apple seed

Long A/N: … So… I haven’t updated in a year O_O;;
Oops. I have been away… in another land~ away from [apple seed] forgive me >_<
Uh, I’ve become the author I hate… I’ll work harder, from now on… or try to.
Haha… yes. My French. Sucks. D: To think, three years of Japanese and practicing my Hangul at home and I’d forget 4 years of it… oh well, I guess French and I weren’t destined to like each other from the beginning (though, I can read my Le Petit Prince book since its uber win. YOU should read it too). And my Mongolian friend… never wants to tell me his language, so that’s a battle in itself XD;; stingy bastard. Actually… stingy, rotten, foul-mouthed bastard :] Thankfully.
Here’s my latest chapter~ sorry it’s taken so (too) long, please enjoy.
And please forgive any errors I might have made…
(edit) Took out the last paragraph, seems better without it

------------------------------------

Chapter III: Stole Out of The Night

‘Quiet like a tomb… or maybe the moon’, Roland tossed an infinite number of other options across the greater landscape of his mind, finally deciding that each and every one involving some form of solitude and deathliness would do. He started the process again, rerunning phrases until he became sick with them.

Fed up, Roland hauled himself out of the chair, did a few squats, rubbed his calves and sat back down. Impatiently, he scratched at his arm until he caught himself in the act, then after a minute and another mind tangent, scratched at it again. To say he was bored was an understatement of catastrophic proportions he thought savagely, jittering his legs in annoyance. Flicking his tongue out, he tasted his lips and the stale air, then swept the soft muscle across his teeth before sucking it back in.

Almost as if it had a mind of its own, his hand crept up to grate against the skin of his forearm until he noticed he had slipped back into his nasty habit and tried to still his hands at his sides to leave his arms unmolested. A minute droned by and his started to jitter his legs again, then two minutes and he was rocking. Ten more minutes and he’d have a breakdown in the ugliest white hallway he’d ever had the pleasure of haunting, he nearly screamed at the tacky floor. With all of his might, he sat stock still and counted down the seconds.

Running his slim fingers through his hair, he let out a half-hearted sigh and rocked back fiercely in his chair, unable to sit still any longer. There was a terrible crash of his metal chair against the concrete, steel enforced wall, then nothing, as if it had never happened. All too soon the only thing he could hear was the monotonous sound of his breathing; it was killing him. Bitterly, he looked into the camera at the end of the hall. It was like the evil eye, he swore, always glaring down at him from the ceiling, never blinking so that he could see his reflection on the glassy, black lens if he stared long enough. He was sure that Dante was watching, as always, and he made a face. He’d been at this for three months now; watching Khenbish, sitting in this gloomy hallway, rotting, while in turn being watched like a different sort of prisoner. Honestly, that’s what his ‘job’ was. Pure, utter monotony should have been in the job description.

Then again, it was easy work, if not the most entertaining.

Starting at four in the morning Roland had to force himself out of his warm, inviting bed, grab a quick snack while catching the bus to the prison, and above all, avoid being accosted by early bird perverts. Everyone who had the ability to have an erection in that tin-can-with-wheels seemed compelled to make a grab at his ass, he thought disgustedly. What men would do if confronted with a lack of estrogen at godforsaken hours in the morning; really, it amazed him. As long as the sky was blue, he was sure he’d never throw his sexuality out of the proverbial window just to get a good lay, or he’d cross his heart, stab it with a million nails, puncture his eyes with a spork and call it a day. As to molestation, he’d never stoop so low, he was quite sure. It was tasteless and barbaric as far as he was concerned. Kind of like a certain /someone/ he knew. He knew if Mister Barbaric in a Cell were ever on a bus, everyone was in danger of a good bout of molestation.

Speaking of his less than preferred method of transportation, Grismby had managed to get him an apartment not very far away, to make commuting easier. He had informed Roland that it was a worker’s commune for the prison and that a majority of its inhabitants were single males who all had worked year round at Alkedma. Roland had had his doubts about what the apartment would look like but was quickly quieted when he saw it. It was a cozy, small place, and for all its quaintness, it ate an astounding portion of Roland’s pay checks. This meant, predictably enough, that he lived off of bread crumbs for a few days, waiting obsessively for the next payday to roll in. In some instances he even stooped as low as accosting the mail man for his long awaited check. After awhile, the mailman had started chucking mail at Roland’s head before dashing away at a full sprint.

He started muttering about the mailman, his crappy commute, sucky job, death-bringing personal killer, and mostly his boss who quite frankly blew up the wrong skirt too much.

To give him some credit, he didn’t complain so much as grumble and did what was required of him - with some more grumbling, of course. After checking in with the time table, wrestling into his uniform in the locker room, and greeting Huffie and Dante, he’d take his station outside of Khenbish’s door until midnight. And he’d sit there, grumbling to himself and the floor that he had become agonizingly well acquainted with. Then, just when he thought it was over, the process would start all over again. He was turning into a gargoyle. Quite seriously.

Once, on one of the rare and much cherished breaks, he’d asked Huffie how the midget managed to cope with the whole process – or rather, the transformation of becoming a work-oriented zombie - and instantly regretted his slip in judgment. For a little over half an hour he had to endure the spiel the little red head indoctrinated him with. The midget ceaselessly and viciously kept Roland pinned in the Canteen with his babbling about the importance of their job and how it was motivation enough, all the while jabbing a dangerous mug at Roland’s chest. He told Roland that everyone went through the ‘breaking’ period, and sooner than he’d expect it, it’d no longer affect him.

It was so boorishly unimpressive and drawn out Roland could have sworn he was starting to erode under the elements (florescent bulbs, break room noise, and the constant jabbing of a rather hot mug). As it were, Roland could only nod and wait for a chance to cut his senior off, all whilst mildly noting that his coffee was turning into cool sludge. His break, to say the least, had ended long ago somewhere in the middle of Huffie’s long winded tirade. It wasn’t until Shorty paused for breath that Roland took the opportunity to make a clean escape, which in this case meant he ran out of the break room like a lunatic. He’d been the joke of the week, he was sure, but he’d rather have that then have Huffie bleed his ears off.

Dante never seemed to have a comment on any subject, although he did (silently) offer Roland tea from time to time, so Roland never bothered to ask him anything as it seemed like a waste of breath. His fellow Frenchman was the quiet type, and let you know by brusquely walking away or giving you this pointed look designed specifically to repel potential chatters. Though he looked like the charming, tall, dark and handsome type, Dante was more actually the brooding, ever-silent, workaholic type that would rather spend fifteen minutes struggling with his tie caught in the shredder than with another human being in anything remotely ‘conversation’ like. At least, that’s how Roland liked to see it. As it were, Dante didn’t speak much and practically did run away at conversations, though Huffie did seem to capture Dante into a chat every now and then, so it was basically the truth. Roland got the hint early on and took his questions elsewhere.

All things considered, he was quite limited as to who he could talk to since he didn’t dare approach very many of the other workers as, somehow, everyone had heard about his ‘drama-fest’ concerning something about a ‘blimp’ appendage; though no one knew the /full/ details, to his relief. He was sure he had Grimsby to blame but he’d never get the dirt on the man so had to be content with hiding away from the rest of the prison populace. At any rate he was already very unpopular since he was so unmanly and in charge of ‘The Monster of Alkedema’. Everyone kept trying to size him up and ridicule him. Damn stereotypers, Roland didn’t want to get to know them anyway.

