowa liked tampering with gadgets. Yeah, he was a mechanic, but he could rewire, recalibrate, and generally rework any kind of circuitry he found. If he got an idea stuck in his head, he could build it, and he had.

The circus didn’t have its own shuttle; intercolonial travel was few and far between, plus storage or docking fees would have been too pricey. So the performers were all flown together commercially with the animals and equipment on a chartered flight. Try telling a former terrorist to remove all of his weapons; it doesn’t work. Trowa decided quite some time ago that he needed a way to bypass the weapons detectors at the shuttle ports. So he created an interference system.

The theory behind it was simple: crowd the electronic signals within the detectors with an overwhelming outside signal for long enough that his weapons could pass through undetected. As the interference signal he carried like a bug on his person moved far enough away, the alarm signal that was triggered and overridden will surface, ringing on the third or fourth person in line behind him. It worked really well, and he’d been using it for about a year now; the only nuisance was to ensure he was the last of the performers in line.

During the wars, you couldn’t afford to go through flight prep and ticket stands lest you be recognized, you just commandeered whatever was needed. Now it was more suspicious to attempt to avoid it.

The flight was pretty uneventful except for the discomfort a pilot feels relinquishing the controls to someone he has never known, never trusted, but it’s a regular occurrence with flight since the war ended. He bought a storage locker at the shuttle port to stow his luggage and made a meandering trip around a two block radius. No one tailed him, either that, or his tail was just that good.

But Trowa is not careless, anyone could have guessed his intension to come back for the duffle and just watched the locker. He retrieved his stuff, walked out of the port and hailed a cab.

His shuttle had arrived around lunchtime, a few stops here and there left Trowa to drop into the warehouse that was to be his destination at 16:40 from a broken third floor window…after bypassing the proximity alarms Heero was prone to use.

It was suicidal, but Trowa wanted a lay of the land, so to speak. He could hear movement on the first floor, so he made his way to a catwalk overlooking the main work area, silent as a predator stalking prey.

Trowa watched Heero laboring over a cockpit gutted for a newer model Leo. The electronics were hooked to his laptop and several components from the gundams’ basic design where laying beside him. There were already some components switched out. Curious.

But Heero was the only one he’d seen or heard. Either he was the first to arrive, or someone was maneuvering into a position to give him a nasty surprise for sneaking in without alerting the team.

A few minutes passed and no surprise, guess he was the first to arrive.

A voice broke through his thoughts. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

Trowa smirked, he was actually glad Heero hadn’t slipped that much, made it easier to trust him at your back.

Taking a high step, Trowa pushed off the guardrail, flipped twice in the air and landed easily on the three inch strip of metal that lined the top of the gutted cockpit in front of Heero. If he had landed on the mass of wires behind that strip, he probably would have ripped some major structures in his lower half, but he knew exactly were he’d alight.

But Heero wasn’t impressed. “What kept you?”

Trowa replied evenly. “Ensuring I wasn’t tailed.”

Heero just grunted and began systematically packing up parts and equipment. He threw a tarp over the cockpit structure and started walking out of the room. Trowa followed him without verbal prompt; he didn’t need it to know Heero was done in that room for the rest of the evening.

Heero led the way down a hall to what used to be the office areas. Empty filing cabinets lined the corridor with empty rooms, when Heero came to a stop in front of what was probably used as a conference room once, Trowa knew this was where he’d be staying, at least, until the logistics discussions were over. Heero’s bedroll was leaning against the far corner of the room, and there was an old card table sitting in the middle of the room with two chairs.

So the others weren’t going to be present.

“Duo and Wufei are running a decoy mission, and Quatre is stationed at one of his nearby resource satellites to watch above ground activity. He’s on look out and has estimated a two to three week timeframe before the faction is ready to launch an offensive.” Heero answered the unasked question before Trowa decided whether or not to ask.

“Their objective?”

Heero snorted in derision, and Trowa knew. The capture of Earth and, by controlling its resources, domination of all colonies.

“Unoriginal.” Trowa agreed with Heero’s deprecation.

“We need a weapon to combat incoming suits. Thermal energy beams are too slow, too reactive if hit, and require too much energy for the space we intend to use.

And everything involving his need for Trowa to be there clicked into place. “You need Heavyarms weapon signature.”

Heero nodded. “On several stationary structures.”

“In two weeks.” Trowa reiterated and simultaneously let Heero know his thoughts on how easily it would be attained.

“Maybe less.” Heero replied unmoved.

“I shouldn’t have packed a bed roll.” Trowa suppressed a sigh at the thought of how much effort this would take. He had thought Heero’s roll was simply put away for the day; now he was pretty sure it had not been moved since it had been put there at Heero’s arrival.

The Wing pilot’s brow furrowed. “Where is your bag?”

Trowa glanced at his watch. “I’ll go get it.”

Maybe his actions were enough to make Heero curious, maybe he went as backup knowing Trowa didn’t intend to stay inside the warehouse. Who knows why, but something caused Heero to follow Trowa out the front entrance. The green-eyed youth felt a small thrill on the way, some small trill of mischief that would make Duo proud as he led Heero about a block from the warehouse down a deserted sidestreet to the side entrance of an old factory storage building. In front of that door sat a harmless looking box with the address written in Trowa’s familiar script.

“ESPS?” Heero stated, not completely successful in hiding the surprise on his face.

He had made a side visit to the Earth Sphere Postal Service on his way here, packed up his luggage and shipped it same day delivery between 1300 and 1700 hours.

“Less conspicuous than a man carrying a duffle bag down the street.” Trowa stated confidently.

“The truck could have been tracked.” Heero growled as the Latin picked up the box. Trowa could practically feel Heero’s tension as the Wing pilot stressed about the possibilities of someone having switched out the contents of the box for an explosive, or how someone might be hiding in the shadows waiting to track them back to the current hideout.

“It was, from the rooftops.” Trowa scanned the area before heading back to the warehouse.

“What did you do with it?” Heero never did have a sense of humor, only asking after the corpse in regards to whether the disposal was untraceable.

Trowa stopped and turned towards his roommate for the next two weeks. “I was the only one who tailed the truck.” He stated evenly, simultaneously justifying his lack of caution in accepting the parcel and accounting for the entire day excepting the last half hour. He continued his trek back; Heero grudgingly nodded at his method and followed.
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This section is about pages 1-7 of a 52 pg story I've been working on for about a month. If there are people out there that like it, I'll post more. I've got some stuff on my plate in RL, so it'll prolly be about a weekly schedule, if you think its worth it to post.