Prequel to chapter 26, the child soldier AU.
Warnings: violence towards a late teen, child soldiers. As always, nothing sexual.
Thirteen-oh-one stared at his plate. It was full of what his meals normally consisted of: a gray mush that contained everything he'd need to stay healthy enough to complete missions. It was the same thing he'd eaten every day of his life, all nineteen years of it, ever since- well. Ever since ever.
Thirteen-oh-one began his brief daily mental review of his life so far. It had become a habit ever since he had suffered temporary amnesia on a mission and had been unable to remember the Compound for a short time.
Without the Compound, he was nothing.
Shaking off that thought, Thirteen-oh-one carried on with the task he had set himself.
He had been in the Compound ever since he was a newborn. Once he was old enough to walk and talk, he had been trained to handle weapons, resist pain, and, most importantly, taught that the Compound was everything.
The Compound was the world.
His daily review complete, Thirteen-oh-one continued to eat his meal. When he had reached about halfway, a familiar voice sounded above and in front of him, the owner standing in the doorway of the cell that Thirteen-oh-one stayed in when he wasn't training or on a mission.
"Enjoying your meal?"
Thirteen-oh-one kept his head down, his spoon clenched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white. He knew better than to reply.
Footsteps echoed in the small room, and a pair of shoes walked into the blond's line of sight. A tight hand clenched Thirteen-oh-one's shoulder, gripping the joint so tightly that the bones ground together painfully.
Thirteen-oh-one was careful to keep his head down and his expression blank.
The Compound didn't like any expression of weakness.
The Trainer that stood above him spoke again. "It's time for your session."
The younger man nodded, a tiny movement of his head. "Yessir."
He placed the plate of mush on the floor carefully, giving it one last regretful glance before he stood.
He wouldn't be getting any more food for another eight hours.
As he stood, a fist collided- suddenly and painfully- with his cheekbone. The teen staggered to the side, his head throbbing. The Trainer's voice filtered through the haze that threatened to overwhelm his senses, berating him. "Next time I expect you to be standing by the door waiting for me, you understand?"
Thirteen-oh-one nodded again, still keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. "Yessir."
Without another word, the Trainer turned on his heel and left through the door, not even looking back to see if Thirteen-oh-one would follow.
He followed, like always.
On his way to the training session, however, an alarm started blaring through the base. The blond's head shot up, and the Trainer pointed him down a hallway, shouting, "Intruders! Capture, not kill!"
With a brief nod towards his superior, the soldier ran towards the sounds of the scuffle that he could hear faintly underneath the screaming of the alarm.
Once he arrived, he saw two men taking on a handful of guards, and, surprisingly, winning. Seamlessly, the teen slipped into the fight, and was able to knock both men unconsciousness in under a minute.
Mutely, he stepped back, watching the guards step forward and secure the two intruders. There was a sharp yell from up the hallway, and Thirteen-oh-one turned and jogged back the way he had come.
He still had a training session to complete.
Thirteen-oh-one was sitting in his cell, drifting into a light doze and hoping to forget the pain of the new bruises that covered him, when the door clicked open. His head jerked up in surprise, wondering what was going on. He hadn't been informed during the training session that he had a mission later, and it hadn't been eight hours since the last time he had been given food.
A guard motioned to him, looking annoyed. "Get up. You've got a new job."
Thirteen-oh-one was led into a wide corridor, and a tray of food- real food, like what the Trainers and guards and Doctors ate, not the gray mush that was his fare- was thrust into his hands.
The blond blinked owlishly at the guard. The older man rolled his eyes pointed at the nearest door. "Take it in there and give it to the prisoners."
Confused, Thirteen-oh-one complied. When he opened the door, he was greeted with the sight of two men, each sitting on a small bed on opposite sides of the room. They whipped around to face him in unison, suspicion plastered over their faces.
The teen was unsure of what the protocol was in this situation, so he went with his gut. He set the tray down on the ground and immediately exited the room, only to find the same guard waiting and ready to escort him back to his cell.
Over the next few days, Thirteen-oh-one was told to repeat the same task twice a day, every day. It confused him; weren't the two men prisoners? Why were they being treated like guests?
(He pushed down the tiny voice at the back of his mind that asked why they were being treated better than he was. After all, he worked for the Compound, didn't he?)
Then days extended into a week, and a week into two, and two weeks into two months.
(Many things happened during those two months. The men talked to him, or, rather, at him at first. The first time he responded, the third week after they had been captured, they didn't respond with violence or verbal degradation. He sat in his cell that night, running that moment in his head over and over and over.
It was the first time someone had spoken to him in a way that was even remotely resembling respect.
It was a novel feeling, and one that he thought he might like.)
When two months hit, he overheard a conversation between his guards. There were advantages to others viewing you as not-quite-human, he supposed, such as being privy to all sorts of conversations. "They're going to kill those prisoners, I heard."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Eh, I guess they thought that they'd tell the kid something, but it didn't work. Besides, at this point, they're positive that they didn't get any information."
"Why don't they try and make them talk?"
"Don't ask me, man, that's what I was wondering. I guess they have their reasons."
"Yeah, whatever."
The blond thought of the way that the men talked to him, haven't hit him, haven't ignored him like he's less than them.
Thirteen-oh-one made his decision. When he gave the men their food, he announced, "They're going to kill you tomorrow. I can get you out."
The taller man's eyes strayed to his cheekbone, to the bruise that the kid acquired in training earlier. It was normal, and the blond didn't know why the man seemed surprised.
Then they nodded, and his thoughts were on more important things.
