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"Incendiary"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Yaoi, wrongful imprisonment, Newtypes,
internment camps, eventual rape/noncon Pairings: 3x4, 1x2, 5xS Summary: A group of wealthy college kids are murdered.
There are no witnesses, but there is a suspect. From within the simmering
sludge of irrational fear and prejudice, conspiracy theories are born
and innocent people pay the price. "Incendiary" Quatre finally emerged from "isolation" after five days to begin working labor on the prison. He was bruised and sore, covered in cuts and lacerations from fighting the guards whenever they went into his cell to retrieve him. He'd been like a rabid animal, punching, kicking, scratching, and biting as they held him down against the cot and he snarled in impotent rage as they tattooed his prisoner number and bar code into the tender skin just beneath the inside of his elbow. There had been a small victory when he snapped the bones in one guard's arm and gave another one a concussion before he was given an electric shock through his collar that left him dazed and drooling on the scratchy pillow while they seared his "identification" into his skin. Blaine had come in while he struggled against the restraining hands, hissing against Quatre's ear. "While I admire your tenacity, I hope you're not going to be more trouble than you're worth. You have the potential to be quite an asset in this facility considering your background." "Fuck your assets," Quatre spat through clenched teeth. He could feel the smirk against his ear as Blaine said, "I like your fire, boy. You surprise me. You don't look capable of swatting a fly, but you've already incapacitated two of my men." Quatre choked out a bitter laugh. "There's plenty more where that came from." Blaine smiled and crouched down until they were face to face. "I like you, son. You remind me of a younger me." "I am nothing like you, you deranged bastard." Blaine just grinned and ruffled his hair. "We'll see." He signaled to the tattooer and left the cell. Quatre glared up the guards, refusing to let any pain show on his face as the needle dug into his skin. The guards leered at him as they held his arms and legs down, pressing on his chest so hard, the metal springs of the cot's mattress dug into his back and made it difficult to breathe. A guard with dark blond hair, slicked back over his head and a pocked face sneered down at him. "You're feisty for a little pretty boy." Quatre's lip curled, but he said nothing. "You broke my friend's arm. Don't think you're going to get away with that." Quatre cocked his head at him. "In what way am I getting away with anything?" "I should break your arm." "Go the fuck ahead. I dare you." The hands holding his arm clenched, the hard fingers digging into the skin and the guard gritted his teeth, emitting a low growl as it seemed he was going to do just that. "Jerry, don't," said the guy with the tattoo gun. "Shut the fuck up. Nobody asked you. Just do your job." The tattooer looked away and closed his mouth. It was then that Quatre realized he was also a prisoner. His eyes caught sight of the collar around his neck, though he wasn't wearing the standard prisoners' uniform. Instead, he wore pants similar to the guards and a drab gray t-shirt. But the collar was there. Quatre guessed he was doing them favors in order to receive special perks. Helping them out for privileges the other prisoners didn't have. He wondered what it took to be placed above the others and shuddered at the possibilities. Of course, he may have been a minimum security prisoner where Quatre was maximum. High risk due to his military and political backgrounds. Who knew. Maybe this guy owned a tattoo parlor in his previous life, or planned weddings, or something. Someone who wasn't much of a threat to begin with. Quatre glanced up at him, caught his gaze, and the prisoner's eyes seemed to communicate a warning in them. He cursed his lack of telepathy, wishing he could read him, but the look in his eyes was pretty clear. Cooperate. Keep your nose clean and it might be worth your while. The patch of skin with the new ink on it was cleaned and covered and he was left alone in his cell again to ponder his next move. He didn't see the tattooer again after that, unfortunately. Quatre was hoping to catch him around and maybe talk to him, though if what he sensed was true, the guy was a turncoat. A sellout. He probably would relay anything Quatre told him to the guards. He had to be careful who he trusted around here. The prisoners were privvy to special treatment when they did things for the guards, possibly even Blaine. He'd have to keep his mouth shut and his eyes down for now. That was probably what Blaine meant when he said he'd be an asset to this place. If he scratched their backs, they might scratch his. He wondered what it took to gain those privileges. It made him sick to even think about it, disgust curdling in his belly. But it might just be the key that could get him out of there. If he wasn't watched as closely. If he was allowed to go places that he wasn't allowed