Chapter 2
“Trowa get your ass out of bed now!” a strange voice called out to him, but in his half-awake reverie, he tossed his body to the side and ignored the demand. “Trowa, the master will not be pleased” the voice kept persisting, he mumbled in contest, “tell Quatre to give me five more minutes.” The voice was heard sputtering and coughing, he raised an eyebrow curiously. All of Quatre’s staff were well aware of the nature of their relationship whether or not they were comfortable with the idea, making him question this new staff member’s reaction. He sat up defiantly; “I know you may…” he trailed, taking in the changes of his surroundings, as they were not as he recalled them being as he laid his head to rest the night before. His eyes darted to the confused young man in the doorway, clad in khaki shorts, white t-shirt, and desert boots, he had the darkest hair he had ever seen sprout out of any person’s head. The air was filled with scents of dry, sandy dust particles, and foreign blossoms he had never smelled before. He blinked several times, and even pinched himself to assure that he was no longer sleeping, and so he was not. “Are you new here?” he asked the raven-haired man quietly; still unsure of what was going on. The man squinted his eyes menacingly, “You know very well that I am NOT new here. In fact YOU are new here. You were brought in last night with a shipment of slaves, the master was most kind to purchase you, and you disrespect him by addressing the master’s newest pet as your master? Your duties lie in the garden and in the garden alone; I was informed that you had already received the debriefing upon arrival. I suppose you have had a trying time but that is not excuse. Get out of bed. The roses need pruning.” He strutted over to the bed and threw him a uniform identical to his own at the confused Heavy Arms pilot, who didn’t mutter a syllable, attempting to digest all this new information that did not quite compute with anything he had done the night before.
As the man left the room, he slithered his nude body out from under the sheets, bracing to feel a slap of cold air hit his body that never came. “Um… it’s supposed to be winter”, he thought. Trowa stretched his tense body from an unusual restless sleep, often when spending the night with his little blonde his rests were most comfortable. Outside the window a foot away from the bed, the artificial sun shone brightly, as a clone looking group of men busied themselves around the grounds either building, cleaning, or painting. A most odd sight, a vast gazebo seating a small number of people, appearing to be an important person and his designated entourage, much like a king and his court. “Am I in a palace of sorts?” he wondered. Avoiding putting too much thought into it, and knowing he will soon find answers, he obediently dressed himself and began wandering the vast halls none to different from a college dormitory. Without any escort he realized finding the garden could be quite the trial, he was able to admit to himself that he had a terrible sense of direction and often relied on Heavy Arms for that little bit of valuable information. Before he knew it, he was utterly lost. To keep himself occupied, he traced the fine plaster outline of the wall with the tip of his finger, dwelling on what the man in his room had told him. “Quatre… the master’s pet? Who is this master? I thought Quatre was the master, well, to the Maguanacs he was. All I have to do is find him and maybe he’ll be able to answer my questions. Just… wait.”
His mind drifted aimlessly, by some strange chance, he miraculously reached the main garden, lush with millions upon billions of floral designs and architectural marvels. The wondrous aromas that filled the air were nothing short of intoxicating and absolutely breathtaking. He stood dumbfounded in the archway that stood as a foyer to the complex mazes of trails that spun and dipped around the blossoming blooms. His lower jaw hung open as he inhaled the sights and sounds of this sensual miracle. The people he had seen buzzing around outdoors, were around him, continuously doing as they were before, none slowing or showing any signs of discontentment. It was as it seemed, they were happy to be there and doing what they did, which surprised Trowa to the very core. “They can’t be human, humans don’t enjoy work.” He allowed his eyes to continue scraping every detail possible from the serene picture, drifting from the builders, to the gardeners, to the painters, and finally, the gazebo. He focused as much as he physically could be allowed on the picturesque little wooden hut, picking out mentally every person confined inside. A bizarre realization struck him, every person had black hair, and every person was male, as if it were planned, perhaps a genetic cleansing, his mind wandered over a myriad of possibilities until a flash of moving light gold caught his eye.
“Quatre!” he avoided shouting, causing a commotion at the moment would not be wise, and for all he knew, Quatre didn’t know he was there. He envisioned himself walking over to the gazebo and pulling Quatre away for the crowd, however, it appeared that things around here were not that simple. The man in his room seemed to put urgency in pleasing the master, and by taking away his newest ‘pet’ would certainly not please him. He looked more intensely at the master, attempting to get as many characteristical data from his maneuvers, postures, and facial expressions, to judge what kind of man he was. He obviously was not a tyrant, the servants appeared to be pleased with their life here, and he was always quite calm and easily pleased when he spoke. An air of grace and refinement wafted about, and a sense of great respect from him could be easily understood amongst all the servants. He dwelled on that thought… “They are servants and not slaves, or so it seems, yet I came from a slave shipment and he purchased me?” Not wanting to stand out (literally), he grabbed a pair of pruning shears and strutted over to the roses, where there were four other attendants pruning and watering the delicate flowers.
He knelt onto a patch of soft moss, almost seemingly there for that purpose, and began to feel around to where the roses would need to be trimmed. “… Yes, a weird bunch indeed. Their hair isn’t black, and I heard there is a woman too!” Unable to avoid eavesdropping, he listened into the other workers conversations, perhaps able to find some clues as to his mystery. “Master really likes the blonde one, he is cute but he’s a little too small for my tastes” another worker piped. Holding himself from throttling the man for even mentioning Quatre, he grumbled audibly, catching the four workers’ attention. “So,” the first one chipped, appearing to be the leader of the four. “So I hear YOU are one of the new ones?” he seemed to ask a slight rudely for Trowa’s tastes, but he nodded cordially nonetheless. “I’ve been told there was a whole six of you bought last night.” The second added, prying perhaps, to get more gossip about the newcomers. The third simply stared at his hair, studying the fact that it was not black like the rest of theirs’. “How’d you do that?” the third finally spoke. “Do what?” The third pointed childishly at his hair, like if he was showing his mother the animal balloons a clown had just made, in a sense, he did feel he was back at the circus, being gawked and stared at. “How’d you make your hair go not black?” The first two shot him daggers from their eyes for asking such a question, obviously, this young man appeared older than he was. Trowa assumed the boy was at the very least fifteen, but evidence showed he was a several years younger; maybe his body grew to fast for his mind or his mind too slow for his body. Either way, he figured there was no shame in answering. He smiled as he would to any child. “I was born with brown hair.” The third’s eyes went wide and he turned to the other three. “How come we were made with black hair and not brown like his?” The fourth placed a loving hand on youth’s shoulder in an almost parental gesture, “that was not the master’s willing. Now lets quit our talking and focus on the lovely roses that need our love and care.” All four nodded in agreement, as he simply raised an eyebrow inquisitively, but not wanting to pursue the matter any further, proceeded pruning the roses. Grabbing his shears, he couldn’t recall ever gardening or even taking a liking to flowers as much to avoid trampling them underfoot much less making it his job to tend to them. His attention however was averted to a loud crashing sound and Japanese cursing coming from where the builders were stationed.