At strictly eight A.M. sharp, the chow crew would come wheeling down the hall bearing breakfast and came back again to take away the remnants at precisely eight thirty. The same routine took place at 2 and 7. Looking down at his cheap plastic watch, watching the little digital numbers blip until they read 8:00, he heard the familiar squeak of wheels from down the hall, almost as if on cue. Joe, one of the chow team, waved heartily as the cart pulled a little to the side of the metal door. While Mallroy, a rather gloomy fellow, opened a tin cover and pulled out a sandwich on a flimsy napkin, Roland entered a pin, rolled his ID through the slot next to the monitor and used his key to open the little flap on the door. Same routine, everyday, same food, same people; nothing changed. He swore the pattern on the floor in front of his chair was forever burned into his memory. He didn’t see how Khenbish could possibly stay sane being confined as long as ten years… not that he thought the Asian was sane to start with.

And, as far as sane goes, Roland supposed the solitaries weren’t allowed utensils or plates because of safety issues (he had heard that once an inmate had tried to gouge out his left knee with a plastic spoon, though whether it was from insanity or boredom was still under debate), but he did think eating the same crummy turkey sandwich everyday for ten years was bound to drive a man insane. So, he figured, whoever had at least a sliver of sanity upon entering Alkedma lost it after a month of ‘turkey torture’. He also decided that the ‘turkey torture’ was a descendent of the Chinese water torture, since it appeared to have the same affect on some of the inmates. Joe handed Roland the aforementioned sandwich to check for any contraband. It looked almost as bland as the white, dull walls, Roland decided, disdainfully.

The flap opened and all of them stood to the sides, in case Khenbish were to try and spit or hurl fecal matter at them. Roland didn’t pin Khenbish as the type, but procedure was procedure. Then, almost distantly, he heard Khenbish sigh and start his trudge to the door; the same walk that Roland had listened to for the past three months. Joe waited until Khenbish’s shirt could be seen through the opening before he quickly slide the sandwich through the small gap and Roland waited just a second to make sure he caught a glimpse of a tan hand reaching for the morsel before shutting the flap again. Mallroy closed the lid and started the cart rolling while Joe made some idle chatter with Roland, inviting him out for a drink sometime, and then the two men went back up the hall. Roland just smiled; an opened-ended answer that allowed him to ‘say’ what people wanted to ‘hear’.

Thus far, Roland had supervised 276 meal exchanges, 36 exercise escorts, and 12 examinations. He’d rather not have had to have been there for the exams, but there was no way to escape it. Seeing someone stick their fingers up someone else’s ass wasn’t a pleasant way to start your morning that was for sure. He closed his eyes, listening, and stayed that way for what seemed like only a minute. When he opened them again, it was four minutes till 4. Jolting up, he looked around… but as usual, no one was there. Distractedly, he briefly wondered at why the chow team hadn’t woken him up. Bashfully, he looked at the camera, sure he would be reprimanded, and then got up and turned on the monitor. It took a second for the screen to clear but soon enough he saw Khenbish dozing on the cot. He turned on the audio and Khenbish’s foot stopped rocking from side to side, almost an acknowledgement.

“Exercise.”

“Hmmm…” Was all Khenbish managed to say before Roland turned the screen off.

Since the incident at the clinic, Roland hadn’t spoken a word to Ken that wasn’t pertaining to work. Which basically meant Roland got to order him about, much like a dog. And, in fact, that was how Roland had started to view him as he ignored all the subsequent yapping, waiting for his commands to be followed out. No matter how Khenbish baited, Roland never responded to him. Of course, he accomplished this only with the helpful knowledge that, for at least right now, he had the upper hand. Though, granted, he did twitch occasionally when Khenbish less than playfully brought up the whole human-giraffe-blimp-head experience.

He looked at his watch, two minutes till, and then glanced down the hall. Personally, he liked it when Khenbish got to exercise because Roland, himself, could get out of the building and out into fresh air. Secretly, in one part of his mind, he liked it because he got to watch Khenbish in the open. It let him observe the Asian in motion, with a greater range of freedom. It was very helpful in trying to build a profile of his otherwise rather mysterious ‘partner’. Usually the Asian was released into a little fenced off area, reminiscent of a child’s play pen only all metal fences, barbwire and concrete. Really child, and monster, proof. Roland and other stationed Death Watchers would observe from a separate encampment on a rampart to allow easier termination with the air riffles.

Often, Ken would occupy himself running or doing pushups, mostly in deep thought; Roland knew because Khenbish had a distinct furrow of his brow when he thought. Sometimes he would just stare at the sky with a hint of desperation or sadness, maybe it was just fierceness, while lying on the burning concrete ground. Which emotion, specifically, Roland couldn’t tell. Hell, Roland almost couldn’t tell that emotions even appeared on Khenbish’s face since the signs were so subtle. At other times Khenbish would mutter to himself in Mongolian, and once even recited a poem to no one in particular, but Roland didn’t know the name, or if it had been a real poem to begin with. All he knew was that it had been quite lovely, actually, and he was amazed someone like Ken could even appreciate it. Khenbish lost the cocky, sure-fire attitude or the menacing gruffness he wore tightly around himself when in the presences of others. Instead, he became calm, almost lost in thought and feelings he refused to release, though he was no less dangerous. He was no less guarded here than he was anywhere else. It would be foolish to think otherwise.

Roland had learned that a lot of Khenbish’s brashness and vulgar demeanor was put on much more for the perversion of his image than for plain show. Obviously Khenbish had received some kind of education, as Roland could assume from the poem, and he was more quiet and watchful when he had no one to harass. It was evident, at least to Roland, that Khenbish liked others to think him wild and stupid. And surely, it was a brilliant plan. It made things easier and made people less attentive to what Khenbish was doing, saying or thinking. Roland had almost fallen into such a simple trap until he actually sat down and started picking apart Khenbish’s mannerisms. On closer inspection, Roland had started to map out some of the blank spaces and fill in what type of man it took to create Khenbish. And thankfully, Roland had /had/ to do it, knowing Khenbish was to become his partner… or better –well, worse- his master.

Khenbish was clever, that was a fact. A fact which, in most cases generally, escaped the notice of others but to the right people became blaringly obvious. The notorious monstrosity had once gotten a hold of his cell’s key number and had marched straight to the middle of the jail and had made a big commotion under everyone’s nose, and had even returned to his own room before anyone had the slightest clue as to what was going on. He had figured out the key numbers by watching the flashlight’s metallic surface, memorizing the strokes and had looked for the numbers that had appeared most worn. He even memorized what guards were on duty, where, and which halls were more frequented than others. It was the Mongolian’s way of showing Grimsby how close he was to being able to escape; a proverbial yanking of his chain. And Roland was pretty sure in all these small escapades Khenbish had probably been thinking of a way to /really/ escape.

