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beansideTitle: All My Tomorrows
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Pairing: Eventual JA/JDM/JP (and others)
Rating: R (future installments will range from PG-13 to NC-17.
Disclaimer: This never happened. Never will. No offense intended.
Summary: This is an RPS Post Apocalyptic AU, set 50+ years in the future.
Warnings: References to non-con and slavery. Violence.
A/N: Happy Birthday,coiledsoul Hope you like her! ETA: I suck. Massively. Many, many thanks to mona1347 for looking over this mess and telling us it didn't suck. *MWAH* Also, to poisontaster for cheering us on.
"After surviving the Avian Flu, and finding the cure for AIDS and any other number of ailments, we had become complacent; secure in our belief that nothing could harm us. In the meantime, we had become a nation divided. The gap between the haves and the have-nots was ever-widening. In the end, it wasn't Deathknell that brought the United States to its knees. It was our own sense of infallibility that brought us low. When the pandemic hit, it threw the nation into a panic, and like terrified children they turned to their leaders. And like children, the country traded freedom for the illusion of safety. By the time anyone thought to question the newly formed monarchy, it was too late to save themselves." --Excerpt from "Deathknell of Freedom," by former First Lady Morgan Coulson.
Jared could feel the grime of the warehouse working into his skin, into his very being, until he felt every bit as sleazy as everyone around him. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t here to buy. Just being in the presence of this kind of corruption and filth wore on him.
“Next lot, number 53,” the auctioneer murmured. “Being sold by Greta Orlans.”
The woman took the stage, twin fair-haired teenagers trailing her obediently. One boy, one girl. Both kept their heads low, and the moment Greta stopped moving, they fell gracefully to their knees. Perfect obeisance.
Just what people wanted in a slave.
The twins were being sold as household slaves, which could mean anything from cooking and cleaning to personal slave. Their fair skin and broken spirit would bring a high price from someone who didn’t have the time or inclination to break their own slave in.
For about the eight millionth time, Jared wondered how they’d come full circle, back to humans as chattel.
After the pandemic of ’54, civilization had been in shambles. Fully two thirds of the world’s population eradicated in one fell swoop. It'd been worse in the cities, where proximity made for easy transmission of the virus H5N3. The survivors came to call it Deathknell. All of the technology and medical know-how were useless.
No one could have predicted something like Deathknell. It spread like wildfire, incubating in silence long enough for the victim to pass it to everyone they touched. Once the symptoms started, 80% of its victims died within eight hours.
Some nights, Jared could still hear the way his mother coughed as she was dying. It had been a burbling, wet sound, the scent of blood thick in the closed, hot air of their quarantined apartment. He'd lain in there or hours, alone among the bodies, waiting for help. Waiting to die. When the officers from the CDC broke the door down, he'd thought they were angels.
He'd been seven.
With the President of the United States and most of Congress dead, it was easy for the Vice President to take power over the country. By the time the dust cleared a few years later, the United States of America was every bit the dictatorship that they’d always abhorred. Still reeling from the effects of Deathknell, the people sold freedom for the illusion of safety.
Within a year, the US traded the horror of bodies in the street and red quarantine flags for economic devastation. The pandemic cut a bloody path through the underclass, the people too poor for health care. Mexico and Canada had closed their borders during the pandemic, and didn't reopen them until five years later. Riots raged through most of the major cities. Any citizen who hadn't stocked up before the food supply closed down was reduced to looting or foraging. The farm country of the Midwest became a demilitarized zone, its flat plains prime territory for government snipers to stop potential thieves.
By the time the Honorable President-For-Life Chancellor came up with the No Prisons Act, the people were willing to accept nearly any solution to starvation and violence in the streets. No one realized where it would lead. At least that was what Jared hoped.
The other choice, that people had willingly sold their own kind into slavery... no. He hoped like hell they were above that.
At first it had been just criminals. ('Just'. God, the longer Jared spent with the free, the more he thought like them. Their rationalization grew on him like moss, creeping, strangling, drowning out his memory of chains.) They'd been tattooed as slaves and sold off to the rich to work out their sentences, to fill out the gaps in the economy. It had been the violent ones first, murderers and rapists funneled into the private sector where they could be tightly watched and controlled. When that succeeded, the private sector sought out thieves and drug addicts, and further down the food chain.
The problem was that the sentence became the choice of their owners. If they felt that their slave hadn’t been working to their potential, they could strike months off the work their slave had done, forcing them to work longer to be freed.
In no time flat, the definition of “criminal” had expanded to include nearly any offense. Unpaid debt, civil disobedience, atheism; it all became legitimate reasons to enslave another human. Another few years and the Cabinet of Prisoner Protection would be inventing a barcode for jaywalking and bad checks.
They weren't there yet, though. There were still some boundaries, black lines outside the gray morality of the law. Jared's job was to keep that line as crisp and clear as he could, and to erase any of the stains that bled across it.
“Lot number 54, sold by Peter Jonas.”
Jared lifted his head, focusing on the stage. This was who he’d come to get information on. Word was that Jonas bought and sold some seriously illegal slaves. Children, pregnant women, Black Bands.
Jonas walked on stage, pulling a nearly naked man behind him. Jared nudged closer to the podium, ignoring the elbows and dark stares. Some days, it paid to be tall.
The slave hesitated when Jonas stopped, nearly breaching the five feet that formally separated owner from slave. Jonas rounded on him, fist raised. Blood branded Jonas's knuckles, a sign that he'd make good on his threat.
The slave cringed back, dropping to his knees with a thump that made Jared’s knees ache. He tilted his face down, the perfect angle to indicate respectful obedience. His form didn't make up for the slight, traitorous upward tic of his eyes. Green eyes, Jared noticed, bled dark with anger and bitter resentment.
Not broken. Jesus. Of all the things Jared had expected, that wasn’t one of them.
With a flourish, Jonas dropped a black ribbon around the slave’s throat.
Fuck. Black Band.
The black ribbon on a slave meant that the slave had already been reported dead. Slaves were treated pretty shitty as it was, but the black band removed the need for even the barest consideration. Most of them were bought by men who would torture and kill them in the basest, most vile way possible.
This was what he’d come to expose.
The bidding started on the slave, and Jared quickly raised his paddle. “Six hundred fifty-five.”
“Nine hundred,” another called out.
The slave glanced up at the other buyer, not quickly enough. Jonas backhanded him casually, sending the slave sprawling onto the stage. Jared felt his stomach roll.
“Thirteen hundred,” Jared said.
“Fifteen hundred.”
“Two thousand,” Jared shot back.
“Three,” the other man barked.
The slave was struggling back to his knees, but his eyes met Jared’s for a moment, and he stilled, stomach tightening at the fear and sick, desperate exhaustion there. Jeff’s gonna kill me, he thought. “Ten thousand,” he said, throwing the words down for the challenge they were.
The other man’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head when the auctioneer glanced his way.
“Sold to the tall man in the blue coat.”
It was the work of five minutes to transfer the credits to Jonas’ account, and then the man was handing him the thick leather strap. “Enjoy,” Jonas said, smiling.
Jared swallowed the bile that threatened. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The slave followed him to the transport with his head low, eyes downcast. He didn't seem to notice any opportunity to run. When they reached the transport, the slave climbed in without protest, going to his knees on the hard floor. Jared rubbed his eyes, feeling the headache building behind them.
Coffee. He needed coffee. And maybe a sandwich. He hadn’t bothered with food today, so it really wasn’t a surprise that his head was hurting. He could never eat before an auction, not until the place had been raided and all the rats put in their cage. He'd call in the raid once they were out of shooting range, but his stomach wasn't really satisfied with that solution.
Yeah. Five years, and he'd gone soft. Used to be, he was resigned to a belly tight with hunger. Jeff and Chris might be right; it might be time to get off the field before someone permanently benched him. He wasn't authorized to pull another slave across the border, not since the last time he'd liberated an undercover vice agent and nearly caused an international incident.
His attention wandered to the slave, perched rigidly against the back of the driver seat. One more saved. One, out of thousands in the black market.
It was a four hour drive to get home, which was gonna suck if he didn’t eat something. But what to do with the slave in the meantime? Leave him in the transport? Take him into the restaurant and continue the whole shitty charade?
Christ, Jared always hated this part. He remembered being a slave, remembering the gut-twisting wait to see whether his new owner would be your garden variety rich asshole or something much worse. They all knew stories about people disappearing, compost heaps out in the yard, holes in the wall, killing floors in the basement. Humans were animals, predators, and giving them an easy target was like tempting a wolf with fresh meat.
“Hey, have you eaten today?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and low.
Keeping his eyes lowered, the slave shook his head.
“Are you hungry?”
“If it pleases you,” the slave whispered, voice flat and smooth as glass.
Jared laid his head on the transport, a cumbersome van that barely got 600 miles to the fuel cell, feeling the cool Plexiglas under his skin. “Fuck. Okay, hang on.” He climbed in, sitting on the floor next to the other man and closing the door. Pressed up close, Jared felt the slave flinch at the sound. Jared leaned back against the door, giving the other man room to breathe. The air was thick with perfumed oil and sweat. The slave had been prepped for use. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
"If it pleases you," was the refrain. The slave closed his eyes, expression still as deep water, and waited.
"Okay," Jared said, scrambling to his feet. "Here's what we're going to do. First, we're getting out of the city. Then, we're getting food." Jared wavered for a second, sense warring with sentimentality. Hell, he was already in deep, sitting here in his transport with a slave he wasn't even supposed to liberate. Why the fuck not go all the way? "Then, we'll head home and get you settled."
The slave slanted a look at him, gauging whether or not he was crazy. Jared leaned, trying to catch his attention, and repeated deliberately, "Okay?"
The slave's attention slid away like water through Jared's fingers. "If it-"
"Pleases me, yeah, yeah." Jared scooted around the slave, trying not to crowd him, and slouched on his way into the driver seat. Slouching helped, sometimes, made the slaves less skittish. "It'd please me if you got in the passenger seat and put the seatbelt on."
The slave inclined his head, waiting until Jared was seated before flowing into the passenger seat. He fumbled with the belt, fingers clumsy, and leaned into the car door. If it occurred to him to run, he didn't show it.
"What's your name?" Jared asked him, mirroring his posture, trying again to meet his eyes.
The slave wet his lips, an uneasy motion. His voice was hard to remember, no accent or tone to it at all. "Whatever you want it to be, mas-"
"Don't." The word jerked up Jared's throat, harsher than he'd meant to sound. He sighed. "Sorry. Um. Please don't call me that."
"Yes, sir."
Hell. Sir was better than master, master was better than god. Jared turned the keys in the ignition with one hand, putting the earpiece on with the other. Steadying the wheel, he pulled out of the parking spot and onto the road. "I'm just gonna call home and let them know we're coming," Jared said, hating the false cheer in his voice.
The slave stared out the windshield, unblinking.
"Right," Jared muttered, and pushed in Jeff's number.
The line in Jeff's studio rang long enough that Jared almost thought he'd dodged the bullet. His finger was on the button to hang up when Jeff's voice cut in with a less than cheery, "Yeah?"
God. Five years, and that voice still made Jared's body tighten low. He managed a tired smile. "Hey, baby."
"Hey, you. What'd you do this time?"
Jared glanced at the slave in the passenger seat, then decided on confessing the least of several evils. "Forwarded ten thousand off the house account. The Agency will reimburse you once they've done the raid."
"Mm-hmm. What else?"
Wincing, Jared turned off the road and onto the highway, headed north. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"
"God, it is bad." There was a smile warm in Jeff's voice; Jared heard him lean on something in his studio, could almost smell the turpentine, and wanted to be home so badly it hurt. "Just tell me you're not bringing home a body."
"Close."