to now. Have access to things he didn't currently have access to. To be trusted, even just a little, as much as a prisoner could be trusted in this place. It wouldn't be easy and he'd probably have to bend over backwards for it. They weren't just going to up and trust him when he tossed them a few bones. He was high risk for a reason and these people were smart. He may end up subjecting himself to things that made his skin crawl and still might never gain that trust because of who he was. What he could do. A guard that he was uncomfortably familiar with had come for him that morning, slapping his nightstick against the bars and jolting Quatre out of a light doze. He'd been in that pleasant twilight state between wakefulness and deep sleep, revisiting his wedding day. What a splendid day that had been. He could feel the rough skin of Trowa's palms as they held his own hands. Could see his husband's beautiful face, the shine of deep green from the fading light of the sunset. Quatre jumped and sat up at the loud clank of the nightstick and glared at the guard. He was referred to around the prison as 'Junior', though Quatre had no idea how that nickname could have come about. The guy was big and pushing forty. Streaks of gray were interspersed throughout the dark of his buzz cut. He had a hard look about him, probably life-long military. He also had what Quatre was sure was a deep sexual attraction to him. Those eyes would look him over in ways that made him shudder with revulsion. When he came to take Quatre for his showers, he insisted on being there while Quatre cleaned himself. The other guards would typically wait just outside the door when he bathed. He groaned internally when he noticed it was Junior that had come for him that morning. The man leered at him through the bars and Quatre's eyes narrowed. Junior flashed him a white, but crooked-toothed grin. "Rise and shine, dog! You start your new job today." He was led to the locker room where he was given a pair of work boots. He sat down on the bench and kicked off his slippers, pulling the boots onto his feet and tying the laces extra tight as they were a little big on him. He'd just barely gotten the final knot tied when Junior grabbed his arm and hauled him up. Quatre yanked his arm out of the steely grip. "Get your hands off me!" Junior pulled him roughly against him. "It's not a good idea to start your day with insolence. I advise you to behave yourself." Quatre glared up into the brown eyes, but said nothing as he was pulled out of the room. They headed down a narrow hallway, the sounds of banging and yelling voices drifted down the corridor. They walked through several guarded doors until he felt cool wind on his face as they stepped outside. Quatre closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the fresh air, clearing his sinuses of the musty smell of the prison. He hadn't seen the outdoors in nearly a week and he savored it, despite his situation. The sky was gray with low, fast-moving clouds, a slight misty drizzle pelted his face and he blinked from the almost needle-like drops. He looked around, noting a group of prisoners, dressed exactly like him, the white collars around their necks, hauling concrete blocks around and cementing them to form a wall. Quatre snorted at the irony. He was going to assist in the construction of his own captivity. He spotted Blaine several yards away, barking at a few straggling prisoners. "Keep it moving, scumbags. You'd better start learning to pull your own weight around here. This isn't a rest home." "General," Junior hollered, his grip bruising on Quatre's arm. Blaine glanced over at them, his face breaking into a wide grin. He walked over, looking decidedly pleased. "Ah, prisoner 4351A. So nice of you to finally join us. Come over this way. Your job is to help your fellow low lives build the extended wing of the prison. You take those blocks over there," he pointed to one of several large piles, "and you will stack them along here, just like these guys are doing. There are work gloves over there. I suggest you use them, or your hands will be torn up. You will be given two breaks throughout your shift for your meals and water. I suggest you use them to your full advantage." Quatre listened intently and remained silent as he was handed a pair of gloves. He sighed as he slid them over his hands. Again, too big. Junior shoved him towards a pile of blocks. "Get to work. No slacking, no backtalk. You work hard, you'll have no problems." Quatre grumbled under his breath and bent down to pick a block up. It weighed a good thirty pounds and he was reluctantly grateful for the gloves as the surface was rough, porous. There were no wheelbarrows so he had to carry one block at a time a few hundred feet across the yard to where the beginnings of a wall were being built. One of the prisoners, a young, handsome boy a little younger than Quatre moved aside so he could set the block into the next spot, adjusting it over the fresh layer of mud. He glanced at the boy who shot him a slightly sympathetic smile. Quatre dipped his head in acknowledgment and turned back to get another