Rating: Hard R for language, violence
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, hell, the plotline and most of the dialogue isn't even mine.
Notes: Thank you and huge big hugs to both Phyllis and Karen. They both held my hand and got me through this monstrous story. Thank you to Adrianna, my bestest friend, who checked the military aspect of the story as best she could while helping the victims of Hurricane Katrina with the rest of her unit. I'd also like to thank the B team and the wip-it-good challenge. Without them, this story would have never been finished because it took the threat of public humiliation for me to write this story. The challenge made me finish the story, but Phyllis, Karen, and my teammates were the reason I remained semi-sane. Thank you to all of you.
Take a look at a castle, any castle. Now, break down the key elements that make it a castle. They haven't changed in over a thousand years.
One: location. A site on high ground that commands the territory for as far as the eye can see.
Two: protection. Big walls, walls strong enough to withstand a full frontal attack.
Three: a garrison. Men who are trained and willing to kill.
And four: a flag. You tell your men "you're soldiers and that's our flag." You tell them "nobody takes our flag." Then you raise that flag high where everyone can see it.
Now, you've got yourself a castle.
Colonel Winter nodded at the guardsmen as they buzzed his car through the iron gates. Passing a critical eye over guards and inmates alike, he nodded in satisfaction. Guards stood on the walls and on the grounds, weapons at the ready, eagle eyes trained on their prey. He could see only a few of the inmates, though, for the morning meal bell had just rung. Exiting the jeep, he grabbed his briefcase, returning the salute of one of the captains. He headed towards the admin building, stopping briefly on the stairs, saluting the flag that flew proudly in the middle of the yard.
"Good morning, sir."
"Lieutenant." He returned the salute, satisfied with his second's appearance. He was grooming the younger man to take over his post when the brass decided to promote him. Perez certainly looked like how a second-in-command should look: dark blonde hair perfectly trimmed, dark eyes clear and showing no hint of too much partying over the weekend. "How are we this morning, Perez?"
Perez followed in his commander's wake, eyes darting from his clipboard to Winter's back. "Eight hundred and thirteen in the general population, three in the infirmary, and two in solitary."
"Excellent." Winter accepted a coffee from his secretary with one hand, while opening the door to his office with the other. Setting his briefcase down on his desk, he opened it, reverently extracting a perfectly restored Civil War bayonet. "And our men?"
"Nemez and Wilson are on leave but C Company is at full strength."
Winter nodded, blinking as Perez opened the curtains. Light fell upon the large cabinet filled with war memorabilia that dominated the far wall. He ignored his second as he carefully placed the newly acquired bayonet in its predestined spot amongst his other trophies. Smiling in satisfaction, the colonel leaned forward to wipe off a piece of lint, only to jump at the loud, sudden ruckus from outside. "What the hell?"
"It's Tanner and Thumper, sir." Perez nodded out the window overlooking the yard. "Remember, sir? You ordered less basketballs out there today."
Winter's irritation turned to smug satisfaction as he joined the younger, taller man at the window. "So I did."
They both watched as Thumper circled the much smaller, longhaired white man.
"If you think about it, this is really an interesting example of stimulus and response," Winter mused, placing his hands behind his back, contemplating the inmates down below.
"Sir?"
"No matter what stimulus we create, the response is always the same. It always ends up in the Yard. Different actors in different parts, of course, but the basic play itself doesn't vary." Winter watched with bored detachment as the two men began pummeling each other. Nearly yawning as he watched more and more of the inmates join the fight. As predicted, it was the whites against the blacks. "Someone should write a paper on it."
Tanner wiped the blood off his mouth, smirking. "Damn, boy, you hit like a girl."
Thumper growled, but the black man's eyes twinkled. "I don't wanna meet the girl that can hit like me." He flexed his incredibly massive arm, reaching out.
Tanner danced out of the way, a leg kicking out, forcing all of the air out of the big man's stomach. Thumper groaned in pain. "Ya know, I could go down on this fight," he offered quietly.
"Nah, just take it easy on me, kid."
"Okay." Tanner's mischievous grin should have warned him. His leg swung out and Thumper was swept off his feet. Literally.
"Mother fucker," Thumper hissed, dazedly staring up at the sky.
"Thumper!" He jerked up, catching the lead weight tied to a rope sliding across the asphalt from one of his 'brothers.'
Tanner's eyes widened, ducking under that swinging weight, narrowly missing another set of inmates bashing it out. He vaguely heard Grece hiss to his black friend and current opponent, "Damnit, Franklin, take it easy on me!" Franklin laughed but pulled his next punch.
"Who'll give me odds?" The cultured Southern accent was completely at odds with bloodthirsty battle cries surrounding it.
"Standish," Sanchez yelled, "it's a brawl, you fool! How the fuck are you going to take action on a brawl?"
Standish shrugged. "It's a fight like any other, Preacher." He pulled out a little black notebook. "The winner is whomever has the most men standing when the bell rings. Or in this case, the horn sounds." He turned, eyes searching before he found the young man standing away from the crowd. "Dunne will keep count."
Big brown eyes widened as their owner blinked a confused question at the bookie.
Standish smirked, tilting his head towards the fight, shifting his cloth bag to the side. The kid immediately started counting. "Based on numbers, I'd say it's ... 3 to 2, in favor of the whites." He glanced around. "Who's in?"
"Six bundles say whites!" "Ten says black!"
"Shit," Dellwo hollered, "you bettin' against the brothers?!?!"
Standish shrugged, smirking at the thin, black man nicknamed "Cueball" because of his perpetually bald head. "I'm not betting against anyone, Dellwo. I'm the house. I am merely an exchange for people who want to bet—"
"Fuck you and your house!" Dellwo muttered. "Three on my brothers!"
"Three for Mr. Dellwo," Standish agreed before leaning forward. "And for you, Mr. Jackson? Three on your brothers as well?"
As the adage goes, if looks could kill, Ezra P. Standish would have been a smoking grease stain. Nathan Jackson, the man everyone called 'Doc,' turned away. "Y'all call me if there's an idiot left to patch up."
"Shit! Look out!"
The three men duck instinctively.