Silence, so profound Jared could hear Jeff breathing. Then Jeff sighed. "Okay. So, who are you bringing home?"
"Um. He's a black band."
"Shit, Jare. You know they're usually not rehab material."
"I know, but it's different. Can we talk about it when we get home?"
Jeff sighed again. "Yeah. Of course. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, it's good. I just need to stop for food." Jared steered off one of the exits that promised food. "I'll be home soon as I can."
"Okay. You be careful."
"I will. I'm going to call Christian, tell him I'm clear."
"Good."
"I love you," Jared murmured softly. "Thank you. For not telling me I'm insane."
"Oh, you are," Jeff assured him. "But people thought I was insane, taking in a psycho twenty year old who threw things at me. And look how that turned out."
"Bitch."
Jeff laughed. "I love you, too."
Jared hung up and quickly dialed Christian's number, waiting patiently for the signal to route through the various security devices.
Finally, Christian's smooth voice came on the line. "Kane."
"Hey. I'm clear."
Christian put him on hold for a moment to relay the information to the team. In a few minutes, the auction block would be swept clean. Jared could breathe again, could sleep like he hadn't since he got the case file with the red label marked 'Peter Jonas'.
The pictures in that file meant that it might be another few months before Jared slept without nightmares.
Technically, the Agency was a branch of the United Nations. They'd been instrumental in finally bringing the Deathknell virus to a halt, coordinating with the CDC and WHO to produce and distribute the antiviral and later the vaccine, both created by Dean Pharmaceuticals.
Now, with the withdrawal of the United States from the UN, they had been forced to rethink the way they worked. Gone were the large peacekeeping forces, and the sweeping resolutions. The Middle East was nearly crippled, both from the H5N3 and from the internal violence that exploded when shrinking national resources and old wounds mixed with newly closed borders. Asia was still trying to recover from the devastation wrought by H5N3, big business in the cities shouldering against desperate poverty in the country. Russia had collapsed, torn apart from the inside, silent while Moscow burned. South America was a mess, intact nations caught hard between population surges headed south from Mexico and north from Brazil.
Western Europe, Africa, Australia and Canada were among the few regions who maintained stability through the crisis. The UN gave what aid it could, but internal politics demanded that they set their sights firmly on slavery in the United States.
Officially, the Agency was there to help rehabilitate escaped slaves, to help them find jobs and educations. Unofficially, they were the base of operations for the West Coast liberation front. While the eventual goal was to illegalize slavery in the United States, that looked to be a long way off. Right now, their most important function was to put a halt to the black market.
The slavers were transported across the border to Canada, where the UN waited to put them in front of the International Courts. It wasn't perfect, but it was what they had for now. In some ways, Jared was glad he was too young to remember a time when things were different.
Sometimes, he caught Jeff staring at old pictures, watching old television shows with this pained wistful look. Especially when they were showing the old news footage of the former President and First Lady. In the poverty and strife caused by President-for-Life, they had been idealized until the former president's terms were nothing short of Camelot.
He'd asked Jeff once if things had really been that perfect, that wonderful. He'd given Jared a smile that had made him ache. "They were good people," was all Jeff would say.
When Christian came back on the line, Jared gave him the quick update on the slave. To say that Chris was unamused would be understating things just a touch. Dumbass cowboy theatrics were the words he'd come up with. God save him from good old boys, Jared thought dimly. Chris would get over it. He always did.
They pulled off the highway after about thirty miles, headed into a bar and grill. The slave--and he hated calling him that, but he didn't have any other name to go on-- followed along quietly, walking the exactly proscribed five feet behind Jared, never putting any tension on the leash. He walked to the bar with an easy smile, like he owned the place. Like his skin wasn't threatening to crawl off his back. He slid onto the stool and signaled the bartender, giving the lead an easy flick, motioning that his slave should take his place beside Jared.
The slave dropped with an easy grace that Jared had never mastered in his six years in the collar.
"Hey, what can I get you?" the bartender asked, flashing a weary smile.
"Hi, uh," Jared glanced at her name tag, "Jenn. I'd like a glass of whatever's on tap for me, and a water for Spot."
Her lips twisted a little at the last bit, bitter humor. "Bowl or glass?"
"Glass," Jared said quickly. "Please. And two of whatever it is that smells so good."
She nodded curtly, and a minute later slapped his beer and a steaming bowl of stew on the bar, before coming around and bringing the slave his food.
"Thank you, " Jared murmured, before he could catch himself.
Jenn gave him a startled smile, shrugging. "No problem." Her eyes flickered up to the television, and narrowed. "Mister, you might want to take that to go."
"What? Why-" He glanced up and cursed under his breath. His picture was splashed across the wireless, in a breaking news bulletin about the terrorist attack on the downtown market, in which lawful citizens were kidnapped. "Fuck."
She handed him a travel mug of coffee, snatching the beer out of his hand. "Get moving, or they'll barricade the border."
"Yeah, thanks." Jared reached for his wallet and she shook her head.
"No charge. Now get."
He motioned to the slave to follow him, and scooped up the styrene bowls. "Let's go."
Scrambling to keep up with Jared's longer strides, the slave let the leash go taut a couple of times. Probably thought Jared would punish him for that. Most masters would. "You okay?" Jared asked as they climbed into the transport.
The slave shot him an odd look, and nodded slowly. Jared handed him the stew, throwing the transport into gear and thumbing his earpiece.
"Yes?" Christian's calm voice came on the line. If Jared was in Christian's shoes, he'd be a nervous wreck. He couldn't prove that Christian smoked up on his bathroom breaks, but Jared had his suspicions.
"We're made," Jared blurted. "My picture is all over the wireless. We're probably going to need support."
"It's in place. Switch to route Alpha-three. The team will be waiting about two klicks in."
Jared confirmed and hung up. The usual calm descended, easing his heart rate, centering him down. Funny how he was never more grounded than in times like these, with a black band slave in the passenger seat and the propaganda channels plastering Jared's pictures everywhere with the label 'terrorist'.
The slave-- no, fuck that, Jared was going to call his skinny ass Bob until otherwise instructed. So Bob sat very still, hands cupped around the stew. His hands trembled, sharp wrist bones sticking out, but he wouldn't eat until Jared gave him permission.
"You'd better eat while you can." As soon as the words were out of Jared's mouth he regretted them, even before Bob stiffened, shrinking away from him, against the door. "Not like that," he blurted hastily. "Just. The road gets really bumpy up ahead. A lot of potholes."
Bob nodded slightly, and Jared flashed him a quick grin that he hoped was reassuring. Since Bob didn't try to edge further into the door, Jared decided for his own sake that he'd settled Bob's nerves. Bob must've been starving, but he ate silently and neatly as hell. Jared remembered his first meal as a free man; he'd devoured the burger Jeff had picked up at another stall in the marketplace, nearly ate the paper wrapper, and licked his fingers clean.
When they hit the first jarring bump, Bob's face went drawn and his mouth thinned with pain. Bruises, probably, or healing injuries. Most slavers wouldn't hand over damaged goods, but they might hurt where the buyer wouldn't see until they'd gotten their purchase home.
"I know," Jared murmured. "Hold on, okay? It won't be like this for long."
Bob kept his silence. The headlights cut a pale path on the one-lane country road to the border. After a few minutes, the field around them was replaced by a thick overgrowth of trees and brush, hiding them from sight.
Jared flicked the high beams on, eyes flicking back and forth, scanning the brush. This was the part of the drive he hated most about Alpha-three. Too much cover, too many places for a sniper to hide. The Agency called it the killzone, and tried to keep their agents out of it. But with the big transport on Alpha-six, there weren't that many routes left. He glanced over at Bob. "Keep your head down."
The confused look didn't stop Bob from sliding lower in his seat. Sometimes, even though Jared hated even the thought, it was good not to have to answer questions.
They had almost cleared the danger zone when a shot rang out through the night, and Jared cursed. The windshield developed a little crater, a tiny spiderweb forming as the bullet hit the Plexiglas that Christian had insisted all their transports have.
"Don't worry. We'll make it."
Bob slid further down, eyes wide.
Another bullet slammed into the windshield next to the first, splintering it a little farther. "Fuck!" Jared yelled, grabbing his phone and dialing.
"Kane."
"S'Jared. We're in the killzone, and taking heavy fire. They're grouping shots on the windshield, trying to shatter it."
"Well, fuck me with a chainsaw," Christian drawled. "Stupid sons of bitches learned a new trick."
Jared laughed raggedly. "Tell me about it." He flinched as two more bullets slammed in rapid succession. "Chris, this thing is gonna go in the next couple shots."
"Got it. I've alerted Cyclops. He and his team are on their way."
"Fuck you, Kane," a surprisingly soft voice came on the line. "Jare, drop the high-beams, babe. You're killing us here."
"Hey, Tom," Jared said, quickly flicking them down.
"Got you. You've got three snipers on stealth trikes. Hang on, and be ready to swerve," Tom ordered.
Jared nodded. "Got it. Thanks Tommy, I owe you one."
"I'd say this makes us about even. But you can buy me a beer."
A moment later, a trail of fire streaked from up ahead, lighting up the dusk. A hundred feet ahead, Jared finally got a glimpse of their snipers, mounted on two person three wheeled transports.
The one in the center blew with a thunderous explosion that made Bob crouch lower in the seat. Jared swerved around the wreckage, glancing down at the smoking husk. "You've got Mack tonight, don't you," he said.
Tom barked a little laugh. "Yeah, I've got the she-bitch. Okay, you're clear. The other two bugged out. We'll take up flanking positions."
The vehicles that slid into place along their side were Agency specials; part trike, part tank. They kept pace with the transport, exiting the killzone safely. Jared could see the glow along the horizon that meant that the border was approaching.
Tom saluted him as he pulled next to the driver's window. The dim lights played over the sharp planes of his face, shadowing the eye patch that had been a part of him for the last three years.
"You okay, Jared?" Christian asked over the com.
"Yeah, we're fine."
"Good. Borders three klicks ahead. It's cleared so don't stop," Christian said. "I'll see you in a bit." He disconnected and Jared glanced at Tom.
"I'm so glad Captain Tightass is there to tell us our jobs," Tom drawled. Despite the words, Jared could hear the genuine affection they all had for their commander. For someone who had never been in the field, Chris did a good job of managing ops.
God knew, without him on the line, Tom would have lost more than an eye three years ago. It was his quiet determination and computer work that had directed Jared to the hidden basement where he was being tortured.
Bob shifted a little on the floor boards, and Jared glanced over, steering the transport into a curve. The border was just ahead now, the gates opened wide for them. "You can get up now, sorry. We're clear."
The slave eyed him nervously, but slid back into the seat.
"We'll be home in twenty minutes," Jared said. He could feel the familiar throb of adrenaline as they approached the gates. Even after six years, his body expected the snare to drop, to have freedom wrenched away.
The border flashed past in a burst of light. Jared relaxed in the seat, easing his foot off the accelerator, and grinned out his window at Tom.
"Hey, Sasquatch," Tom said. "Nice job. We're going to head off to Alpha-six, just in case they need any backup. We'll see you in the office tomorrow."
"Thanks Tommy," Jared murmured. "Good hunting."
"Always," Allison's sweet, menace-laden voice came on the line. "Take it easy, Jared."
"You too, Allison. Stay frosty."
She flipped him a mock salute as Tom gunned the engine, peeling off and heading for the other border crossing.
When their taillights had receded, Jared glanced over at the miserable ball of humanity slouched in the passenger seat. Bob looked smaller, somehow, hunched pale and spooked against the door. He stared out the window like they'd passed through the gates to hell.
"Hey," Jared murmured, "how are you doing over there?"