Now there was no need since he was going to be released, but he kept the shenanigans up regardless. No doubt his motive was in case he was to ever return or to sell the trick to other would-be prisoners. Khenbish apparently wasn’t going to be fooled by Grimsby’s promise of freedom or the deterred from the prospect of making a mini-fortune.

Roland had learned this cat and mouse game Khenbish had set up had gone on for almost the whole ten years he’d been at the prison. It had first started off with the Mongolian running from the showers to purposely get messy, just to ire the ever tidy Grimsby. That explained Ken’s dirty state most of the time. Now, it was at such a level, that Khenbish was to always be monitored lest he slip off somewhere, unnoticed. He was quite the minx, almost seemingly disappearing and appearing at will, not one to be bogged down by threats, confinements in any sense of the word, or anything else. And that was quite worrisome. It usually took six eyes, three guns and a lot of cumbersome equipment rigged to him to keep him where you wanted him. Mostly, it seemed like he was just harmlessly sifting through the jail, trying his best to get as far from his cell as he could.

But, make no mistake about it; Khenbish was also a cold blooded killer. There was a reason he was in the solitaries for almost nine consecutive years. Though Roland heard some off-handed rumors which were surely blown out of proportion, he knew there was a lot of fact in the mix of information scuttling about the prison. He knew, for instance, that Khenbish had killed a total of fifty three inmates in the span of six hours, not counting staff casualties to get him under control. Apparently, another senior inmate had made a comment, angering Ken on his second day and the Asian had used his plastic spoon to pierce the man through the eye. From there, details varied, even in written accounts from the prison bookings. It was agreed however, that somehow he had gotten a hold of a firearm and had tried to mow the whole place down.

That wasn’t the only killing spree, Roland learned as he read the records. Ken had dismantled two cellmates, first breaking all their bones, then cutting them apart with a dull butter knife he had scavenged from the mess hall, piece by piece while they were still living before he was caught. The reason stated in the report is that one cellmate had been humming after Ken had warned him to stop. He had mauled seven men in the showers, two whose heads were flattened against the wall, one beaten against a toilet, the others beaten to a pulp so badly and so torn apart, it was hard to tell what had happened exactly. Apparently, they had been trying to ‘teach him a lesson’. They had been from a gang in the prison that was notorious for raping new inmates. Needless to say, their numbers had become few during Ken’s time in the regular cell compound before he was moved to solitary.

Apart from these events Ken had killed or severely wounded several others in various assaults for varying reasons in various ways. Once, it seemed, he had been restrained, and in a fit of peevishness, had bit a guard in the lip and had ripped a good portion of his face off, just because he didn’t like the way the man looked at him. He had killed a number of women, a sign that he didn’t take gender into consideration, and there was evidence that Ken didn’t regard children above killing either though there was no record of him ever attacking one. All in all, he was a cold killing machine who did what he did to amuse himself or vent.

Roland, though he couldn’t list Khenbish’s favorite color, was pretty damned sure the man was a brilliant plotter and devilishly gifted in a wide-range of annoyingly inconvenient areas. That including strategic knack, extensive weaponry knowledge, a cruel sense of humor, escapism, sadism, probably some basic psychology … Roland could afford to imagine.

There was another secret reason he liked to observe Khenbish however. It made him something that he made himself, and others made him, not to be. Once, the routine was broken and it had offered the most intimate glimpse into who Khenbish was, as a person. Not as the ‘monster’, not as the killer, nor as the garbage he was, but plainly a human. Roland had been watching Ken with two other Death Watchers, Alve and Roderick, when Khenbish had stopped running around the court and had walked to the edge of the fence with some foreboding. Curious Roland had looked out past the fence and was surprised to see a child, not more than forty yards away, walking with his mother with flowers towards one of the Common buildings. Khenbish’s eyes followed them, concentrated, and his hand reached up and grabbed the fence in an almost delicate, caressing gesture. There were so many conflicting emotions under those heavy brows; Roland almost felt the need to cry for a man who he was sure would never, no matter the pain, emotional or physical.

Then, before Roland knew what was happening, Roderick and Alve were on top of the Asian, beating him with the nightsticks, forcing him on the ground into submission. Amazingly, he crumpled to lie flat on the concrete without much of a fuss, his eyes trained on the rough ground. He wasn’t allowed to see others, he was too dangerous if he remembered a face that wasn’t staff or found a weakness to exploit, but Roland thought he saw something in those dark eyes.

He thought he’d seen a touch of humanity and longing. It was almost as if some emotion from Khenbish’s dark past was going to bubble over. The gesture, the innocent interest in the child or the thoughts that it brought with its presence, was not part of Khenbish’s program. He didn’t express gentility or want or fear with almost anything. Roland was sure it wasn’t the child itself he wanted, feared or was gentle with, but rather an idea symbolized or connected with the child. It made him feel better to think maybe Khenbish was human after all, and yet made his insides burn to think a human was being kept like an unwanted animal. That Roland had begun to think of him as such. Nothing more than an animal, or a savage.

It was a confusing, burning, painful feeling. To be so disgusted and yet compassionate for a human you viewed as just that, a human, and at the same time a monster. To be utterly enthralled with a being who mesmerized the senses both in a sick, murderous way and in some unknown, innocent, unheard calling. Roland almost regretted seeing a softer side to Ken… but he was too curious, too caught up in his partner to really regret it at all.

“Roland, ready to go?” a voice asked, right at Roland’s side. Nearly jumping out of his skin, he jerked his gaze up at Alve, an average man who smiled at him easily.

“Yea, just let me open the door.” He murmured, scratching his arm.

He did the same routine as breakfast but to a flap immediately above the one he had opened earlier in the day. This flap had a plastic shield with little circles cut in it with a rectangular, thin strip cut in-between the circles to allow the chain of a handcuff through. The circular cut-outs were only large enough to allow one hand through at a time to prevent inmates from attacking guards. When the flap opened, Khenbish was already at the door, sliding his hands out, palms up. Roderick handcuffed them and the hands retreated. Roland locked the flap again and then opened up the door, Roderick and Alve waiting as it swung open with laser guns already aimed at their grungy prisoner.

“Hello, ladies. I’m glad to see you too.” Khenbish greeted as little red laser lights dotted his forehead. Par usual, he looked a little bored as his shackled hands came up to scratch his stubbly chin.

“Let’s go.” Growled Roderick, cocking his head down the hall. “Same routine, no funny business or you’ll be out before you can blink.”

“Are you still bitter? I knocked you out three months ago, Rodger.” Ken muttered, “Be a man and get over it and get your panties out of a knot and remove your head from your ass, ape face.”

Roderick’s forehead twitched, noticeably, and Alve narrowed his eyes. Roland, not being too interested in the same conversation that took place every day, didn’t react at all. No one answered and Khenbish just shrugged, already anticipating this typical response and slowly sauntered out of the cell, making his way down the hall. The two veteran Death Watchers immediately took post by his sides, laser guns already aimed at his carotid, just in case.

The Mongol could probably run Roland and the others right over without any effort, but with the threat of his artery being lasered (which would lead to death, subsequently), he decided to be obedient. Roland trailed after them, nightstick in his hand, watching Khenbish’s strong, but horridly lean back ripple under the cheap, dirty uniform. He became so mesmerized by the leisurely way the muscles ground against the skin, sharp peaks in dark flesh under a tattered uniform that he didn’t notice Khenbish had stopped walking until he almost ran the man over. Jerking himself away, so he could avoid touching the prisoner, Roland leaned over to the right, trying to locate the cause of the delay.