Winter's face darkened as a guard, McClaren, ducked. The flying weight flew from Thumper's hand and barely missed the sergeant's head. "End it."
Perez nodded, lifting his radio.
"Shit! Sir! I didn't mean — it just flew!"
The horn blared through the shocked silence. Men dropped to the ground, covering their heads. All of them, except Thumper.
"Thumper! Get down!" Tanner yelled.
"Get down, Thump!" Nathan yelled, tugging at the big man's pants.
"Sergeant, I didn't mean it! Sor—"
"Get down, you idiot!"
BangBangBang
Bodies jerked at the noise, all eyes following the slow descent of Thumper's body.
Captain Zamora lowered his rifle, a smirk clearly playing on his lips as he raised the radio. "Target down, sir."
Winter smiled, flicking off a salute to his best towerman. "And, for the moment, the jungle is quiet."
"Are you here to pay me, Mr. Duffy?" Standish barely looked up from his calculations at the tall, nervously shifting man.
"Yeah. Here."
He glanced at the outstretched hand. "Mr. Duffy, I am not sure if you failed to notice, but I already have my own." He held up his own pen, clicking it a few times to emphasize his point.
"Nah, man." The brown haired man quickly unscrewed the pen, tilting it, and catching a large white pill.
Standish quirked an eyebrow.
"It's Percodan, dude. A pain killer."
"And, pray tell, what am I suppose to do with a pain killer?"
Duffy shrugged, bouncing a little in his nervousness. "Well, I dunno. I mean, I just thought you'd take it."
"In lieu of the nearly thirty bundles of cigarettes you owe me?" Standish rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I don't know if you've happened to notice, but I haven't sustained any injuries needing this particular medication."
Duffy's face fell.
"Awww, hell." Standish held out his hand. "Just give it to me."
Duffy's smile threatened to split his face. "So I'm good?"
"Yes," Standish sighed, "you're good."
"Thanks, dude!"
Watching the other man lope away, Ezra shook his head. Glancing down at the pill, he sighed. "And what am I to do with you?"
"Shit that fuckin' hurts!"
Jackson grunted in agreement as he slowly helped Thumper into his cell. "Yeah, well, sleep on your stomach tonight. And keep your shirt off tomorrow as much as you can. Let that ointment do its job. I'll try to get you some Advil or something."
Thumper snorted. "Yeah, right. Like the colonel," he sneered the title, "is gonna let me have anythin' to kill the pain." He grunted, gritting his teeth as Jackson lowered him to his bunk. "Don't hurt too bad now, Doc. But when they hit? Shit, man, I got shot by a real bullet once and I swear it didn't hurt half as much as these damn rubber things."
"Yeah, well, that's the upside to real bullets. They cut through the skin, hit fewer nerve endings." Jackson winked. "'Course, on the downside, they can kill you."
Thumper snorted, slowly stretching out, but stopping short when his hand nudged something metallic. "Hey, Doc, what's this?"
Jackson frowned as his friend handed him a pen. Hearing a rattle, he opened it, brow furrowing in concentration as he held the pill up to the light. "Percodan."
"Perca — what?"
"A pain killer. A really strong one, Thump." Jackson smiled. "Looks like someone's looking out for you. Take it now, it'll help the pain."
Thumper nodded, tossing the pill back, swallowing it dry.
"Hey, Thump, you okay?"
They both turned at the soft Texas accent.
"Yeah, just got me some Perca-something. Doc says it'll help the pain." He turned onto his stomach, eyes fluttering in relief.
"Sorry about that." Tanner murmured. "But you know Winter's game, Thump. You know he wants us at each other's throats. Next time, just drop."
"Yeah, I just ... dunno. I didn't mean to hit McClaren. He's one of the few decent guys out there."
"Yeah," Tanner sighed. "I know. Night, man."
Thumper barely lifted his hand in response.
"C'mon," Jackson murmured. "Let him sleep." He joined Tanner at the cell door.
"We gotta do something, Nate," Vin murmured. "Can't keep goin' on like this."
Nathan nodded. "Josiah says he saw a sign. Says a change is coming."
Tanner didn't hide his smirk as the horn blew, a signal for the men to move back to their cells for the night. Blue eyes raked over the inmates, checking things over. His eyes lingered on one particular cell, making sure no one was bothering the Castle's youngest prisoner. "Yeah, well, it's either that or he's been dippin' too much into that brew of his."
Jackson laughed.
"Colonel Winter? I have an urgent message for you."
"I'll take it, Sylvia," Lieutenant Perez held out his hand, smiling charmingly at the colonel's secretary.
"Actually, sir, it's a Class A transfer." Sylvia didn't fall for it and held the papers out to the colonel instead of the lieutenant's outstretched hand. Perez took it from her when it was obvious the colonel wasn't going to.
"Class A transfer?" He didn't look up from the reorganization of his Civil War replicas.
"The Rabbit Hole trial ended today, sir."
Winter froze. "I don't understand. The trial began today."
"He, uh, plead guilty, sir." Perez glanced once more at the fax. "They're expediting his transfer – as a courtesy."
"As a courtesy? For God's sake ... they should ... they should be naming an army base after the man, not sending him here." Winter gently dropped the miniature toy soldier to the table, running his hand over his mostly smooth head. "My God, Christopher Larabee."
The lieutenant and secretary watched silently as Winter paced to the window overlooking the yard, filled with the US military's rejects. He inhaled deeply. "Well, we have a verdict, a sentence, and a prisoner. We do our job. Whether we like it or not."
"Yes, sir." Sylvia slipped out of the room, undoubtedly making the necessary arrangements.
"General Christopher Larabee." Winter quirked his lips at Perez. "Puts us on our toes, doesn't it?"
Standish's ears perked at the sound of screeching gears, pulling open the two giant metal doors that locked them away from the outside world. Snapping the book shut and sliding into the bag slung across his shoulders, he ambled over to where the other inmates crowded against the chain-linked fence. Everyone wanted a look.
"Here he comes," Standish murmured to no one in particular.
"Big fuckin' deal," Wilmington muttered.