Bob didn't answer. He rubbed endless slow circles over the black bars of his slave tattoo, like it was a touchstone or a sore tooth.
Jared pushed a smile into his voice as he said, "You're in Canada. How's it feel to be free?"
Bob's eyes met Jared's for a millisecond, unguarded. There was fury in that look, simmering under the blank mirror of his calm. Hate, resentment, old pain, distrust. Then his attention flicked away, and it was like staring into a pane of polished glass.
The ride to the Agency was uneventful, and before long, Jared was sliding the transport into its dock. "C'mon," he murmured. "Some people for you to meet."
Bob nodded and untangled himself. Long legs; Christ, he was tall for a black band. As he rose, Jared's brain jerked back into effect. "Oh, hell, I'm sorry. Here." Tugging off his jacket, Jared pushed it at Bob. "Here. Put this on, zip up. You've got to be freezing. I'm sorry, man, I'm an idiot."
Wary, Bob took the jacket. He put it on gingerly, mouth tightening in silent pain as the fabric touched his back. Jared noted it, one more thing to report to the medics. Bob didn't look like the type to be honest about pain.
They started for the door, Bob falling into step behind Jared. Never mind that Jared hadn't bothered to pick up the leash. The door slid open as Jared approached, with Kristin waving him through from the security booth. "Christian said to head for room six," she said lightly, then looked Bob in the eyes and smiled. "Hello."
Bob's gaze slid past hers. He nodded, focusing carefully on the wall. Unfazed, Kristin turned her smile to Jared.
"Thanks, Kris." Jared signed the paperwork she pushed at him. "What are you doing here tonight? I thought you were day shift this month?"
She shrugged easily. "I am, but Chambers got hit by a repo squad while he was transporting a couple high profile douchebags."
"Fuck. Justin okay?"
"Broken wrist, a few bruises. Nice knot on his head, which he's bitching about more than the wrist. Says he has a date this weekend, and the chick isn't going to want to be seen with Quasimodo."
Jared snorted. "Don't sound so pissy, Kreuk. I seem to remember someone whining unmercifully when she got hit by the ARB."
"The fuckers threw red paint on me! You try getting latex out of your hair--oh, wait, with you and Morgan, that's probably a Tuesday," she teased.
"Nah, that's strictly Friday. I'll talk to you later." Jared blew her a kiss and looked back at Bob. "All right, we're headed for room 6 if you're done talking Kristin's ear off."
Bob's eyebrow twitched. He inclined his head, deepening his stare at the floor. The nape of his neck stretched long and pale under the tangle of his hair.
"Hey." Jared reached out, touching Bob's shoulder. Bob held very still under his hand, barely breathing. "I'm kidding. It's okay to smile. Even if it's a bad joke."
"Freak," Kristin muttered, then gave Bob an undeterred megawatt smile. "It's nice to meet you. You'll be seeing a lot of me."
Not looking at her, Bob nodded at the floor. He didn't move into Jared's hand, and he didn't react when Jared stopped touching him. Jared turned and went for room 6. Bob followed, carrying his leash.
"It'll be okay, don't worry," Jared murmured, glancing back.
Bob didn't even bother to glance up, just slowed his steps to stay the proper distance from Jared.
"Yeah, that's what I figured you'd say." Jared's head jerked up as the doors opened again, admitting a string of prisoners, led by Bob's former owner, Peter Jonas himself.
Jonas' eyes narrowed, and Jared cursed silently. They couldn't have been twenty seconds later?
"You," Jonas spat. "Fucking filthy whore. This is all your fault."
Looking at Bob to apologize, Jared didn't see Jonas move, just heard Tom's hoarse shout, and saw the blur of motion. He dove for the cowering slave, knowing full well that he wouldn't be in time.
As Jonas darted past an open office door a cowboy boot lashed out, slamming into Jonas' knee with a sickening wet pop. "Tom? Did you lose something?" a low rough voice drawled. A small, broad shouldered man stepped into the hallway, glancing down at the now-writhing Jonas.
Bob pressed tighter to the wall, watching the proceedings with something akin to dread.
Jared stepped forward, carefully placing himself between Bob and the rest of them. "Nice save, Chris."
"Not a prob." Christian stepped close to the slave, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't worry about him," he murmured. "He's not going to hurt anyone ever again."
Bob stilled, barely breathing.
"I'm Christian Kane, head of this place. I answer to damn near anything; Chris, or Kane usually." He threw a dark look over his shoulder at Tom. "Captain Tightass, by prettyboy idiots who don't know how to close a fucking comm link."
Tom flashed an easy smile, his blue eye lighting up. "Aw, sweetheart,you know I love you." Tom glanced down at Jonas, jerking him up with one hand. "C'mon asshole. I've got better things to do than wait for your lazy ass." Tom blew a kiss a Christian.
Shaking his head, Chris looked back at Bob. "C'mon, we don't want to keep Dr. McCoy waiting," he murmured. Gesturing Jared in front of him, he drawled, "Ladies first."
Jared kicked him in the ankle on the way past.
Sandy already waited there, her dark head bent over a clipboard. There was a row of syringes on the table, vaccines and vitamin shots. She glanced up as they entered, a smile lighting her face. "Hi," she said warmly to Bob, stretching out her hand, "I'm Sandy."
She was shorter than Bob, even with Bob slouching, but Bob stared at her like she might go for his throat. Finally, hesitantly, he held his hand out to shake hers. Sandy's grip was firm; Bob held her hand like it might go off.
"I just need to get some vitals," she chirped. "Why don't you sit right here?"
If there was anyone less threatening than Sandy, Jared had yet to meet them. Standing at barely five feet and with an guileless smile that could light up a room, she came across as the sweet, pretty girl next door. If you assumed that the girl next door was fully trained and tested combat surgeon, that is. Working at the Agency beat the sexism right out of most field agents, between Sandy and Allison.
Bob folded himself into the chair, eyeing the row of syringes and Christian with the same amount of unease. He held out his arm, unresisting as Sandy strapped the blood pressure cuff on, letting her take his pulse.
Jared turned to give Bob some privacy, opening his mouth to snark at Christian. When he saw the intense look Christian was giving Bob's slave tattoo, Jared shut his mouth again and let Christian have his silence. There was something brewing behind that look, and it was probably nothing good.
Sandy ran through the usual routine, taking blood, checking for lice and head injuries, making sure Bob was relatively sane. Bob let her, passive as a doll and tensed to bolt if Jared or Christian moved.
"Okay," Sandy said finally, "Jared seems to think you were a personal slave. Is that true?"
Bob was still for a long moment before nodding jerkily.
Sandy knelt in front of him, edging into his line of sight. When she went to put her hand on his knee, Bob shied away from her touch. Sandy let him, murmuring, "Are you hurting right now?"
Bob's eyelashes fluttered. He opened his hands, an oddly graceful gesture considering that it meant nothing at all.
"He's been whipped," Jared volunteered. "His back's a fucking mess."
Sandy nodded, not turning her head. "Were you used roughly in the past few days?" she asked Bob.
Bob glanced at Jared before nodding.
"Any tearing or bleeding?"
Another hesitation. Bob shifted in his chair, swallowed, and nodded again.
"Okay. Thank you, honey." Sandy rubbed his knee. "I'm gonna need to take a look. I'll ask them to go-"
"Jared can stay." Bob's voice seemed stark in the narrow room. Glancing at Jared, he added haltingly, "Please."
"Of course," Sandy soothed. "Out, Kane. Sit, stay, good boy."
Christian flipped her off and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him.
Jared stood awkwardly against the wall, not sure what the proper protocol was for helping someone through an anal probe. God, he needed Jeff here. This wasn't his thing. He was the sweet face they sent into the field to charm people into giving him information. He didn't know how Jeff had made this seem so effortless.
It wasn't like Jared had made iteasy on Jeff, either. He'd been so filled with anger, resentment at this rich son of a bitch who had bought him along with the art supplies.
Freeing him hadn't made much of a dent in all that rage. It had just given Jared license to express it.
"Express it," Jared thought wryly, adding the mental finger quotes. More like throw anything he could get his hands on at Jeff. He'd screamed. He'd raged. He'd broken most of the stuff in Jeff's house, and yelled himself hoarse. By the end of it, all he'd had was shrapnel at his feet and a sore throat, with Jeff watching him warily from the doorway he'd used as cover.
Jared had expected an asskicking. Hell, he'd deserved one. But Jeff had shuffled through the wreckage, took Jared's hands and started patching up the scratches on his fingers. When Jared had started shaking, Jeff had murmured soothing nonsense and drawn him in for one of those Jeff hugs, engulfing and wonderful. Jeff had let him cry, and had made him tea, and then he'd put Jared in his own bed to sleep it off.
By the time Jared woke up again, Jeff had cleaned up most of the house. Jared had eased in to help him sweep up the last of it, sheepish, braced for at least a stern lecture. Jeff had asked him how he slept.
That was Jeff for you: maddening, patient, and so damn private it drove Jared nuts.
To this day, Jared couldn't really say he knew all that much about the man he planned to spend forever with. He knew the important stuff, of course. Jeff was gentle beyond all reason. Kind to pretty much everyone, but with a certain reserve. Aside from Jared and Christian, Jeff didn't call too many people his friends. Of course, Jeff being Jeff, half of Vancouver seemed to consider him their friend.
It was one of those things he loved about Jeff.
"Okay, sweetie," Sandy murmured. "I'm going to need you to bend over the back of the chair so I can get a look."
Jared gave Bob an encouraging smile. "It's all right."
Bob moved slowly, getting into position with Sandy's encouraging pats and smile, but Jared could see his hands, shaking and clenched. Without thinking, he moved closer, awkwardly dropping into the chair next to Bob. "Hey," he said softly. "It's okay." He touched Bob's hand, and jumped a little when the other man grabbed his hand, clinging like he was drowning.
Bob started to pull back, but Jared tightened his grip. "Shh. It's okay. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you."
After a minute or two, Sandy backed up, tossing the gloves in the waste container. "Okay, all done. Nothing perforated. Just a little tear. Now, If you can stand up, I'll put some ointment on your back."
Jared didn't let go, just held on while Bob stood, unflinching as Sandy smoothed cream over the whip marks.
Finally, she finished and took the tubes of blood to run her screenings. Kane wandered back in, carrying a bottle of milk and a burrito, which had become the standard first meal for freed slaves. The beans, meat, cheese and sour cream gave them the protein that most US citizens were lacking, while the rice and tortilla offered carbs for quick energy. As a bonus, it didn't require silverware. Most slaves had never used it, eating what scraps they could when the masters were done, scrounging from the garbage or fighting with the dogs for kibble. Jared remembered crouching in his master's storeroom, trying to kill rats with a rock so he could quiet his knotting stomach. His hands had shook too badly to even clip the rat's tail.
Bob stared at the burrito nervously, nudging it towards Jared, eyes lowered respectfully. "No," Jared murmured. "That's for you."
"But-" Bob broke off as his stomach snarled alarmingly.
"I'm fine. Go ahead. It's good."
After another long moment, Bob picked up the burrito, eating quickly and neatly. He managed better than Jared had that first time, only smearing his fingers instead of most of his face. His eyes darted up every few seconds to check their expressions, making sure he was still safe, waiting for punishment.
Kane stretched out in his chair, deceptively idle as he crossed his long legs at the ankles. "How about those Caribou?" he asked Jared. "Think they have a chance at the Cup this year?"
Chatter about the local sports team: as distractions went, it was lame. Still, Jared could see the taut line of Bob's shoulders relax a little as the topic drew their attention away.
Jared snorted. "Right. Keep up your pipe dreams, Kane. They're not going anywhere until their goalie figures out he's supposed to stop the puck, not stare at it while it goes past his face."
