Yooooo. New story! This is 100% inspired by the lovely Cyanopsis on Tumblr (also known as Anderfeelsy). Seriously, all these ideas, all this plot is because I was able to bounce ideas off of them (and they came up with the whole thing and supplied A TON of awesome prisonAU inspired art - go check it out!) I look forward to writing more for this and know exactly where our plot is going.

Warnings (I will do this per chapter as it does change frequently): derogatory language

A/N: After lots of research on prisons it's clear there's a big racial segregation that takes place. This idea does not reflect my own view on the races in Dragon Age whatsoever... I wrote it this way to capture the most authentic prison experience.

Enjoy. :)

Small flames, then large claws that waned and leaned out to engulf him. The smell was noxious, burning, papers, foods, plastics, rubbers. It wafted in the building, thick blackness compressing into the ceiling. The man ran, through the building, down stairs and into the lobby where the fire itched to spread.

He took too long. Sat. Admired his work. There was a mission that constantly repeated in his head, this reverberating noise, an idea that by removing this building from the city map no harm would ever befall those he strived to protect. No more of the downtrodden he works to feed, clothe, heal need fear being locked up for sleeping where they do - no more women and children forced to sell themselves because their lovers are incarcerated to a cruel system.

The man coughed, smoke wrapping itself around his lungs, settling near the very bottom. He had tried the exit in the back of the building but the chock he had placed before entering had given out and the door was now locked for good. Sirens blared from an outside world and life as he knew it took a halt. Either he would now die here or face what was coming to him later.

Heart already racing he looked for an exit, anywhere, windows, secret passages - anything. Anything so he wouldn't have to walk out those main doors. Circling lights mixed with the flames as the vehicles rushed near the plaza outside. The smoke now blackened his vision. He stumbled, pushing into tables, chairs.

So much stuck in his throat, so much choking him till he couldn't breathe. Floorboards creaked under him as he felt a cold plane of glass shielded in soot. He wiped at it, rubbed it till the skin on his hand began to break - faintly he could make out figures circling the building unsure of where to begin as they lugged big snakes of cord behind them - water hoses.

Energy seeped out of him and only seemed to fuel the fire lapping at his uncovered ankles as his fists pounded, angrily, desperately on the glass. He wished to scream, to let them save him regardless of the consequences he would face. In the case of fight or flight he wished to flee - he would be a coward even if it damned him, human instinct kicked in and he knew he wanted to live.

Tears, evaporating to his cheeks as they fell, seemed out of place - innocent in this place as if they had no relatable role in their creator's demise. But he himself did have a role here. He had set fire to it all, playing with wires, throwing volatile bottles of alcohol into rooms as he ran past with hurried breath. Now it was all frivolous, the cause he passionately fought for lost in the deepest reserves of his mind as panic set in. There was a pounding on the glass not of his own, and he heard it shatter not far from him.

Shouting, noises so loud they made his ears bleed. He tried to shout back, but couldn't, voice lost amongst the roar of fire. Water jetted into the building, crushing the heat as men fought back, entering rooms deliberately closed with flames seeping through. They paid no heed to the man, perhaps not even noticing him as he sank to the ground where the air was at least a little more abundant.

The room swayed around the man, it was dark, fire only in the distant hallways as men ran past him. Someone must have grabbed him, dragged him away. His eyes must have eventually been sewn shut from the reality. He was driven away from the scene of the crime - sat in the back of an ambulance with people fussing over him, pumping oxygen into him and cleaning the bloodied marks that ran across his body.

"Did you do it?"

The lawyer provided to him was kind enough, talking sweetly with the man who was safely bound to hospital bed. His face was wrapped with a thick gauze, burns puffed out on his wrists and ankles. Doctors had ordered him to be quiet, not to speak while his lungs and throat healed from searing.

"I did," it was a croak, a disgusting mangling of what should be a human voice, "I set it on fire."

"You shouldn't," his lawyer, man by the name of Jowan, stiffened slightly as he softened his voice, "you shouldn't say that so loudly."

"I want them to know," there was a level of deep anger ridden underneath the words, "I burnt down their establishment because they abuse their power. They needed," a cough overtook him and his lungs raged as he worked the bug out of his system, "they needed to know they're not untouchable."