Grimsby’s personal assistant, Hawthorne, was standing in the middle of the hall with a look that could peel potatoes. The blonde had sharp features and wasn’t anything more than decent, but his suit was very sleek and stylish, in comparison to most everyone else’s more drab garb, making him stand out and giving him a more callous look. Curling a lip, Hawthorne thumbed his tie, glaring, and Roland glanced at Alve and Roderick for some kind of hint as to what was going on. No answer was reaped however, as he found both men glancing curiously between him and each other. The uptight blonde disdainfully regarded them each in turn, making it harder for Roland to figure out just who he was going to chew out. Hawthorne coughed into his fist, looked at Khenbish like he was the most blasphemous creature that had crawled out of hell before locking his frighteningly harsh gaze onto Roland, and sneered.

“The Warden would like to speak with Officer Fagg and his ward. Immediately.” The man said coldly, his nose upturned.

“Sir.” Roland returned, snapping to attention. “We’ll come after ex-”

“You are, Officer Fagg, to come immediately.” snapped Hawthorne, glaring at Khenbish who had chortled, “You’d do well to get moving, /Officer/.”

Roland snapped to attention again, grinding his teeth a little, before the troupe marched in a new direction. When Hawthorne had been left a considerable distance behind, Alve and Roderick glanced at each other, and then hazarded a peek back at their effeminate team member.

“Any idea what that was about, Roland?” Alve asked, narrowing his eyes at Khenbish who had tugged his arm up to scratch at his chin.

“No…” Roland thought pensively; he /did/ fall asleep earlier… but that was normally Hawthorne’s domain, scolding Roland that was. Grimsby generally ignored Roland as he was simply too busy trying to keep the prison in working order to worry about a fake guard slacking on his fake job. Theydon never came around, or at least, not that Roland knew of. Other than that, there would never be any visitors for Roland, and certainly none for Khenbish, so he wasn’t really sure what Grimsby wanted, “No. I don’t know.”

“Well, that sucks.” Roderick replied, grimly, “No doubt you’re in for an ass chewing of some kind… and when the old Grim Reaper calls you in himself, and it’s not his bitch Hawthorne, then a pay cut is in order.”

“But, he wouldn’t need Khenbish to be there if he was just going to fuck Roland over.” Alve countered, “That’d give the dirty mongrel too much to use against Roland.”

“I exist, you piss fucking cock sucker.” Khenbish snapped, glaring almost lazily at Alve. He was already used to this kind of treatment, so Roland guessed it was more for pride than anything else.

“I guess that’s true,” Roderick agreed, ignoring Khenbish entirely, “Then, I’m not really sure why you’re going Roland… But, Grim Reaper isn’t called that for nothing.”

“Yea…” Roland replied, though, while no one was looking he gently touched Khenbish’s back, a sort of apology, because he figured they were partners and he should try to make the whole thing less painful than it could be. Khenbish made no sign that he felt the gesture and they all trudged along in silence to the Administration building.

It took forever, but finally, Roland was seated in that ever familiar uncomfortable plastic chair, Khenbish leaning against the desk, in another chair. Again, Roland was aware how lenient Grimsby was in regards to Khenbish’s limitations when they were alone, but he figured it was to make Khenbish more complacent. A happy Mongolian, it seemed, was a nice Mongolian. Grimsby was busy, scrawling on some documents, making some brief phone calls, not once glancing up. Roland started to scratch his arm again, and nearly jumped out of his chair when he caught Khenbish dissecting him with his eyes. With the naughtiest gaze he cared to muster, the Mongolian winked and kicked Grimsby’s desk as hard as he could. Needless to say, the name plaque and a few other items fell loudly to the floor, earning Khenbish a dirty glance.

“Yes, yes, Derma, thank you. Oh no, yes, I will see to that personally. Thank you.” Grimsby hung up the phone, and raised his eyes onto Khenbish, pinning the Asian, “Hello to you too.”

“Why did you need to speak with us sir?” Roland asked.

“You’re really fucking stupid, huh?” Khenbish threw casually, almost in the tone one uses to greet others, turning in his chair so his long legs were hanging off the arm rests, and toed Roland, “Why else would he call us in? Free porn? Homo.”

“Well,” Grimsby tried to start, before Roland interrupted.

“I think you’re the homo, since you’re the one who keeps cracking gay jokes. Oh, and I do believe /you/ are the one who molested /me/, making you the numero-uno homo in this room.” Roland snapped, shoving the foot away.

“Well, I admit, I thought there was a girl in the room and tried to bone her. You can’t blame a man… But you can blame a man for trying awfully hard to look like a little girl, isn’t that right? Sissy boy?” Khenbish taunted, pushing Roland more forcefully with his foot, “You wanted to be fucked.”

“…I refuse to speak with you. Asshole.” Roland spat, scooting his chair away trying, unsuccessfully, to get out of Ken’s reach.

“Yea, well-” Khenbish started when he ended up with a face full of manila folder. “This is getting too fucking familiar.”

“If you’d STOP interrupting me and spouting retarded hoopla, I wouldn’t have to use the manila folder of silence.” Grimsby replied.

“You’re the gay one.” Khenbish decided, and proceeded to nudge Roland with his toe.

“Tonight, Roland, I plan on you two escaping.” Grimsby replied, leaning over the desk and swatting Khenbish’s feet with a newspaper he’d scrounged from somewhere. “Stop that, it’s rude and completely unhygienic. At any rate, at precisely 11:21 you are to unlock Khenbish’s door because that’s when the power will go off. You two are to go to the Canteen and behind it, near the trash heap will be everything you need for now.”

“You ignored my gay comment… Does this mean you /are/ gay?” Everyone ignored Ken.

“Everything? Like what? Expand on this ‘everything’ business, please?” Roland prodded, curious.

“Shut up, bitch. God, can’t you think? Like, maybe some food and weapons?” Khenbish muttered, “You’re just like a fucking woman, bitch, bitch, nag, nag. Can’t be content unless you know everything, even if it’s fucking obvious, dip shit. Fucking boovon tolgoi.” (dick head)

“Shut up, you asshole. I like to know what I’m getting into and with what tools, ok? It’s called being prepared and I think that’s a trait you obviously don’t have. Considering that you’ve gotten caught and kept for ten years, stupid emmerdeur.” (shitwit/bloody nuisance) Roland retorted his face red and fists balled. Being called gay was one thing, but being called a woman touched on a nerve.

“Wanna run that by me again, ass fucker?” Khenbish whispered, grabbing Roland’s collar and dragging the small man towards him, noses almost touching. “Well?”

“Fuck you.”

“Muu altsaasan gomo, you want to try it?!” (Dirty spread-legged homo)

“To answer your question Roland, there is a week’s rations for one, an assortment of weapons, mostly things Ken’s fond of, some tools, and some cash. Nothing too impressive, but this is the best we could come up with under the circumstances.” Grimsby interjected in the tremulous silence, trying to distract the two before things got ugly.