block. They worked steadily throughout the day, occasionally getting damp from the off and on rain showers. He was dirty and sweaty despite the cool winds by the time lunch rolled around and they were given their first break. Quatre waited in line for his food as trays of bologna sandwiches, apples, and bottles of water were handed out. He dutifully took his offerings and glanced around for a place to sit. A waving arm caught his attention and he walked over to sit down on a short stack of blocks next to the young man he'd been working closely with all morning. They hadn't really spoken, but Quatre knew the boy recognized him. He could see it in his eyes. He offered him a smile of gratitude and picked up his sandwich, taking a bite, more hungry than he'd been in a long time. Not even the stale bread was enough to deter his hunger. A few of the other prisoners gathered around them and plopped down to dig into their own lunches. A black haired guy leaned over. "You're Quatre Winner, aren't you?" Quatre swallowed around a lump of bologna and bread, taking a sip from his water to wash it down. He nodded. "Man! I can't believe it!" He smacked the ground in his excitement and Quatre nearly laughed. He glanced over at the boy next to him. He reminded him vaguely of Trowa. They had the same shade of brown hair and it was longer in the front, but still not as long as Trowa's had been during the war. This boy's eyes were wider, his face rounder. He was soft-spoken, though Quatre wondered how much of it was natural and how much was just the situation. "I'm Ben," he said, his accent clearly northern British. "This is Caleb, Justin, and Alhi." He pointed to each man in turn and Quatre reached over to shake each of their hands. "It's nice to meet you." Alhi, a dark skinned man of Indian descent took a bite of his apple and mumbled around his mouthful. "So what brings you here?" Quatre smiled and lifted his hands. "I'm a Newtype." "No shite?" Justin spoke up, his voice tinged with amazement. He was leaning forward with his arms over his knees watching Quatre with fascination. "That's incredible, that is! What's your gift?" Quatre's fingers absently hooked into the collar and pulled. The plastic was soft, bendable. "Empathy. Telepathy." "Well, bugger me mum! Telepathy is rare. There's only two, or three of them here that I can think of." He looked around at the other three who nodded. "Most of the prisoners here are empaths. There are a few telekenetics and premonitionaries," Ben said. Quatre glanced at him. "Are you one of those?" Ben shook his head. "I can influence people. Make them do things against their will. Only through touch, though. It requires physical contact." Alhi pointed to himself and the other two. "We're all empaths, though Caleb has some premonitionary abilities." "Only a little," the boy blushed. He was pale blond, blonder than Quatre even and had a lazy eye. It was difficult to tell if and when he was actually looking at Quatre. "How did you get caught?" Ben asked. Quatre sighed and wiped his hands on his trousers. "It's a long story." "We've got time." He chuckled. "I'm not really sure how. I have a few theories, but they, whoever they are, sent my husband and my friends out on a -" He stopped himself there. It probably wasn't a good idea to give out too much information. "Mission. I think it was a false mission to send them away so they could get to me." "What kind of a mission?" "A mission I'm not comfortable with discussing, I'm sorry." Quatre glanced at Caleb in apology. He shrugged and gestured for Quatre to continue. "Anyway, while they were gone, the solders came for me. Knocked me out. I woke up on my way here." "Fucking pigs," muttered Alhi. He kicked at the gravel, his mouth turned down. "They won't stop until we're all dragged out of our homes, our lives, like a bunch of animals. S'them who're the animals." "Careful, Al," Ben hushed him, his expression full of worry. "Don't get yourself in trouble again. Please." Quatre glanced at the Indian man. "What kind of trouble? What happened?" Alhi looked away, but Ben turned to him with sad eyes. "He fought back. He was beaten and -" "Ben!" Alhi hissed. Ben flushed and looked down. "Sorry." He looked up at Quatre, his eyes wavering. "You do what you're told and they generally won't hurt you. When you fight them, you get beaten. If you can't work, you are used as a whore." He swallowed and stared at his lap, his fingers picking at the pilled fabric of his pants. "They pass you around. To the guards, to the sellouts." "Sellouts?" Justin snorted. "Yeah. Prisoners who do favors for the guards to get favors in return. They get to enjoy raping the prisoners who can't pull their own weight." "Justin," Ben hissed. "Don't -" "Why not? T'is what it's called. And that's what they do." He looked up at Quatre who was staring at them, eyes wide with shock. "The poor bastards who aren't strong enough physically, or have health problems, they...'serve'...the prison with sexual favors." Quatre's stomach rolled over and he felt like he was going to lose his lunch. This was outrageous! He was so furious, he couldn't even see