November

October 9

Ortega woke up with James already inside of him, thrusting lazily, his thighs slapping Ortega's on every move. Tega started immediately and tried to wrench himself away, but James held him fast with one hand and laid his forearm heavily across his throat. His thrusts sped up, and unceremoniously, he came. Ortega felt sick. The pressure on his throat increased, briefly, then eased as James rolled onto his back beside him, groaning quietly. Tega blinked his eyes rapidly. His mouth felt like cotton and his vision was foggy. He wasn't in his room. He'd been drugged. He couldn't remember anything after the car ride. Remembered the rape, remembered the hospital, remembered getting into the Jeep, remembered begging to go back home. Remembered that his head had hurt. Sloane had offered him some of his water. Sloane's water. Thinking of Sloane made Ortega's heart ache; not very long ago, he had believed they were friends. Tega sat up, looked around.
"Where am I?"
James was pulling the sheets up over his head.
"This," he replied, "Is my family's home."

~:~

Ortega discovered, upon looking out from one of the windows in the kitchen, that they were in the middle of nowhere. Or at least, nowhere that he knew. Green mountains stretched out as far as the eye could see in any direction. He tugged downward on James' uniform shirt, which he had been given to wear temporarily (his own clothes, old and new, were being washed) and it seemed perilously short. He was sure his fiancé appreciated how much it left exposed. Fiancé. He looked out of the window again; from here, he had no view of the base, no view of the Centre, no view of his home. His hands shook. It was all over. There wasn't any getting out of this. There had been too many of them - too many against him, too many to avoid. Even Sloane...he stopped this train of thought as a noise behind him made him jump. He turned to find an officer of about 60 staring evenly at him from the other side of the table. Tega's heart sped up.
"Hello."
The man blinked at him, obviously waiting for a reply. Ortega didn't offer one, just watched him for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. He had no idea that anyone else lived here, let alone who, or when they would come around, or if they knew who he was and what had happened, and whether they'd be angry to find him half-dressed in their kitchen. He decided he could at least say hello.
"Hola." he half-whispered, tugging down on the shirt again. The man's gaze drifted with interest down his body, lingered at the hem where bare thigh began to show, examined slim legs and narrow feet and then took a wandering path back up to his eyes. Ortega looked away, his face turning red. He felt invaded. Without breaking his gaze, the man shouted.
"James!"
Presently, James appeared, poking his head around the doorway, his look of concern turning quickly to a smile at seeing Ortega there. The man indicated him with one hand.
"This," James said, fully entering the room and approaching the now-nervous carrier, "is Ortega."
The older man narrowed his eyes at James, looking annoyed. Picking up immediately on the subtle tension, Ortega saw an in and figured perhaps a chance of escape lay with appealing to this mystery man, who appeared to hold a position of some authority within the household.
"Please, help me. My name is Ortega Nq'taki Saloman de Garindes; I'm a carrier in bloc A of the Southern Star Carrier Education Centre. My registration number is 4C6BA81. I'm not supposed to be here; he's kidnapped me and drugged me and - "
The blow caught him right on his already-bruised temple, and stars danced in front of his eyes. He hadn't been expecting that one. James was close to him, suddenly, cradling his head and swearing at the other officer.
"What the hell was that for?!"
The older man calmly took a sip of the syrupy-looking whiskey drink he'd poured in the meantime.
"He talks too much." The man eyed him one more time. "What is he? A mestizo?"
There was condescension in the last word and Ortega wanted to rip his throat out for speaking the name of his people in that way. Apparently James, who was busy at the refrigerator, collecting a cloth full of ice, also took offense.
"You'll watch your goddamn tone when you speak about my wife, and you'll keep your goddamn hands to yourself."
The man took another sip, savoring it against his gums.
"Well, it's a good goddamn thing I won't be around here much longer, then. But for now, this is still my house, James, and I'll do what I please."
Ortega inhaled sharply; was this man James' father?
"You make an excellent point." James said tightly. "It reminds me that I've been meaning to expedite your travel request. Why don't we cut this trip short and I'll see you in your grave?"
The man ignored him, kept taking large swallows.
"And anyway, don't get wise with me about your pretty little breeder; you owe him to me, remember."
Ortega watched James' reaction carefully. That seemed to have struck a nerve - he colored a bit, then his jaw flexed as he touched the ice again softly to Ortega's head.
"I don't owe you anything. I had it worked out on my own."
"You had it half-assed, as usual."
James was gritting his teeth, but still nursing Ortega's bruise gently. He set the cloth into Tega's hand and kissed his forehead. The older man scoffed.
"You're going to ruin him."
James ignored him, went to the sink.
"Oh?"
The officer finished his glass.
"You've got to be quick with his discipline - he's a mestizo; they're stubborn as mules." there was a tense pause before the man continued, gleefully, "And about as fertile."
Ortega's eyes spat fire, but before he could speak, James did. He turned, leaned casually against the counter, and his voice was calm, tone almost jesting, when he spoke.
"And that's something you'd know a little about, Ol' Johnny, Ol' Boy, isn't it? Infertility?"
The old officer's face changed completely - he went pale, then a little red, then he swore under his breath at James and threw the glass he'd been drinking from into the sink. It split and shattered against the metal basin. Ortega jumped back and James smiled in self-satisfaction as the old man stormed bitterly from the room. Ortega silently watched him go; James gave him a sympathetic smile.
"Why don't you get back to bed? You need your rest. I'll bring you some breakfast."
Ortega shook his head reflexively. No more bed. James frowned, furrowed his brow.
"Ortega. Don't be stubborn. Don't prove him right. Go."
Ortega glanced one more time out the window and turned his back to go up the steps.