“Wait a second…” Eyes narrowing, Roland looked at Grimsby over Khenbish’s arm, “You said rations for one… and weapons /he’s/ fond of… this sound a lot like-”

“That’s right, bitch. It’s all for me. And you want to know why you cunt? ‘Cause as of 11:21 tonight you’re nothing but a fucking slave.” Khenbish hissed into Roland’s ear, his grip on Roland’s collar constricting enough to make the hold painful.

“Well, anyway. If you run north, you should be able to find refuge in the mountains,” Grimsby smoothed down his tie, “Of course, if you make it that far.”

“Don’t insult me.” Khenbish replied frostily.

“North? Isn’t Asrun somewhere in the south? In the desert?” Roland raised a brow, yanking himself out of Khenbish’s grasp and elbowing the other for good measure, “So we’re swinging up north and then sneaking south?”

“Correct, since the bulk of the search squad will immediately head south to ‘recapture’ you two…” Grimsby smiled, “It’s no secret that’s where Khenbish would go if he were ever to escape. He’s got enemies in the North, and a big UEL army encampment is up there. These things are hard to keep hidden from prisoners, even the solitaries. It’d be a safe bet Khenbish would make a clean break for Asrun, especially since he knows the country better than anyone.”

“Why do I need to bring him again?” Khenbish whined, looking glumly at Roland, like a child who got a lizard when he’d been expecting a fire breathing dragon.

“Stop whining, it’s detestable,” Grimsby muttered, rummaging through a drawer before smiling valiantly, “Here are things you’ll need Roland.”

Cautiously, Roland picked up the little bag Grimsby slid across to him. Fingering the pouch, he immediately recognized the bracelet and remote. Quickly, he stuffed it in his pocket, nodding curtly, minimizing the time Khenbish got to familiarize himself with the pouch and guess its contents. When he briefly skittered his gaze at his partner, he had to immediately flit his eyes in the other direction. Blood was rushing to his ears, Roland knew, as he stared at Grimsby’s collar, trying to ignore the piercing, suspicious gaze Khenbish was bathing him in. After what seemed like ages, Khenbish shifted his attention to the Warden.

“So… In the mountains… I assume, after we’ve gotten that far it’s up to me to dictate the schedule right?” Khenbish asked, smiling mischievously.

“Yes. But keep in mind our contract. You are to go to Asrun, get information on who exactly is running the Free Wings, and before you ask, I don’t care how. You are to report any information you find to the Mole. He’ll know how to contact me.” Grimsby’s face hardened, “And I would like to see Roland return to me… whole. If that is accomplished, you get the information you’ve been wanting and a full pardon and erasure of all your criminal records. You’ll be a new man. Although, it’d be nice if you let the UEL commission you to kill the leader of Free Wing.”

“You better hope I don’t find the information you’re trying to bait me with on this little escapade.” Khenbish spat, “Because if I do, you can forget about my pardon, your little mission and you’re little boy toy here.”

“Of course.” Grimsby returned with equal force.

“Glad we’re agreed.” Khenbish withdrew himself from the cold desk, slumping back in his chair, all long limbs and malice.

Roland stared between them, listening to the AC breathe loudly in the silence. He almost felt a gnawing sense of resentment at the fact he had become a mere trifle in a bartering agreement, but the tension in the room drained him. Finally, Grimsby tore his livid gaze from Khenbish’s, and looked at Roland with a different fierceness.

“Roland, God Bless.” Grimsby said, giving him a straight-faced, unguarded and completely genuine face. It made the younger man run cold, and he could only manage a nod and weak ‘Sir’.

Time passed much like it did every other day for everyone in the compound except for Roland. Constantly, he scratched at his arm, glanced around, and tapped his foot. Of course, Dante might notice, but Roland was too preoccupied to care. Besides, he felt a little safe knowing Dante might mark it off as the ‘breaking-in period’ all Death Watchers went through during their first few months of detailing.

Dinnertime came and went, and Roland felt like it was just a blur, his mouth chalk and his lungs heavy. Time at first for Roland had lagged, as if to drag its feet unbearably, and then, as the mission approached, it raced forward. It was like time was hurdling itself at him, and he was so frightened by it that he was almost gasping for breath, until he realized that the soft wheezing sound was coming from him and not the AC. Controlling his breathing with all his being took a few minutes of painful concentration. He had to act normal, least Dante become overly suspicious, he reasoned, sitting in his chair, trying to relax as he watched his digital watch tick ominously towards the numbers he feared most. It took several tries to pry his hands from the seat ledge, his knuckles white and palms sweaty. After a few seconds, he slipped his head back, closing his eyes as his neck tingled against the ice cold wall, then he let out a long, slow sigh. Hopefully Dante hadn’t noticed… hopefully this was all a horrendous dream.

When he opened his eyes again the power suddenly shut off, the alarm system squealing on emergency power. Initially he was confused and tried to peer around him in the dark, stumbling from his chair. Covering his ears against the shrieking alarm he took a breath and held it, thinking. The mission. Roland rushed towards the door, fumbling in his belt to pull out his flashlight, something clattering on the ground due to his clumsy pawing. Cramming the little metal light stick in his mouth, tasting bitter metal on the flesh of his soft tongue, he flipped it on, and stole a quick glance into the blackness where he knew a dead camera was still watching him with a glass eye. Tripping over the dratted chair, he made his way to the monitor running on batteries and entered the pin. It took four tries for him to stuff the key into the door, and suddenly, as he pulled it open, he regained all his composure. Gone was the quake of his hands, the trembling of his legs that threatened to cripple him, and all that remained was an eerie sense of calm.

He could see the glint of a porcelain toilet, and the silver outline of the steel table. Squinting, he tried to look inside, but it was so dark and the flashlight so pathetic, he really didn’t see much. He certainly didn’t see Khenbish, and that was mildly distressing. Off in the distance, he heard some kind of commotion, a clattering that screeched into the pulsing shriek of the alarm, and he froze, straining his ears. He counted down, ten seconds, nine, eight… When nothing happened, he relaxed a little, and put his hand on the doorframe. That’s when he heard breathing, and it was so loud, it seemed like it was coming from behind him.

He was about to leap inside when two strong hands grabbed him, propelling him out. Startled, he dropped the flashlight, and as it rolled on the floor, he looked into Khenbish’s shadowed face, handsome and grim.

“Let’s go, Boghul.” (Servant).

Roland didn’t even get out a nod as he was yanked behind his partner who was already slinking into the dark, ignoring the flashlight on the ground. Roland took a second to close his eyes, compose himself again, before opening them only to be alarmed at his partner’s disappearance. Khenbish was already swallowed by the shadows, past the weak gleam of the flashlight, not bothering to wait for Roland who was trying to get his legs to work properly. Lunging forward and grabbing hold of the dirty material of Ken’s uniform, Roland stumbled after, his sense of direction totally disrupted in the pitch blackness he was lead through. Vaguely he wondered at where Ken was going until he realized the Mongolian had probably memorized the entire compound over the ten years he’d been there and just let the other lead. They trailed on in silence, and again there was a commotion, still in the distance, and Khenbish brought them around it, away from it, and Roland was sort of glad he wasn’t by himself.

