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Here is Chapter 9! *insert tension* MWAHAHA

The Lady Who Disarmed the President

For those who wish to read on AO3, see below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/80444856/chapters/235154931

For everyone else, see below!

AN: Happy house gremlin here to remind you that Duo Maxwell, Hilde Schbeiker, Duo Maxwell II, and Chang Wufei are not mine. They belong to the creators of Gundam Wing. I’m just the goblin under the floorboards who keeps stealing them for narrative mischief and returning them emotionally damaged but well‑fed.

For the benefit of separating Duo Maxwell from his son Duo Maxwell II, their names shall henceforth be this.

Duo Maxwell = Maxwell

Duo Maxwell II = Duo jr, or simply Duo.

~*~

The Lady Who Disarmed the President

Chapter 9: Ghost in the Walls

~*~

The office was quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy kind that settled into the corners of a room and refused to leave. Maxwell sat behind his desk, elbows braced on the polished surface, thumb dragging slowly along the line of his jaw in a rhythm that had nothing to do with thought and everything to do with habit.

Almost a week had passed since the Gala introduced Councilor Wisteria to the Federation dignitaries. Unfortunately, word had spread quickly that she was aligned with Councilor Bronson after they were seen together on the balcony. Maxwell didn’t believe it for a moment, not after what he had witnessed at the dinner and again at the Gala. Rumors were easy. Truth was not.

His mind replayed both nights in looping fragments, but his eyes weren’t focused on anything in the room. Not the neatly stacked reports beside him. Not the city lights flickering beyond the window. Not the clock ticking steadily above the double doors.

His gaze was fixed somewhere far past all of it.

Five days, and Hartgrave’s reaction still hadn’t left him.

He could see it clearly, as if the man were standing in front of him now. The way Hartgrave’s breath had hitched. The way his eyes had widened. The way the name had slipped out of him like a memory too old to control.

Eludia.

Maxwell’s thumb paused at his jawline, pressing lightly against the bone.

Hartgrave had said it with certainty, as if he were seeing someone who wasn’t actually there. Maxwell knew what that felt like. He had seen ghosts before — not literal ones, but echoes of people who had shaped him, haunted him, refused to leave him.

And then Hartgrave had apologized. Quickly. Sharply. Like a man who realized he had spoken a ghost into the room.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. The sound was quiet, but it carried the weight of a man who had lived long enough to know when something wasn’t adding up.

Eludia Wisteria.

He had searched her name, trying to uncover who she was and how she was tied to Councilor Wisteria. The records were sparse, but what he found was enough to twist his stomach.

Eludia was Elizabeth’s mother. She had died during the Lunar Wars. The official story claimed the colonists had been pushed to the brink and assassinated the Wisteria family. But the truth painted a different picture entirely.

Dekim Barton had ordered the assassination of the Wisteria family to seize the gundanium alloy and begin the construction of the Gundams, laying the groundwork for Operation Meteor.

Maxwell rubbed his jaw again, slower this time.

Digging further into Eludia’s reputation made him understand why the colonies had not been fond of her. Calling her a tyrant felt almost generous. The reports were blunt, clinical, and cold in their descriptions of the conditions on the lunar surface. Workers were forced into eighteen hour shifts. Safety protocols ignored. Medical care withheld. Punishments for dissent that bordered on cruelty.

Maxwell remembered hearing those stories years ago, back when he was still young enough to believe the world was divided neatly into heroes and villains. He remembered the strike against the lunar administration, the desperate demands for better conditions, better pay, better treatment. He had never known who stood at the top of that chain of command.

He knew now.

The Wisteria family had overseen all of it.

And Lady Eludia Wisteria had been the one enforcing it.

Maxwell rubbed the back of his neck, slower this time, the weight of the revelation settling like a stone behind his ribs. It was not difficult to imagine how a woman like that could accumulate wealth on a scale most people couldn’t fathom. Four point seven trillion dollars. A number that had seemed absurd when he first saw it, almost comical in its enormity.

But now it made sense.