"It is," Tanner's quiet voice still sounded loud against the silence that had fallen over the men as they watched the prison bus roll to a stop.
"This is the first time anyone with a rank above a colonel has ever been sent to the Castle," Sanchez added, eyes glued to the bus' doors.
The doors opened slowly, the jangle of leg chains echoed in their ears, reminding them of their own trip to the Castle. The restriction was the same for each one of them as it was for this general. The leg chains led up to metal bracelets, clasped above loosely curled fists. The men were silent, remembering the feel of those bracelets. It wasn't until they saw his face did they react.
"Damn, he's young," Wilmington stated, eyes squinting against the light to make sure.
"The youngest general in the last fifty years," Jackson clarified.
"I give him a week," Wilmington declared.
"A week," Standish asked. "Until what?"
"'Till he scrags himself." Wilmington smirked. "If the disgrace of the court martial wasn't bad enough, a couple of days in this shithouse will definitely put him over the edge."
"A week?" Standish repeated, clearly interested, hand sliding into his bag for his ever-present book.
"Yeah, that's right." Wilmington nodded. "Five bundles says so."
Standish nodded, smirking as he scribbled. "I do believe I'll take those odds. Mr. Wilmington. One week. Anyone else?"
"You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Jackson sneered, glaring at the bookie and Wilmington.
"Please, Mr. Jackson, of course I do." Standish grinned rakishly at the other men. "We could do this like the Final Four. A carton a square." He winked at the other men. "Just to make it fair. Who's in? Tanner?"
"No," Tanner drawled, eyes still following the general's slow progress into the admin building. "I'm not gonna bet whether a man is gonna kill himself. That's fucked up, pilot." He jerked his chin towards the general. "'Sides, look at him."
Men turned but obviously didn't see what Tanner saw.
"He's tougher than that," Tanner declared, before turning away from the bookie.
"Tougher? How much tougher? Five weeks? Eight?"
"Eight," Duffy said.
"Eight for Mr. Duffy." Standish quickly wrote it down, before glancing around.
"You are one ice cold fucker, Standish."
"Mr. Sanchez, I resent that implication." He smiled charmingly, going so far as to place his hand over his heart. "After all, I am not the one who thinks that the general will kill himself. I am merely a facilitator for all of these fine gentleman who believe he will."
"Yes, well, they should think again. No man becomes a general at such a young age without knowing how to survive, how to endure. A man like that would be forged in the fire of battle, endured the —"
"—and next week on Masterpiece Theatre ... Little Women." Standish rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Enough, preacher. Are you in?"
Sanchez guffawed. "Yeah, I'm in. His full sentence."
Standish shook his head. "It's your carton, my friend."
Perez gently tapped on the door. "Sir?" Sticking his head in, he called out, "Prisoner Larabee is here, sir." Nodding, he kept the eye roll to himself when the colonel held up five fingers. "Yes, sir." Pulling back out, he informed the prisoner that the colonel would be with him in five minutes. The general, for all intents and purposes, didn't seem to care.
Larabee merely stood in the hallway, arms around a box holding personal effects and the changes of clothing that were allowed inside. Perez cringed at the thought that such a man would be reduced to holding all of his worldly possessions inside a cardboard box. "If you'd like, you can put that down."
Perez hadn't even notice Dunne there, his mop now placed against the wall.
Larabee raised an eyebrow, glancing the lieutenant then at the other prisoner. "Me, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir, I mean, yes, Prisoner Larabee." Perez shook his head, angrily marching to Dunne's side. "I didn't mean you, Dunne."
"Oh, sorry." The young man's voice was quiet, low. His dark eyes dropped but not before Perez saw the gleam of hero worship in them when they had rested on Larabee. He hoped to God this wouldn't become a problem.
The intercom crackled. "Sylvia, send them in, please."
Winter stood with his back to his office, hands clasped at the small of his back, seemingly engrossed in watching the inmates in the Yard.
"Colonel Winter?"
He turned, smiling both at his lieutenant and then at the general – former general. "I know what you're thinking: do you salute me or do I salute you? The answer to both is 'no.' My men salute me, of course, and each other, but there's no saluting by the general prison population."
Larabee nodded as his eyes took in everything in the room before settling on the colonel.
"Hungry?" the colonel asked politely when it seemed Larabee had nothing to say.
"No, thank you."
"You sure?" Colonel Winter turned on his most charming smile for the taciturn general's benefit. "Thursdays are Salisbury steak night."
"Always a reason for celebration," Larabee agreed, but Winter heard a thread of something. Sarcasm, maybe?
"Indeed. Could I at least interest you in some lemonade?"
Larabee nodded at that. "Thank you."
Winter nodded to Perez. As the lieutenant left, the colonel stepped forward, sweeping a hand towards the window. "If you'll step over here, I can give you the basic layout of the facility. We're in the Administration building." As Larabee joined him, he pointed to the far wall. "Those buildings across the yard are the Tiers, where the inmates live. That long, low building over to your right is where the workshops and laundry are located."
Winter looked over and up to see Larabee staring intently at the old, half broken-down stone wall in the middle of the yard. "That's the old blockhouse wall. It's all that remains of the original building where the first prisoners stayed, back in the 1870s. We noticed the wall was leaning earlier this year, so I asked the men to take it down, rebuild the foundation, and put it back up." He shrugged with an air of practiced nonchalance. "They enjoy working on it; gives them something to do. It's become a matter of some pride, actually."
"I see."
Winter didn't think so, but thought perhaps the general was in shock. After all, it must be an adjustment going from a respected general to an inmate at the Castle. He turned as the door opened. Perez entered with the lemonade, placing the glasses on the table, only to slip away again.
"Thank you," Larabee murmured, picking up the glass, returning to stare out into the Yard.
"You're welcome, Mr. Larabee. Now, I personally meet with every new inmate soon after they arrive. I always ask them a question – what do you expect here at the Castle?"
"Nothing," Larabee answered.
"Excuse me?"
"I just want to do my time and go home," he clarified.
Winter beamed like a teacher with a particularly bright student. "Excellent. That's the perfect answer. I—"
"Colonel? I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a slightly urgent message for you." Perez held the door open, clearly waiting for his superior. "I'll wait with Mr. Larabee if you'd like, sir."
