Disclaimer: I own neither Gundam Wing nor Harry Potter, this honor belongs to J.K. Rowling and whoever invented Gundam Wing.
Summary: Really he didn´t choose to get into those messes by purpose, it was all Oz´s and his uncles fault by selling him to them but like hell would he let them break him. Now here he was, hunted for treason, poisoned and with a bunch of paranoid Gundam Pilots at his hands. But the positive aspect of the whole thing was that it couldn´t get any worse or could it?
Warnings: Torture, blood, yaoi (meaning boyxboy action), violence,
AN: Hi there, welcome to my latest fanfic. A big thanks to the fabulous haloween – thank you sweetheart for your help - for encouraging me to upload this fic and for correcting my mistakes. If you find anymore spelling or grammar mistakes please be so kind and point them out to me. I won´t hold you up any longer, enjoy reading ^-^.
He hated it, he hated being forced into duty to Oz by his uncle. He hated everything they stood for, everything they did. But he couldn´t leave. It seemed the Higher-ups had learned from their previous mistakes. After some of their best officers and medical staff deserted them they started chipping their soldiers. If they left the base without permission, a dose of a slow and very, very painful poison would be set free in their bloodstream. The drill sergeant had delighted in showing them exactly how it worked. With a shudder he remembered the poor sods screams, his begs for a mercy that would never come and the sadistic laughter of the drill sergeant. It took the unfortunate soul nearly twenty hours to finally succumb to the poison.
Loathing it as he might there was nothing Harry James Potter, nowadays better known as Remy J. Blackmoon – like hell would he let them sully his real name - Oz's Grim Reaper could do against that thrice damned chip that sat right between his shoulder blades directly above his spinal cord. His magic may be able to do something against the chip, or it might fry it, releasing the poison into his body. A risk he would rather not take until absolutely necessary.
He had been fifteen, barely on the cusp to sixteen when his uncle had finally had enough and took his chances and had gotten rid of his nephew, who had been severely weakened and magical exhausted from the final battle.. He had been all but sold to Oz for a measly £1, 000. He had planned to escape from there the second he had enough magic to apparate out of there and as far away as physically possible. However, sadly, his magic had returned too late. By the time he had been strong enough to try, he had already been chipped and put into boot camp. The only good thing he had received from the deal was that his body was more healthy than ever before.
A fact he hated to admit or even think about. With eighteen years of age Remy stood at a height of 6´2 and weighing a healthy 190 pounds, and most of that was pure muscles. His features had lost their youthful roundness and were now sharp and rather hawk-like in appearance and he finally got rid of his glasses after a rather forced eye-surgery. The force mostly consisting of ´Either you do it, or my finger will accidentally slip and push that little red button with your name on it.´ Bastard-sergeant.
But try as they might Remy refused to bent to their wills, taking every opportunity to go against them. He refused to let them cut his hair; it was now reaching mid-back in wild raven locks and curls, which, most of the time, was held in a loose braid. He didn´t care about all the extra-shifts he had to work as a consequence. In fact it helped his agenda rather well. Just because he wasn´t able to leave the base didn´t mean there wasn´t anything he couldn´t do to sabotage Oz from within. True, he had to be very, very careful - but, "no risk, no gain" as the saying went, and what a sweet gain it was.
Watching them scramble around, trying to remove the latest virus he uploaded into their systems made his day and it took their attention away from his real plans. He used the distraction he made to send information about the different OZ bases to some of the rebel factions on earth. It was risky, very very risky and he had to be incredibly careful, even now the higher-ups were searching for the mole in their midst.
But at least they didn´t suspect him, not yet but that would soon change, he knew that it would. He was known for his antipathy for Oz cause, his only saving grace was that they still needed his skills on the battlefields against the Gundam-Pilots but the moment he lost his use, he would be disposed of, which was a fact.
Which brought him back to his current dilemma.
Remy J. Blackmoon knew exactly what and how much he could do without raising Oz suspicions of him, but this one was big and he knew it. Sitting in the dimly lit monitoring room and watching the image of a maybe fifteen no more than sixteen year old boy, chained to the wall and pacing as far as possible, Remy wondered what he should do.
His dark green gaze followed the imprisoned Gundam-Pilot. He was so young, even younger than he was when he fought the last battle against Voldemort and yet Oz wanted to execute him. Remy was careful to keep his face passive to not let anyone see the turmoil he was in.
He knew he had a choice here, he could stay back and let them kill the young pilot, keeping his cover and continue with his sabotage or he could blow everything he had worked for the last two years, risk dying an agonizing death and save the amethyst eyed pilot.