The fortune wasn’t just inheritance. It wasn’t just an aristocratic legacy. It was built on the backs of thousands of workers who had labored under conditions no human should have endured. It was built on fear, on control, on the ruthless efficiency of a woman who had treated the lunar workforce like a machine she could tighten until it screamed.

Maxwell exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible in the quiet office.

If Elizabeth Wisteria had inherited anything from her mother, it wasn’t the wealth. It was the shadow of a legacy that still made people flinch decades later. Hartgrave’s reaction hadn’t been confusion. It had been recognition. The kind that came from surviving someone like Eludia.

Maxwell opened his laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as he prepared to dig into another avenue of investigation. The nagging feeling about Councilor Wisteria had only grown sharper over the last few days, and he was finally ready to stop ignoring it.

He didn’t get a chance to go further.

His double doors slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Maxwell jerked upright.

Alpha strode into the room with a brisk, purposeful approach. Maxwell’s frown deepened. Alpha never made a scene, he never barged in and he never certainly stormed.

“…Alpha?”

Alpha stopped just short of the desk. His brows were furrowed, jaw tight, posture rigid. It was the most emotion Maxwell had seen on him in months.

“Mr. President,” Alpha said, voice low and sharp, “we have a problem.”

Maxwell closed the laptop slowly. “Define… problem.”

Alpha set a folder down in front of him with precise, controlled movements. The kind that meant he was holding himself together by habit alone.

”Deputy Secretary of Terraforming and Environment, Adrian Kestrel… was murdered last night.”

Maxwell’s breath stilled.

For a moment, the room felt colder, as if the air itself had pulled tight around him.

”…Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s always somethin.’”

He stared at the folder without touching it, the name echoing through the quiet office like a dropped stone.

Kestrel.

He was the man directly under Elias Varrin who handled his budgets, approved terraforming expenditures, and who had access to every procurement channel in the sector.

Varrin had never been strict with his department. Maxwell had always chalked it up to the man’s eccentricity. Varrin was brilliant, exhausted, and far more interested in planetary mechanics than bureaucratic oversight. It made him easy to work with, but it also made him blind to the wrong kind of people.

“They’re sure it was murder?” Maxwell asked, voice low.

Alpha gestured to the folder, “the crime scene photos clearly indicate so.”

Maxwell flipped it open.

The first photograph hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Adrian Kestrel sat slumped against the wall, legs folded awkwardly beneath him, his body collapsed forward as if the life had been pulled out of him rather than lost. A dark streak of blood marked the wall behind him, a long downward smear showing exactly where his body had slid before coming to rest on the floor.

Papers were scattered across the room, some torn, some crumpled, all of them lying in chaotic disarray. A chair had toppled over near the desk, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. Kestrel’s suit was strained through the fabric, the dark patches stark against the pale tile beneath him.

But it wasn’t the body that made Maxwell’s stomach twist.

It was the wall above Kestrel’s head.

A message had been smeared across the surface in blood, each letter dragged with deliberate pressure, each stroke uneven and jagged, as if written by someone who wanted the words to scar the room.

Lazarus is watching.

Maxwell’s jaw tightened. His thumb dragged along his jawline again, slower this time, the gesture no longer habit but grounding. The office felt colder, the air heavier, the silence sharper.

He stared at the words, the blood, the body, the violence, and the unmistakable warning.

“Lazarus, huh?” Maxwell murmured at the photo. “Any evidence?”

Alpha’s eyes narrowed slightly. “None. No fingerprints, no footprints from the initial sweep. Investigators believe his office window was the entry point, but the window is on the second floor.”

Maxwell’s brow furrowed. “Second floor. So either someone climbed, or they dropped in for a visit.”

”Correct,” Alpha replied. “There were no signs of forced entry. The latch was intact.”

Maxwell shifted the photo aside and looked at the next one. It showed the window from the inside of the office, curtains pushed aside, the sill clean except for a faint disturbance in the dust. Someone had touched it, but only once, and lightly.

“Any fibers?” Maxwell asked.

”No,” Alpha said. “Whoever did this was careful.”

Maxwell flipped to the next page. It was a wide shot of Kestrel’s home office. Papers littered the floor. A lamp lay shattered near the desk. The toppled chair cast a long shadow across the tile. Nothing about the scene felt random.