"Yes, thank you." He turned to Larabee. "If you'll excuse me."
The blond man nodded, still staring out into the Yard.
Perez stood at ease in front of the door, warily watching the general as he placed the glass back onto the coaster and moved towards the cabinets that held the colonel's collection.
"Impressive," the general murmured.
Perez nodded, moving closer just in case. "Do you collect anything, sir?"
Winter stopped just outside his office door as he heard Perez's question.
"A few coins," Larabee shrugged, "from the countries I've visited. Nothing military." He leaned over, carefully studying a musket ball. "My father didn't care for military collections and I agreed."
"Was your father military?"
Larabee nodded. "He said the only kind of man who has a collection like this is a man who's never set foot on a battlefield. A musket ball like this one from Shiloh is just an interesting artifact. To a combat vet, it's a hunk of metal that probably caused some poor bastard a world of pain."
Winter's fists clenched as he resisted the urge to barge in, to correct the man's obviously erroneous assumption. Instead, he schooled his features into a benevolent mask. "Well, now that that's all taken care of, Lieutenant Perez, it's time for you to escort Prisoner," he stressed the word, "Larabee to his cell."
To his disappointment, Larabee's face never changed from its expression of bored detachment. He spun on his heel to allow Larabee and Perez to pass, glaring at their backs. His eyes narrowed as he saw the young prisoner over their shoulders. "Mr. Dunne! What are you doing?"
Dunne's eyes widened, his upraised arm wavering. "I – I —"
"Mr. Dunne, this man is a prisoner! You do not salute him. Saluting him is not only no longer required, it is, in fact, prohibited. Are we clear on that?" How dare he salute the man? He was a general, but a disgraced one. He had lost that privilege, that respect.
"Y-yes, sir, but—"
"But what, prisoner?"
"I— I was saluting you."
Winter instantly deflated, eyes darting to Larabee. From the small smirk playing on the man's lips, it was obvious the prisoner took amusement from his overreacting. He shook his head. "That is not necessary, Mr. Dunne."
Dunne nodded again, wide-eyed.
"Just do your own time, don't get involved in anybody else's game, you'll be fine."
Chris nodded absently at the lieutenant's words, eyes raking over the three levels of cell upon cell. Eyes, many dead and cold, looked down at him in silence. He used to despise men like these. Men who had disgraced the uniform. Disgraced the honor of being a US Military officer. Now he was one of them.
He fought the anguish welling up, but remembered his father's words, "You go in there, and you come right back out, you hear me, son? You did what you had to. You did what was right. It was those damn news vultures and the politicians that hung you out to dry."
He didn't want to believe it, but there were tears in the old man's eyes. "You did the right thing. You don't belong in there. So do what you have to and come home to your family."
It was the last time he spoke to his father, right before being transferred here. Dropping the box onto his bunk, Chris stared at what was to be his home for the next five years. A cell so small that when he reached out with one hand and placed it against one wall, he barely had to strain to touch to opposite one. Hanging his head, he breathed in deeply.
He tried to remember that it was only right, paying for the death of his men.
Chris stared down at the tray, at his very first meal in the Castle. While it wasn't as bad as battle rations, it came damn close. Sighing, he reached for the roll. It, at least, looked somewhat appetizing.
"S-s-sir. M-m-may I?"
Chris barely glanced to his left, but saw the same young man who'd been in the colonel's hallway when he'd arrived. The kid didn't look dangerous, so he nodded. The smile he received was brilliant but he ignored it, turning to stare out the window. Since the mess couldn't fit all of the prisoners at once, they were split into two shifts. While one shift ate, the other would finish up their work details and wait for their turn. Once both shifts had eaten, they would be released into the yard.
From his seat, he could see the old prison wall the inmates "worked on."
"They're d-d-doing it wrong," the soft, hesitant voice said from his left.
Chris ignored it, scooping up another tasteless spoonful.
"M-m-my d-d-dad was a m-m-mason. He knew how to build'em and he s-s-showed me. It's all wrong."
He didn't say anything, but had to agree with the kid. He didn't know masonry from blacksmithing, but even he could see that the wall wouldn't hold up for shit. It looked like a strong wind could blow it down. Chris tensed as another gray-clad body sat down opposite his own seat, tray placed gently onto the table.
"Hello, sir."
He glanced up at the black man, studying him before nodding in acknowledgement.
"I don't know if you remember me, sir, but I served under you for a few years."
"Dr. Nathan Jackson, thirty-third medical group." Chris smirked inwardly at the other man's surprise. He had prided himself on knowing those under his command. It made for a more loyal, cohesive group.
"Yes, sir, I'm surprised you remember." Jackson's eyes flicked up as another man joined them.
Chris studied the doctor before looking up at the newcomer who was obviously Jackson's friend. The black man had shown promise, a good military officer who really gave a damn for those under his care. Reeling through the memories, he found the right one that told him why the other man might have been sent here. He finally glanced over at their company, eyebrow raised in inquiry.
"Vin Tanner," the man murmured before darting a glance over to his left. "Hey, kid, scram for a bit, okay?"
The kid's eyes were wide and hurt, but he quickly nodded, stumbling in his haste to leave.
Chris turned to make sure the kid was okay, then turned to study his latest dining companion. He was younger than both he and the doctor, but something in his blue eyes hinted at a much darker past that belied his youth.
The way he returned Chris' stare told him everything he needed to know. He smirked inwardly, pegging Tanner instantly. Highly intelligent, he hid it behind a quiet nature. He was also the kind of man who only respected and answered to authority he believed was rightly earned. Eyes not breaking their stare down of the blue ones – damn if he was going to back down first – he said, "You were caught smuggling narcotics, weren't you, doctor?"
Jackson nodded, eyes downcast. "Yes, sir."
Tanner's eyes widened, shooting towards the doctor and losing their game. "You told me it was because you took down two MPs!"
Chris kept his head down, hiding a real smile at Jackson's sputtering.
"Well," Jackson straightened, "why do you think I was anywhere near an MP to begin with?"
