Another Unoriginal Oneshot Book

Protective Custody

AN: IDK why this wasn't marked before, but there's some minor/implied harm to children in this chapter. Definitely some scattered bad vibes. I might change it; as I get older, I'm more and more sensitive about child wellbeing. Still rated T though.

Flagstaff, 2262.

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Fire-at-Dawn struggled not to take off running. He'd been running all day, but finally he had somewhere he wanted to be. Instead, he walked at a fast clip towards the market district, not breaking into a sprint until he was out of view of the training grounds.

It was six o'clock, and that meant he was free until curfew. His instructor didn't know that he wasn't going to be returning tonight.

Fire-at-Dawn thundered into the basketweaver's tent and skidded to a stop in front of a small cluster of women, hard at work. The weaver scoffed and cursed him, but made no move to stop the boy. Legionaries, especially ten-year-old trainees, weren't supposed to visit or even know relatives. They had the freedom to move around the city uninhibited, though, as long as they reported in at the scheduled times. The man didn't exactly like it when Fire-at-Dawn dropped in to see his mother, but he helped with the work, so the breach of conduct went unreported.

One woman looked up from her weaving. 'There's my beautiful boy,' Green-Valley murmured in her tribal language. This was another forbidden practice, but the basketweaver made no efforts to prevent it either.

Fire-at-Dawn didn't speak, just melted into her arms. There was nothing left to say. They'd talked about tonight a hundred times over the past year. It had been the one thing on their minds, the thing that kept them going through long days of menial labor and backbreaking drills in the sweltering Arizona sun.

A year ago, the Legion had invaded their small tribal village. In English, they had been known as Stormclouds. Now, they were Caesar's slaves.

Fire-at-Dawn had been at home with his father when the shouting and gunshots started. His father had peeked out of their hut to investigate, and taken a bullet in the stomach. He'd stumbled back inside and died there, clutching his son's tiny hands in his own blood-slick ones. A year since, the boy still saw dark scarlet dripping from his fingers.

The soldiers had come for Fire-at-Dawn later. They'd clapped the tribals in slave collars and driven them south. They'd landed in Flagstaff, where Green-Valley had been put up for auction and Fire-at-Dawn, unable to communicate his age, had been inducted into the Legion, a year younger than the rest of his contubernium. The two had found each other not long after.

Nearly every day, Fire-at-Dawn came over at six o'clock. He'd tell her what he'd learned that day in remedial education and basic training, and help the women work.

It was because of her that he'd kept his freedom, in his heart. The Legion told him that strength meant standing on top of someone else; his mother said that a leader loves before anything else. The Legion told him that women were for his pleasure and for the Legion's next generation; she said that a man like his father would always protect a woman, especially his wife. They taught him excellence; she taught him mercy.

His hands worked deftly next to hers. Most days, she would call out his mistakes. Today, it didn't matter.

-

The sun set, winking its goodbye. The basketweaver went to bed. His slaves kept working.

Fire-at-Dawn was to be back in his barracks in twenty minutes. He remained.

More women arrived at the tent. One by one, the slaves stopped weaving. They thrummed with exhilaration. Only Green-Valley continued, and even she was slowed down by her son cuddling into her side.