“I don’t … understand. Why Kestrel? Was anything taken?” Maxwell looked up to Alpha who shook his head.

”Not that we can tell. His datapad was still on his desk. His safe was untouched.”

Maxwell tapped the edge of the folder, his mind already moving faster than the investigation notes could keep up with.

“So not a robbery… no forced entry… Lazarus is watching…” He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the photograph. “This was personal. And a message left behind. But was it for someone specific to Kestrel, or was it for the Federation?”

Alpha didn’t answer immediately. He stood with his hands behind his back, posture straight, eyes fixed on the photo as if he were trying to read something beyond the blood and the chaos.

“Alright,” he grumbled, leaning back into his seat. “Call two people.”

Alpha straightened. “Who do you need?”

”First, Elias Varrin,” Maxwell said. “I want his take on Kestrel. He worked together with him, he would hopefully know if something was off.”

Alpha nodded once, already reaching for the phone in his pocket.

“And next,” Maxwell continued, voice tightening, “Master Chang. A politician was murdered. Preventer needs eyes on this before it turns into something bigger.”

Alpha paused long enough to acknowledge the order. “Understood.”

With that, he turned and left the office, phone on his ear as he made the necessary calls. The doors closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Maxwell alone in the office with an investigation folder and the silence that followed Alpha’s departure.

Maxwell exhaled slowly and leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. The photographs stared back at him with a message smeared above Kestrel’s body with deliberate cruelty.

He didn’t understand it, but Lady Wisteria flashed through his mind’s eye. He pushed the thought aside. He had been investigating her already, and now he had bigger problems to solve. But the thought didn’t leave. It lingered quietly, like a whisper at the back of his mind.

The timeline was too tight.

Maxwell rubbed his face with both hands. “Lazarus is watching,” he murmured. “Yeah? Watching who?”

He didn’t have the answer yet.

But he had a sinking feeling that when Varrin and Master Chang arrived, the picture would only get uglier.

~*~

A soft knock broke the silence of the presidential office.

Maxwell looked up as the double doors opened slowly.

Master Chang entered first, dressed in a crisp white changshan that contrasted sharply with the dark wood of the office. His long black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and his black eyes were as sharp as ever, scanning the room with the calm precision of a man who had seen far too much.

Behind him came Elias Varrin, looking exactly as Maxwell expected. He was exhausted, annoyed, and carrying the kind of under-eye bags that after too many nights spent monitoring atmospheric readouts instead of sleeping. Varrin’s coat hung unevenly off one shoulder, and he muttered something under this breath as he stepped inside.

Maxwell didn’t bother standing.

“Close the doors,” he said. “We’ve got a situation.”

Chang shut them without a word. Varrin just blinked at Maxwell, clearly waiting for the part where someone explained why he’d been dragged out of his lab.

Maxwell nudged the folder toward them with two fingers.

“Take a look.”

Chang stepped forward first. Varrin leaned in beside him.

The photo of Adrian Kestrel stared back at them with him slumped against the wall, blood streaked behind him, the message carved above his head in jagged letters.

Varrin froze.

Chang’s eyes narrowed.

Maxwell let the silence stretch just long enough for the weight of it to settle.

”Kestrel’s dead,” Maxwell said. “He was murdered last night.”

Varrin’s breath hitched. “What—? He was fine yesterday. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look—“

”He didn’t look like a man about to get killed?” Maxwell finished for him. “Yeah. I know.”

Chang flipped through the documents and photos, his expression sharpening as he pieced together the scene. Varrin, on the other hand, looked like a man who had never seen a dead body in his life. His face drained of color, his mouth parted slightly, and his eyes locked on the photo with a horrified stillness.

Maxwell watched him for a moment, then sighed under his breath.

He reached down, grabbed the small trash can beside his desk, and handed it to Varrin without ceremony.

“Here,” Maxwell murmured. “Before you pass out on my carpet.”

Varrin swallowed hard, gripping the trash can like a lifeline. “I… I didn’t think… it would look like that.”