The pair stared at each other. A man starting out his career as a lawyer and another about to sign his life away by admitting his guilt. Jowan could not so easily secede, "I haven't tried this before… but we could wait for them to go through with a trial - arson cases usually have little evidence to pull from because, well, it's usually burnt."

By this point his client was too struck by pain to care - he waved the lawyer away, thinking none of it. Officers stood outside his room - hateful pricks who abused their power. All of them. Even the doctors, who should care more about healing than money would end up slapping him with a heavy fee for this visit. It wasn't fair. This is what needed to stop.

He felt a hand on his face and forced his eyes open, "J-Justice."

"You've seen better days."

Pain shot him through the gut like a bullet as he tried to sit up to face his guest, "I," there were so many things he wanted to say. This was the only person who had ever tried to understand him, and he was terrified of disappointing him, "I'm sorry. It just… it-"

"- it had to be done," he finished for him, "I understand, Anders."

Justice had used his preferred nickname. It was at the point in his life that Anders didn't even recognize his birth name if it was used. He and Justice were good like that. Long ago, he should have referred to the man as he was, as dad. But experience told him at the time it wouldn't last - that just like all the other families Anders would either run away or he'd be thrown out.

Him and Justice had done neither, and it was a nice change… while it lasted.

"I, um," the words that were usually crisp and strong on the elder man's voice were now faltering as he scratched the back of his head, "I tried to pay the bail, but," he shook his head, not wanting to admit his failure.

"It's fine," Anders looked up and tried to smile. Whatever would happen, would happen. He swallowed a lump in his throat as he forced his attention to the wall before him, "I know money is tight."

Justice sat, moving the chair next to Anders and laying his hand gently on his arm, mindful of the fresh wounds, "It's not fair. Fuck those guys that can just pay their way out of everything. Society is always-"

"-trying to oppress the oppressed," Anders smiled as he turned to face his company, "I've heard this speech before, Justice."

There was a proud smirk on his lips, "Good. I just wish," he paused, "I just hope it wasn't me that caused you to do what you did… you could have been killed."

"I can die just as easily walking to the shelter everyday, just as easily when I leave the library, when I sit down to eat. Death is inevitable - I just want to make now better and not worry about what will happen in the future because," his voice started to give out again and that mangled sound came through again, "hopefully it will be better then."

"You sound like shit," a water bottle was placed to his lips, "Drink."

Anders followed the command and sighed, looking out the window to his right, sunlight streaming in and casting haunting shadows on the curtains surrounding his bed. He was suddenly weak, a switch was flipped and now a grown man reduced to that of a terrified child in a matter of seconds. Tears began to well up as his breathing quickened, "Justice," it was such a small voice, such a stupid, pitiful voice, "what's going to happen?"

The man was not one for physical contact but sensing he was needed as less of his own person and more of a father figure he moved to lean his head on Anders' arm, "I don't know."

And he didn't. He really didn't know what lay in store for this young boy who had so much of his life ruined by society's ignorance. Anders had never deserved the life he was given, and in Justice's mind the boy was completely justified in trying to break that system. They sat like that for a while. No soothing words could ease the panic setting in. No talk of dates and court pleas were able to cull his anxiety.

He was being pulled into a suit, someone patting down his matted hair, shaving his chin so it wasn't so wild and guilt-laden. Those hands were familiar and gentle. Jowan paced the room, possibly more terrified than his charge.

And then the accusations flew. He's a maniac. A terrorist. Why else would he try to injure others? Is he stupid? Retarded? The questions were quick, bitter. His responses helped nothing, his testimonies of life on the streets as a poorer member of society only met with stronger opposition. Jowan attempted to quiet him repeatedly as Anders practically made his guilt known - but the man used to trial as a political forum. Speaking loudly to the judge, the jury, the audience filled with reporters and people who claimed to know him.

He argued with himself, even as no questions were asked. Speaking passionately about the poor and their rights and how places like this, the temporary courthouse, were prone to abusing their power. His emotions drove him to tears, not out of fear, but out of anger. This was a televised case for the city, people would watch, people would hear him and he damn well wanted them to.

No response was given to the evidence they provided against him, and it was plentiful. Videos of him buying rags and alcohol at the same time. Pictures of him pacing in the lobby of the courthouse. His radical writings found at his place of work. He knew he was guilty. He did it for a reason.

