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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" Part Two: Captured Quatre came to with a headache unlike any he'd ever felt before. Disoriented, he tried to remember what had happened to cause the pain, his memory drawing blanks. Finely tuned, but slightly rusty soldier instincts kicked in, and he remained silent and still, trying not to draw attention to himself. He couldn't see, but he could hear and he piqued his ears, listening intently for any sounds that might give him an inkling of what was happening. He remembered a deafening crash and men dressed in black, their faces covered, surrounding him in his own home. They came through the front, breaking the door down and jumping through his living room window, knocking over the table where he'd placed a few of Iria's heirlooms that had been their mother's. They came in from the back and in through the kitchen and even down the stairs, having broken in through the upstairs windows as well. He and Sally had drawn their weapons, but he'd already known it was no use. They were told to lower them, or be shot. He remember placing his gun on the floor and kicking it over to the nearest soldier. A nod to Sally and she did the same. One came to apprehend him, grabbing his arms from behind. He'd reacted almost without thinking, bringing his heel down onto the vulnerable spot in the top of the man's foot, feeling the bones break and when the man bent over in pain, Quatre swung his elbow into the side of his face, hearing the sickening crunch of his jaw snapping. In three places if he wagered a guess. Two more jumped on him and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sally run forward, intent on stopping them, but before he could tell her not to, the butt of an automatic rifle smashed into her forehead. She dropped instantly, unconscious. He struggled and kicked, punched and scratched trying to get to her. He sunk his teeth into the nearest piece of flesh he could find which happened to be the neck of one of the soldiers, pulling his head away quickly when blood spurted everywhere. The man clutched his neck and screamed. Quatre pushed past him and rushed to Sally, but received a sharp crack in the back of his head. He went down like a ton of bricks, the room spinning, the light fading. He struggled up onto his knees, trying to crawl over to where she lay ominously still and felt another strike to his head, and he dropped onto the floor, senseless. He vaguely remembered the final hit before everything went dark. He was terribly worried about Sally and hoped the guys got back to her in time. He was pretty sure she was just knocked cold, but she needed medical attention. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out. He just hoped she was okay. He could hear voices, male, maybe one female, and the hum of a motor vehicle. He registered the feeling of vibration beneath him and the occasional lurch and bump. He was in a truck, he could discern that much. There was a binding over his face, a blindfold, and when he tried to move his arms, he discovered they were pinned behind his back. He could feel the unforgiving weight of metal chains. Another quick assessment and he realized his legs were also bound together. It was a relatively large truck if the voices echoing off the inner walls were any indication. He was slightly startled by a sudden laugh, but managed not to react outwardly. A male voice, gruff, ruddy, chuckled at Quatre's expense. "Who knew the great Quatre Winner was a Newtype. That's some shite for the record books, I tell ya." Another voice spoke up. "Wasn't too hard to figure out considering he was battin' for their team this whole time." A rough calloused hand gripped his chin, pulling it up. Quatre went with it, remaining limp in his position. "Fuckin' Newtypes, man." He was let go and shoved and he allowed his body to go where gravity took him. "Yeah, well. They won't be much of a threat anymore. Glad someone finally did something about it." Quatre's jaw clenched, imperceptibly, suddenly angered. Who the hell did these assholes think they were? He remained still, listening to their conversation, biting his tongue whenever they made a snide comment about him, or Newtypes in general. He figured they must have been on an unpaved road, considering how much he was getting jostled. What time was it? How long had they been traveling? Where were they going? He thought about Trowa. Wondered if he and the guys had been successful, though something told him they weren't. He also had the sinking suspicion that they might have been led away in order to get to him and that made his stomach curl up with fear. He prayed that they were okay. He wouldn't know what he'd do if something happened to them. He hoped Trowa was holding up okay, glad that Heero, Duo, and Wufei were there with him and he wasn't alone. He felt the truck roll to a stop and his hair was grabbed roughly, pulling his head up. His neck protested at the unnatural angle and he clenched his teeth against the pain. There was hot breath in his face and his stomach lurched at the sour smell of stale coffee. "Wakey, wakey, Newtype trash. Your new home awaits." The chains around his legs were unlocked and pulled away so he would be able to walk. His arms were grabbed from behind and he was yanked up onto his feet and manhandled forward. He tripped several times, unable to see where he was going and was roughly pulled up by his arms every time he stumbled, one of his captors snarling, "On your feet, dog." He was led down a gravel path for what he surmised as several dozen meters. He could feel the uneven ground and the occasional loose pebble beneath his shoes. He heard a loud buzzing and the screech of metal on metal and guessed it was a sliding gate. He stumbled again as he was pushed through, the person holding his arm whispering in his ear, too close for comfort, "And these fences are not only barbed, but electrified so you try anything, Newtype scum, you'll be shred to ribbons and then fried like a Christmas goose." Quatre kept his mouth shut, not rising to any of the taunting and allowed himself to be maneuvered around. He heard another buzz and the