”Dead bodies usually do,” Maxwell muttered. “They don’t clean themselves up for the camera.”

Chang glanced up to both Maxwell and Varrin. “He was killed quickly. There were no defensive wounds. No signs of struggle beyond overturned furniture.”

Maxwell nodded. “Right. Professional.”

Varrin’s voice was thin. “Why… why would anyone kill Adrian. He didn’t do anything. He barely talked to anyone.”

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, exhaling slow. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

He gestured to the photo still in Varrin’s hand. “Someone wanted him gone. And they wanted us to know it.”

Chang’s eyes narrowed at the window sill. “The dust is disturbed. Streaked. It was the point of entry?”

Maxwell nodded again. “That’s what they’re thinking. The front entry was still intact. So the assumption is either climbed or dropped in for a night visit.”

“Hn.” Chang said, his gaze lifting from the folder to stare at nothing, the way he always did when his mind started assembling pieces faster than he could speak them.

Maxwell watched him for a beat, then smirked. “I know that look. You’ve got something, don’t cha?”

Chang didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the middle distance, posture still, expression sharpening by degrees. Varrin clutched the trash can like a lifeline, still pale, still shaken, raising his hand to give the photo back to Chang without looking at it again.

Maxwell leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Alright, Wufei. Out with it.”

Chang finally lowered his gaze to the folder again. “The window was the entry point, but the dust pattern is wrong. It is disturbed only once. No secondary smearing. No drag marks. No prints. No fibers.”

Maxwell raised a brow. “Meaning?”

Chang took the photo from Varrin and placed it neatly into the folder. His posture didn’t shift, but something in his expression tightened. It was that subtle, controlled tension that Maxwell had learned to recognize since they were teenagers.

Chang finally spoke. “Meaning the intruder did not climb. They did not brace themselves. They did not slip. They touched the sill once, lightly, and entered without disturbing anything else.”

Maxwell grumbled. “So they dropped in?”

Varrin swallowed hard, still gripping the trash can. “Dropped in? From where? The top of the building? Was there any evidence on the roof?”

Chang shook his head, setting the folder down back onto Maxwell’s desk. Maxwell’s violet-blue eyes did not leave Chang for one second, still seeing the tension in his face.

“There’s somethin’ else… isn’t there?”

Chang’s eyes shifted toward him. “A week ago,” he said, “I saw a shadow in the parking lot of the Federation base.”

Maxwell’s smirk faded. “A shadow?”

Chang nodded. “It moved across the roofline. Fast. Too fast for a civilian. Too controlled for a thief. I thought it was a federation agent at first, but no one reported being on the roof that night.”

Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t tell me.”

Chang’s expression remained calm. “There was no evidence. No breach. No alarms. It was gone before I stepped into my vehicle.”

Varrin looked between them, still pale. “You think it was the same person?”

“The movement was similar. A drop from above. No sound. No trace.”

Maxwell exhaled slowly. “So someone was scouting the base a week ago… and last night they killed Kestrel?”

Chang gestured to the folder on Maxwell’s desk. “It is possible.”

Maxwell rubbed his face briskly, the pieces beginning to align in ways he didn’t like.

“Great,” he muttered. “Just what I needed. A ghost dropping in through windows.”

He opened the folder to look at the blood smeared message again.

”Lazarus is watching,” he said quietly. “And apparently, they’ve been watching for a while.”

Varrin still looked pale, clutching the trash can like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Maxwell watched him for a moment, then sighed.

“Alright, Elias,” Maxwell said, tone softer but still blunt. “You’re done here. Go get some air.”

Varrin blinked at him, relief flickering across his face. “Should I… tell anyone?”

“No,” Maxwell said. “Keep this under wraps. Last thing we need is the media blowing it up before we know what we’re dealing with.”

Varrin nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to leave. He set the trash can down, straightened his crooked coat, and hurried out of the office without looking back.

The door closed behind him, leaving Maxwell and Chang alone.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair. “Alright, Wufei. Talk to me.”

Chang set the folder down, his expression settling into the calm, razor‑sharp focus Maxwell had come to rely on. “I will assign someone to the investigation. It needs to be handled by Preventer. Thoroughly.”