Jowan swallowed so loudly the entire room could hear him as the jury was called back for their verdict. Anders sat still, unmoving, hard-faced for the cameras. If they didn't listen to his words then his actions would show them how he feels. They can lock him up, they can deem whatever they want as his punishment - but they will never strip him of his cause.

But sometimes emotion is not read like that. Sometimes one's body gets the better of them, words end up being more powerful than they had anticipated. Anders stood as strong as he could when they began to read the verdict, he needed to steel himself on the arms of officers holding him upright as the words were processed.

"Guilty on accounts of first-degree arson."

It was read plainly, there, in fine print. People gasped: little old women who adored him at the shelter he volunteered most of his time with, men who had relied on him for support and medical attention. He hadn't had as much higher education as most doctors had, which meant to say he had none, but he had learned on his own and used it to treat the undesirables. The people liked him.

Jowan shook his head, quickly moving through his papers as if he could prevent this even though the damage was done. Anders straightened himself, ready for the next few words that would really affect him. He had toned out through a lot of dialogue but this he would listen to.

"Sentenced twenty-three years to life."

He bit his lip, so hard that blood began to flush into his mouth. Strange, metallic flavors seeping through the soft skin. It took every fiber of his being to stay still, to not give them a reaction. He could cry later, he would cry later. Protocol was adhered to and Anders shut it out once more. Twenty-three years of his life. He would be fifty if he ever got out on time. His breathing was deep but the cameras or audience couldn't pick up on that, only the officers behind him.

And then he was being shuffled away. No words from him. No lasting cries for change. They had won to a degree, the shock had stripped him away of sound temporarily. He was lucky he hadn't been seen as treasonous for his calls against the government. Jowan said nothing. He didn't need to say anything - he was what the poor people like Anders get. Someone trying to practice law on people who don't matter until they can work their way up to those that do.

The waiting game began. Three days in this room. A week in another. Two bus rides across the state. Another week in a temporary cell. Anders craved for normalcy. He had had it only a few times in his life. These constant changes. Always moving. No warning. They eroded him, kept him quiet in hopes of being good enough to merit some type of system.

Not all the constant changes were bad though. On his fifth night in a holding cell they called him out, allowing him one phone call. There were two numbers he knew by heart. Two numbers he could call. Mind and heart debated for a few moments. Mind telling him to call Justice and let him know he's okay… heart telling him…

"Karl?"

The voice on the other end was muffled by something, "Holy shit, Anders?"

He pressed his tongue over the healing skin on his lips, "Yeah," this was a mistake, what was he supposed to say? Karl had given him enough hadn't he, he should do what's best and leave the poor guy alone, "I miss you," his hand shook as he leaned against the wall, the cord hitting him against his leg, "Did you hear?"

"I saw some of it," there was a long pause that let fear run its course in Anders' mind, "You should have told me, Anders. Dammit, why did you do it?"

He was in jail now, he should be tough, never show fear. But he couldn't maintain it, the tears began to roll down his cheeks as he struggled to get the words out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Karl. Please don't be mad at me, I just…" he choked on his words, "I just need you, please."

A pause, and then a sigh, "Anders, it's alright, I'm here for you. Shh, stop crying, you're going to be okay."

"There are people here who are going to kill me, Karl. They're going to rape me," he was in hysterics now, amusing to the guard watching him from afar, "Please."

"Shh," the voice was soothing, as if he was there as a body for Anders to cling to, "They don't let that stuff happen in prison. You'll be okay. Are you eating?"

Karl knew everything. He knew Anders went without meals on occasion, he knew what Anders needed, he knew what he wanted, "Yes. Oh, Karl, I wish you were here."

"And I wish you wouldn't do stupid shit without telling me," the voice was sharp, and then soft, "but it's done with now. And you're safe. I don't know how everything works, but I'll do some research tonight and figure out how to send you money."

"Oh, no, I-"

"Shut up and take my money," Karl smiled into his phone knowing Anders would remember it as a private joke of theirs, he dropped pasta into the boiling pot of water for his dinner, "How long are you in for, two years or something?"

"I thought you watched the trial on TV?" He didn't want to tell him. Him reading it or seeing it somewhere was easier.

"No, just the highlights they played on Channel 8, imagine my surprise," he took a moment to pour himself a generous glass of wine, "Is it more than that?"

Anders looked away, the officer was pointing to the clock, "I need to go."

"So soon?" Karl placed his glass down, holding the phone closely so he didn't miss a word.

