The Slave Auction Meme

[justformemes]

The Slave Auction Meme


* Leave a comment with the character's name, fandom, and whether your character will be playing the part of 'slave' or 'master', plus preferences for scenarios if you have any.
* Respond to others with one of the scenarios below or feel free to make up your own.
* Please remember to be respectful of others while you play

Warning: Be aware that this meme deals with dark subjects like slavery and may also contain non-consensual/dubiously consensual sex, violence, and kink.

SLAVES

1. The Newbie - This is your very first auction and you don't quite know what to expect. Hopefully you remember your training and don't disgrace yourself in front of your new master. Hopefully someone thinks you're worth buying at all.

2. The Oldtimer - You've been bought and sold and bought again so many times. You've seen it all before and don't think this time is going to be much different. In fact, the only real anxiety you've got is whether or not someone's going to pay for a more than slightly used slave.

3. The Pet - You're a pleasure slave. A bed warmer. A decorative piece of artwork. You're meant to look pretty and be pleasing and not much else.

4. The Guard - Your master hired you because of your ability to swing a sword or shoot a gun, not your looks.

5. The Escape Artist - Somehow you always manage to squirm out of your master's chains. Too bad you seem to get caught after a while. Maybe your next daring escape will be permanent. Then again, maybe your next master has special ways of keeping you locked up.

6. The Undercover - You aren't a slave at all, you're just pretending to be one. Why? Well that's up to you. Either way, your cover is blown if you don't act the part.

7. The Specialist - You have a skill that no one else has. Something rare and valuable. Something your master needs more than anything else.

MASTERS

1. The Customer - You've owned slaves before and this trip to the market is nothing new to you. Still, you're hoping to find something worth your while.

2. The Gift - Someone bought a pet for you, isn't that nice of them? Or maybe it isn't so nice. Did you even want a slave in the first place? Well you're stuck with one now.

3. The Giver - You're selecting a slave for someone else, and they need to be perfect. Perhaps you'd better test them out first to make sure you're getting your money's worth.

4. The Trainer - You specialize in taming unruly slaves and making them over into perfect, obedient, well-trained pets.

5. The Rebel - You hate the idea of slavery, but the system isn't going to go away any time soon, so the next best thing is to buy up any slave you can get your hands on and free them, right?

6. The Companion - You want someone to be with you always, someone you can talk to and depend on, someone who will never leave your side. It's a good thing that money can buy that these days.

7. The Undercover - You're not actually a Master. You're at the auction for an entirely different reason. Maybe it's special policework, maybe you're trying to hunt down a certain someone. Either way, your cover is blown unless you act the part.

As always, feel free to use a combination of scenarios or make up your own if you have other ideas.

Comments

Frank Castle | Punisher

[terrorisms]

( slight preference for him being the owner, but I can flex if you have a strong idea. thinking a full-blown au for this one, but we can wing the world-building as we go.

ota for gen; for shipping it'll be 25+ and m/f unless we have prior history — but it'll be a long slow-burn regardless. especially fond of Karen. )

[dawn_is_breaking]

[ooc: I'd be interested in a full blown au if you are. Were you thinking still modern times or other?]

[terrorisms]

( Yeah! I was thinking modern, if only because I'm too dumb for historical accuracy, hahaha. )

[dawn_is_breaking]

[ooc: Haha same here, okay I can see Dawn being captured before becoming a vigilante and being sold as a sort of attractive pet and source of entertainment since she was a professional ballet dancer.]

[terrorisms]

( that absolutely works for me! i'm gonna keep Frank's whole Deal a #mystery for the fun reveals later, if you wanna kick us off with her at market or something like that I'll swing in with him making the acquisition. )

[dawn_is_breaking]

[ooc: sounds good! I'll do this first part in prose but if you prefer brackets I can swap.]

This isn't the first time Dawn has been on stage in front of others, nor is it the first time a crowd has watched her every move with intense, hungry eyes. It is the first time she's been on stage fully naked though, normally she would be wearing a pair of tights and a tutu but today she stands before people fully stripped down, her pale flesh marbled with goosebumps from the chill air.