Maxwell nodded. “Who are you thinking?”

“Nanashi,” Chang said. “He is precise. Methodical. He does not overlook details.”

Maxwell’s brow furrowed slowly. “Nanashi’s good. Real good. But…”

Chang waited.

Maxwell rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Would you be willing to let Duo in on this?”

Chang’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Duo.”

“Yeah,” Maxwell said. “Kid’s been sitting in the presidential suite bored out of his mind. He could use something stimulating. And he might actually be good at this.”

Chang considered the idea, gaze drifting toward the window as he weighed it. “This investigation will be difficult.”

“I know,” Maxwell said. “That’s why I’m asking. He needs something real. Something that matters.”

Chang exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. “Very well.”

Maxwell straightened a little.

“I will assign Duo as lead investigator,” Chang said. “With Nanashi overseeing him. It will be a test to see if Duo can handle investigations of this scale.”

Maxwell smirked, relief slipping into his expression. “Thanks, Wufei. Really.”

Chang closed the folder. “Do not thank me yet. If Duo fails, I will pull him off immediately.”

Maxwell nodded. “Fair enough.”

The weight of the decision settled between them — heavy, dangerous, and necessary.

And somewhere in the back of Maxwell’s mind, the message on Kestrel’s wall echoed again.

Lazarus is watching.

~*~

It was close to eleven when Maxwell finally slipped out of the Capitol Building, though “slipped out” wasn’t really the right phrase. He’d mapped every exit in the place months ago, memorized the blind spots in the security cameras, and learned exactly how to move through the presidential suite without waking Hilde or Duo. He didn’t bother with excuses or explanations. He didn’t bother with security either. He just crossed the living room, stepped into his bedroom, and climbed out the window like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Creature of habit.

Old habits.

The drop into the maintenance alley behind the presidential suite was the easy part. The hard part was everything after that.

Maxwell straightened from the drop, the dark swallowing him as he adjusted the black button‑up he’d thrown on without thinking. The fabric clung cleanly to his frame, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, the collar open just enough to show he hadn’t bothered with appearances tonight. His short hair was still mussed from the window climb, dark strands catching the faint glow of the streetlamps before disappearing back into shadow. Black slacks, black boots, nothing reflective, nothing loud, just clothes he’d chosen because they felt like him. Practical. Quiet. Built for slipping through a city without being seen.

Elysium wasn’t small. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t forgiving. It was a sprawling port city built on an island, skyscrapers rising higher every year, elevated rail lines cutting through the skyline, freight haulers rumbling along the arterial roads even at this hour. The old terraforming dome still loomed overhead, useless now that Mars had breathable air, but locked in maintenance mode like a sleeping giant that refused to be dismantled.

Maxwell moved through it like a ghost.

His gut hadn’t shut up once during his walk. Every street he crossed, every shadow he slipped through, every breath of cold air felt like a countdown he couldn’t see.

Fog rolled in from the Elysium Strait once he was outside the dome, thick and low, curling around the bases of the towers and swallowing the glow of streetlamps. It made the city feel familiar, like the colonies he used to slip through when he was younger and far less respectable.

Maxwell slipped along the outer wall of the old mobile suit hangar, boots silent against the concrete, breath steady despite the cold fog curling around his ankles. The building loomed over him like a rusted giant, its metal siding slick with condensation, its silhouette half‑swallowed by the autumn haze rolling in from the Elysium Strait. He pressed his back to the wall, moving along the edge until the amber glow spilling from the open bay door cut through the fog like a beacon.

He didn’t like that the door was open.

He didn’t like that the lights were on.

He didn’t like that his gut twisted tighter the closer he got.

Something metal clanged sharply inside. Maxwell froze, shoulder against the wall, listening.

Another clang. Then a brash, irritated voice echoing off the steel interior.

He edged closer, slipping along the siding until he reached the bay door. The fog made the light bleed outward, turning the threshold into a blurred halo. He poked his head around the corner just enough to see inside.

And stopped.

