“Get down!” I yell at no one in particular- an instinct, like so many others I have. Trowa dashes past me, using a free table as leverage for jumping towards the gun-wielding man. I don’t even notice my hand reaching inside my waistband for my own gun, my eyes are only focused on Duo- on the surprised look on his face, dissolving into one of pain and horror as he sees blood spatters in front of him. It’s a slow motion in seconds, a lifetime flashing before my eyes. I scream something incomprehensible, as I lunge forward. The card player closest to me is out of commission with a swift blow to the head, and in one movement, I reach for Duo who is falling out of his chair. I’ve already seen that the other card player is dead, bloodied head face down on the table. Counting on Trowa to subdue the shooter, I rush over to Duo, just a little too late to prevent him from falling to the ground.
“Holy motherfuck!” He grits his teeth, wincing in pain. He holds his hand pressed against his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers.
“Sit up,” I command him, inwardly rejoicing hearing him swear- as long as he spouts old fashioned violent American swear words, I know he will be fine. Duo groans, straightening himself into an upward position.
“Fucking hell...”
He looks irritated, not because of the pain, but of the botched mission. Our chances are gone now; he hasn’t been able to finish the deal and the transaction, proving the involvement of the two in a smuggling network. I look up, directing my gaze towards the left corner. Trowa stands next to the table, the gun of the shooter harmless on the floor. The elderly man growls, protesting against his hands caught in the cuffs, but his struggle is to no avail. His eyes are still focused on the card dealers, one dead and one unconscious, and I certainly don’t imagine his smirk. It’ll have to wait for later, though- Duo’s wound is not life threatening, but he needs to go to a hospital. I put my hand over his, pressing against the bullet entry wound, and check on his back for the exit wound. Short distance shots are also the nastiest ones- even with the close range; I fear the bullet might not have left Duo’s body at all. I yank at his shirt to get a better view.
“Hey, not here, silly,” he lamely jokes, hissing. I don’t answer him, too caught up, and I finally tear his shirt to examine his shoulder.
“You’re going to need surgery,” I blatantly say. “No exit wound.”
“Fuck!”
“Svině!” The shooter yells, sending spit all over the table. “Svině!”
“I have the distinct feeling he’s not complimenting us,” Duo comments dryly, not even looking in the direction where the swear words come from. Only his eyes show pain; getting a bullet in your shoulder really hurts. I can’t really describe it, it feels like either a chunk of ice or a flaming hot iron is rammed into your body when you get shot. I’ve had my own fair deal of shot wounds; not because I misjudge situations, but often because of the unpredictability of them- just as this one, a situation can change within a mere second. A bullet in your body is just one of the risks of the trade... minor or major, depending on the way you look at it- or where you get shot.
Trowa hoists the shooter up, the man still screaming all kinds of obscenities. The people in the café are getting on their feet again; the waitress looking dazed and frightened, the couple in the corner confused, hands clasping together. They’ll be all right.
The door opens, and people are starting to pour in. They have heard the gunshots, and not all of them are here to satisfy their curiosity. Two men are approaching us, noticing the blood on Duo’s shoulder despite his black clothing. A woman goes over to the trembling waitress, offering solace. The couple looks a bit panicked, uncertain whether to stay or to leave. It won’t take long before someone calls the police, and I don’t want to deal with them right now. According to their policy, ESUN denies any involvement in missions like this... sometimes we’re not even supposed to be wherever we are. I can’t blame them- not everybody in the ESUN knows we exist, let alone the department we’re working for.
Hastily, I fumble around with my other hand in my back pocket, whipping out my cell phone. Trowa can’t leave the shooter unattended, the man is becoming rabid. He continues to shout expletives, literally foaming at the mouth. This must be more than a simple liquidation, and my calculating mind is going over several theories why the elderly man has been involved, but it will have to wait. Duo needs to go to the hospital and I need to get my head clear again- squashing the fear and the horror that he could have been injured worse. I press the buttons on my cell phone, tapping in a familiar number. Just like in our war days, we have an air tight backup system.