"I'll be sure to quote that while you're buying the whole office rounds, Padalecki."
They kept up the comfortable banter as Bob ate, now with more raw hunger than table manners. He was finished in a matter of minutes, surreptitiously licking his fingers clean. That quick pink tongue-
Aw, Jesus. If he was checking out newly freed slaves, he needed Jeff to come around now.
With Bob finished his meal, Kane transferred his attention back to the matter at hand. "So, first up. Do you understand what's going on?"
At first, Bob nodded, then with an abashed look at Jared, he shook his head.
"You're in Canada. That means you're a free man. Jared and I work for an agency that helps newly freed slaves acclimate to their freedom. Once we get you settled in a little, you'll start coming here for educational tutoring, therapy, and life skills classes. But for now, all you have to know is that you don't have to do anything you don't want to. No one has the right to hurt you or touch you if you don't want them to."
Bob nodded.
"Do you remember your name?"
Jared winced as Bob shook his head. Damn.
"You were taken young," Kane said softly.
A slow nod. Bob tilted his head. "I remember my seventh birthday. After that, just...being owned."
Jared felt his mouth fall open. If Bob was right, that made him one of the few remaining survivors of one of the United States' most grievous human rights violations. For the period of about two decades, they had offered families a chance to avoid defaulting on debts. Instead, they could sell one of their children into slavery.
The argument was that many families were too poor to feed the children anyway. Slavery offered a future of reliable meals, health care, and a better life once they'd worked off their parents' debt. It looked good on paper, a solution to a country newly wary of the underclass. Deathknell had first festered in the US in communities too poor to afford doctors or vaccines. Rather than address the social imbalances, the President for Life had turned the blame on the poor. If they weren't able or willing to work their way up from the gutter, they deserved to serve their betters. The masters would care for those unable to care for themselves or their families.
The reality turned out to be children serving as sex slaves. Most of them died in service before they were ever freed. The Agency called them the Lost Children, because they had a habit of disappearing from service, from records and from historical accounts. It was rare to find one sane enough to remember where they came from.
Christian nodded thoughtfully, then rolled up his sleeve to reveal his bars. "I was four," he said simply.
Bob's attention fixed on the bars. He swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too." Resting his arm on the table for Bob to stare freely, Christian asked, "Do you know how many years it's been?"
Bob's gaze darted away again. "Hard to tell," he said finally. "I think I lost years."
"As best as you can remember, then." Christian's tone didn't yield an inch as he added, "Please."
Bob wet his lower lip. "Twenty years."
Twenty. Jesus. Jared had served six; Christian had done fifteen. They'd both barely come out the other side, with years of therapy and tutoring to make up for lost time. Twenty years... and he wanted to bring Bob home to live with them?
What the hell had he been thinking? Jeff was going to kill him.
Not that the group home was really an option. Some refugees learned to become predators once they were free. Bob would be fresh meat there: a compliant, terrified personal slave. They'd tear him to pieces, between manual slaves' general contempt for a 'whore' and any ideas of continuing the lessons their masters had taught them.
Christian nodded. "Okay. For now, don't worry about it. We have the number, we'll do some research. For now, I'm going to send you home with Jared and his partner, Jeff. Tomorrow, we can decide whether you want to stay with them or if you'd rather do the group home thing. Your choice, either way."
A gentle tap at the door made Bob jump, pressing back against the seat. The door opened a crack, and one of the secretaries poked his head in. "Mr. Morgan is here."
"Good. Send him in."
Jared came to his feet as Jeff slipped in the door. Jeff obviously remembered the drill; he walked in slow and easy, hands open and in full view. Jared went to him, wrapping his arms around Jeff's sturdy body. It was funny, he had about two inches and forty pounds on Jeff, but there was something so damn solid about him. It was comforting. The world might spin off its axis, but Jeff would always be right there.
"Hey, you okay, babe?" Jeff murmured, voice low. The soft gravel of his voice hit Jared hard. He buried his hand in Jeff's hair, kissing those full lips, feeling the rasp of beard against his face.
Jeff's arms slid around him, and Jared sighed, feeling something loosen in his chest. In the five years since Jeff had freed him, he'd forgotten. Seeing Bob, being at the auction, it had hit him harder than he'd expected. It reminded him of the feel of that leash, of the bite of the harness, the feeling of being helpless beneath someone. With his height and strength, he'd mostly been used as a manual labor slave, but there had been a few times when he'd crossed the boundary to personal slave.
Free people called it rape. Slaves called it a term of service.
Maybe Kane was right. Maybe it was time for him to get out of the field and take the Assisstant Director job Chris kept pushing.
"I love you," Jeff rumbled, lips barely moving against Jared's mouth.
Jared smiled against Jeff's lips. "I love you too. So, Chris already talked to you about taking this one?"
"Yeah. I'm good with it. The girl will be happy for some company while I'm working."
Turning, Jared approached Bob again. "This is my partner, Jeff."
Jeff flashed his best 'see how harmless I am' smile, and moved slowly towards Bob. "Hi."
Bob's head snapped back down, his back straightening. "Sir."
"Just Jeff," he purred, settling into a chair. "I hear that you'll be coming home with us."
"Yes si--Jeff. If that pleases you," Bob added quickly.
"Sounds good to me. One question, though. Do you like dogs?"
Startled, Bob looked up, a small smile touching his lips. "You have a dog?"
"Yup. Her name is Bisou. She's my baby girl."
"She's the most spoiled dog on earth," Christian muttered.
"Yeah, eat me, Kane," Jeff snorted.
A tap at the door made Bob jump. Tom poked his head in the door. "Chris, Jared, got a minute?"
"Sure thing." Kane rose slowly, flashing Bob his lopsided smile. "You gonna be okay if I leave you two to get acquainted?"
Bob nodded, staring fixedly at the laces of Jeff's boots. He kept rubbing the tattoo, absent circles with his thumb, soothing himself.
Leaning back on his heels, Jeff met Kane's eyes and tipped his head at the door. "Suppose we'll get along without you," he said, extending his smile to Jared. "Go on, get."
Read: get the hell out so I can show the new guy I'm safe to be alone with.
By virtue of sheer height, Jeff went through this every damn time. Jared had his own bars to show, scars as a badge of security, but Jeff had always been free. Jared wasn't sure if he'd deal as well as Jeff had with starting over every time, having to teach every new arrival not to flinch from him.
Jeff had told him once that he avoided coming to the Agency. He donated money and time, he helped with rehab and had set up more than one new arrival with a starting level job, but he still didn't feel like he'd earned the right to look them in the eye. Jared had learned not to be ashamed of his scars; Jeff was ashamed of his lack of them.
Meeting Jeff's eyes, Jared smiled back and mouthed, "You'll do fine." Then he was being herded out into the hall, Christian's hand steady on his back.
Tom whipped off a quick salute, but the effect was somewhat ruined by his slouching against the wall. "I talked with Jonas," he said. "Allison's still working on him."
"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Jared muttered.
Tom spared him a quick, brutal smile. "He's cracking like a cheap table leg. Gave up the black band's name, for a start. Jensen Ackles. He's 29. Jonas is just working distribution, and he won't say who owned him and filed the death certificate. Yet."
Kane's eyes narrowed. "You've only had him in there for twenty minutes. He's cracking?"
Tom shrugged. "Allison does good work."
"Yeah, maybe." Kane rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Jonas works for the old school Mafia. He's mid-level. Those guys don't break easily, so why-"
"Hey!" Jeff's bark broke the quiet like a whipcrack. "Hey, no. No, sweetheart, you- Jare!"
Kane entered the room a second before Jared, but he took it in quickly. Hard not to figure out what the problem was, with Bob--no, wait Jensen on his knees in front of Jeff, holding Jeff's belt up. Offering to take punishment for displeasing his master.
Jeff for his part, appeared to be trying to back through the wall, holding up one hand. The other clutched his jeans, holding them closed. "No, I'm not going to hurt you--it's okay, just--no, put down my belt." He looked over at Jared pleadingly.
Before Jared could intervene, Christian dropped to his knees next to Jensen. It was a little disturbing to Jared that Kane still seemed to retain that graceful motion. "Hey," Christian murmured. "Sandy said that you need some vitamins, and that you're a little dehydrated. She'll be in with an IV, but in the meantime, take this." He stuck a pill between Jensen's lips and waited for him to swallow.
Jeff, never accused of being slow, took the opportunity to slip out from between Jensen and the wall, buttoning up his jeans as he went. Jared skirted around Christian, petting Jeff's shoulder. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine. It just...he was really insistent on sucking my cock." Jeff dragged a hand through his hair and gave Jared a pale smile. "It was a little freaky. Sorry."
"I'm sorry," Jensen said softly. "I didn't--just. The way you kissed Jared, I thought you were...I didn't mean to--" He broke off, letting his head fall forward. "I can go to the group home."
Shaking his head, Jeff knelt next to him. Jared could see Jeff's hand hovering uncertainly by his side, Jeff's need to touch warring with what had just happened. "No, sweetheart, it was just a misunderstanding. It's okay. You're coming home with us, unless you'd rather-"
"No. No. Thank you," Jensen whispered.
Rumpling Jeff's hair, Jared smiled down at Jensen. "So, your former master gave us some info. Your name is Jensen. Ackles."
Jensen flinched from the name for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I kind of remember that."
Jeff favored Jensen with an easy smile. "Well, then. Welcome to Vancouver, Jensen." As Jeff touched Jensen's bedrail, comforting, he glanced at Jared. "It's going to be okay," Jeff murmured.
Considering the concern written on Jeff's face, Jared had to wonder who Jeff was trying to convince.
--End
Authors:
nilchance and beansidePairing: Eventual JA/JDM/JP (and others)
Rating: R (future installments will range from PG-13 to NC-17.
Disclaimer: This never happened. Never will. No offense intended.
Summary: This is an RPS Post Apocalyptic AU, set 50+ years in the future.
Warnings: References to non-con and slavery. Violence.
A/N: Happy Birthday,
coiledsoul Hope you like her! ETA: I suck. Massively. Many, many thanks to mona1347 for looking over this mess and telling us it didn't suck. *MWAH* Also, to poisontaster for cheering us on."After surviving the Avian Flu, and finding the cure for AIDS and any other number of ailments, we had become complacent; secure in our belief that nothing could harm us. In the meantime, we had become a nation divided. The gap between the haves and the have-nots was ever-widening. In the end, it wasn't Deathknell that brought the United States to its knees. It was our own sense of infallibility that brought us low. When the pandemic hit, it threw the nation into a panic, and like terrified children they turned to their leaders. And like children, the country traded freedom for the illusion of safety. By the time anyone thought to question the newly formed monarchy, it was too late to save themselves." --Excerpt from "Deathknell of Freedom," by former First Lady Morgan Coulson.
Jared could feel the grime of the warehouse working into his skin, into his very being, until he felt every bit as sleazy as everyone around him. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t here to buy. Just being in the presence of this kind of corruption and filth wore on him.
“Next lot, number 53,” the auctioneer murmured. “Being sold by Greta Orlans.”
The woman took the stage, twin fair-haired teenagers trailing her obediently. One boy, one girl. Both kept their heads low, and the moment Greta stopped moving, they fell gracefully to their knees. Perfect obeisance.
Just what people wanted in a slave.
The twins were being sold as household slaves, which could mean anything from cooking and cleaning to personal slave. Their fair skin and broken spirit would bring a high price from someone who didn’t have the time or inclination to break their own slave in.
For about the eight millionth time, Jared wondered how they’d come full circle, back to humans as chattel.
After the pandemic of ’54, civilization had been in shambles. Fully two thirds of the world’s population eradicated in one fell swoop. It'd been worse in the cities, where proximity made for easy transmission of the virus H5N3. The survivors came to call it Deathknell. All of the technology and medical know-how were useless.