"I love you, I'll talk to you… will you come visit me?" He was whiny, desperate, still a child.

Karl was older, wiser, calmer, "Of course I will. I love you too, And-"

The phone cut off and Anders looked at the guard who merely nodded. His time was up. It was back to his new world. He stayed quiet, not talking much in the temporary holding. No one talked much. Why make bonds when you're all going to be leaving soon anyways? This was Anders first time in prison, he had been in juvenile detention - but this was bigger, more serious, more problems that could arise.

His name was called and he was shackled. The ones on his wrists cut into the burns and reminded him constantly of his imprisonment. He was never handled too roughly, only enough to show him where to go. Two others were traveling with him in the strange bus. The windows were barred, a separation between the driver and them.

No one spoke. All he could do was look out the window, at freedom, trying to remember every single frame of it before it was lost forever. Cars zipped past them. Curious children pointing out the strange vehicle to their parents. The city-scape turned into suburbs, then into fields that stretched for miles.

Finally they passed their first sign that told them they were getting closer: Don't pick up hitchhikers.

Tall fences of barbed wire, angry watchtowers that peered into the recreational areas below them. People in beige uniforms milling around, some with orange pants, orange tops. It was a strange freedom of choice they must have had - which ugly color do I wear today? Several checkpoints stopped the vehicle, guards with masked faces staring at the new inmates.

Eventually the bus pulled around to a main entrance. Each of the three being transported was taken down and out of the bus, following closely behind the guard. Anders was in the middle. In front of him, a large man with a penchant for growling, to his back a pale male with thinly cut hair. Not a promising group.

"Sit."

It was an order. And in prison there is no room for debate.

Anders sat, squished between the two men. He wasn't the largest guy around, really he was rather slim and lanky. His height had helped him keep bullies away in school, but it meant nothing here. Lack of food throughout his life had made sure to leave its mark on Anders' body and he had an odd concave to his posture.

One by one they were called forward to be stripped and showered. Anders followed, unclothing himself for the male guard who seemed more interested with the baseball game on the television in the other room. The man opened Anders mouth, prodding around, moving to his arms and feeling for various reasons.

"Squat and cough."

This was normal. Something Anders had been familiar with in his time at juvy. He bent, long legs bringing him lower to the ground. It still hurt to cough, his lungs had the tiniest bit of ache to them yet. But he did what he was told.

"Stand under the water and wash your hair."

It was anti-lice shampoo. Anders had had lice before. Lying under the underpass, in alleyways, on discarded mattresses would do that to you. The water was cold, not ice cold but getting there. He shivered as he quickly lathered the cream and shoved it into his long hair. Usually it looked better but the showers were infrequent at the last few holding cells.

Even if it was cold he was still grateful for the opportunity.

With it done he was given a small towel to wipe himself down with and handed a new set of clothes. Prison clothes. One white tanktop, one pair of cheap underwear and the classic orange jumpsuit with a number printed on its back.

The officer threw him a pair of obnoxious sandals as well, neon orange to match the rest of the outfit. He folded the towel and gave it back, no words were shared. It had been too long for a man like Anders to go without speaking.

"Have you ever had suicidal thoughts, recently or in the past?"

The questioning was invasive and Anders didn't want to be honest with this blond officer but he tried his best anyways, "In the past… not now."

He scribbled something down on his clipboard as he grabbed a curly piece of his hair and lost himself to his work, "Sexuality?"

"Straight." Anders said it too quickly. The officer looked at him skeptically but didn't ask further. Yes Anders was technically in a relationship with a man. Yes, Anders technically enjoyed sex with men… but he wasn't about to get targeted for that. Pretending to like women should be easy enough - he had slept with women in the past before hadn't he?

"Are you a member of any known gangs? We will check for tattoos, so don't lie."

Anders turned his head, thinking seriously, "I was initiated into The Wardens a while back but nothing came of it and my foster dad made me leave." Justice pulled him out of the gang, the leader didn't care too much and he seriously doubted anyone would even recognize him now.

"Alright," he got serious for a moment when he turned for Anders, "In a few minutes I'm going to take you through that door and we're going to issue you your blankets, bedding, and room. You will also be given a cellmate. This is your first time in prison, correct?"

"Yes," Anders sounded small again and he hated himself for it.