To her left is a line of other women, all naked and all lined up in order of price. To her right is a short man with a greasy comb over and very few teeth left in his mouth, which sadly does not stop him from grinning widely.

"Next up we've got a real beauty, pale skin and even paler hair." He croons and he gestures lewdly towards Dawn's pubic region. "And as you can see the curtains DO match the drapes."

Unlike some of the other women Dawn does not flinch or cower on stage from the stares or comments made by the seller, she stands straight and poised, her head held high in defiance at all of those who look at her.

"Some skills of interest include cooking, basic nursing, and of course dancing." The grease-ball says and then slaps at Dawn's shoulder, dropping his voice so only she can hear. "Show them what they're paying for, sweetheart. Or I'll slice your tendons."

There's a brief pause as she mentally weighs the possibility of punching the man beside her and trying for escape but the odds are impossibly against her and with a deep breath she rises up on her toes to perform a series of ballet positions. Her leg muscles flexing as she does these moves slowly, with control and precision.

"Beautiful isn't she? Do I have any claims?"

heeere we go! happy to make edits if anything doesn't work for you

[pagekaren]

[The club meets somewhere different every time it convenes. An office building. A restaurant. A rental property. Always somewhere upscale. Exclusive. And always late at night, with staggered arrival times, to maintain the aura of secrecy that the club members have grown accustomed to. There are people that move in the shadows. There will always be people that move in the shadows.

The members of the club are, by and large, the ones that position those people. The ones that pull strings behind the scenes.

Really, it was only a matter of time before Karen Page found herself caught up in it. She has this - drive. This need, really, to uncover the truth behind things. And she's good at it. It's how she found the club in the first place. Shell companies and names people wouldn't say. Naturally, once she got too close, there was only one way to silence her. To make her disappear into an entire world so much more labyrinthine than she ever could have imagined.

And she'd spent years under the thumb of her first master. Todd. Really, the less said about him the better. But she'd escaped...only to find herself right back where she started.

This time, the auction is taking place at a nightclub.

They have Karen dolled up in a long, pale purple dress, with her hair swept into an elaborate updo that makes her feel disconcertingly like an expensive piece of art. Like the rest of the people on auction that evening, she has a collar around her neck. Hers is silver. Unlike most of the others, she's wearing a matching pair of wrist and ankle cuffs that mark her as a flight risk.

No one seems to be lingering at the table with her for very long - which is odd, despite the clear risk of her running. She's tall and slim, almost elegant looking in the flattering cut of the dress, and she's sitting upright and unmoving in her chair. Confident.

It's the fact that her blue eyes are burning with a quiet but unmistakable defiance that makes people pass her by. A look that doesn't fade when someone approaches her table.]

IT'S GREAT

[terrorisms]

( Every other table in this club that has a collar seated at it, also has an interested buyer. Often two or three, each of them holding a glass of Macallan aged longer than he's been alive, with a price tag too stupid to fathom. Each of these girls — and two guys, as well — will be leaving on the arm or the leash of somebody here before the night is out.

All of them except one. All of them except her, because this community is small. If by some miracle they couldn't see the burning in her eyes, her reputation will have spread neatly enough to the right ears. The only kind of master that would be interested in her now is the kind that takes pleasure in breaking the unbreakable.

The man who sits down across from her wasn't at the last party. He isn't wearing a suit so expensive it makes insert expensive brand name suit here seem like Shein fast-fashion by comparison. His short military crop doesn't align with the hipster Pidgeoto look half of them wear, or the sixty-dollar my father went to Stanford look of the other half. In his black utility pants and equally black Under Armour-adjacent long-sleeves, he looks pretty much exactly like the type that would enjoy breaking someone.

A few heads turn to stare at him, a few mouths murmur less than subtle speculations about him, but he doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention to them.

He's already got that stupid little index card and that stupid tiny little pencil out, scribbling down an offer price before he even says so much as a word to her. Once he's done, he flips the card over so that it's upside down and sticking out of the edge of the table, awaiting a staff member to swing by to take it to someone who oversees these kinds of transactions.

