Type K: Part 7

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, Deathfic, Angst
Pairings: 13xR, implied 1x2, 3x4, 5+R, 9x11

Cathy sniffled softly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She was curled up in one of the many brick alcoves facing the front of the small building adjacent to the hospital that held the hospital’s morgue. Rain had been falling for well over an hour now, and as the cold front moved in on the city, it began to grow cooler. Dressed in only a thin orderly’s uniform, she began to shiver in the cool and damp, but still, she refused to go inside. She couldn’t face him.

His words had scathed her, hurt her more than they should have. Cursing herself quietly, the red-haired woman bowed her head, her eyes half-lidded and eyelashes thick with the moisture that swirled hazily in the air. The asphalt, heated by the day’s sunshine, produced a fine fog now that it was raining, making everything outside look silvery and indistinct.

Cathy remembered when, five years ago, she’d met the young mortician while he was still attending medical school. She’d been smitten with his pretty face and long shock of brown hair, feeling an immediate urge to protect him when she’d seen the lost little boy in his eyes. However, she realized now that Dr. Barton wasn’t a little boy she could take care of like a mother. He was a man, a full-grown man whose life had little or nothing to do with her own.

That fact struck a deep pain inside the red-haired woman’s chest, and she couldn’t stop the next fresh bout of hot tears that came pouring down either cheek. Why couldn’t she take care of him? He had no family, no girlfriend, no kids. He didn’t have anybody. Anybody, that is, except for her.

She glanced up at the sound of footsteps passing her by. Spotting a well-dressed, blonde young man who wore a dark trench coat and loafers too fine-looking to be coming to a morgue for any reason, she watched him walk into the morgue with a determined stride. For some reason, the blonde made her uneasy. Getting up, she wiped the last of her tears off her face to follow him.

*~*~*

Dr. Barton sighed in satisfaction, still tired, but glad he’d at last finished today’s final batch of Type K. Making sure the small box of vials was securely wrapped and packaged, he placed it in a small pile of boxes in the corner of his cramped “secret” laboratory. It meant at least ten thousand more dollars for him, ten thousand more little reasons to get out of this miserable place.

The brown-haired mortician’s early aspirations had been to be a great research chemist, a man famed for his genius and recognized by everyone in the medical field. He’d had a dream of creating a new antibiotic, a new drug that would revolutionize treatment of deadly diseases that could be easily treated. Things like tuberculosis, AIDS, and cancer. He dreamed of a drug that could cure all these things and be manufactured so cheaply that no one, not even the poorest of today’s world, would be left out of the miracle. His ambition was driven by the memories of his dead mother, a woman who died of tuberculosis not because there wasn’t sufficient treatment available, but because she couldn’t afford the medicine that would save her life. Trowa had sworn that he’d do all in his power to prevent such a thing from ever happening again.

However, like many young dreamers, he fell far short from his goal. In medical school, he’d been passed over for a position as a chemist for a younger, richer student that wasn’t half as talented as he was. The other young student’s father had bought him a place as a scientist, and Trowa resented that deeply. With no more funding for school and nowhere else to go, Dr. Barton ended up taking a job as a mortician to make ends meet. He’d never been able to get out of the position since.

And then, one night as he lay in his bed in the tiny apartment where he made his home, Trowa had had a revelation. He could still make the drug of his dreams and sell it on the black market for four times its worth. He could become rich that way, open his laboratory, and still save the world. He could be famous.

So he began to study the chemical compounds of the decaying human body. The cadavers he spent his days and most of his nights with were no longer a nuisance or things of a nightmare for him. They were his keys to a new future, the keys to his dream. He made a remarkable discovery that the chemical compounds produced during decay prevented the reproduction of virtually all other harmful bacteria in a live human body. After extensive testing on lab rats and homeless people, Dr. Barton resolved that his hypothesis was sound. He’d made his dream drug.

Dubbing the thing Type K, he began to produce it and soon discovered its narcotic property. Though it eliminated much disease and was cheaply made, it also produced dangerous highs in the user, resulting in addiction. Dr. Barton was shocked. He’d produced a drug that could make him thousands, even millions, if he sold it.

Rubbing his temples gently, Dr. Barton wondered when he’d stopped being the enthusiastic young man dreaming of a cure for world disease and become the jaded drug producer he was now. The line between those two people was indescribably blurred for him, his memories entirely in shades of gray. He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped doing it to help people and started doing it to make himself money. He knew only that he was secretly growing richer by the day now, and that once he had enough money, he could leave this place and go somewhere far, far away, never to return.