No one could have predicted something like Deathknell. It spread like wildfire, incubating in silence long enough for the victim to pass it to everyone they touched. Once the symptoms started, 80% of its victims died within eight hours.
Some nights, Jared could still hear the way his mother coughed as she was dying. It had been a burbling, wet sound, the scent of blood thick in the closed, hot air of their quarantined apartment. He'd lain in there or hours, alone among the bodies, waiting for help. Waiting to die. When the officers from the CDC broke the door down, he'd thought they were angels.
He'd been seven.
With the President of the United States and most of Congress dead, it was easy for the Vice President to take power over the country. By the time the dust cleared a few years later, the United States of America was every bit the dictatorship that they’d always abhorred. Still reeling from the effects of Deathknell, the people sold freedom for the illusion of safety.
Within a year, the US traded the horror of bodies in the street and red quarantine flags for economic devastation. The pandemic cut a bloody path through the underclass, the people too poor for health care. Mexico and Canada had closed their borders during the pandemic, and didn't reopen them until five years later. Riots raged through most of the major cities. Any citizen who hadn't stocked up before the food supply closed down was reduced to looting or foraging. The farm country of the Midwest became a demilitarized zone, its flat plains prime territory for government snipers to stop potential thieves.
By the time the Honorable President-For-Life Chancellor came up with the No Prisons Act, the people were willing to accept nearly any solution to starvation and violence in the streets. No one realized where it would lead. At least that was what Jared hoped.
The other choice, that people had willingly sold their own kind into slavery... no. He hoped like hell they were above that.
At first it had been just criminals. ('Just'. God, the longer Jared spent with the free, the more he thought like them. Their rationalization grew on him like moss, creeping, strangling, drowning out his memory of chains.) They'd been tattooed as slaves and sold off to the rich to work out their sentences, to fill out the gaps in the economy. It had been the violent ones first, murderers and rapists funneled into the private sector where they could be tightly watched and controlled. When that succeeded, the private sector sought out thieves and drug addicts, and further down the food chain.
The problem was that the sentence became the choice of their owners. If they felt that their slave hadn’t been working to their potential, they could strike months off the work their slave had done, forcing them to work longer to be freed.
In no time flat, the definition of “criminal” had expanded to include nearly any offense. Unpaid debt, civil disobedience, atheism; it all became legitimate reasons to enslave another human. Another few years and the Cabinet of Prisoner Protection would be inventing a barcode for jaywalking and bad checks.
They weren't there yet, though. There were still some boundaries, black lines outside the gray morality of the law. Jared's job was to keep that line as crisp and clear as he could, and to erase any of the stains that bled across it.
“Lot number 54, sold by Peter Jonas.”
Jared lifted his head, focusing on the stage. This was who he’d come to get information on. Word was that Jonas bought and sold some seriously illegal slaves. Children, pregnant women, Black Bands.
Jonas walked on stage, pulling a nearly naked man behind him. Jared nudged closer to the podium, ignoring the elbows and dark stares. Some days, it paid to be tall.
The slave hesitated when Jonas stopped, nearly breaching the five feet that formally separated owner from slave. Jonas rounded on him, fist raised. Blood branded Jonas's knuckles, a sign that he'd make good on his threat.
The slave cringed back, dropping to his knees with a thump that made Jared’s knees ache. He tilted his face down, the perfect angle to indicate respectful obedience. His form didn't make up for the slight, traitorous upward tic of his eyes. Green eyes, Jared noticed, bled dark with anger and bitter resentment.
Not broken. Jesus. Of all the things Jared had expected, that wasn’t one of them.
With a flourish, Jonas dropped a black ribbon around the slave’s throat.
Fuck. Black Band.
The black ribbon on a slave meant that the slave had already been reported dead. Slaves were treated pretty shitty as it was, but the black band removed the need for even the barest consideration. Most of them were bought by men who would torture and kill them in the basest, most vile way possible.
This was what he’d come to expose.
The bidding started on the slave, and Jared quickly raised his paddle. “Six hundred fifty-five.”
“Nine hundred,” another called out.
The slave glanced up at the other buyer, not quickly enough. Jonas backhanded him casually, sending the slave sprawling onto the stage. Jared felt his stomach roll.
“Thirteen hundred,” Jared said.
“Fifteen hundred.”
“Two thousand,” Jared shot back.
“Three,” the other man barked.
The slave was struggling back to his knees, but his eyes met Jared’s for a moment, and he stilled, stomach tightening at the fear and sick, desperate exhaustion there. Jeff’s gonna kill me, he thought. “Ten thousand,” he said, throwing the words down for the challenge they were.
The other man’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head when the auctioneer glanced his way.
“Sold to the tall man in the blue coat.”
It was the work of five minutes to transfer the credits to Jonas’ account, and then the man was handing him the thick leather strap. “Enjoy,” Jonas said, smiling.
Jared swallowed the bile that threatened. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The slave followed him to the transport with his head low, eyes downcast. He didn't seem to notice any opportunity to run. When they reached the transport, the slave climbed in without protest, going to his knees on the hard floor. Jared rubbed his eyes, feeling the headache building behind them.
Coffee. He needed coffee. And maybe a sandwich. He hadn’t bothered with food today, so it really wasn’t a surprise that his head was hurting. He could never eat before an auction, not until the place had been raided and all the rats put in their cage. He'd call in the raid once they were out of shooting range, but his stomach wasn't really satisfied with that solution.
Yeah. Five years, and he'd gone soft. Used to be, he was resigned to a belly tight with hunger. Jeff and Chris might be right; it might be time to get off the field before someone permanently benched him. He wasn't authorized to pull another slave across the border, not since the last time he'd liberated an undercover vice agent and nearly caused an international incident.
His attention wandered to the slave, perched rigidly against the back of the driver seat. One more saved. One, out of thousands in the black market.
It was a four hour drive to get home, which was gonna suck if he didn’t eat something. But what to do with the slave in the meantime? Leave him in the transport? Take him into the restaurant and continue the whole shitty charade?
Christ, Jared always hated this part. He remembered being a slave, remembering the gut-twisting wait to see whether his new owner would be your garden variety rich asshole or something much worse. They all knew stories about people disappearing, compost heaps out in the yard, holes in the wall, killing floors in the basement. Humans were animals, predators, and giving them an easy target was like tempting a wolf with fresh meat.
“Hey, have you eaten today?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and low.
Keeping his eyes lowered, the slave shook his head.
“Are you hungry?”
“If it pleases you,” the slave whispered, voice flat and smooth as glass.
Jared laid his head on the transport, a cumbersome van that barely got 600 miles to the fuel cell, feeling the cool Plexiglas under his skin. “Fuck. Okay, hang on.” He climbed in, sitting on the floor next to the other man and closing the door. Pressed up close, Jared felt the slave flinch at the sound. Jared leaned back against the door, giving the other man room to breathe. The air was thick with perfumed oil and sweat. The slave had been prepped for use. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
"If it pleases you," was the refrain. The slave closed his eyes, expression still as deep water, and waited.
"Okay," Jared said, scrambling to his feet. "Here's what we're going to do. First, we're getting out of the city. Then, we're getting food." Jared wavered for a second, sense warring with sentimentality. Hell, he was already in deep, sitting here in his transport with a slave he wasn't even supposed to liberate. Why the fuck not go all the way? "Then, we'll head home and get you settled."
The slave slanted a look at him, gauging whether or not he was crazy. Jared leaned, trying to catch his attention, and repeated deliberately, "Okay?"
The slave's attention slid away like water through Jared's fingers. "If it-"
"Pleases me, yeah, yeah." Jared scooted around the slave, trying not to crowd him, and slouched on his way into the driver seat. Slouching helped, sometimes, made the slaves less skittish. "It'd please me if you got in the passenger seat and put the seatbelt on."
The slave inclined his head, waiting until Jared was seated before flowing into the passenger seat. He fumbled with the belt, fingers clumsy, and leaned into the car door. If it occurred to him to run, he didn't show it.
"What's your name?" Jared asked him, mirroring his posture, trying again to meet his eyes.
The slave wet his lips, an uneasy motion. His voice was hard to remember, no accent or tone to it at all. "Whatever you want it to be, mas-"
"Don't." The word jerked up Jared's throat, harsher than he'd meant to sound. He sighed. "Sorry. Um. Please don't call me that."
"Yes, sir."
Hell. Sir was better than master, master was better than god. Jared turned the keys in the ignition with one hand, putting the earpiece on with the other. Steadying the wheel, he pulled out of the parking spot and onto the road. "I'm just gonna call home and let them know we're coming," Jared said, hating the false cheer in his voice.
The slave stared out the windshield, unblinking.
"Right," Jared muttered, and pushed in Jeff's number.
The line in Jeff's studio rang long enough that Jared almost thought he'd dodged the bullet. His finger was on the button to hang up when Jeff's voice cut in with a less than cheery, "Yeah?"
God. Five years, and that voice still made Jared's body tighten low. He managed a tired smile. "Hey, baby."
"Hey, you. What'd you do this time?"
Jared glanced at the slave in the passenger seat, then decided on confessing the least of several evils. "Forwarded ten thousand off the house account. The Agency will reimburse you once they've done the raid."
"Mm-hmm. What else?"
Wincing, Jared turned off the road and onto the highway, headed north. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"
"God, it is bad." There was a smile warm in Jeff's voice; Jared heard him lean on something in his studio, could almost smell the turpentine, and wanted to be home so badly it hurt. "Just tell me you're not bringing home a body."
"Close."
Silence, so profound Jared could hear Jeff breathing. Then Jeff sighed. "Okay. So, who are you bringing home?"
"Um. He's a black band."
"Shit, Jare. You know they're usually not rehab material."
"I know, but it's different. Can we talk about it when we get home?"
Jeff sighed again. "Yeah. Of course. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, it's good. I just need to stop for food." Jared steered off one of the exits that promised food. "I'll be home soon as I can."
"Okay. You be careful."
"I will. I'm going to call Christian, tell him I'm clear."
"Good."
"I love you," Jared murmured softly. "Thank you. For not telling me I'm insane."
"Oh, you are," Jeff assured him. "But people thought I was insane, taking in a psycho twenty year old who threw things at me. And look how that turned out."
"Bitch."
Jeff laughed. "I love you, too."
Jared hung up and quickly dialed Christian's number, waiting patiently for the signal to route through the various security devices.
Finally, Christian's smooth voice came on the line. "Kane."
"Hey. I'm clear."
Christian put him on hold for a moment to relay the information to the team. In a few minutes, the auction block would be swept clean. Jared could breathe again, could sleep like he hadn't since he got the case file with the red label marked 'Peter Jonas'.
The pictures in that file meant that it might be another few months before Jared slept without nightmares.
Technically, the Agency was a branch of the United Nations. They'd been instrumental in finally bringing the Deathknell virus to a halt, coordinating with the CDC and WHO to produce and distribute the antiviral and later the vaccine, both created by Dean Pharmaceuticals.
Now, with the withdrawal of the United States from the UN, they had been forced to rethink the way they worked. Gone were the large peacekeeping forces, and the sweeping resolutions. The Middle East was nearly crippled, both from the H5N3 and from the internal violence that exploded when shrinking national resources and old wounds mixed with newly closed borders. Asia was still trying to recover from the devastation wrought by H5N3, big business in the cities shouldering against desperate poverty in the country. Russia had collapsed, torn apart from the inside, silent while Moscow burned. South America was a mess, intact nations caught hard between population surges headed south from Mexico and north from Brazil.
Western Europe, Africa, Australia and Canada were among the few regions who maintained stability through the crisis. The UN gave what aid it could, but internal politics demanded that they set their sights firmly on slavery in the United States.