Tanner laughed, shaking his head.
"What can I do for you?" Chris asked, curiosity finally getting the better of him.
"You still got friends high up in the Pentagon, right?" Tanner asked, face falling into serious lines, all pretense at humor gone.
"Not many. Why?"
"We were hoping you could talk to someone," Jackson clarified, shifting closer.
"About?"
"About what it's like here. The truth."
Chris stared at Jackson, instincts raising as both Jackson and Tanner leaned closer, their words in hushed whispers.
"It's a fuckin' jungle in here, cowboy, and it isn't an accident."
Larabee's eyebrow went up at the term but let the man continue.
"Winter sets us against each other – black versus brown, brown versus white – keeps things stirred up."
"As soon as it starts to die down," Jackson continued where Tanner left off, "he starts fanning and blowing and boom! People are at each other's throats again."
"Let me get this straight," Larabee said, putting his fork down and leaning forward. "There is violence in a place filled with convicted criminals?" Chris knew his voice had been as dry as the Arctic when both men sighed.
"It's just not that the colonel instigates violence, he also provides substandard services," Jackson insisted, eyes obviously trying to convey something. "If anyone gets injured – in a fight he's provoked – they're on their own."
Tanner nodded. "Doc spends half his time stitching people up."
"He provides substandard services?" He almost laughed as the both leaned forward eagerly, as if they thought he was taking them seriously. His next words proved them wrong. "You want to talk about 'substandard services'? My first month in Iraq, I had a friend who had to treat himself for a compound fracture."
Jackson hissed in annoyance. "You can't compare—"
"That's right, you can't compare. This is summer camp. And you're ..." Larabee sneered as he stood. "You're whining."
"There've been murders," Tanner said low but clear, his hand shooting out to stop the general from leaving the table. "By Winter and his men."
Larabee sank back down, eyes darting to Jackson and Tanner, studying the validity of their words. Their eyes said they believed this.
"Sometimes, when there's a fight in the Yard, an inmate will make a mistake. Touch a guard, get too close, something. You do that and you get shot," Jackson said, eyes darting to the guards surrounding the room. "Usually it's just rubber bullets."
"But sometimes, it's not." Tanner too glanced around, seeming to relax as none of the guards paid them any attention. Their focus was on the troublemakers, like Wilmington.
"Three times in the past two years there's been a 'mix-up' and real bullets have been used."
"Three in two years?" Larabee repeated. Jackson nodded.
"And wouldn't you know it, the three guys who died were all guys makin' trouble for the colonel." Tanner sneered the title.
"You may think it's whining, sir," Jackson pointed out, "but someone needs to look into these deaths."
"We've tried, but who gonna listen to a bunch of crooks, right?" Tanner laughed bitterly, fork pushing food around the tray.
Larabee held himself still, except for his eyes as they roamed over the room. They saw what they saw yesterday: men who had been tried and convicted in a court of law, soldiers who were there to keep them in line. And in his mind's eye, he saw his father. He heard his words: "Come home, son."
"I'm sorry." He didn't need to look at them to feel their disappointment. "I'm not fighting anyone or anything ever again. I'm going to do my time and get out of here." With that, he stood and walked away.
"Shit, that went well," Tanner cursed before viciously shoving a mouthful of food in.
"Did you just call a brigadier general 'cowboy'?" Jackson stared at his friend in disgust.
Tanner smirked.
Following the other prisoners in his detail, Chris got his first look at his new job: laundress. Shaking his head, glad his father wasn't here to see this, he carefully watched as the prisoner assigned to show him his new job gave him instructions. He was going to do everything right, even if it killed him, because by God, he was going to keep his nose clean and get the hell out of here for good behavior.
Even if it killed him.
"Son, that laundry isn't your enemy."
He jerked at the low, rich voice next to him. Glancing over, he saw a man who had to be the oldest inmate of the prison. Silver gray hair glinted like an old nickel, but his eyes were a merry blue. He didn't answer, simply nodded, taking more care.
"Josiah Sanchez," the man said, not looking his way as he continued dumping his load into the industrial sized washing machine.
He didn't want to answer, but manners were one of the things his mother demanded of him. "Chris Larabee," he grunted.
"I know." Sanchez helped him dumped another load from the suspended bag. "Heard you turned down Doc and Tanner's proposal."
"It's not personal," he muttered, teeth clenched. Was Sanchez going to try to recruit him too? He glared at the man when a huge paw like hand patted him on the shoulder. Surprisingly, it was a gentle touch rather than the heavy handedness he expected.
"Of course, not, son." Sanchez smiled dazzlingly. "But it won't matter. You're going to help us."
He jerked away, eyes flicking around him, trying to find the possible danger that was implied in those words. "Is that a threat?"
"No, son, it's not."
Sanchez confused the hell out of him by grinning and patting his shoulder again.
"By the way, those are my clothes. Careful, huh?"
Chris leaned back against the concrete steps, enjoying the sun while he could. From the dark clouds on the horizon, it was going to storm soon. Most of the prisoners knew it too, lazing around the yard, some even half-heartedly moving stones from one end of the old wall to the other. A movement caught his eye. Sitting up, Chris saw the same young man from breakfast. He was saluting. Or at least a poor facsimile of a salute. "Don't do that."
He stood, walking away from the young man. He growled as he saw the slim hand still tangled in longish dark hair. "I said – hell, at ease."
The young man dropped his arm, assuming another facsimile of the "at ease" stance.
Shaking his head, Chris took one step forward, then made the mistake of looking back. The sadness he saw in those young eyes ... . "Dunne, right?"
"Y-yes, sir!" The surprise and relief were painfully obvious.
"What branch were you in, Dunne?"
"The C-C-Corps, sir."
He nodded, tilting his head to the side. He turned back to face the younger man fully. "Miss it?"
Long bangs bounced vigorously. "Yes, sir. V-v-very much."
Against his better judgment, Chris found himself asking, "Why are you here? What did you do?"
That seemed to surprise Dunne, his eyes wide. "Uh, that's, that's just it, sir. I didn't d-d-do nothing. It was a m-m-mistake."