While they wait, he finally breaks the silence. )

You gonna run?

EXCELLENT

[pagekaren]

[Karen's watching him as he approaches. Tuned in on him, really, the moment that it's clear that he's walking in her direction. He moves like a shark, like a man with purpose. His expression is so neutral that she can't imagine that it's anything but deliberate. This is a message.

Which just leaves the question: who is the message for?

It could be for her, sure. There's a very real chance that this display is meant to intimidate her. It's ridiculous, to think about what her life has become. That she has to actually worry about things like this.

She's still studying him as he takes the card and puts it down on the table. The all black ensemble doesn't stick out here, but the fact that he's not wearing a suit does. He's not playing their game. He has his own agenda.

Her eyes flick back up to his face as a discreet waiter takes the card and disappears with it. None of this paints a good picture. There's no way that this ends well for her. But at the end of the day, is there that big a difference between the frying pan and the fryer? Either way, she's going to get burnt.

She meets his eyes steadily and is quiet for a moment as she processes his question. There's no hiding it, and she's clearly not making any attempt: she's scared. But being scared has never stopped her before. And there's not a chance in hell that she'll let it stop her now. That steely resolve comes back into her eyes as she leans forward and sets her cuffed hands on the edge of the table. Her voice is shaky, but that spark of defiant anger is still there.]

The first chance I get.

[terrorisms]

( He can see that she's scared; anybody with half a brain can see that she's scared. Who wouldn't be, in her position? He's pretty sure he heard somebody say once, something about how bravery isn't the absence of fear, it's what a person chooses to do in the face of it. She's brave, he'll give her that. A little too honest for her own good, too — but he can respect that as well. Takes real balls to look a man like him in the eyes and not even try to play games.

All the same, he sighs like this answer's somehow disappointing — or like he's just... tired, already, despite the purchase not even being approved yet. )

I wouldn't.

( It's a warning more than a threat, but is there really fundamentally a difference for people in collars?

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't just let her go. There are rules, guidelines. There's a system. Not that he normally gives a shit about that kinda thing, but he has an agenda, and that agenda is incompatible with the kind of attention he'd bring onto himself for a slip like that.

Bottom line is, if she runs, she ain't gonna get far, and she's not gonna like the consequences.

There's a new voice from somewhere just over his shoulder; he doesn't bother turning around to face it, and he doesn't seem surprised when it speaks up rather suddenly. He can't have seen them coming, but it's like he still knew, somehow.

"You must be new, friend," an older gentleman with greying ginger hair enunciates in a fuck you I'm rich accent. "Allow me to offer a word of advice: this one isn't the one you want."

He doesn't look away from Karen when he responds: )

What I want is none of your fucking business.

[pagekaren]

Yeah, well, you're not me.

[The answer is quick and passionate, getting the heat of her point across without having to raise her voice. The things that are true here, in this club for - fucked up people with too much money - are true everywhere. She's too smart for her own good. Too willing to put herself at risk to do what she thinks is right. Too goddamn stubborn to give up even when it would be in her best interest.

After all, there are going to be consequences if she runs. And there's going to be consequences if she doesn't. What kind of choice is that?

Her eyes lift, watching the man that approaches him. There's a gleam of recognition in her gaze, a look that almost reads like gotcha. This is someone she clearly recognizes. Someone that she's heard rumors about. A piece of a puzzle that has finally snapped into place.

Her eyes return to the man across from her, studying his reaction. The way that he's not surprised to hear someone talking at him. Like he expected it. A pink flush rises in her cheeks, that glimmer of defiance returning to her eyes. There's no hiding how badly that offhanded comment chafes at her. The way the man responds causes her to press her lips together to keep back a laugh, her eyebrows arching in surprise.

The older man scoffs. There's a thunderous look on his face for just a moment before it smooths back to that - too rich to care nothingness. "Real nice. Don't say I didn't warn you."

He continues on his way. It had been a short exchange, but illuminating. The man across from her is an outsider among these people that dwell entirely on the fringes of polite society. She hadn't realized it until just then, but his studied neutrality is different. It's not 'fuck you, I'm rich.' Part of her suspects it might just be 'fuck you.']