It felt like forever had passed, again time had changed its pace on Roland, and he held his breath. Really, five minutes had slipped by, but Roland swore he was at least twenty years older as he followed his soon-to-be Master through the dark. His shoulders were getting bruised, as Khenbish would abruptly turn, sending the smaller man into corners. Roland thought he had heard a little chortle once, and started to get a sneaking suspicion it was on purpose. They stopped after a short time, and it seemed like Khenbish was listening, for what though Roland hadn’t a clue.

Then, a great lurching sound was heard, and a low drum of a generator whizzed, and the dim emergency lights came on.

“Status, stage 5, security power up. EIS, none. Plan, suicide-path, straight into enemy lines. Weaponry?” Khenbish muttered, almost so quickly and quietly, Roland hadn’t heard him. And what he did hear, he didn’t really understand. But he thought he heard something about his weapons, so…

“Uh, nightstick, stun-gun, cuffs and a semi-automatic pistol.” Roland whispered, hoping he had replied fast enough, stumbling as Khenbish thrust back a hand.

“Pistol.”

“Er…” Roland fumbled, trying to get the blasted thing out from the belt loop it had gotten caught on. Of course, the day he really needed it, it had become attached to his pants.

“Fuck, I knew you’d be a setba-” Two uniforms ran across the hall in front of them, and Khenbish threw Roland back into another corridor. “Baas!” (Shit!).

Too late, they’d been spotted. Khenbish ripped the gun from Roland’s pants as he heard two sets of feet slip across the floor, backpedaling. The guards were racing back down the hall and Khenbish let out another curse. Roland numbly stared at his ruined pants, the word ‘setback’ echoing in his mind.

“You there!” One of the guards cried, and Roland watched as Khenbish flung out of the hall, intercepting the two. It was almost slow motion to the small Frenchman as Ken pulled the trigger, his arm only moving slightly at the recoil. There was a short scream, Roland didn’t know if it was the voice of one person or more, and almost immediately after came the sound of bodies hitting the floor. Two sharp eyes flashed at Roland.

“Get the fuck over here!” Khenbish snapped, clearly pissed, and Roland complied. Emerging from the tunnel, he slipped across the floor, Ken already a good way down the hall. He glanced down at the fallen men, and his legs almost gave way. One of them had been Alve. Alve, the man who had been one of his few companions these short months he’d spent ghosting the halls of the prison. Alve, the man who had invited him to dinner with Roderick. Alve, the man who had two little girls, a baby boy, and expecting wife waiting for him to return. And it was Roland’s fault that he’d be returning. Returning in a coffin.

“Mon Dieu…” (My God). Swallowing down bile that threatened to come up, he tried to tell himself he didn’t care. Forcing his gaze upwards, he ran faster, to catch up with the retreating Mongolian. He had to make it out of here; he had to complete the mission… at all costs.

Wiping a stream of sweat from his eyes, adrenaline pumping through his veins or perhaps just simple fear, Roland reluctantly turned down a hallway he’d seen Khenbish disappear into. It was empty, and in shock he stopped on the balls of his feet, looking at the two halls that connected to the one he was in at a halfway point. There was another hall all the way at the end, at least thirty yards away that also split in two directions. Somehow he’d lost Khenbish and it was impossible to tell which way the Asian had gone.

He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to go. Had he seen right? He’d been trained for intelligence, for surveillance, for missions, but he’d never been /in/ a mission… he couldn’t do this. He didn’t know how, he couldn’t do what was required of him. It was too confusing, too terrifying, too… he was too human to do this. Someone ran out from the hall on the right at the half mark, and came to an abrupt stop. It was Roderick. Unable to move, Roland stood there dumbly, watching as the other Death Watcher started to jog over. Roderick had a radio, said something into it, and then raised it, gesturing to Roland with it. Roland’s fingers flexed minutely over the spot where his radio should have been… he’d lost it somewhere in the dark.

“Roland! Where’s you radio? Dante’s got the surveillance back on-line and he’s spotted Ken! What the hell happened? Roland?” Roderick was getting closer. Roland closed his eyes. ‘Your Khenbish’s slave…’ He was supposed to use this as his cover… he was supposed to be Khenbish’s slave who helped him escape… He had to do this for the mission. His hand calmed, and he pulled out his stun gun. He had to secure his alibi.

“I’m sorry about Alve, Roderick.” The senior Death Watcher jerked back, confusion starting to creep into his face.

“What are you-?” Roland squeezed the trigger just as someone grabbed his shoulder, painfully. “No…”

“Let’s go, Checheg.” Pulling Roland away, Khenbish momentarily tightened his grip before relaxing it. That grip meant he had done the right thing, but, it hadn’t felt more wrong.

“You… traitor!” sputtered Roderick, sagging to the floor from the pain of the stun gun. The Death Watcher was twitching and gasping from the electric shock and the air smelt slightly, almost imperceptibly different, and all the while those glazed eyes were still locked on Roland’s, accusing. All the Frenchman could do was turn away and follow his companion out of the building. He had secured his alibi… and the knowledge only made his heart sink. He was no longer ‘Roland’, but he was ‘Checheg’; a slave, a traitor, scum, less than dirt… and it hurt.

It hurt more than he could have ever imagined.

Wheezing, Roland opened his eyes and became aware that he was outside, behind the Canteen. A row of trashcans was on his left, near the edge of the building. Even at this hour of night flies were humming and the sweet smell of rot filled his nose, making him gag. Turning away with a hand firmly covering his mouth, he tried to think at how he had gotten there. He didn’t remember anything after seeing Roderick, he realized, adjusting his position against the warm cement wall. He was breathing heavily, drenched in a cold sweat, dirt sticking to his palms. It was summer, and they were in the desert in the edge of the Asian territories. Despite the fact that it was night, it would be a few more hours until the burning heat would lift and the freezing cold of night would settle in, and Roland sweat furiously. He told himself, repeatedly, it was from the heat, not fear.

It was dark out, he could even clearly see the stars, and the spot lights were swinging about wildly like piercing beams of light slicing through the night, searching like a ravenous beast in hopes of pinning its prey. Roland squinted in the dark about him, barely making out the shape of his partner, immediately to his right. Khenbish was on his belly, reaching under a crevice cleverly concealed in the building face, trying to fish out the bag Grimsby had left them.

Sirens shrilled and Roland heard the shouting of commands and the frantic scurry of feet; the whole prison was in chaos as they searched for the two criminals. Yes, he was a criminal now. He was no better than Khenbish, not until he completed his mission. His arms felt numb and he was almost washed over with a hundred emotions. He wasn’t like those heroes in stories or comics or movies who had an un-ending reserve of ‘strength’. Up until now, he had been a person, just like anyone else and he just didn’t have any ‘hero’ in him. He felt lost and small.

“Khanan deer khaana damn bag baina ve?” (Where on the wall is the damn bag?) He heard Khenbish seethe. Roland paid little attention and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath and calm down, trying to reason things out. “Hutsaad bai!” (Don’t bullshit me!)