“Labó,” I use my cover name when I introduce myself. “I’ll be late for dinner.” I hang up immediately so the number can’t be traced. This code is enough to let the backup know that things have gotten out of hand and that people need to be put at work to clean up the mess- literally, in this case. Czech police works slowly and is still submerged in bureaucracy; so much for the disappearance of the communist system.
Duo mumbles something inaudible, and I focus my attention back to him. I hover around him, watching him to make sure he isn’t losing too much blood, that his eyes aren’t rolling back into his head, for any sign of shock or fainting.
“I’m fine,” he growls low in his throat, as usual getting irritated with my meddling, as I still keep my hand pressed to his shoulder. He even goes as far as batting my hand away, and I know I’ve gone too far. “I can take care of myself.”
“You’re injured,” I point out, and I don’t imagine the angry look crossing his face.
“I wouldn’t have been if you assessed mister Trigger-happy over there right,” he bites back, verbally slapping me in the face. It’s not like Duo to comment like this, and I chalk it up to the frustration this botched mission causes- we both have been working very hard and long to establish this contact, only to see it being blown away by some overzealous old guy with a gun.
What do I do- apologize? Later, perhaps. It is not that I’m infallible and perfect – I snort - , but his words have hurt me. I don’t like the idea of having failed my Duo. Still, he knows just as well as the others that these kinds of things happen. He even says it so himself, with the expression he’s so fond of: “Shit happens.”
“Není ti něco?” One man kneels down in front of Duo, eyes darting to his bullet wound.
“Dělám zjemňovat,” Duo answers, assuring the man he’s feeling fine, and as to prove it, starts to scramble up from the floor. I help him, slightly taken aback when he struggles against my grip, but I let go of him the next second. Carefully, I help him to his feet. He doesn’t shrug me off when I still hold my hand on his shoulder; blood trickles through my fingers. Before I can whisper in his ear that we have to leave, the café door opens again and two police officers walk in, immediately hushing everyone with their presence.
Czech officers are hard to deal with; despite radical changes in the system over the last years, the police corps still doesn’t have a positive image. After the fall of the communistic ideals and traditions, the transfer to a republic state has proven to be more difficult than envisioned, and even nowadays bribes and bad administration are tainting the police force. Trowa stands close to me, the foulmouthed man suddenly meek and silent – he has tired out, or Trowa has shut him up with a few well-chosen words. He’s very effective when it comes to shutting someone up with barely two or three words. I hear the faint siren of an ambulance, giving me the perfect opportunity to get away from this scene.
The officer to the left starts to bark his questions, not directly aimed at anyone in particular. The waitress is scared out of her wits as she immediately becomes the first target of his so-called interrogation. The man is in his forties, probably still functioning as in the old days, trying to get his authority across by raising his voice and intimidating the witnesses. The other, younger, one looks around, gauging people’s reactions. He meets my eye and I refrain from smirking- he’s one of us. The backup has worked efficiently like always- no wonder, as I have appointed and picked out every one of them myself. This is a luxury I’ve never had before; in our war days, I had to depend solely on Doctor J and the people he had assigned to me. Nowadays, I am in control of our network of backup people. I pick out our support and colleagues myself; I know where to pay attention to when I hire a new member for our team.
The brief eye contact is all that I get before he acts; demanding harshly what is going on, that he wants a full detailed report of the events. He looks at Trowa, confirming with another second of eye contact again who he is dealing with. I’m glad our backup managed to dispatch someone of our own with a regular police officer; with him on the inside, our gun shooter will end up in our hands eventually, and not in some small cell or thrown back on the streets again because of the slow mills of bureaucracy.
“What is going on here? Sir, you are injured?” He speaks the native language just as fluently as Duo, so I decide to keep myself out of the conversation, not wanting to give away that I am a foreigner and undoubtedly attracting the attention of his colleague. It is pretty apparent that Duo is injured- I want to have him in doctor’s hands as soon as possible. The siren becomes louder, wailing, notifying the arrival of the ambulance.