The first choice would be more logical and ensure that he could continue helping the rebels, but he couldn´t leave the pilot here, waiting for his death. ´To do or not to do, either way I´m damned.´ For a split second his passive mask slipped and a fleeting bitter smile curled his lips.
There was really no choice to be made. He continued watching the prisoner pace around, a long chestnut colored braid twirling behind him.
So much courage, so much bravery, so much will to fight until his last breath, to fight for his people even though they had turned their backs on him and the other pilots. Remy had fought them before, he had fought 02, Deathscythes pilot before and he would have killed him in battle if necessary but he would be damned if he let him die like this. Executed like a dog.
It was time to break out the big guns and to make sure his information network wasn´t under scrutiny. Calmly and as passive as ever he ended his shift and went to the cafeteria to grab dinner, making sure he did everything he normally did to avoid suspicion.
Later, much later that night, right in the twilight hours between the end of night-shift and the beginning of the morning shift, when the patrols attention was at it lowest, did he use what few spells he knew wandless to ensure that he wouldn´t be found out before he could make sure the pilots escape. On silent feet he snuck out of his quarters, clinging to every possible shadow, avoiding the cameras he made his way to a seldom used office.
He had made sure that nothing of his body would be left, that no one would find even a hair or a fingerprint of him. He knew they would control every remote area for clues of someone who wasn´t allowed there.
Swiftly he booted up the computer, he had to be fast, he didn´t have much time, maybe an hour, two at most. His fingers nearly flew over the keyboard, tipping in code after code, selecting information's about the base and the prison-section in particular. By the end of it his fingers shook and for a moment, for one precious little moment he stalled, his finger hovering over the send button.
If he really did this, his live was forfeit, he knew it was.
His heart was beating hard and fast.
His mind flashed back to the image of the restlessly pacing pilot in his cell. His long chestnut colored hair had been tousled from not being able to take properly care of it and from his interrogations. Fathomless amethyst colored eyes, staring up at the camera, defiance and a small barely there hint of fear written in their depths.
Deep shadows like moth wings beneath his eyes, screaming from lack of sleep and exhaustion. Restlessly pacing, tugging at chains that cut into his delicate wrists, cutting deep into his skin and leaving raw patches of bloodied flesh.
And his face, god, his face was still so young, fifteen barely sixteen years of age. It was still rounded with the last bits of baby-fat. The last bits of a childhood cruelly taken away. So much like himself.
Remy closed his eyes tightly, the shaking in his hands doubled, they shook like leaves in the wind. Still hovering over that one button that would decide what would happen with his live.
He could still turn back, erase the data and return to his quarters.
He still had a choice.
No, there was no choice, there never has been a choice, was there?
He took a deep breath.
God damn it all.
His hands stopped shaking.
He pressed the button, the monitor flashed and his fate was sealed.
His voice was hoarse as if he had screamed for hours, a barely there whisper. He let himself fall backwards into the seat, head buried in his hands. He was shaking again he mused numbly. His lips twitched bitterly. God he was such a coward, it was disgusting. He could take being send out into a battle with a high percentage of not returning, he could sabotage Oz without blinking, but he very nearly couldn´t do this?
Why the hell had his survival instinct decided to kick in now?
God damn it all. He swallowed, his throat was dry like desert sand, he needed to get out of here and back to his quarters before someone found him out.
Slowly he unfolded from his slumped over position and started to erase all evidences, nearly on autopilot. He stared at the monitor while the computer booted down, dark green gaze unreadable. "It´s up to you now. Get your boy out of here."
He left the office for what would be most likely the last time, with his back straight and his head held high. The higher-ups would be after him now, like sharks that had smelled fresh blood in water and he knew sooner or later, most likely sooner the trail would lead them straight to him. As if to assure him from the outcome of this the chip between his shoulder blades seemed to heat up and pulse, reminding him painfully of it´s present and his unavoidable and painful fate.
Silently like a shadow, an extension of darkness, or one of the ghosts that haunted his once home, he slipped back to his quarters, unseen and unheard by anyone. Once in the relative safity of his own rooms he let the spells that kept him undetected fade from him, slipping away like sand between his fingers.
Slowly he let himself slide down the wall next to the door, knees drawn up to his chest, arms loosely slung around them and staring unseeing in the dark nothingness of his room that was mirrored by his thoughts. He enjoyed the brief quietness, knowing that it would probably be the last night he would ever be able to do so.
What an utter mess.