Officially, the Agency was there to help rehabilitate escaped slaves, to help them find jobs and educations. Unofficially, they were the base of operations for the West Coast liberation front. While the eventual goal was to illegalize slavery in the United States, that looked to be a long way off. Right now, their most important function was to put a halt to the black market.
The slavers were transported across the border to Canada, where the UN waited to put them in front of the International Courts. It wasn't perfect, but it was what they had for now. In some ways, Jared was glad he was too young to remember a time when things were different.
Sometimes, he caught Jeff staring at old pictures, watching old television shows with this pained wistful look. Especially when they were showing the old news footage of the former President and First Lady. In the poverty and strife caused by President-for-Life, they had been idealized until the former president's terms were nothing short of Camelot.
He'd asked Jeff once if things had really been that perfect, that wonderful. He'd given Jared a smile that had made him ache. "They were good people," was all Jeff would say.
When Christian came back on the line, Jared gave him the quick update on the slave. To say that Chris was unamused would be understating things just a touch. Dumbass cowboy theatrics were the words he'd come up with. God save him from good old boys, Jared thought dimly. Chris would get over it. He always did.
They pulled off the highway after about thirty miles, headed into a bar and grill. The slave--and he hated calling him that, but he didn't have any other name to go on-- followed along quietly, walking the exactly proscribed five feet behind Jared, never putting any tension on the leash. He walked to the bar with an easy smile, like he owned the place. Like his skin wasn't threatening to crawl off his back. He slid onto the stool and signaled the bartender, giving the lead an easy flick, motioning that his slave should take his place beside Jared.
The slave dropped with an easy grace that Jared had never mastered in his six years in the collar.
"Hey, what can I get you?" the bartender asked, flashing a weary smile.
"Hi, uh," Jared glanced at her name tag, "Jenn. I'd like a glass of whatever's on tap for me, and a water for Spot."
Her lips twisted a little at the last bit, bitter humor. "Bowl or glass?"
"Glass," Jared said quickly. "Please. And two of whatever it is that smells so good."
She nodded curtly, and a minute later slapped his beer and a steaming bowl of stew on the bar, before coming around and bringing the slave his food.
"Thank you, " Jared murmured, before he could catch himself.
Jenn gave him a startled smile, shrugging. "No problem." Her eyes flickered up to the television, and narrowed. "Mister, you might want to take that to go."
"What? Why-" He glanced up and cursed under his breath. His picture was splashed across the wireless, in a breaking news bulletin about the terrorist attack on the downtown market, in which lawful citizens were kidnapped. "Fuck."
She handed him a travel mug of coffee, snatching the beer out of his hand. "Get moving, or they'll barricade the border."
"Yeah, thanks." Jared reached for his wallet and she shook her head.
"No charge. Now get."
He motioned to the slave to follow him, and scooped up the styrene bowls. "Let's go."
Scrambling to keep up with Jared's longer strides, the slave let the leash go taut a couple of times. Probably thought Jared would punish him for that. Most masters would. "You okay?" Jared asked as they climbed into the transport.
The slave shot him an odd look, and nodded slowly. Jared handed him the stew, throwing the transport into gear and thumbing his earpiece.
"Yes?" Christian's calm voice came on the line. If Jared was in Christian's shoes, he'd be a nervous wreck. He couldn't prove that Christian smoked up on his bathroom breaks, but Jared had his suspicions.
"We're made," Jared blurted. "My picture is all over the wireless. We're probably going to need support."
"It's in place. Switch to route Alpha-three. The team will be waiting about two klicks in."
Jared confirmed and hung up. The usual calm descended, easing his heart rate, centering him down. Funny how he was never more grounded than in times like these, with a black band slave in the passenger seat and the propaganda channels plastering Jared's pictures everywhere with the label 'terrorist'.
The slave-- no, fuck that, Jared was going to call his skinny ass Bob until otherwise instructed. So Bob sat very still, hands cupped around the stew. His hands trembled, sharp wrist bones sticking out, but he wouldn't eat until Jared gave him permission.
"You'd better eat while you can." As soon as the words were out of Jared's mouth he regretted them, even before Bob stiffened, shrinking away from him, against the door. "Not like that," he blurted hastily. "Just. The road gets really bumpy up ahead. A lot of potholes."
Bob nodded slightly, and Jared flashed him a quick grin that he hoped was reassuring. Since Bob didn't try to edge further into the door, Jared decided for his own sake that he'd settled Bob's nerves. Bob must've been starving, but he ate silently and neatly as hell. Jared remembered his first meal as a free man; he'd devoured the burger Jeff had picked up at another stall in the marketplace, nearly ate the paper wrapper, and licked his fingers clean.
When they hit the first jarring bump, Bob's face went drawn and his mouth thinned with pain. Bruises, probably, or healing injuries. Most slavers wouldn't hand over damaged goods, but they might hurt where the buyer wouldn't see until they'd gotten their purchase home.
"I know," Jared murmured. "Hold on, okay? It won't be like this for long."
Bob kept his silence. The headlights cut a pale path on the one-lane country road to the border. After a few minutes, the field around them was replaced by a thick overgrowth of trees and brush, hiding them from sight.
Jared flicked the high beams on, eyes flicking back and forth, scanning the brush. This was the part of the drive he hated most about Alpha-three. Too much cover, too many places for a sniper to hide. The Agency called it the killzone, and tried to keep their agents out of it. But with the big transport on Alpha-six, there weren't that many routes left. He glanced over at Bob. "Keep your head down."
The confused look didn't stop Bob from sliding lower in his seat. Sometimes, even though Jared hated even the thought, it was good not to have to answer questions.
They had almost cleared the danger zone when a shot rang out through the night, and Jared cursed. The windshield developed a little crater, a tiny spiderweb forming as the bullet hit the Plexiglas that Christian had insisted all their transports have.
"Don't worry. We'll make it."
Bob slid further down, eyes wide.
Another bullet slammed into the windshield next to the first, splintering it a little farther. "Fuck!" Jared yelled, grabbing his phone and dialing.
"Kane."
"S'Jared. We're in the killzone, and taking heavy fire. They're grouping shots on the windshield, trying to shatter it."
"Well, fuck me with a chainsaw," Christian drawled. "Stupid sons of bitches learned a new trick."
Jared laughed raggedly. "Tell me about it." He flinched as two more bullets slammed in rapid succession. "Chris, this thing is gonna go in the next couple shots."
"Got it. I've alerted Cyclops. He and his team are on their way."
"Fuck you, Kane," a surprisingly soft voice came on the line. "Jare, drop the high-beams, babe. You're killing us here."
"Hey, Tom," Jared said, quickly flicking them down.
"Got you. You've got three snipers on stealth trikes. Hang on, and be ready to swerve," Tom ordered.
Jared nodded. "Got it. Thanks Tommy, I owe you one."
"I'd say this makes us about even. But you can buy me a beer."
A moment later, a trail of fire streaked from up ahead, lighting up the dusk. A hundred feet ahead, Jared finally got a glimpse of their snipers, mounted on two person three wheeled transports.
The one in the center blew with a thunderous explosion that made Bob crouch lower in the seat. Jared swerved around the wreckage, glancing down at the smoking husk. "You've got Mack tonight, don't you," he said.
Tom barked a little laugh. "Yeah, I've got the she-bitch. Okay, you're clear. The other two bugged out. We'll take up flanking positions."
The vehicles that slid into place along their side were Agency specials; part trike, part tank. They kept pace with the transport, exiting the killzone safely. Jared could see the glow along the horizon that meant that the border was approaching.
Tom saluted him as he pulled next to the driver's window. The dim lights played over the sharp planes of his face, shadowing the eye patch that had been a part of him for the last three years.
"You okay, Jared?" Christian asked over the com.
"Yeah, we're fine."
"Good. Borders three klicks ahead. It's cleared so don't stop," Christian said. "I'll see you in a bit." He disconnected and Jared glanced at Tom.
"I'm so glad Captain Tightass is there to tell us our jobs," Tom drawled. Despite the words, Jared could hear the genuine affection they all had for their commander. For someone who had never been in the field, Chris did a good job of managing ops.
God knew, without him on the line, Tom would have lost more than an eye three years ago. It was his quiet determination and computer work that had directed Jared to the hidden basement where he was being tortured.
Bob shifted a little on the floor boards, and Jared glanced over, steering the transport into a curve. The border was just ahead now, the gates opened wide for them. "You can get up now, sorry. We're clear."
The slave eyed him nervously, but slid back into the seat.
"We'll be home in twenty minutes," Jared said. He could feel the familiar throb of adrenaline as they approached the gates. Even after six years, his body expected the snare to drop, to have freedom wrenched away.
The border flashed past in a burst of light. Jared relaxed in the seat, easing his foot off the accelerator, and grinned out his window at Tom.
"Hey, Sasquatch," Tom said. "Nice job. We're going to head off to Alpha-six, just in case they need any backup. We'll see you in the office tomorrow."
"Thanks Tommy," Jared murmured. "Good hunting."
"Always," Allison's sweet, menace-laden voice came on the line. "Take it easy, Jared."
"You too, Allison. Stay frosty."
She flipped him a mock salute as Tom gunned the engine, peeling off and heading for the other border crossing.
When their taillights had receded, Jared glanced over at the miserable ball of humanity slouched in the passenger seat. Bob looked smaller, somehow, hunched pale and spooked against the door. He stared out the window like they'd passed through the gates to hell.
"Hey," Jared murmured, "how are you doing over there?"
Bob didn't answer. He rubbed endless slow circles over the black bars of his slave tattoo, like it was a touchstone or a sore tooth.
Jared pushed a smile into his voice as he said, "You're in Canada. How's it feel to be free?"
Bob's eyes met Jared's for a millisecond, unguarded. There was fury in that look, simmering under the blank mirror of his calm. Hate, resentment, old pain, distrust. Then his attention flicked away, and it was like staring into a pane of polished glass.
The ride to the Agency was uneventful, and before long, Jared was sliding the transport into its dock. "C'mon," he murmured. "Some people for you to meet."
Bob nodded and untangled himself. Long legs; Christ, he was tall for a black band. As he rose, Jared's brain jerked back into effect. "Oh, hell, I'm sorry. Here." Tugging off his jacket, Jared pushed it at Bob. "Here. Put this on, zip up. You've got to be freezing. I'm sorry, man, I'm an idiot."
Wary, Bob took the jacket. He put it on gingerly, mouth tightening in silent pain as the fabric touched his back. Jared noted it, one more thing to report to the medics. Bob didn't look like the type to be honest about pain.
They started for the door, Bob falling into step behind Jared. Never mind that Jared hadn't bothered to pick up the leash. The door slid open as Jared approached, with Kristin waving him through from the security booth. "Christian said to head for room six," she said lightly, then looked Bob in the eyes and smiled. "Hello."
Bob's gaze slid past hers. He nodded, focusing carefully on the wall. Unfazed, Kristin turned her smile to Jared.
"Thanks, Kris." Jared signed the paperwork she pushed at him. "What are you doing here tonight? I thought you were day shift this month?"
She shrugged easily. "I am, but Chambers got hit by a repo squad while he was transporting a couple high profile douchebags."
"Fuck. Justin okay?"
"Broken wrist, a few bruises. Nice knot on his head, which he's bitching about more than the wrist. Says he has a date this weekend, and the chick isn't going to want to be seen with Quasimodo."
Jared snorted. "Don't sound so pissy, Kreuk. I seem to remember someone whining unmercifully when she got hit by the ARB."
"The fuckers threw red paint on me! You try getting latex out of your hair--oh, wait, with you and Morgan, that's probably a Tuesday," she teased.