He nodded, not saying anything to that. If Dunne didn't want to talk about it, he wasn't going to push. After all, it wasn't like he wanted to tell anyone why he was here. Turning, he started towards the tiers, ready for the solitude of his cell.
"I hurt s-s-someone!" Dunne blurted out from behind him.
Chris mildly cursed his own feet as they stopped. Mentally shrugging, he turned back. "How long have you been in here?"
"Two years."
"How much longer do you have?" He watched quietly as Dunne approached him.
"F-f-f—" Dunne punched his own thigh, frustration radiating in waves.
"Take your time, kid," Chris gruffly ordered. Then smirked. "We're in prison. We've got nothing but time."
The lame joke did the trick as Dunne relaxed, his words coming slowly. "F-four and a half years to go."
"How's it been?" He wanted to smile at the way Dunne seemed to relax as their conversation continued. It was as if no one had ever really given him any attention. But that wasn't strictly true, he knew. He'd seen the way both Jackson and Tanner seemed to look out for the kid. He'd also seen one prisoner, the one with the ever-present black book, watch out for the kid ... when he thought no one else was looking that is. But none of them, it seemed, ever really talked to the younger man.
"Okay?" Dunne answered, shrugging but smiling slightly. It was obvious the kid was lying ... and lonely.
Chris nodded, then let his curiosity get the better of him. "Dunne, is there something wrong with your back?"
"M-m-my back? No, s-sir."
He nodded, hand waving in the private's direction. "Then why are you standing like that? I said, 'at ease,' not slouch." He fought the smile as Dunne automatically straightened, face set in concentrating lines. "And that thing you do with your hand? What is that?"
"Excuse m-m-me, sir?"
"Your hand. You look like you were running your fingers through your hair and they got stuck." Chris found himself mimicking the action, but found it wasn't the same effect since his hair was much shorter than Dunne's.
"Oh. That's a salute, sir." Dunne was so genuinely confused he made Chris sigh. And curse the military's educational system that taught the how, but not the why.
"Dunne," he blinked, realizing he didn't even know the young man's name. "What's your full name?"
"John D-D-Dunne, sir. But everyone calls m-m-me 'JD'."
"JD, do you know why you salute?"
The young man shook his head.
"It's a sign of respect." Chris smiled, seeing Dunne straighten even more, clearly soaking in his words. "A salute starts at your feet."
Dunne looked down.
Winter shook his head, expression disbelieving as he watched Larabee instruct Dunne how to salute. "At the Point, his very name was said with reverence, as if the syllables themselves conveyed all that it meant to be a soldier. And here he is now, a sad, pathetic man commanding a stuttering monkey. I can't watch." He turned his chair away from the window, disgust marring his features.
Perez watched quietly from his place by the colonel's desk.
"I told him saluting among the prisoners was prohibited, did I not?"
"Yes, sir," he answered slowly.
"Remind him, Perez."
"Yes, sir." Perez's eyes widened as Winter instructed him of Dunne's punishment.
Winter waited until he knew Perez had sufficient time to make it to the Yard. Standing, he turned towards the window to watch as his lieutenant approached the prisoners. He could barely make out their features, but Dunne was clearly startled while Larabee was clearly angry. He smiled.
The commandant's smile grew as Dunne's dejected slump returned as he walked towards the flag. He paused before it, saluting the flag, holding the pose. He turned his attention back to Larabee's still figure. His eyes narrowed as Larabee's head swung back towards his own window. He would never admit it, but he could feel the man's malevolent glare from where he stood.
Wilmington didn't bother walking fast, let alone running like the other inmates, as he followed them inside the Tiers and out of the rain. It wasn't like he needed to be dry to work in the shop. In fact, the added moisture might relieve the heat generated by the machines. Stopping at the crowded doorway, barely repressing the growl deep in his throat, he glared at the backs of the men in front him. A glint to his left turned him instinctively. He didn't want another shank in the side.
Instead, he saw the general – he mentally sneered at the term – standing mere yards away. The blond man was staring across the Yard. Turning more fully, Wilmington followed his line of sight to the kid still standing, saluting the flag even through the bitterly cold rain.
Kid was too innocent, too eager to follow others. He was just like Benny, his childhood friend that he'd talked into joining up with him. They were both too young, too stupid. He shook his head. The kid had known he shouldn't have saluted anyone, general or no. And now he was paying for his idiocy. Saluting the stupid flag for nearly an entire day, even through the storm. He flung his dark wet hair out of his eyes, mouth set in a sneer, Wilmington threw one more dirty look at the yellow haired general before shoving his way through the inmates.
He, for one, was glad he didn't have to salute any one. The last man he saluted killed his own wife and framed his wife's lover for her murder. Benny had died in his arms, after the captain shot him for "attempting to escape." Fucker deserved to die for what he did to Benny.
Larabee stared at the clock. If the power of his eyes could have moved time, it would have moved just to get the hell away from his angry glare. Since it couldn't, the once general resigned himself to going back to work, only occasionally turning towards the windows of the laundry that faced the yard. He could see the young man, still saluting. He couldn't understand what the hell possessed Winter to punish the boy like that, but Dunne, along with all the other inmates, had been warned.
When the work bell rang throughout the compound, the other inmates' heartfelt groans and chatter covered his sigh of relief. Chris told himself he wasn't hurrying to make sure the kid was okay. He just wanted to get out of the damp heat of the laundry. But he was forced to admit to himself, at least, that he was concerned for the kid when he stepped out into the Yard to find Dunne was still saluting. The boy was shivering and shaking in the cold rain, valiantly trying to hold up his hand in a very bad salute. He saw Perez and a few of his cronies standing a few yards away, near the building where solitary confinement was carried out. His eyes narrowed. Why weren't they letting the kid off the punishment detail?
"Winter's got him there. Won't let him off 'cause he was salutin' you."
Tanner's soft Texas accent make his hand itch. To do what, Larabee didn't know. But he knew he had to do something. Growling low in his throat, he strode out into the rain. "Put your hand down, son."
Dunne's wide eyes blinked in surprise but didn't move.