Something tapped his leg, startling his already ragged nerves, and made him glance down. He sighed when he saw that it was only Ken’s elbow and let his gaze wander down the arm to see the emerging, dirt-covered duffel. There was a particularly loud whistle somewhere to his left, and Roland quickly peeked past the trash in the direction he thought it had come from, though he only saw some buildings looming out of the dark and little black objects scuttling about between the search lights. Khenbish’s dirty face was suddenly leering at him before dipping away and Roland pushed himself off the wall, his back suctioning off because of his sweat, following as the Asian scooted over to the fence, rummaging through the bag. It was so hot out here.

“Ok, make sure no one’s coming while I do this.” Khenbish threw over his shoulder as he started cutting into the fence, his work sloppy and fast.

Roland was sure he was going to end up covered in cuts but they had no time; the full power would come back on anytime now and then the electric fence would be turned on. Why didn’t Khenbish cut the damn thing faster? Anxiety threatened to cripple him again, and his hands scratched at his arms, furiously. Peering across the stretch of cement and fake grass, Roland sat as still as a stone, watching the little shadows of men flurry about. Khenbish had only cut a third of the hole out, and some of the shadows were getting closer. Actually, they seemed to be heading straight for them. Squinting, Roland waited two heartbeats, watching the dots.

“Khenbish, hurry!” Roland urged, sweat running down his neck as the little black dots grew into pinky-sized forms and larger still. “Anytime now would be nice…”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re fucking me up!” Khenbish snapped, and Roland heard the clippers click faster. If the guards didn’t hear them now they would in another three minutes Roland thought desperately in his head, smearing his pants with his sullied hands.

“Kennn…!”

“DONE!” Khenbish harshly whispered, triumphant. Scooping up the bag he immediately slid through the tiny hole, Roland quickly sliding up to the fence behind him, still watching the guards approach.

“HEY! Do you see that?”

Roland froze.

‘Huh, wha-STOP!”

A flashlight beam hit Roland square in the face and abruptly he was yanked through the fence by his ankle, his arm catching on a stray wire. The grip on his ankle jerked fiercely and the skin ripped on the wire, slicing deep into Roland’s arm, but he was so frightened he didn’t even notice.

“Run!” Khenbish’s voice murmured in his ear, and Roland felt a hand grip his wrist tightly and pull him off the ground, away from the prison, across the rocky, almost barren landscape that surrounded the compound. “Faster! They’ll shoot, faster you fucking dumbass!”

And he did run, his heart was in his mouth and his arm ached, and he ran as if the devil himself was right on his heels. A short burst of bullets biting dust rang out into the night against the sirens, but Roland didn’t turn back and kept plunging forward. Already his lungs were burning and Khenbish a good ten paces in front of him, and judging by the faint glow behind him the spotlight was catching up to him. He heard the guards trying to slip through the fence, then a high-pitch scream accompanied by the powerful sound of an electric current shrilled followed by a surprised curse. The fence had turned back on, and it seems it had saved them, ironically enough. Roland just ran, chasing after the fleet man in front of him, afraid of being left behind.

They ran, farther and farther, and the scenery remained flat, and Roland was tired. It felt like they’d run miles, and still there was nothing for them to hide behind or in, and so they kept running. Already, he was sad to admit, he had gotten a cramp and was out of breath. He hazarded a glance back, finding that the prison was just the size of a dime now, but he could still hear the alarms and he saw something that sent alarm right through his core. At first, he thought they were men with flashlights, chasing after them, but as he turned around and ran impossibly faster he knew what it was they really were. Those were headlights and that meant jeeps were coming after them, filled with men and guns. Roland closed his eyes, swallowing, and sprinted into the black, trying to hear his partner’s footsteps.

Slipping, he coughed up sand, and struggled to get up, his arm throbbing with pain and blood smearing into the shifting ground. He didn’t hear footsteps, another trill of alarm went through him and he hobbled forward, his legs refusing to bare his weight and crippling him to his knees. Panic was almost crushing him now as he shuffled frantically on his hands and knees, his palms becoming irritated from the rough sand. Then, to his horror, his legs started to gum up and weren’t moving properly, and he knew he was done for. He was so frightened, he’d be caught and killed, and his body had locked up ensuring it would happen. He wasn’t strong enough for this; he was too afraid and he gave up, lying there hopelessly, panting.

Roughly, he was yanked up by his collar and manhandled onto his feet. Had he been caught? They were going to kill him, weren’t they? He could hear the hum of the jeeps. The hands shook him, hard. Lips were at his ear and urging him to keep running. He wanted to tell the person he couldn’t, to go on without him, but the grip was now on his arm, tugging and he let himself be pulled along. Khenbish growled in frustration and simply threw the useless young man over his shoulder and sprinted away at the sound of approaching vehicles. Roland managed to raise his head up, too numbed to be embarrassed, watching as the dim lights grew steadily into piercing beams. The jeeps were almost on top of them.

Out of desperation Khenbish leapt and Roland felt weightless for a moment as he was flung into the air, then he hurt all over as he plummeted against the ground, sand grinding and cutting at his flesh, his legs over his head so he was staring straight into the stars. He lay there, breath knocked out from his lungs, before his back started to scream with pain. Coughing, he tried to roll over when a dirty hand clamped over his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds and he was dragged down what he realized was a trench of some sort. Making use of his own hands and knees so Khenbish would release his painful grip on his shoulders, he followed the Mongolian a ways down, all the while his heart thumped in his throat, until the man stopped. Listening intently, he heard Khenbish move something heavy from the sand wall before he was urged inside a hole in the crumbling sand wall, the Asian quickly crammed inside with him and drug whatever it was back into place.

In mid tug, Khenbish froze and Roland’s blood turned to ice. An unknown number of jeeps thundered overhead, and then sand came showering down from above and into their niche from where Khenbish hadn’t completely sealed the opening. If the soldiers came down now, they’d surely be found and Roland didn’t want to think of the consequences. There was murmuring. The motors were killed and Khenbish pressed back against Roland who was sweating at the heat, his lungs clogging up at the lack of air.

“Damn, they got all the way to the dunes.” Someone said, kicking sand down the side of the trench.

“Yea, well, that means we’ll have to do a comb.” Another person said, irritated, “If only O’Conner hadn’t been stupid and tried to go through the fence this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Yea, well, I didn’t think the jeeps would have so many problems with sand in the damn gears… fucking army leftovers.” The first person spat. “And nobody can get a hold of the new vehicles because of the shortages.”

“We’re lucky we even have vehicles. I heard another prison’s extra jeeps were taken apart for their rubber and steel. It tells you how bad times are now.” Replied the other.

“Do we really have to do a search right now? That monster has the advantage in the dark, he’ll probably kill us all when we’ve split up to do the sweep… Besides, the Jacks are out here, they probably won’t survive. And I’d rather not run into the Jacks or the Monster.”

“Well, you’re right about that Asian bastard, he’ll probably try to attack, and with all those dunes and shit, not to mention the trenches, he’s got the advantage. I heard he killed a whole platoon once, single handedly with just a cheap knife and relic handgun.” More sand trickled down as some new footsteps came over to the edge. “Jacks are just as bad too.”