"Nah, that's strictly Friday. I'll talk to you later." Jared blew her a kiss and looked back at Bob. "All right, we're headed for room 6 if you're done talking Kristin's ear off."
Bob's eyebrow twitched. He inclined his head, deepening his stare at the floor. The nape of his neck stretched long and pale under the tangle of his hair.
"Hey." Jared reached out, touching Bob's shoulder. Bob held very still under his hand, barely breathing. "I'm kidding. It's okay to smile. Even if it's a bad joke."
"Freak," Kristin muttered, then gave Bob an undeterred megawatt smile. "It's nice to meet you. You'll be seeing a lot of me."
Not looking at her, Bob nodded at the floor. He didn't move into Jared's hand, and he didn't react when Jared stopped touching him. Jared turned and went for room 6. Bob followed, carrying his leash.
"It'll be okay, don't worry," Jared murmured, glancing back.
Bob didn't even bother to glance up, just slowed his steps to stay the proper distance from Jared.
"Yeah, that's what I figured you'd say." Jared's head jerked up as the doors opened again, admitting a string of prisoners, led by Bob's former owner, Peter Jonas himself.
Jonas' eyes narrowed, and Jared cursed silently. They couldn't have been twenty seconds later?
"You," Jonas spat. "Fucking filthy whore. This is all your fault."
Looking at Bob to apologize, Jared didn't see Jonas move, just heard Tom's hoarse shout, and saw the blur of motion. He dove for the cowering slave, knowing full well that he wouldn't be in time.
As Jonas darted past an open office door a cowboy boot lashed out, slamming into Jonas' knee with a sickening wet pop. "Tom? Did you lose something?" a low rough voice drawled. A small, broad shouldered man stepped into the hallway, glancing down at the now-writhing Jonas.
Bob pressed tighter to the wall, watching the proceedings with something akin to dread.
Jared stepped forward, carefully placing himself between Bob and the rest of them. "Nice save, Chris."
"Not a prob." Christian stepped close to the slave, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't worry about him," he murmured. "He's not going to hurt anyone ever again."
Bob stilled, barely breathing.
"I'm Christian Kane, head of this place. I answer to damn near anything; Chris, or Kane usually." He threw a dark look over his shoulder at Tom. "Captain Tightass, by prettyboy idiots who don't know how to close a fucking comm link."
Tom flashed an easy smile, his blue eye lighting up. "Aw, sweetheart,you know I love you." Tom glanced down at Jonas, jerking him up with one hand. "C'mon asshole. I've got better things to do than wait for your lazy ass." Tom blew a kiss a Christian.
Shaking his head, Chris looked back at Bob. "C'mon, we don't want to keep Dr. McCoy waiting," he murmured. Gesturing Jared in front of him, he drawled, "Ladies first."
Jared kicked him in the ankle on the way past.
Sandy already waited there, her dark head bent over a clipboard. There was a row of syringes on the table, vaccines and vitamin shots. She glanced up as they entered, a smile lighting her face. "Hi," she said warmly to Bob, stretching out her hand, "I'm Sandy."
She was shorter than Bob, even with Bob slouching, but Bob stared at her like she might go for his throat. Finally, hesitantly, he held his hand out to shake hers. Sandy's grip was firm; Bob held her hand like it might go off.
"I just need to get some vitals," she chirped. "Why don't you sit right here?"
If there was anyone less threatening than Sandy, Jared had yet to meet them. Standing at barely five feet and with an guileless smile that could light up a room, she came across as the sweet, pretty girl next door. If you assumed that the girl next door was fully trained and tested combat surgeon, that is. Working at the Agency beat the sexism right out of most field agents, between Sandy and Allison.
Bob folded himself into the chair, eyeing the row of syringes and Christian with the same amount of unease. He held out his arm, unresisting as Sandy strapped the blood pressure cuff on, letting her take his pulse.
Jared turned to give Bob some privacy, opening his mouth to snark at Christian. When he saw the intense look Christian was giving Bob's slave tattoo, Jared shut his mouth again and let Christian have his silence. There was something brewing behind that look, and it was probably nothing good.
Sandy ran through the usual routine, taking blood, checking for lice and head injuries, making sure Bob was relatively sane. Bob let her, passive as a doll and tensed to bolt if Jared or Christian moved.
"Okay," Sandy said finally, "Jared seems to think you were a personal slave. Is that true?"
Bob was still for a long moment before nodding jerkily.
Sandy knelt in front of him, edging into his line of sight. When she went to put her hand on his knee, Bob shied away from her touch. Sandy let him, murmuring, "Are you hurting right now?"
Bob's eyelashes fluttered. He opened his hands, an oddly graceful gesture considering that it meant nothing at all.
"He's been whipped," Jared volunteered. "His back's a fucking mess."
Sandy nodded, not turning her head. "Were you used roughly in the past few days?" she asked Bob.
Bob glanced at Jared before nodding.
"Any tearing or bleeding?"
Another hesitation. Bob shifted in his chair, swallowed, and nodded again.
"Okay. Thank you, honey." Sandy rubbed his knee. "I'm gonna need to take a look. I'll ask them to go-"
"Jared can stay." Bob's voice seemed stark in the narrow room. Glancing at Jared, he added haltingly, "Please."
"Of course," Sandy soothed. "Out, Kane. Sit, stay, good boy."
Christian flipped her off and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him.
Jared stood awkwardly against the wall, not sure what the proper protocol was for helping someone through an anal probe. God, he needed Jeff here. This wasn't his thing. He was the sweet face they sent into the field to charm people into giving him information. He didn't know how Jeff had made this seem so effortless.
It wasn't like Jared had made iteasy on Jeff, either. He'd been so filled with anger, resentment at this rich son of a bitch who had bought him along with the art supplies.
Freeing him hadn't made much of a dent in all that rage. It had just given Jared license to express it.
"Express it," Jared thought wryly, adding the mental finger quotes. More like throw anything he could get his hands on at Jeff. He'd screamed. He'd raged. He'd broken most of the stuff in Jeff's house, and yelled himself hoarse. By the end of it, all he'd had was shrapnel at his feet and a sore throat, with Jeff watching him warily from the doorway he'd used as cover.
Jared had expected an asskicking. Hell, he'd deserved one. But Jeff had shuffled through the wreckage, took Jared's hands and started patching up the scratches on his fingers. When Jared had started shaking, Jeff had murmured soothing nonsense and drawn him in for one of those Jeff hugs, engulfing and wonderful. Jeff had let him cry, and had made him tea, and then he'd put Jared in his own bed to sleep it off.
By the time Jared woke up again, Jeff had cleaned up most of the house. Jared had eased in to help him sweep up the last of it, sheepish, braced for at least a stern lecture. Jeff had asked him how he slept.
That was Jeff for you: maddening, patient, and so damn private it drove Jared nuts.
To this day, Jared couldn't really say he knew all that much about the man he planned to spend forever with. He knew the important stuff, of course. Jeff was gentle beyond all reason. Kind to pretty much everyone, but with a certain reserve. Aside from Jared and Christian, Jeff didn't call too many people his friends. Of course, Jeff being Jeff, half of Vancouver seemed to consider him their friend.
It was one of those things he loved about Jeff.
"Okay, sweetie," Sandy murmured. "I'm going to need you to bend over the back of the chair so I can get a look."
Jared gave Bob an encouraging smile. "It's all right."
Bob moved slowly, getting into position with Sandy's encouraging pats and smile, but Jared could see his hands, shaking and clenched. Without thinking, he moved closer, awkwardly dropping into the chair next to Bob. "Hey," he said softly. "It's okay." He touched Bob's hand, and jumped a little when the other man grabbed his hand, clinging like he was drowning.
Bob started to pull back, but Jared tightened his grip. "Shh. It's okay. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you."
After a minute or two, Sandy backed up, tossing the gloves in the waste container. "Okay, all done. Nothing perforated. Just a little tear. Now, If you can stand up, I'll put some ointment on your back."
Jared didn't let go, just held on while Bob stood, unflinching as Sandy smoothed cream over the whip marks.
Finally, she finished and took the tubes of blood to run her screenings. Kane wandered back in, carrying a bottle of milk and a burrito, which had become the standard first meal for freed slaves. The beans, meat, cheese and sour cream gave them the protein that most US citizens were lacking, while the rice and tortilla offered carbs for quick energy. As a bonus, it didn't require silverware. Most slaves had never used it, eating what scraps they could when the masters were done, scrounging from the garbage or fighting with the dogs for kibble. Jared remembered crouching in his master's storeroom, trying to kill rats with a rock so he could quiet his knotting stomach. His hands had shook too badly to even clip the rat's tail.
Bob stared at the burrito nervously, nudging it towards Jared, eyes lowered respectfully. "No," Jared murmured. "That's for you."
"But-" Bob broke off as his stomach snarled alarmingly.
"I'm fine. Go ahead. It's good."
After another long moment, Bob picked up the burrito, eating quickly and neatly. He managed better than Jared had that first time, only smearing his fingers instead of most of his face. His eyes darted up every few seconds to check their expressions, making sure he was still safe, waiting for punishment.
Kane stretched out in his chair, deceptively idle as he crossed his long legs at the ankles. "How about those Caribou?" he asked Jared. "Think they have a chance at the Cup this year?"
Chatter about the local sports team: as distractions went, it was lame. Still, Jared could see the taut line of Bob's shoulders relax a little as the topic drew their attention away.
Jared snorted. "Right. Keep up your pipe dreams, Kane. They're not going anywhere until their goalie figures out he's supposed to stop the puck, not stare at it while it goes past his face."
"I'll be sure to quote that while you're buying the whole office rounds, Padalecki."
They kept up the comfortable banter as Bob ate, now with more raw hunger than table manners. He was finished in a matter of minutes, surreptitiously licking his fingers clean. That quick pink tongue-
Aw, Jesus. If he was checking out newly freed slaves, he needed Jeff to come around now.
With Bob finished his meal, Kane transferred his attention back to the matter at hand. "So, first up. Do you understand what's going on?"
At first, Bob nodded, then with an abashed look at Jared, he shook his head.
"You're in Canada. That means you're a free man. Jared and I work for an agency that helps newly freed slaves acclimate to their freedom. Once we get you settled in a little, you'll start coming here for educational tutoring, therapy, and life skills classes. But for now, all you have to know is that you don't have to do anything you don't want to. No one has the right to hurt you or touch you if you don't want them to."
Bob nodded.
"Do you remember your name?"
Jared winced as Bob shook his head. Damn.
"You were taken young," Kane said softly.
A slow nod. Bob tilted his head. "I remember my seventh birthday. After that, just...being owned."
Jared felt his mouth fall open. If Bob was right, that made him one of the few remaining survivors of one of the United States' most grievous human rights violations. For the period of about two decades, they had offered families a chance to avoid defaulting on debts. Instead, they could sell one of their children into slavery.
The argument was that many families were too poor to feed the children anyway. Slavery offered a future of reliable meals, health care, and a better life once they'd worked off their parents' debt. It looked good on paper, a solution to a country newly wary of the underclass. Deathknell had first festered in the US in communities too poor to afford doctors or vaccines. Rather than address the social imbalances, the President for Life had turned the blame on the poor. If they weren't able or willing to work their way up from the gutter, they deserved to serve their betters. The masters would care for those unable to care for themselves or their families.
The reality turned out to be children serving as sex slaves. Most of them died in service before they were ever freed. The Agency called them the Lost Children, because they had a habit of disappearing from service, from records and from historical accounts. It was rare to find one sane enough to remember where they came from.
Christian nodded thoughtfully, then rolled up his sleeve to reveal his bars. "I was four," he said simply.
Bob's attention fixed on the bars. He swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too." Resting his arm on the table for Bob to stare freely, Christian asked, "Do you know how many years it's been?"