Someone was waist-deep in an engine compartment, upper body buried so far into the truck that only legs and boots were visible. The person was braced awkwardly, wearing short shorts streaked with grease, combat boots planted like they were ready to kick the machine into submission. Whoever it was, they were absolutely tearing into the truck with zero mercy.

Maxwell’s first instinct was simple —

Shit. Why’d there have to be a person right there?

His second instinct was followed immediately by:

I can sneak by. Slip into one of the side rooms. Wait them out.

He scanned the hangar and noticed that only the lights about this bay were on. The rest of the warehouse was dark, shadows deep enough for him to disappear without effort. Easy. Clean. No confrontation.

Then his eyes landed on the truck and his stomach bottomed out.

It was an old GMC CCKW.

Of course it was. Because the universe hated him.

Maxwell could practically hear his son’s voice from the gala, soft and incredulous.

“Who drives a GMC CCKW these days, anyway?”

His gut twisted again. Hard. He tipped his head back toward the fog-blurred sky, silently pleading for this not to be who he thought it was.

There was no way that was her. That couldn’t be Lady Wisteria. He can’t picture the aristocrat who wandered the Capitol’s halls in black velvet to actually be a woman upside down yelling profanities.

He risked another glance around the bay door.

Right then, his eyes went wide when a wrench went flying out of the hangar, clattering across the pavement and skidding to a stop a few feet away from him. The sound echoed through the fog like a warning shot.

A frustrated sigh followed immediately after.

Maxwell turned just in time to see her hop down from the truck. She pressed her back to the front bumper, rubbing her forehead with the back of her wrist, the motion tight and pained.

”Damn it, I’m a computer engineer,” she muttered, tossing her head back in exasperation. “I’m not a mechanic.”

And that was the moment he knew the universe wasn’t just messing with him, it was downright laughing.

Here was Lady Wisteria, covered in grease and wearing short shorts, with her hair pulled back into a messy bun. Alone at eleven at night. Fighting a relic truck like it had personally wronged her.

She let out another frustrated noise and, in a burst of stubborn irritation, kicked the thick front tire.

The tire didn’t budge.

Her toe did.

She jerked back with a sharp inhale, grabbing her foot and muttering something that sounded like a string of curses mashed together. Then she just… pouted. Shoulders slumping, head dropping, the kind of defeated little posture that said she’d been fighting this battle for hours and the truck had won every round.

Maxwell closed his eyes.

Damn it.

He should just walk away, come back a different night, pretend like he never saw any of this.

But she looked miserable, was alone, and absolutely done with the same universe who was laughing at him.

His gut twisted again. Not the suspicious kind of twist, but the one he hated more. The one that meant he was about to do something stupidly decent.

He sighed through his nose, quiet, resigned.

Alright, Duo… go help her.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath like the fog might take pity on him. He stepped forward just enough for his boots to scuff the pavement. Loud enough to be heard, soft enough to pretend he hadn’t been standing there watching her fight a truck like a demon.

She spun around to glare at him the moment she heard him walking in.

Maxwell smirked, hand rubbing his neck. “Y’know,” he drawled, tone tight and irreverent, “most folks try talkin’ nice to their trucks before beatin’ the hell outta them.”

She blinked at him.

Not the elegant, measured blink of Lady Wisteria or the Councilor who moved through the Capitol like she’d been carved from old money. This was a tired blink. A what in the actual hell blink. A blink from someone whose head hurt, whose patience was gone, and who had absolutely not prepared for visitors in her space.

Especially not this visitor.

Her glare softened into something more confused than angry, her posture shifting as she straightened from the truck. She wiped her hands on the rag tucked into her waistband, smearing the grease even worse, then squinted at him like her brain needed a second to catch up.

”…President Maxwell?” She said, voice rough from hours of muttering at machinery. “What—“ she gestured vaguely at the fog, the truck, the warehouse, herself. “—are you doing here?”

She looked him up and down, noticing the boots, the rolled sleeves, the mussed hair, and then back up to his face.

“…Did you get lost?” She asked, dead serious.

Maxwell almost choked.

~*~

Thank you again for reading!

Comments are wonderful, and kudos make me quietly explode with joy.