"Some rules to keep in mind before your orientation: don't ask people why they're in here. The nicest guy you meet can be a murderer and the meanest a forger. Don't ask. Listen to what people want - try not to give them anything but if you can't help it, it's better to stay safe. Um," a blush crept to his cheeks for a moment, "also, if anyone propositions you for sex or coerces you into it you need to speak with an officer or the warden, Meredith will straighten it out for you."

Anders nodded, "Okay."

"Good, I'm officer Cullen, by the way. Do you have any questions before we leave?"

"I get a schedule, right?"

"Yes, breakfasts, worktimes, freetime, it's all planned out. It says your judge issued you to have mental health counseling as well, so you will be given permission for that."

"When do I get to have visitors?"

"Here," he passed a packet of papers to Anders, "When you're in your cell you can fill these out and turn them back in. They are visitor information forms and you can highlight who is allowed to visit and their relationship to you. Usually visitors can come in on Saturday or Sunday. They need to be screened beforehand though."

Anders nodded, trying to keep himself at bay, "Tomorrow is Saturday, can I have a visitor?"

Cullen sat back, observing the broken man, "Is it an immediate family member? If it's a mother or sibling or something like that they are allowed to come as long as they show verification. Girlfriends, friends and all other people require this form."

"Will I have access to phone calls?"

"When you meet the warden you can ask for one. Some people are intimidated by her but she means well," the officer stood and looked down at Anders, "Let's issue you your supplies."

A bar of soap. A bed mat. Two blankets. A roll of toilet paper. Cullen continued talking to the prisoner as if he's the new student at a high school. He explained how new supplies could be bought and most things were easy to come by here. They walked through the halls. Various people milled around, prisoners in their uniforms walking to and from work placements, officers patrolling everything carefully.

Cullen typed in a fast code that opens to a small room, he nodded to a man behind a covered screen. The doors buzzed and opened for the prisoner and the officer. He walked quickly as the doors slam shut behind him. People talked loudly, laugh loudly, scream loudly. No one stopped them. They played games at tables, shared cards, stretched themselves out on benches.

A few eyes flickered up to the new orange outfit, they looked him over. Everything was organized. Them. Us. Warden. Coterie. Carta. Dalish. Qunari. All the gangs were separate. Them. Us.

"Here, cell 254," Cullen unlatched the handle and the room opened.

One bunk bed, one sink attached to the toilet, one mirror scratched out to fog. One body laying on the bottom shelf, scraping off dirt in his nails with a spoon. He doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge any of the people in his domain.

"Fenris will be your cellmate," the officer almost seemed sorry for the new inmate, "Lunch will be called in about an hour."

Anders stood in the doorway, now abandoned. Now feeling incredibly vulnerable. Carefully he placed his few possessions on the top bunk trying not to obstruct the other man's light. The bedroll flopped onto the metal frame and covered up the crude drawings beneath.

He felt a hand on his neck and he froze. The voice speaking to him is cold, "What is your name?"

"Anders!" His throat burned with the man's fist gripping it, fingers ripping into the flesh.

"Are you a fucking snitch?"

He shook his head, not knowing what it means only knowing that for the safety of his life he will never be one.

"What's your crime then?"

The words were still harsh, forceful, commanding. Anders felt himself buckling even though the man gripping him was shorter, "Arson. I burnt down a courthouse."

Then it was gone. The fiery grip and pain removed itself. He collapsed to the ground and grabbed at his sensitive throat, gasping for air as the other man paced above him, "I hate snitches. My last cellmate was a snitch."

"I'm sorry," he doesn't know why he's apologizing, only thinking that he should, "I promise I won't be like that."

"Good."

There was a knock on their cell door, a nice courtesy - meaning it was certainly not guards. Fenris stood to peer out the small window, deeming them okay he opens the door as if he has any right to be in its control.

Anders tried to raise himself but was interrupted with an eager handshake, "I can't believe you got another one, Fenris. I thought they would have learned."

"He is no snitch so he claims."

"Really?" The man is tall, large and bearded. He smiled and the scar across his nose crinkled, "Well isn't that just fantastic news?"

"Now, Hawke," a short man moved in, placing a hand on the tall one - a sign of friendship, familiarity, "play nice. This boy probably wants to get in and get out."

Anders let out a laugh, unintentionally but it caught their attention anyways. They stared at him, waiting for him to answer, "I have twenty-three years to life… getting in and getting out is not on my to-do list so to speak."