"Put it down, JD." Larabee was taken back at the gentleness of his own voice. For though it still carried the power of command, he saw how the other man reacted to the concern in his voice. JD lowered his hand. The lips that had trembled with the cold tilted into a grateful smile.
"General Larabee! What are you doing?"
They both turned as Perez forged his way through the mud and rain to their sides.
"Prisoner Dunne! Get your hand back up!" The lieutenant's voice held much more menace towards Dunne than it did Larabee, but the man was obviously confused as his eyes darted between the two prisoners. "Dunne!"
Dunne's hand slowly went back up into an imperfect salute.
Larabee shook his head. "No, JD—"
"General Larabee," Perez's voice held a nearly silent plea.
"According to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, no corporal punishment—"
"Dunne! Get that hand up!" Perez raised his own hand, the yard's lights glinting off the shiny baton.
Dunne flinched, but the blow never came. Instead, he stared wide-eyed at the general's arm, blocking the blow. The sharp piercing whistle made him flinch, the horn made him drop to the ground.
Larabee saw the shock and remorse in Perez's eyes before a blow from behind felled him. He barely had time to brace himself before another blow sent shards of pain through his side. He dully heard Perez yelling at his men to stop as he slowly pushed himself off the ground.
"Lieutenant Perez! What is going on here?"
"Sir, Gen-Prisoner Larabee was interfering in the corporal punishment of Prisoner Dunne."
Larabee wasn't sure, but he thought he heard uncertainty in the lieutenant's words. Shaking his head to clear it, he faced the colonel and tried to hide his distaste of the man. It might have been the pain or maybe he took one in the head he didn't remember, but from this angle, Winter kind of looked like that actor from the "Sopranos." James something or another. Shaking his head, Chris cleared the random thought from his mind, concentrating instead on the man before him.
Winter took a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. 'From what,' Larabee mentally snorted, he wasn't the one who got a steel toe boot in the side. "Prisoner Larabee, I understand coming here must be a big adjustment for you. To go from having thousands of men under your command to having no war to fight and no one to follow you must not be easy."
Again, Chris sneered. As if the paper pusher knew any better.
"Nevertheless, I do ask that you learn how things are done around here and set an example for the other men. As I mentioned before, saluting is prohibited."
"May I speak," he barely hesitated, "sir?"
"Of course."
"Colonel Winter, according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, corporal punishment of a prisoner begun on the day shift may not go past that evening's horn." He could feel the utter shock of the man. What? Did no one think to question the guy's authority? Or did everyone here blindly follow the idiot? Studying the men that surrounded him, remembering the viciousness of the blows, perhaps they didn't question because they enjoyed colonel's cruel handling of the prisoners. Perez wasn't one of those men, but the boy was too unsure of himself in the situation. Larabee peered at him more closely. This one could be useful.
"Prisoner Larabee," Winter startled him out of his thoughts, "you are absolutely right. Prisoner Dunne, lower your hand and return to your cell. McClaren, accompany him please."
They all watched as Dunne slowly made his way to the door before Winter broke the silence of the rain. "Lieutenant?" He beckoned the other man, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he led him off a short ways. A few moments later, Perez stood before Larabee as the colonel returned inside.
Larabee stared at the distinctively uncomfortable man.
"Under no circumstance is an inmate allowed to make physical contact with an officer." Perez couldn't meet his eyes, staring off over his shoulder. "You've violated the US Uniform Code of Military Justice. This is a violation and requires discipline."
The inmates stood split in half, the Great Sea parted by Moses, the only thing that kept them still was the steady steps of the former general. Foot by foot, yard by yard, Larabee moved stones of the Wall from one end of the Yard to the other. The inmates watched in silence under the eyes of nearly a dozen guards.
"The stones weigh at least twenty pounds a piece and it'll be eighty degrees by noon," Standish broke the silence, eyes on the sun, but his hands were already pulling out his book and pencil. "We've got one hundred percent humidity," he drawled. "He won't make the day."
Jackson glared while Sanchez shook his head.
Tanner was a bit more vocal. "You don't know what the hell you're talkin' about."
"Are you willing to put your 'money' where your mouth is, Mr. Tanner?" Standish's eyes glinted.
"I am," Wilmington declared, making sure the general could hear his bet. "Put me down for two. Against."
Standish smirked over his shoulder, a knowing glint in his emerald eyes. "Anyone else?"
That set the other prisoners off, voices raised as bets were placed. Through it all, Larabee kept walking and moving the stones, eyes not once moving from the pile where his goal laid.
Winter watched from his office window, patting the sweat from his afternoon workout off his brow. Sliding his glasses off, he cleaned them, blurry eyes still watching the slowly shifting mass of men. Sliding them back on, his glasses allowed him to see that his own men were also watching Larabee's punishment. Murky brown eyes hardened as he saw the encouraging stance of a few of them.
Nathan crossed and uncrossed his arms, alternatively glaring at Standish and at Winter's window. He couldn't blame the guards or the other inmates that were witnessing the general's punishment. But he could blame Winter for his petty jealousy and Standish for betting on the man. The man, who had been a healer nearly all his life, even here in this hellhole, wanted nothing more than to bash the shit out of the two men.
Dark chocolate eyes forcibly moved themselves away from the two antagonists to focus on the man who could be the key to cleaning up this place. If only they could convince him. Nathan didn't know Larabee at all, but he could see the stubborn tilt of the man's shoulder. The general was going to move that pile of rocks come hell or high water.
"Boss," he called, turning towards McClaren, "can we get a little weather relief here? Maybe a water break?"
McClaren's eyes flicked between Nathan and the window overlooking the yard before carefully nodding.
Nathan nodded gratefully, detaching himself from Josiah and Vin. "Sir," he kept pace with the general, "take some water. If you dehydrate, you'll drop."
The general paused before carefully nodding. Nathan mimicked him but before he could get the water, JD's soft voice made him turn.
"Here, D-d-doc."
"Thanks, kid." He turned back to find Larabee already dropping the latest rock onto the pile. He quickly joined him, handing him the water.