“You go with him, sir,” the younger officer nods to me, scribbling something in a notebook. “Leave everything to us. You will have to give me your name and address and I have to see your identification.” His scribbled description of me will probably fit half of the Czech population, so no worries there. I glance at Trowa, who simply nods.
“You too, sir,” the officer says, but now his colleague steps in.
“What’s going on here, Sedlacek? Have you asked for identification yet?” Looking at Trowa, he adds: “Why are you holding that man?”
“Hruby, sir, everything is under control.” He speaks with the right tone, reserved, though with sufficient respect to make the other feel that his authority is being acknowledged. “This man caught a dangerous perpetrator single-handedly.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Hruby looks again at Trowa, suspicion clear on his face. He doesn’t like it that a civilian overpowered another civilian, no matter the danger he represented- it will probably take more paperwork to fill out, and another missed opportunity to take heroic credit for an arrest. “We don’t like people here playing for judge, jury and executioner.”
“Officer Hruby,” Trowa addresses him officially, “this man has shot and killed another man, endangering the lives of everybody present.”
“Do you want a fucking medal?” The elderly officer is obviously insulted. “Do you think that we policista can’t take care of criminals? We follow orders and rules here, and if everybody is going to play for judge, our state would be a...”
Before the man can launch into a ‘long live the state and the rules we have to obey’ rant, Duo decides to interrupt by emitting a loud wail. He startles me, making me think that he’s life-threatening injured, when I hear the noise.
“My friend needs medical help,” I snarl, not caring about my thick accent. “Where’s the ambulance?”
Hruby has the decency to look at Duo and understand that he’s in pain, and nods, frowning. “You can go with him,” he barks, pointing to me. “The other one stays here for interrogation. Sedlacek, you have taken their identifications and testimonials, right?”
“Yes sir,” Sedlacek lies through his teeth without batting an eye. He’ll forge and twist our identifications and testimonials exactly the way we want it to be- nobody will ever be able to connect Gergely Nemecek and Bojan Labó to Duo Maxwell and Heero Yuy, nor will they ever make a connection between Vavrin Zelenka and Trowa Barton. The latter has already accepted that Hruby isn’t going to let go of him, calmly standing next to the table, the subdued shooter looking as if it’s slowly dawning him what’s going on.
People are chatting excitedly, asking each other what exactly has happened. The waitress still is the center of attention, and she starts to strangely enjoy it- this day hasn’t been as gray and boring as all the others. When the door opens again, two paramedics enter, hurrying with their large supply kits. I all but shove Duo into their direction, blood coating his fingers and clothing.
One of the two paramedics wants to walk over to the table with the card players, seeing the blood there, and Sedlacek tells them that one is dead and the other doesn’t need medical attention. When the man protests, Sedlacek informs him quite curtly that his services aren’t needed and that he should focus on the guy with the shot wound…my Duo. Muttering, the paramedic goes to help his colleague, who is examining the patient- Duo still looks irritated and also tired... it’s time to leave.
Finally, they take the decision to return to the hospital, not being able to treat the wound here. He needs surgery because the bullet didn’t leave his body, and those two are just discussing if it really is necessary to take him back. Stupid fucking bureaucracy!
“Can we go now?” I ask rather impatient, and they have the nerve to look at me as if I’m asking to grant an impossible wish. One of them is about to start filling out the paperwork for the dead guy, and it takes all my willpower to not start giving them a piece of my own mind.
“Get this man out of here,” Sedlacek orders the two, I’m not really sure if he refers to me or to Duo. I suppress my sigh of relief when they motion us to follow them, to the ambulance waiting outside. I do not look back at Trowa- he’s more than capable enough to take care of himself, and I will see him again soon.
---------------
The hospital is...bland. Grey. Even the lights are dimmed grey, and the wide, massive structure of the hallways and corridors betray the architectural influence of the former communist state. It has no personality- not that I expect a hospital to have a personality, but in the ones I have been, there was always something distinct about it. Something familiar. The smell of Lysol, maybe? The starch white sheets, the competent personnel, the hope that you would leave the building with a clean bill of health? This hospital, though up to date with staff and equipment, doesn’t seem to promise a prosperous path of healing.