sound of an automatic door opening and then he was pushed inside. His nose prickled at the smell of mildew and antiseptic, which scarcely covered the distinct odor of blood and Quatre's heart gave a start in his chest. People were being hurt, possibly worse. This was not good. He was led down what he thought were several different hallways, occasionally hearing another buzz and another sliding of automatic doors. Then, he was told to stop and stay where he was. He obeyed and waited to see what would happen next. After a few moments he heard a single set of footsteps, walking towards him, the frequent scuff of a shoe echoing off the walls of the room. Whoever it was stopped directly in front of him, then paused and Quatre's heart pounded against his rib cage, his muscles tensing. The blindfold was grabbed and lifted off his head and he blinked and squinted under the bright florescent lights. His vision was a little fuzzy as he tried to focus on the man in front of him. The guy was huge, taller than Trowa even, and twice as wide. His face was covered in stubble, battle scars criss-crossed the skin of his cheek and chin, and he'd obviously suffered a broken nose at one point. His lip curled up, just slightly in a mockery of a grin, but his eyes made Quatre want to curl in on himself. They were brown and they were hard, fierce. Those eyes told Quatre everything he needed to know: that this man would take great pleasure in snapping Quatre's neck between his hands if he dare try anything. There was a flash of teeth as the man grinned at him. A grin that wasn't friendly, or welcoming in the slightest. "Good morning, Mr. Winner." The man's voice was deep and as hard as his eyes. "Though now would probably be a good time to tell you that that is no longer your name. From now on, you are prisoner number 4351A. "A" as in, high risk, which means maximum security for you, son." He reached over to a small table in the center of the room which was barren, but for that and a single chair. On top of the table sat a file. It didn't take a genius to know that that file was probably full of information about him. The man picked it up and casually rifled through it. "So...you were a Gundam pilot, is that correct?" He said it nonchalantly, like one would bring up the weather. So, how about that rain? Been a right pisser lately, hasn't it? He glanced up, eyeing Quatre critically. Quatre refused to answer, which apparently was the wrong thing to do. The man grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. Quatre choked as his airway was squeezed and he futilely kicked his feet, trying to wrench the vice-like hand away from his neck, with no success. The man lowered him until he was level with his eyes and Quatre's toes desperately tried to find purchase on the slippery tile floor. "Let me make myself perfectly clear, Prisoner number 4351A. You may have been accustomed to having your way in the past, considering who you used to be, but let me give you a little friendly advice. You are not that person anymore. You are the property of the government and as such property, you will answer any and all of my questions with the utmost honesty and respect. Do you understand?" Quatre's brain was whirling a mile a second, trying frantically to come up with a solution. He could knee the man's groin and when he went down, give him a fist upside the chin, followed by an elbow to his jaw, and make a run for it. But he knew he probably wouldn't get very far before he was shot in the back. It was already plainly obvious that negotiation was not an option either. The only thing he could do now was make nice and play along. Bide his time until he had a chance to strike back. His pride stung like a bitch as he rasped out a desperate, "Yes...yes, I understand." He coughed and sucked in big lungfuls of air as he was dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, his knees aching from the impact. Panting, he sat silently, waiting for whatever came next. The man crouched down, bending his head in an attempt to catch Quatre's eyes, but Quatre evaded him, looking everywhere but at him. He noticed a small surveillance camera mounted in the corner and the room had windows on three sides with what he assumed was bullet proof glass. The man grabbed the hair at the back of his head and pulled until Quatre yelped in pain, tears involuntarily gathering in the corners of his eyes. The hulking figure leaned forward, hissing in his face. "Now, listen to me very carefully. My name is General Blaine. I run this here outfit and I will tolerate no disrespect. This is your home now and you will be fed and clothed. You will receive proper medical treatment if and when it is necessary, and you will work. Hard. You will work alongside the other prisoners as long as there is light outside, and then you will be returned to your cell for the night to sleep. You will be able to shower once a day with the other prisoners and you are allowed to have one personal possession on you. A book, a picture, I don't care what. You will obey every single order you are given. You will not slack off, or mouth off, and if you so much as look at any of the guards in a way that makes them nervous, you will get a beat down that your mother will feel in her grave. You have three strikes. You blow your third one, you will face a tribunal who will decide whether you are worth the trouble, or not. If you are not deemed worth the trouble, you will be taken out to the field and executed in front of the other prisoners. Do I make myself clear?" Quatre raised his eyes and glared at him and the man yanked on his hair, snarling. "I can see you have a real problem with authority, but you will learn to behave yourself. We will do whatever it takes, by any and all means necessary to be sure you learn to do what you're told and do not step out of line." Blaine leaned forward, rubbing his stubbled jaw against Quatre's soft cheek. "I find it hilarious that you were actually a soldier. You don't look like you could handle much manual labor, but considering you were a Gundam pilot, I'm sure it won't be too much of a task for you. There is no place for obsolete dogs here, boy. If you can't be useful with your hands, you will be useful on your back, and if you can't be useful on your back, you will die. Understood?" Quatre's breath hitched at the implication, his mind catching fleeting images of being strapped to a cot and sexually assaulted. God, were they taking those who were unfit for manual labor and using them as sex slaves instead? He shivered, chilled to the bone, and Blaine grinned. "Oh, yes. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You're a sharp one. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that a pretty thing like you would make a very popular whore around here." Quatre looked at the floor, struggling not to vomit. He managed to swallow down a mouthful of bile. Blaine leaned back, suddenly cheerful. "So! Do as you're told, cooperate, and maybe that won't happen to you. Oh, one last thing." Blaine reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a white, circular object and Quatre's eyes focused on it, widening in dawning realization. He was going to be collared. He pulled away abruptly, scrambling across the floor, slipping and sliding on the tile as he struggled to escape, which was made exceptionally difficult with his hands cuffed behind him. Blaine grabbed his leg and pulled him back, spinning him around and holding him against a broad chest. "Now, now. This won't hurt." Quatre groaned in helpless rage as the electronic collar slipped around his neck and was locked into place with a beep of finality that echoed off the walls, damning him to this God-forsaken place. "This will not only keep you from leaving the premises by giving you a nasty shock, but it also suppresses your abilities so you are unable to try any of those Newtype tricks on us. I read that you are a telepath. No more mind-reading for you." Quatre dropped forward onto all fours, overcome with shock. His gifts, his empathy and telepathy that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, was suddenly gone, leaving a black, empty void in his mind. It was as if a huge piece of him had just been snatched away and fed to wild animals. He realized that was what these people were. Animals. Savages. Did they not understand what that did to a Newtype? He shook and shivered as the void began to swallow him alive and he threw his head back and screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed, consumed by the pain of losing an intricate part of himself. It was gone. He could sense nothing, not even a flash of emotion. He kept on screaming, the agony just too damn much. He screamed so loud, his cries were heard throughout the entire complex. He screamed until his mouth filled with blood from the broken capillaries in his throat, and then he collapsed into a trembling heap on the floor, weeping in grief. Blaine stood over him, looking down at him, and smiled brightly. "Welcome to Bridgepoint West, son. I hope you'll enjoy your stay because I promise you, it'll be the last place you ever see." Quatre didn't know how much time had passed, but it seemed like only moments and an eternity at the same time. He lay on the floor, exhausted, hiccuping every now and again. The loss of his Newtype abilities left him feeling lost, disoriented, as they had been a prominent and very natural part of him. It left him limp and drained. Lifeless. He vaguely registered the sound of guards entering the room. They reached down and grabbed him, pulling him up onto legs that didn't want to work. His knees buckled and the guards cursed about having to carry him. He hung between them, feet sliding uselessly along the floor as he was dragged down more corridors and into a wash room. He stood, helpless and wretched as he was stripped naked and washed down by cruel hands. "Don't want to contaminate the place with your cooties," muttered one the guards as he made a show of being utterly disgusted about having to touch him. The other guard snickered. "He's a lovely little thing, though, isn't he? He probably likes this. Do you like being touched like this, Newtype dog?" Quatre closed his eyes, his mind trying go somewhere else, anywhere else, as long as it was far away from here. Bruises were beginning to form on his porcelain skin from all the rough gripping and manhandling he'd endured. He kept his head down, consumed by humiliation as he was touched in his most intimate places and insulted. Once he was clean, he was taken into a makeshift locker room where the guards dressed him in a drab gray jumpsuit. Wool, to keep out the chill of the Northern English countryside. His hands were released long enough for them to get the shirt on him and then he was cuffed again. He was given a simple pair of slip-on shoes and his wet hair was combed, with no regard to any pain as it ripped and tore through the tangles and knots. There was a mirror in front of him, but Quatre could not find the will, or the strength to look at himself. I am a prisoner...I am a prisoner...I am a prisoner...The mantra kept repeating itself in his head on an endless loop. He was almost unable to believe he'd been in his home with Trowa less than a day ago. It seemed like another lifetime, an eternity ago. The guards finished grooming him and then he was dragged down more corridors until they reached what looked like a cell block. They stopped in front of an empty one. A card was swiped through a reader, and the door slid open. His wrists were freed and he was shoved inside, the door slamming shut behind him. He stumbled over to the tiny cot in the corner. The cell was maybe seven, or eight square feet in size with a small sink and a toilet. There were no windows, no chance of seeing daylight while he was in here. He dropped down onto the cot, having nothing left in him for anything else. He felt the springs poke up through the thin mattress and into his side, but he couldn't find the energy to care. He closed his eyes, feeling his consciousness slip and slide together in ways that increasingly made less sense. He held on as long as he could, thinking of better days, of better times, of his life, his home, his friends, his family. Soon, exhaustion took over. He drifted off into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of Trowa.
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