The larger man, Hawke, nodded as if he was impressed, "I only have seventeen more years and I can go in for a plea."

Officer Cullen's words resounded in his head and he looked down to his feet, still, he wanted to know, "Am I allowed to ask how long all of you have already been here?"

"No, we ask you questions first," the shorter man chose to sit on the toilet. Fenris the sink and Hawke on his cellmate's bed, "Why are you here?"

"Arson," he motioned to Fenris, "I was telling him that I burned down a courthouse and instead of surrendering like I should have I went through with the trial."

"Ouch," Hawke shook his head, "Yeah, that pretty much happened to everyone in here. Lawyers must make more money by telling you that shit."

Anders nodded in agreement, "I had one of the provided lawyers and they all pretty much suck so I've heard."

"Oh no," the shorter man interjected, "Hawke had a whole team of lawyers and even they couldn't save his stupid ass."

"It wasn't my fault!"

"You snorted coke the day of your hearing and they drug tested you. You knew they would test you. You tried selling to your prison guard too."

"Are you two… friends?" Anders pointed between the two.

The shorter one snorted, pointing to Hawke, "Yes, this dumbass is my best friend. I make sure he's not going to get his ass beaten."

"Yeah, that little prick over there belongs to me," Hawke grinned, "Varric can get you whatever you need, he's good for a few things even though he looks like useless shit. It's a nice setup around here - if you ever need money he can provide."

"At a price," he smiled, "nothing in here is for free, Blondie."

Blondie? The nickname was a nice gesture from these strangers. Kind, accepting. Perhaps his crime elicited some form of respect. He stared at the three men. Varric, short, scruffy, his eyes constantly moving, studying, gauging people. Hawke, bearded, scarred, scary, his shirt is bunched up at the sleeves revealing deep track marks reside in the vein but he still smiles as if he's known you all his life. Then, Fenris. Strong, emotionless, tattooed all over his body in thick black ink. The pattern is quite pretty, in a different world Anders would ask trace the lines. These were the people of prison - these were his new peers.

"You know what? I like you," Hawke moved to stand, his entire figure occupying the room in some way like it's larger than life, "you should stick with us. I mean we're the same you and I."

"You're an arsonist?" Anders shook his head, a baby in the eyes of other prisoners.

The man laughed, Varric chuckled and Fenris grunted, "No. We're both humans. We look out for our kind."

He lowered his brow. Race was something he was trained not to think about, not to question, not to lock on. He saw Varric, an obvious dwarf, as a shorter man. Fenris, a clear elf with pointed ears as just a strangely shaped human. But in prison they were all different. Them. Us.

"You either stick with Hawke or try to get in with the Wardens or Coterie," Varric smiled as he passed a look with his bearded friend. Their bond was strong, much stronger than Anders first realized.

Anders knows little, but enough, the Coterie are intense, violent… and he already has a somewhat spotted history with the Wardens. It all left questions to hang in the air. He decided to pull one down, "Why aren't you with the Carta?"

Varric smiled again, he was like a cat with that mouth, "They hate me. I hang out with a human and an elf - it makes me an outcast. Besides, the Carta looks for strong types, I'm more of a sneaking type. I mean I got here for tax evasion and fraud."

"You fucking liar," Hawke's permanent smile widened, "His main charge is for pimping."

"Alright. I guess that too."

"You're not going to ask, but I know you want to," Hawke raised his brows to Anders, "I'm in here for drugs and... I guess there were a few aggravated assault charges."

"Oh," Anders nodded, "that's rough."

"Yeah! It sure fucking is!" Hawke turned into himself again, one big goofy smile that could mean so many different things, he nods over at Varric, "Is the door clear?"

The dwarf stood to look outside the cell, "You're fine, Hawke."

Anders watched, amazed, as the man pulled out a single plastic bag from under his armpit. He carefully rubbed the plastic, sniffing it ceremoniously as if the drug inside had a smell.

"Oh, for the love of the Maker, Hawke, stop smelling that and just take the damn drug."

"It smells like Isabela," he mused as he pulled himself up to use Anders' bed as a flat surface. He turned for a moment, eyes lowering to an intimidating predatory state, "You're not going to snitch are you?"

Fenris' green eyes shot up and ground into Anders and he found himself trying to stumble out of the gaze, "Of course not!"