Saving people like his mother didn’t matter to him anymore. It was getting what was his, getting what the world owed him for his sweat and his blood and his hard toil. He’d done everything for those bastards that ran the medical school, and what had they repaid him with? Nothing. Not a god damn thing.

Starting at the sound of a knock, he looked up and spotting a familiar silhouette in the doorway. Almost smiling, he got up and went to open the door.

*~*~*

Quatre’s heart was heavy as he entered the morgue. He’d come bearing bad news for the handsome mortician, but he knew he had to do his job. Dr. Barton would be leaving the morgue tonight in the blonde’s company, whether he was dead or alive.

“Dr. Barton?” the blonde asked, trying to sound cheerful as the mortician opened the door to his office.

“Yes, hello,” the mortician replied, going to sit down behind his desk. “I’ve got those blood results for you. Here they are.” He gestured to a folder laid out for the blonde on the desktop. Quatre shook his head.

“I’ve come to you about something else, Dr. Barton.”

“Oh, really. What could that be?” asked Trowa, his heart quickening a little.

“It’s about the drug you’ve been producing. I believe you refer to it as Type K.” At these words, Trowa felt time grind to a halt.

How could the blonde know? How could this mysterious, handsome stranger have divined the secret which was so close, so precious to Trowa’s heart?

Stoically the mortician hardened his face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Whatever it is, you must be mistaken.”

The look on Quatre’s face was somber. “I’m sorry, Doc, but the fact is I know I’m not mistaken. I’ve come here this evening to make you an offer.”

“An offer?”

“Yes, an offer. My boss, Treize Khushrenada, has offered you a position to produce this drug for him. You’ll be paid royalties, of course, as long as you grant Mr. Khushrenada the right to sell your drug at the prices he sees fit. Of course you’ll have to come with me this evening. We can stop by your house to get anything you need.”

Trowa’s tone was icy. “I am not leaving this laboratory, for your boss or any man. There is nothing you can do to make me.”

Quatre smiled sardonically, removing the pistol from inside his jacket and leveling it at the mortician’s forehead. “I was afraid you’d say that, Doc. Fact of the matter is, I can’t let
you stay here. I’ve direct orders to persuade you, by any means, to come with me. Now.”

Trowa’s eyes widened a little, and his lips pressed in a thin line. He was silent.

*~*~*

Cathy’s heart raced. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing through the mortician’s thin office door. Dr. Barton, producing an illegal drug! Her violet eyes widened when she spotted the gun the blonde had leveled at the mortician’s forehead. Suddenly, she knew there was only one thing she could do.

Howling like a being possessed, she threw open the office door and surprised the blonde, pouncing on him with all her strength, scratching at his face with one hand and gripping his gun hand with the other. “Trowa! Get out of here!”

The man was too resilient for her, however. He soon recovered from his shock and backhanded her. Struggling with the gun, he tried to get her off of him. It fired once, twice.

Her mind went blank after she heard the third shot. The bullet had gone straight through her chest.

*~*~*
Dr. Barton’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he saw Cathy rush into his office and jump the blonde. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion as the red-haired woman mauled Quatre’s face and struggled to get the gun away with him. The moments slowed to a crawl when the gun misfired once, twice, three times. Time froze when she went still. The last shot had pierced her heart.

He scrambled to his feet, cradling her limp form in his arms even as she fell. Her blood poured out into his lap and on his white doctor’s coat. The look on Quatre’s face was that of shock.

The red-haired woman died instantly, her face left with the expression of a blank stare. She barely had the time to murmur “Trowa” before she died, her body going completely still. Trowa didn’t know if he wanted to die or scream. If he had had his way, he would have done both at once.

The gun clattered from Quatre’s hands. He looked like he’d gone numb. “Oh, God, Trowa—I’m sorry—”

The look the mortician shot the blonde was venomous. It seemed to snap the blonde back to reality. Calmly he picked up the gun and holstered it, saying after a length of silence, “It’s time to go, Doc.”

Looking at the dead, lovely red-haired woman in his arms, Trowa nodded mutely, laying her down tenderly on the tile floor and getting up. Quatre handed him his coat, and the mortician silently followed him outside to the car.

There was nothing else to do.

~TBC~

Kira Maxwell

KiraxMaxwell@msn.com

On to Part 8!