Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Colonist Labour Camp no. 125 ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Do I look like I own Gundam Wing to you? Ok, I am Japanese, but no. Seriously, I do not own the Gundam boys, and I certainly have nothing worth suing me for. ^^

Rating: R for safety, but this may change later.

Warnings: Um, good question. Shounen-ai/yaoi, violence, general cruelty all round. Language, angst (can't do without the angst!), um… I think that's it. I'll be adding to this list as I go along, probably, so keep an eye on it people!

Pairings: Ooh, secret. ^_~

Author's notes: I have no idea where this came from. I was sitting in my History class when BAM! Out of the blue, Misu (one of my plot bunnies) hit me in the stomach. It hurt you know, have some sympathy…

 

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High, high above the soil of the Earth is the blanket of clouds, sun and stars known as the sky.

 

I used to think of the sky like I did our dictator; it loomed over us and whatever it decided, be it rain, snow or hail, could not be changed by anyone.

 

But when I was seventeen years old, something happened. Something happened that changed everything.

 

A single branch on a single tree, if you will, rose up, fighting against the pull of gravity, growing higher and higher until it touched the sky itself, and made itself a place in its heart.

 

There are many different versions of this story, I am sure, but this is what really happened. This is the truth. It is a story of hardship, struggle, determination and love.

 

I know it, because I was there.

 

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Another hard day of work. Another day of fiddling with bits of metal, of digging in the dirt, of turning cranks, of doing what you did every day.

 

No-one had a choice; if they rebelled, they were shot. If they looked resentful or angry, they were tortured then sent back to work. The same went for those who protested for whatever reason.

 

It would have been mindlessly stupid to resist the control and power of OZ. It simply couldn't be done.

 

A tall brown haired boy, who looked maybe around sixteen, dug his rusty spade into the soil again. For the 3,679th time since six that morning. The boy had started counting the number of times he drove the spade into the unforgiving soil each day, trying to relieve some of the monotony. He'd even worked out the average amount of times he was able to do so; his average was 4 per 10 seconds, which meant 24 per minute, which was 1,440 an hour. It was pretty accurate.

 

“Hey, 4603!”

 

The boy raised his emerald-green eyes to the man wearing the standard OZ officer uniform. Ah. Lieutenant Nichol.

 

“Sir?” he asked quietly, docilely.

 

“There seems to be a problem with your spade,” Lieutenant Nichol said sternly.

4603, or 03 for short, frowned ever so slightly in bewilderment and crouched a little to investigate the digging tool.

 

He was sent sprawling with a hefty kick to his backside.

 

03 got up gracefully and quickly, fighting to keep his face indifferent as Nichol and the other officers nearby roared with malicious laughter. He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, silently hating the OZ officers.

 

“Get back to work, colony trash,” Nichol sneered.

 

It was November 19th, AC 196, if you weren't loyal to the new dictator. Of course, if you were, then the year was CD 0. Colonies' Defeat. Before that was BP. AC 195 for example, was now known as BP 1. Which stood for Before Peace. Everyone referred to the years in this new way of course, but ex-colonists and people who sympathised with them used the old way in their heads, or perhaps among very close family and friends.

 

There had been a great war; the One Year War, people called it, as it had lasted exactly one year. The Earth against the Colonies. The colonies put up a brave fight, but they simply didn't have the resources to win the war. And so OZ, the force fighting for the Earth, had won, and its leader became the Emperor of the World.

 

The colonists were rounded up and the elderly or children below the age of ten were put to death. The ones that were left were taken to Labour Camps, which were situated in various places around the Earth Sphere. There they worked all day, from six am to eight pm, seven days a week. Needless to say, there were some colonists who died from the sheer amount of manual labour alone.

 

It was a terrible life. There was no knowing whether a person would suddenly be whisked away for a torture session on the whim of an OZ officer, or even killed. The living conditions were disgusting; cramped, dirty and bare with no windows, just a cold metal door. A person was lucky if they had a blanket. As for pillows, they were a luxury that maybe one or two people in an entire camp had.

 

But of course, they were only getting their dues. After all, they were colonists, right? Colonists didn't have rights. They didn't deserve them.

 

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Sandy: Hmm. Remind you of anything…? I wonder how many people will spot it. It wasn't meant to turn out like that, but when I'd finished this chapter I read through it and thought; `Hey, this sounds familiar…'

Read and review please! I'd love to hear what you think. This is my first ever fanfic, so go easy, hmm? ^_^;; I am terrible at coming up with titles for stuff, so if you have any suggestions… *begs nicely*

Oh, and the OZ dictator isn't who you think it is. Unless you're psychic, in which case it might be. ^_~