"Good," Hawke made a look of approval as he held his left nostril shut, sniffing in the cocaine loudly. He took the line of powder and breathed deeply wiping his nose gently only after he was positive the drug had been ingested, "Oh, sweet, sweet, Isabela."

"Why does she even stay with you?"

The bearded man's eyes closed as he pictured something in his head, something sentimental, and he turned back to Fenris, "Because we love each other. I mean, I know you have no idea what that is but we have something special."

"They probably have a deal where she's allowed to fuck whoever she wants as long as she brings Hawke his little medicine."

"Shut the fuck up, you asshole," it should sound serious, but it doesn't, it sounds mellowed and reconsidered, "She's coming tomorrow."

"How does the warden even let you have all these hours?"

"We have an arrangement. Meredith and I are good friends."

Anders shook his head, "If you're friends with the warden doesn't that make you a snitch?"

It happened quickly. Anders only felt his head slam up against the brick wall and a stinging sensation on his cheek, "You don't get to call me a snitch. We can be friends, you can do things for me, I can do things for you but you do not ever call me a fucking snitch."

"Yes!" Anders turned away from the hot angry breath, "Yes, I'm sorry."

Hawke let him fall from his assault and the smile returned, "Yeah, I think I do like you. You're not like these other guys who come in here acting tough… you know what you are, don't you?"

"I...?" Did he, and if he did then what was he? Someone who made a mistake? Someone who knows when the battle is lost? Someone who gives himself to those who are bigger, better, stronger than him?

"We can use him," Varric agreed, "He can help us get leverage with the other groups."

"How?" Anders asked this question as if he had already agreed to doing it when he's not so sure he has.

"Ah, Varric's pimping tendencies are revealing themselves," Hawke looked for him to continue.

"Well, I'm just saying. You're new, you're not bad looking, good body - already submissive. We can pass you around, get some of the other groups' supplies, details and then we won't seem so much as outsiders."

Hawke clucked his tongue, considering it, "Right, then we'd have four products to sell."

"Four?"

"I have drugs. Fenris can beat up anyone - he almost killed a guard a few months ago. Varric can get anything else including the wine he makes in our toilet which is pretty popular. And you," his smile was predatory again, "You can be sold for sex."

"No," Anders slinked back into the wall in disapproval. Shit, wasn't this what happened in every prison film? Someone like him always gets abused. It terrified him, "please, I don't want to."

"You don't?" The other human is genuinely surprised, "I could have sworn you were the faggot type."

It struck a nerve, a childish one that shouldn't have stung as much as it did, "Don't fucking call me that. You don't know me, I didn't mean to call you a snitch so don't call me a fucking faggot."

The group stared at him once more. Everything in jail had a category. Them. Us. He was a walking contradiction, a sign that said "fuck me" and a mouth that pleaded the opposite. But Anders had always been like this. With Karl he would beg the older man to take advantage and then cry about it in another's arms. Maybe he wasn't proud of it, but if he could try for at least a while to prevent that cycle - things would be for the better.

The door suddenly opened, loud mechanical movements and clicks. Hawke rolled his shoulders, nodding to Varric, "We'll talk about this during lunch."

Human and dwarf exited, smirking to one another with what could only be classified as haunting thoughts. Anders paused, looking down at his strange rubber shoes as men shuffled past the doors. Was he really so easy to read?

"You should eat before the food is gone," they were words from his roommate. The brooding elven man looked up, bright green eyes magnifying Anders' character, "the dining hall is just down to the left."

He felt his chest rise and fall in a quick manner, new places - damn new places! Anders was alone, no friends, no family. People wanted to sell his body, use him. There was no one to cling to, no one to hold and tell him what to do.

"Will you show me?" The question was pitiful. A man with a twenty-three year sentence barely raising his voice to the more advanced criminal. The weakness was glaring, so easy to hear, read and see.

Fenris cocked his head to the side, "Okay."

I have put waaaay to much time into researching stuff for this fic. Had to keep it legit for you guys and even now I'm worried there are bits that are unauthentic. But I really hope you're enjoying it and I have so much fun writing things for THE BAE: CYANOPSIS (who everyone needs to give some serious cred to on Tumblr... I'm talking AWESOME prisonAU ideas and pictures on that ace of a blog).

If you enjoyed it I would love feedback or comments - expect this length for future chapters and obviously more action (and romance *cough* in the coming ones). Love you all, as always. :)