Larabee's clear green eyes smiled a thanks but his facial expression never changed. It spooked Nathan on how much control the man had over himself. It wasn't obvious, but this close up, the doctor could tell how close the general was to dropping. From the sidelines, he hadn't noticed. Lowering his voice, he said, "You can take off the shirt, sir. It might help with the heat."
Larabee nodded, handing back the water bottle. Button by button, he undid his shirt. Since Nathan stood beside him, he didn't know what made the other prisoners shift and whispers break out. Not until he moved around and saw the latticework of scars across the general's back.
"What the fuck?" Nathan heard Tanner's whisper from somewhere near.
"Electrical burns," came a southern drawl.
Josiah grunted in agreement. "The Iraqis interrogators would smear their prisoners' back with conductive jelly, get a car battery and some frayed jumper cables and go to work."
"How long was he in there?" Tanner mumbled, almost to himself, eyes still glued to the horrendous scars that marked the general's back. Ridges and furrows of skin were a testament to the hell the man endured as a prisoner of war.
"Six years."
Tanner turned with obvious surprise at the bookie's answer.
Standish continued, talking to himself now, as much as to anyone else. "He could have gotten out after four, but he stayed two more years. He said he wouldn't leave without his men."
Nathan saw Josiah's eyes study the bookie next to him.
"Son, you sure do know a lot about a man you've laid odds against."
Standish carelessly shrugged a shoulder, eyes still on the general as he resumed the rock 'n roll detail. "I simply call it like I see it, Mr. Sanchez."
The inmates were cheering, the ruckus bringing everyone's attention to the yard and to the general who stood, hands on hips, breathing deeply as he stared at the last rock in the pile.
"You can do it, sir!"
"Last one!"
Wilmington glared at those who, hours before laid bets against the man, now encouraged him.
A cheer went up as the general bent down, grabbing the last one. It was the biggest motherfucker of them all. He staggered upright under the weight, grunts barely heard because of the cheers. He turned, eyes solidly on the goal. He was halfway there, when a flash of something to his left, made him turn.
It was a mistake.
A foot lashed out at his ankle. He went down hard, grunting in pain as his head grazed the rock his body was now hunched over.
"General! General!" He didn't turn at Jackson's voice. Simply crouched there, blinking the pain away.
"He's down! It's over!" Wilmington yelled at Standish. "Call it, Standish!"
"Ya bastard!" Tanner snarled across the divided sea, straining against Sanchez's restraining hands. "It ain't over 'til the general calls it quits! Not when ya trip him, ya yellow bastard!" His anger made his Texas drawl more evident.
"I agree," Standish murmured over the din of the other prisoners, making those nearest to him quiet ... which started a chain reaction. The bookie stared at Larabee and Jackson before filling the silence with, "Until the general says that he gives up, the bet still stands."
Jackson ignored everyone and everything as he crouched on the ground next to Larabee. His large brown hands gently cupped the other man's face, thumbs easing eyelids up to stare into mostly clear green eyes. He released the general and held up a finger. "Follow with your eyes, sir." He nodded in satisfaction as the eyes easily tracked the movement of his finger. "What's the day?"
"Wednesday."
"Name and rank?"
"Christopher Larabee, Brigadier General."
Jackson smirked at Wilmington as he stood. "He's fine," he declared.
Wilmington stepped forward, only to be distracted by the roar of the others.
Larabee was back on his feet with rock in hand. He stood there, halfway home, before letting out a low growl as he surged those last few yards. Inmates moved hastily out of his way. He grinned ferally as he twisted his body, slinging the rock over those last few feet.
His fellow prisoners roared as it landed.
Larabee turned, eyes hard and triumphant, to stare at Winter's window.
The crackle of a radio hushed the prisoners, all turned to watch Perez. The lieutenant's face hardened as Winter spoke words only he could hear. They grudgingly moved out of the way after he lowered the radio and made his way towards the general. Everyone could see his reluctance as he stiffly and oh-so-properly delivered the colonel's orders. "The discipline ordered was horn to horn labor. The disposition of the stones is immaterial. The prisoner must continue."
"What's he suppose to do, Lieutenant?" Tanner yelled. "He just moved the whole goddamn pile!"
"Then he can move it back," Perez said it calmly enough, but his body clearly radiated tension. He stared at the general, as if he knew that today's peaceful outcome rested in his hands.
Larabee stared hard at Perez, then turned to stare once more at the window, before turning to the pile.
The others yelled their approval.
Standish yelled out the new odds. "Seven to two against."
"Ten against."
"Twelve against."
"Four! In favor!"
Standish glanced over his shoulder at the soft, but excited exclamation. He grinned as he wrote down the bet. "Four in favor for Mr. Dunne."
The prisoners shifted anxiously. The shuffling of their clothes and feet were the only sounds other than Larabee's slow, steady footsteps. More than one set of eyes darted towards the stone clock above Winter's window.
"The horn?
"Where's the damn horn?"
The words started softly from within the mass of spectators, gaining momentum when the others realized that the work horn should have sounded by now.
"Damn bastard's holding the horn." "It ain't right."
The guards shifted nervously as the dissent grew in volume. Hands clenched batons, the only weapons allowed in the Yard. The wooden sticks were a sorry excuse for a weapon if the prisoners decided to riot. Breathing nearly became impossible as the prisoners' vocal dissent became physical movement.
Throughout all of this, Larabee kept moving the rocks, ignoring everything and everyone.
More than just the guards sighed in relief when the horn finally blew moments later. Larabee straightened from the last stone he would have to lift. He could feel the muscles in his back, arms, hell, his whole body screaming at him. He nodded gratefully at Tanner as he helped him ease his shirt back on. The younger man's low growl made him turn. Wilmington stood there, eyes hard, but somehow, confused.
"Why would you kill yourself to help him with his wall?"
"Because it's not his wall." He followed the other inmates towards the tiers, but paused a few steps away from the door, knowing both Tanner and Wilmington followed. "It's your wall."
Larabee's eyes flickered as green fatigues approached from his right. Turning he saw the apologetic eyes of Captain Perez.
"General, I mean, Prisoner Larabee, come with me, please."
Larabee turned to look once more at Tanner and Wilmington, before slowly followed the captain.
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