straight. Was dizzy with it. The pacifist within him at war with the need for blood. His hands shook as he raised the water bottle up to his mouth, taking a long drink, trying to cool his rage before he did something stupid. He breathed steadily though his nose and swallowed down the emotion, allowing it to fester within his heart, to be unleashed at a later time. They were going to pay for this and pay dearly. Ben leaned closer, whispered, "We've seen it. We've been lucky. But then there's Junior." Quatre's heart skipped. "What about him?" "Be careful around him. Watch your back. He has a...thing for blonds. And I'm sure you're aware of how attractive you are. Word has it, he's already attacked a few of the prisoners." Quatre shivered in disgust and looked away. That bastard had been ogling him since he'd been brought in, but he had another thing coming if he tried to lay a hand on him, or anyone else. Ben spun the cap on his water bottle. "Just thought you should have fair warning. Try not to be alone with him if you can get away with it. I know sometimes that's impossible." "Thanks for the heads up." He glanced at each of them. "How long have you been here?" Ben propped his chin on his hand, thinking. "I've think I've been here for two months." Quatre's spine stiffened. "Two months? But - this only just started!" Justin laughed without humor and shook his head. "No. T'is only what the public thinks. This has been in the preparation stages for a long time. That 'murder' that supposedly initiated all of this? A ruse. Total shite." Quatre veins turned to ice. How had he not known about this? "Are you saying that didn't actually happen?" "You tell me. Didn't you find the coverage of the whole thing a little odd?" Quatre slouched, suddenly understanding those feelings of trepidation he'd had. It was subtle, not easily caught. It wasn't handled like most murder reports, but then again, high profile cases were always different. He'd had no reason to suspect anything was off. The red flags he'd gotten from the story he'd simply chalked up to the rising animosity towards Newtypes. Details on the crime had been elusive at best, the story always changing. The suspect had never been shown, which was unusual, but again, Quatre had simply believed it was due to the sensitive nature of the crime. His mind was reeling with this new information. He dropped his head with a frustrated sigh. "This is not happening." Caleb leaned back on his hands. "If you ask me, the kid of that little pissant, Zander, is probably living it up on some tropical island somewhere sipping cocktails on the beach and laughing with his buddies about their genius plan to rake Newtypes over the coals." Ben quickly admonished him. "We don't know that." Quatre shook his head, astonished. "I honestly had no idea. I don't even think Preventers knew." Une would have told him if she'd known anything about it. "That this has been going on...that Newtypes have been being imprisoned for so long and no one even knew about it." He felt immensely guilty, like he should have known. If he had, maybe he could have done something right off the bat and these young men wouldn't be where they were. Alhi nudged his chin at Ben. "He's been here the longest. I've been here two weeks, these two rascals three." "How did they find out about you?" Ben shrugged. "I was out, so to speak. It wasn't a secret." Justin spoke up, "My so-called friend ratted me out. Was blabbing about it all over the internet." They stiffened, quieting down as guard strolled up and barked, "Break's over. Back to work." Ben offered Quatre a small smile. "We'll talk more later." Quatre got up and dumped his tray into a cart on top of the others and watched as another prisoner pushed it away, his eyes down, refusing to look at anyone. Quatre noticed the bruise on his cheek and stopped him with a hand on his arm, whispering, "Are you okay?" The boy flinched and his eyes flickered up, looking into his own for a second before they slid to the right. Quatre glanced behind his shoulder to see Junior standing several feet away, staring at both of them. Quatre sneered at him and turned back to the boy who was already walking away, back into the building with the cart. Quatre noticed with a sinking feeling that he walked with a slight limp. He also didn't fail to notice the kid was blond. He turned around to find Junior standing directly behind him. The man gazed down at him with almost crazed eyes, spoke with a rumbly voice. "You waiting for a written invitation?" Quatre looked up at him, his eyes hardening. "You sick fuck," he muttered, stepping around the man's bulk and stormed over to the pile of blocks, picking one up and continuing his work. He worked quietly and furiously the rest of the day, so angry he couldn't even feel the fatigue that plagued his body as the sun went down. He showered mechanically and dressed in a clean uniform, sliding his feet into the standard issued slippers and obediently walked to his cell, flopping down onto the squeaky cot. He would not stand for this. He needed to do something and soon.
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