“Hey, I just got a radio back from Alkedema. They say to put off the search till tomorrow, it’s too dangerous. Besides, even if they do survive the night, they haven’t got anywhere to hide, it’s just desert from here. HQ says /if/ they survive, they’ll surely head south anyway to get out of the desert and away from the UEL encampment.” The new person informed the two voices and there was a satisfied grunt.

“That’s for sure. Well, we’ll get a good night’s rest while those two pigs sweat it out tonight, and tomorrow, we’ll kill us some bastards.” There was a cheer of agreement and in a few seconds, the jeeps were squealing to life and speeding away.

“Jacks? What are Jacks?” Roland asked after a few minutes when his heart had climbed back into his chest, his mouth brushing on what he thought was Khenbish’s shoulder.

“Oh… They’re kind of like jackels and hyenas I guess, you know, those extinct animals? But, they’ve been genetically altered. They were made to use to kill civilians and all, but they’re really wild and were left out here to die. Problem is, they aren’t good at dying.” Khenbish answered almost without thinking, his voice coming from somewhere to Roland’s right, near his feet.

“Uh… I don’t mean to be pessimistic, but does this mean we’re going to die out here?” Roland almost wailed, his hand inadvertently gripping Ken’s arm.

“…Babe, I have problems dying too.” Khenbish threw casually, tearing his arm away from Roland’s grasp, and the smaller man heard the Asian wipe sweat away.

“Oh, well, that’s good.” Roland supplied lamely, scratching his arm. He was starting to feel horribly ashamed with himself, now that it was over for the moment.

“That’s really fucking annoying.” Khenbish returned, though he didn’t specify as to what he was talking about for a few minutes. Then he snatched Roland’s hands, “I said, that’s fucking annoying.”

“I can’t help it! I have to do something with them!” Roland snapped.

“Then put the damn things to some use.” Khenbish whispered harshly, and Roland’s hands were shoved onto something covered in cloth.

“What the fuck?!” Roland jerked his hand away, but the vice-like grip kept his hands right on top of Ken’s cock. “Stop it! That’s sick!”

“Look, you’re going to have to get used to this, bitch. You’re my fucking slave, and you’re going to have to learn how to take it up the ass while licking my boots and following my every command. You think a slave can say no? Especially to someone of my ranking in the Underground? Well, then go ahead and try and get shot, it’s not my fucking problem.” Khenbish said, tightening his grip and Roland was sure there were bruises.

“But… but…” Roland tugged at his wrists weakly, thinking it over with an ample amount of horror. It was true, as a slave he probably didn’t have any say at all, and Khenbish seemed like the type to just let Roland suffer if he fucked up his alibi. He quailed, tears of embarrassment and shame threatening to fall as his face got hot. “I really, really, hate you.”

“Hm, we’ll have to work on that too.” Khenbish teased, his hand coming up from the dark to stroke the back of Roland’s neck. It wasn’t a loving stroke, or a kind one, just a touch to remind Roland of his position and humiliation.

Numbly, the Frenchman let his hand touch Khenbish’s cock, with a lot of reluctance. He contemplated just ripping it off and running for his life, but the fingers pressing into his wrist flexed as if they knew what he was thinking and he sagged with terrible defeat. Not really knowing what to do, he just sort of petted it through the cheap prison uniform until Ken got impatient and took his hand and made it encircle the thing. Squeaking, Roland tried to pull away again and Ken let out an annoyed grunt. He obviously wasn’t finding Roland’s antics very cute.

“You… that thing is HUGE.” Roland almost screamed, trying his hardest to wrestle his hand away.

“Thanks.” Came the smug reply.

“And you want to put it… I don’t know where, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like it at all.” Roland cried, struggling to get free. “Please don’t do this! I’ll be good and won’t disobey you if you just won’t make me do this kind of stuff!”

“How do you know you’re not gonna like it, my little cock sucker?” Ken dragged Roland closer, making the smaller, pale hand pump his cock slowly. “I’m sure you’ll be singing a different tune when I plug you with this monster.”

“No!” Roland all but sobbed. He was so ashamed that he had broken down, but he couldn’t help it. Damn it, why /wasn’t/ he a body builder?

Then, almost magically, Khenbish let go and Roland tried to squirm away, thinking maybe Khenbish had taken pity on him. Khenbish liked to tease, and besides, Roland thought frantically, he probably wasn’t gay either. The Asian grabbed his hips and pulled him into Khenbish’s lap, crushing Roland’s desperate hopes. It was so uncomfortable, because of the way their tiny hole was constructed, and Roland had to curve his back to stop from hitting his head on the ceiling, so that he face was in Khenbish’s neck. His legs were draped over Ken’s hips, curling underneath him, and he couldn’t find purchase to push off. Then he felt it, at first he wasn’t sure what it was, but it made itself quite known. The Asian’s hand was unbuckling his belt and unsnapping the button. Roland squirmed, until he felt something stiff underneath his ass and stilled almost instantly. Khenbish’s chuckle sent chills of fear down his spine and another dirty hand was worming its way under Roland’s shirt.

The intruding hands crept into his pants and pulled it off his hips with a few violent tugs. Roland sniffled, and lamely tried to escape. Khenbish ignored him, per usual, and his left hand snaked back up the shirt and his right hand swept over the tip of Roland’s soft member. His thumb pressed a little roughly against the head and then he started to tease the length by pumping slowly over it before reaching down to massage Roland’s balls. Roland let a few tears fall, still struggling, with some small raw sobs escaping from his throat, and he tried to shrink away from the hand doing strange things to his body.

Khenbish licked the white neck, his left hand teasing a nipple without being really nice about it while his other hand started to pump the semi-hard cock a little harder. He smiled smugly into the soft neck of his partner when he heard a little gasp, only pumping harder and faster. Roland squirmed, groaning at this feeling that was different than when he did things like this to himself, unconsciously rocking into the hand. His feminine hands twisted into Ken’s ragged shirt, and he cried out as he came, hard. Khenbish’s hand started on his own cock, and then he started rocking his fully erect member against Roland’s ass, frotting, keeping the Frenchman in place by griping the milky thighs painfully.

“Salaud!” (Bastard!) Roland bite out, trying to claw himself away, but the Mongolian’s arms were like steel, trapping him. He didn’t know what Khenbish was doing, but it hurt and it felt so strange, as if somehow he were a woman, “C'est une blague ou quoi?” (It this a joke or what?)

“Yamar gomo pizda bai… Muu altsaasan yanhan, want me to bugsruugai hie?” (What a gay cunt… Dirty spread legged whore, want me to put it in your ass?) Khenbish returned huskily, letting his thrusts become rough until Roland quieted against him.

Roland shivered and cried as he felt hot cum against his back and the raw spot between his round cheeks. Fingers gently massaged his thighs, and despite himself he sighed at the first gentle touch against his aching flesh and moaned when they drew away completely. Khenbish pulled Roland’s face up and kissed him, hard and long. Roland didn’t push away but he didn’t return the kiss. He knew, just from the feel, it was Ken’s way of showing him his position; a slave. After a minute, Khenbish withdrew and Roland felt spit hang from his lip but was too tired, too humiliated, to do anything about it and let Ken push him off, coldly.

“And that’s just the beginning, fag.” Khenbish spat at Roland’s tear-streaked face.


---
Thank you for reading thus far, I'll work harder