Bob's gaze darted away again. "Hard to tell," he said finally. "I think I lost years."
"As best as you can remember, then." Christian's tone didn't yield an inch as he added, "Please."
Bob wet his lower lip. "Twenty years."
Twenty. Jesus. Jared had served six; Christian had done fifteen. They'd both barely come out the other side, with years of therapy and tutoring to make up for lost time. Twenty years... and he wanted to bring Bob home to live with them?
What the hell had he been thinking? Jeff was going to kill him.
Not that the group home was really an option. Some refugees learned to become predators once they were free. Bob would be fresh meat there: a compliant, terrified personal slave. They'd tear him to pieces, between manual slaves' general contempt for a 'whore' and any ideas of continuing the lessons their masters had taught them.
Christian nodded. "Okay. For now, don't worry about it. We have the number, we'll do some research. For now, I'm going to send you home with Jared and his partner, Jeff. Tomorrow, we can decide whether you want to stay with them or if you'd rather do the group home thing. Your choice, either way."
A gentle tap at the door made Bob jump, pressing back against the seat. The door opened a crack, and one of the secretaries poked his head in. "Mr. Morgan is here."
"Good. Send him in."
Jared came to his feet as Jeff slipped in the door. Jeff obviously remembered the drill; he walked in slow and easy, hands open and in full view. Jared went to him, wrapping his arms around Jeff's sturdy body. It was funny, he had about two inches and forty pounds on Jeff, but there was something so damn solid about him. It was comforting. The world might spin off its axis, but Jeff would always be right there.
"Hey, you okay, babe?" Jeff murmured, voice low. The soft gravel of his voice hit Jared hard. He buried his hand in Jeff's hair, kissing those full lips, feeling the rasp of beard against his face.
Jeff's arms slid around him, and Jared sighed, feeling something loosen in his chest. In the five years since Jeff had freed him, he'd forgotten. Seeing Bob, being at the auction, it had hit him harder than he'd expected. It reminded him of the feel of that leash, of the bite of the harness, the feeling of being helpless beneath someone. With his height and strength, he'd mostly been used as a manual labor slave, but there had been a few times when he'd crossed the boundary to personal slave.
Free people called it rape. Slaves called it a term of service.
Maybe Kane was right. Maybe it was time for him to get out of the field and take the Assisstant Director job Chris kept pushing.
"I love you," Jeff rumbled, lips barely moving against Jared's mouth.
Jared smiled against Jeff's lips. "I love you too. So, Chris already talked to you about taking this one?"
"Yeah. I'm good with it. The girl will be happy for some company while I'm working."
Turning, Jared approached Bob again. "This is my partner, Jeff."
Jeff flashed his best 'see how harmless I am' smile, and moved slowly towards Bob. "Hi."
Bob's head snapped back down, his back straightening. "Sir."
"Just Jeff," he purred, settling into a chair. "I hear that you'll be coming home with us."
"Yes si--Jeff. If that pleases you," Bob added quickly.
"Sounds good to me. One question, though. Do you like dogs?"
Startled, Bob looked up, a small smile touching his lips. "You have a dog?"
"Yup. Her name is Bisou. She's my baby girl."
"She's the most spoiled dog on earth," Christian muttered.
"Yeah, eat me, Kane," Jeff snorted.
A tap at the door made Bob jump. Tom poked his head in the door. "Chris, Jared, got a minute?"
"Sure thing." Kane rose slowly, flashing Bob his lopsided smile. "You gonna be okay if I leave you two to get acquainted?"
Bob nodded, staring fixedly at the laces of Jeff's boots. He kept rubbing the tattoo, absent circles with his thumb, soothing himself.
Leaning back on his heels, Jeff met Kane's eyes and tipped his head at the door. "Suppose we'll get along without you," he said, extending his smile to Jared. "Go on, get."
Read: get the hell out so I can show the new guy I'm safe to be alone with.
By virtue of sheer height, Jeff went through this every damn time. Jared had his own bars to show, scars as a badge of security, but Jeff had always been free. Jared wasn't sure if he'd deal as well as Jeff had with starting over every time, having to teach every new arrival not to flinch from him.
Jeff had told him once that he avoided coming to the Agency. He donated money and time, he helped with rehab and had set up more than one new arrival with a starting level job, but he still didn't feel like he'd earned the right to look them in the eye. Jared had learned not to be ashamed of his scars; Jeff was ashamed of his lack of them.
Meeting Jeff's eyes, Jared smiled back and mouthed, "You'll do fine." Then he was being herded out into the hall, Christian's hand steady on his back.
Tom whipped off a quick salute, but the effect was somewhat ruined by his slouching against the wall. "I talked with Jonas," he said. "Allison's still working on him."
"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Jared muttered.
Tom spared him a quick, brutal smile. "He's cracking like a cheap table leg. Gave up the black band's name, for a start. Jensen Ackles. He's 29. Jonas is just working distribution, and he won't say who owned him and filed the death certificate. Yet."
Kane's eyes narrowed. "You've only had him in there for twenty minutes. He's cracking?"
Tom shrugged. "Allison does good work."
"Yeah, maybe." Kane rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Jonas works for the old school Mafia. He's mid-level. Those guys don't break easily, so why-"
"Hey!" Jeff's bark broke the quiet like a whipcrack. "Hey, no. No, sweetheart, you- Jare!"
Kane entered the room a second before Jared, but he took it in quickly. Hard not to figure out what the problem was, with Bob--no, wait Jensen on his knees in front of Jeff, holding Jeff's belt up. Offering to take punishment for displeasing his master.
Jeff for his part, appeared to be trying to back through the wall, holding up one hand. The other clutched his jeans, holding them closed. "No, I'm not going to hurt you--it's okay, just--no, put down my belt." He looked over at Jared pleadingly.
Before Jared could intervene, Christian dropped to his knees next to Jensen. It was a little disturbing to Jared that Kane still seemed to retain that graceful motion. "Hey," Christian murmured. "Sandy said that you need some vitamins, and that you're a little dehydrated. She'll be in with an IV, but in the meantime, take this." He stuck a pill between Jensen's lips and waited for him to swallow.
Jeff, never accused of being slow, took the opportunity to slip out from between Jensen and the wall, buttoning up his jeans as he went. Jared skirted around Christian, petting Jeff's shoulder. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine. It just...he was really insistent on sucking my cock." Jeff dragged a hand through his hair and gave Jared a pale smile. "It was a little freaky. Sorry."
"I'm sorry," Jensen said softly. "I didn't--just. The way you kissed Jared, I thought you were...I didn't mean to--" He broke off, letting his head fall forward. "I can go to the group home."
Shaking his head, Jeff knelt next to him. Jared could see Jeff's hand hovering uncertainly by his side, Jeff's need to touch warring with what had just happened. "No, sweetheart, it was just a misunderstanding. It's okay. You're coming home with us, unless you'd rather-"
"No. No. Thank you," Jensen whispered.
Rumpling Jeff's hair, Jared smiled down at Jensen. "So, your former master gave us some info. Your name is Jensen. Ackles."
Jensen flinched from the name for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I kind of remember that."
Jeff favored Jensen with an easy smile. "Well, then. Welcome to Vancouver, Jensen." As Jeff touched Jensen's bedrail, comforting, he glanced at Jared. "It's going to be okay," Jeff murmured.
Considering the concern written on Jeff's face, Jared had to wonder who Jeff was trying to convince.
--End
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no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 03:51 pm (UTC)I can only hope and pray and cross my fingers and BEG that you have more of this in the works and that it'll be forthcoming shortly, because I am already entirely in love with this universe and the people in it. LOVE. I can't wait to see what happens; you've captivated me. I adore the use of all the CW people, and Christian especially just made me SO happy. And Jared and Jeff and Jensen (oh god, poor Jensen) oh my.
SO GOOD! YAY!
no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 07:06 pm (UTC)Thank you! I'm glad you liked it.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 07:08 pm (UTC)But I'm glad you liked it! And I hope your day gets better!
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Date: 2007-02-27 04:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 07:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 06:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 06:49 pm (UTC)oh, girls. 1/1 my ASS. this is made of awesome. future!slave!broken!jensen is just almost too much, but not quite. i can't wait to read more of this.
there will be more, right?
no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:16 pm (UTC)*perves on the bicep*
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Date: 2007-02-27 08:58 pm (UTC)And lastly, it is SO GOOD to be reading such a great story and not just keeping my head buried in Sundownverse forever. I hope you do continue this and will be watching for more.
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Date: 2007-03-02 01:17 pm (UTC)*blush* I'm glad you enjoyed. There should be more coming soon!
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Date: 2007-02-27 09:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 10:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 11:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 01:38 am (UTC)This is fabulous, and hurty, and lovely and slightly scary - I've had an recurring nightmare about the bird flu virus, and this kind of backs up a lot of my fears.
BUT how much do I love Jared and Jeff and oh, BROKEN Jensen. *sigsh in dreamy angsticipation of more*
no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 03:52 am (UTC)The characters, even though in drastically altered situations ring very true. The back history is phenomenal and the story line so far is totally gripping. I love all the characters but I'm especially fond of Christian. He's a favorite and has been for years and I love how you've written him.
I also adore how you've written the women. Too often authors trash the women in order to get the guys together. It's lovely to see them holding their own.
As soon as I hit "post" you are so friended because I can't stand the thought of possibly missing future fics.
Thanks so much.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:30 pm (UTC)I'm really glad you liked it so much. I mean, we're slashers, so the guys will be together, but I don't see a reason to make the girls suffer. They're just as competent as the men (sometimes moreso!).
But there's more on that in future chapters. *grin*
So, welcome to my journal! (you might want to also friend my lovely wife,
Anyhow, thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 05:58 am (UTC)It was mighty hurty, but it was also beautifully written and I love each and every one of the characters like woah. I especially love that Jen is already coming to trust and reach out to Jared, and I can't wait to see how Jeff and Jared help him learn to embrace his freedom.
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Date: 2007-03-02 01:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 06:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 09:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 02:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 10:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:37 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it! Thank you!
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Date: 2007-02-28 11:05 am (UTC)And this plot is amazing!
I can't wait for more!
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Date: 2007-03-02 01:39 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2007-02-28 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:43 pm (UTC)See, Tom with an eyepatch works on a surprisingly shallow level for me! The level of "Mmmm...too pretty, but with a patch and a scar or two? Hot!"
I'm glad it worked so well for you!
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Date: 2007-03-01 12:43 am (UTC)So good. SO good. I can't wait for more. Ya'll kill me... in the good way. SO GOOD
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Date: 2007-03-02 01:44 pm (UTC)Thank you, darlin! (any other kinks we need to hit?) *grin*
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Date: 2007-03-01 03:45 am (UTC)I'm looking forward to the next part. I know it's in very good and talented hands.
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Date: 2007-03-02 01:48 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it. We actually ran it by
More should be coming soon! And thank you again!
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Date: 2007-03-01 05:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 07:06 pm (UTC)Your fanfic is the only fanfic I read, and I only started watching Supernatural about three weeks ago LOL I guess it's kind of like reversefan-fic. I Read this before watching the show!
Anyway - freaking awesome. I love all of it. ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 02:02 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 12:01 pm (UTC)I like the world you've created. It holds together well enough that my disbelief was merely suspended rather than hung by the neck until it was dead :) and I thought you did a good job fitting the characters into that world. I particularly liked this bit:
Jared had learned not to be ashamed of his scars; Jeff was ashamed of his lack of them.
That's a very telling sentence. [wince/nod]
Good stuff -- I hope there's more.
Angie
no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 12:16 pm (UTC)Regards,
Sharon
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 12:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 01:44 pm (UTC)