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skerenTitle: Low Class
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Words: 523
Warnings: None
Notes: The first fic dome for![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-community.gif)
evil_fans_unite Though admittedly I seriously need to work on being evil.
His head hurt like a bitch. It really seriously did. In fact, if he didn't know better he'd think he'd been pistol-whipped. Not that he knew what that felt like. Oh no, not the great God of Death! He tried to move and a flare of intense pain radiated out from his temple with a vague stabbing sensation that would be nicer if it did more with the vague and less with the stabbing.
Okay, he'd definitely been pistol-whipped. How the hell had that happened?
Moving his hands caused that special kind of friction that only the coarsest of rope could accomplish with so little effort. Grimacing, he came to the only logical conclusion.
Whoever it was, it sure wasn't the Alliance. Couldn't be the Ozzies either. They were freakishly invested in their chafe free metal manacles, the lot of them. So, that just left one real option.
Had to be a rebel faction that had something on the pilots. Not their fault that things got out of hand at times, but there was only so much a guy could do. He didn't intentionally lead his battles towards people after all, but hey, it happened and there wasn't any escaping it.
It was war.
Getting into a sitting position, the eye on the throbbing side gingerly closed as he tried to ward off dizziness, he cleared his throat. He'd avoid sounding like he swallowed a roach, thank you very much. Looking around revealed him to be in a windowless room, and definitely not on a bed. Surprise, surprise.
Now, to try to get attention and see if anyone bit. "Hey! Hey you out there, this any way to treat a guest?!"
Ow. That had not been good for his head. Mostly closing the other eye, he twitched a little when someone kicked the door and told him to shut up. Oh yay, he was caught not only by rebel thugs, but rebel thugs who possibly had no idea who the hell he was.
He'd have been offended if it wasn't so useful.
Squirming, he managed to wiggle around enough that he could start picking at the knots, though he didn't get jabbed by any of his hidden blades. Damn them for being thorough stupid bastards. Ah well, if reasoning didn't work, he'd just have to kill them, it was what he was good at.
Doing a good effort at giving his fingers rope burn, he managed to get the knots loosened. Of course there were more, but that was enough slack that he could get his arms around in front of him instead of behind.
Now, he just had to figure out how to get the door open, and get himself armed, and he would be set to go.
They would learn all the pilots were terrorist boy scouts. He was just an extra special flavor called the God of Death. Nodding firmly to himself, he grimaced when it made the entire world try to tilt on its access in a vicious flare of pain.
Right. He'd make sure not to forget that whole thing about being pistol-whipped while he was at it.
Fandom: Gundam Wing
Words: 523
Warnings: None
Notes: The first fic dome for
evil_fans_unite Though admittedly I seriously need to work on being evil. His head hurt like a bitch. It really seriously did. In fact, if he didn't know better he'd think he'd been pistol-whipped. Not that he knew what that felt like. Oh no, not the great God of Death! He tried to move and a flare of intense pain radiated out from his temple with a vague stabbing sensation that would be nicer if it did more with the vague and less with the stabbing.
Okay, he'd definitely been pistol-whipped. How the hell had that happened?
Moving his hands caused that special kind of friction that only the coarsest of rope could accomplish with so little effort. Grimacing, he came to the only logical conclusion.
Whoever it was, it sure wasn't the Alliance. Couldn't be the Ozzies either. They were freakishly invested in their chafe free metal manacles, the lot of them. So, that just left one real option.
Had to be a rebel faction that had something on the pilots. Not their fault that things got out of hand at times, but there was only so much a guy could do. He didn't intentionally lead his battles towards people after all, but hey, it happened and there wasn't any escaping it.
It was war.
Getting into a sitting position, the eye on the throbbing side gingerly closed as he tried to ward off dizziness, he cleared his throat. He'd avoid sounding like he swallowed a roach, thank you very much. Looking around revealed him to be in a windowless room, and definitely not on a bed. Surprise, surprise.
Now, to try to get attention and see if anyone bit. "Hey! Hey you out there, this any way to treat a guest?!"
Ow. That had not been good for his head. Mostly closing the other eye, he twitched a little when someone kicked the door and told him to shut up. Oh yay, he was caught not only by rebel thugs, but rebel thugs who possibly had no idea who the hell he was.
He'd have been offended if it wasn't so useful.
Squirming, he managed to wiggle around enough that he could start picking at the knots, though he didn't get jabbed by any of his hidden blades. Damn them for being thorough stupid bastards. Ah well, if reasoning didn't work, he'd just have to kill them, it was what he was good at.
Doing a good effort at giving his fingers rope burn, he managed to get the knots loosened. Of course there were more, but that was enough slack that he could get his arms around in front of him instead of behind.
Now, he just had to figure out how to get the door open, and get himself armed, and he would be set to go.
They would learn all the pilots were terrorist boy scouts. He was just an extra special flavor called the God of Death. Nodding firmly to himself, he grimaced when it made the entire world try to tilt on its access in a vicious flare of pain.
Right. He'd make sure not to forget that whole thing about being pistol-whipped while he was at it.