The nurses passing by look as if they were dragged out of their beds after two weeks of non-stop work, the doctors won’t even ask something remotely socializing, and it’s grey, stupid grey. There’s no color here, no life. Devoid of anything human. Duo sits next to me, hand still pressed to the wound. It has stopped bleeding thanks to the applied pressure, but he looks a bit pale and hasn’t spoken a word since we entered the ambulance. Duo not talking is an ominous sign; this day probably cannot get any worse. I long to take his hand and comfort him, but it is not possible- not unless we want to blow our cover, and we are both professional enough to not let that happen, no matter how much we want to hold hands and kiss and whisper in each other’s ears that everything is going to be all right..
I look around, looking for a competent doctor. While preparing for our mission here, I have also compiled a list of reliable doctors in case we would need them. I rack my brain for the name of the most reliable one- the one that doesn’t ask questions. A nurse brushes past me, and I decide to speak up to her.
“Odpusťte! Ošetřovatel?” Damn the Czech language and their dozens of varieties of words for a simple profession. I can see in her eyes that I didn’t use the right word for “nurse”, but I don’t care. “My friend here needs help. Doctor... Doctor Navratil, please?”
“Navratil?” She almost snorts. “Doctor Navratil is very busy. What is it?”
“Gunshot in the shoulder, no exit wound,” I summarize, not breaking eye-contact. The other pilots have taunted me several times with my ‘death glare’, now it’s time to put it to use. She seems intimidated and twitches a little nervously.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Get me doctor Navratil,” I snarl, “or I’ll fucking make sure you’ll only work as a kitchen maid ever again! Tell him Gergely Nemecek needs his help!” Bad, I know… and certainly not an attitude I endorse myself, but the slowness and the contempt of the people here are grating on my nerves. The nurse leaves me, muttering something under her breath; my Czech isn’t good enough to make out the words and frankly, I don’t care.
“It’s all right,” Duo whispers, and he sounds a little amused. I am the first to admit that I was in need of some social help after the wars ended, seeing as I have had the best military training in the world, but no training in people’s skills. It was surprising to see his patience when he corrected me and showed me where I went wrong- even until today, it greatly amused him when I slip a little and… well, when my rather unpleasant anti-social side shows up. It’s still there, and it flares up every now and then; certainly in situations like these. Now I have spilled Duo’s undercover name, the doctor will at least understand that it’s urgent.
Navratil doesn’t disappoint me- after fifteen minutes of complete silence, the doctor shows up. “Come with me,” he says, not looking me straight in the eye. He probably has cancelled another patient and feels guilty about it. The ESUN pays well for services rendered and no questions asked, adding even more to the ‘secret agent’ feel most of the recruited employees tend to have. I think people can start doing something in return for a neat, effective organization and administration that is continuously busy dealing with new threats of war and international crime.
I follow him, keeping a close eye on Duo, who is effected by the loss of blood. Not for the first time, I curse the slow and amateur treadmills of Eastern Europe, where only money lubricates the society and most of the natives walk around with a look of being pummeled into the ground, not being able to muster the strength to go up against whatever the government or life enforces on them.
“You’re going for some X-rays first,” Navratil explains the procedure. Color me a rainbow; I know from experience what is going to happen. “There was no exit wound, so we have to pinpoint the location of the bullet first.”
“No shit,” Duo grumbles, getting fed up with it all. We enter a small, fortunately hygienic room, again with that grey light. Navratil walks over to a large apparatus –it almost looks like a Gundam command console with all the handles and buttons- , while I carefully seat Duo on the wooden stool. He groans when I take off his shirt, muttering another coarse word again.
Another nurse walks in to help Navratil set up the equipment, and he sits meekly on the stool, not paying attention. I suppress my urge to whip out my cell phone and ask Trowa how he’s doing, and to call a taxi and get us the hell out of here.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 3