Who the hell are you?

[The words are out of her mouth, genuine and unthinking. She doubts she's going to get an answer. But it seems that she's going to have time to figure it out. The club is clearly eager to get her off their hands. Back out of the spotlight, sequestered away somewhere she can't make any trouble. The waiter that took his card is back, handing him a tablet so he can review and sign her contract. He places a silver key on the table. The one that will unlock not only the collar around her neck, but the cuffs that are hobbling her wrists and ankles.

She eyes it as she considers the math involved in grabbing it.]

[brandingproblem]

[They slathered him with makeup, and it's so fucking funny he has moments when he's genuinely trying not to laugh.

He has to hand it to them: under the lights, he's pretty sure most if not all of the bruising's been well-hidden. It all still hurts; any good beating is going to leave someone feeling the aching consequences for a while. But it hurts somewhere that's going to be hard to spot. He wonders if someone's going to feel very ripped off once he's properly bathed and finds out they've bought damaged goods, even if the damage is only temporary. An arm in a cast wouldn't be a good look, after all.

Clint knows he's damaged goods in way more than one way.

It's not the first time he's been up for auction, but it's been a long time. Couple of times he's been sold off since had been private affairs, arrangements between friends or business partners. But now he's really gone and done it. Fucked around just enough to finally find out, and now nobody in that circle wants to deal with his shit anymore.

He's dangerous. That much is obvious before anyone has to open their mouth about him. The chains are heavy. His wrists are bound behind his back, which conveniently shows off the flex of his arms, and the chains connecting them to his ankles are sturdy enough stuff that he'd have a hard time moving to do anything requiring agility or dexterity. They don't want some poor schmuck to end up with a weapon and not realize it. They are very politely avoiding the word assassin, though if asked, he might have suggested attack dog instead. (One of those dogs that needs a job to be happy. One of those dogs that's too smart for its own good. One of those dogs that's too much of a handful for the untrained owner.) 'Bodyguard' gets bandied about. Sure. He's good at that, too, to a point. He grins into the bright, focused lights about it, cheek smarting under the makeup, something to distract from how all the focused attention makes his skin itch.

Mostly he just wants all this coded language bullshit to be done with so he can move on to whoever thinks they can tame him. Whatever new owner he can be good for until he bites the hand that feeds. Or get taken out back and shot.

Some days he thinks he'd prefer the latter.]

[terrorisms]

( For a long series of awkward seconds, it seems an awful lot like nobody's going to bid on him. Clint's ushered up under the lights, presented like some kind of prized animal on a podium while a bored man with a voice that sounds deceptively like Ben Stein reads out a list of all his attributes. Selling points. Strong, talented with security, dexterous, blah, blah, blah.

A few things he doesn't say? Well-trained, well-behaved, loyal. The thin, sparse audience of buyers don't miss that, and they're not interested in breaking already broken goods. It looks, for a moment, like Clint's headed back to the pound.

Until one low voice pipes up from the back, gravel-rough and a touch deeper than it has any right to be: )

Six hundred.

( It's a laughably low price. Insulting, frankly — or it would be, for any other option on the block. There's another long, tense pause. A cough. Someone clearing their throat. A long exchange of looks between the auctioneer and the actual seller, that ultimately ends in a nod.

"Sold, to the gentleman in black."

Welcome home, Clint.

A set of handlers lead him off the podium, down the ramp, and around to the back of the pricing desk where his new owner has to make a payment and fill out paperwork before he's allowed to put his hands on the merchandise. )

[brandingproblem]

[He's not some young sweet thing posing coyly in a barely-there outfit. He's no longer some skinny boy with raw talent oozing out of his pores. What he is is a liability. Being good at what he's been trained to do doesn't mean a lot if nobody wants to put in the work to retain his loyalty.

Someone would eventually take him, he knows. Someone who likes a challenge, or someone who can look past what isn't being said and add him to their pack of dogs, or someone who--shit, he doesn't know, doesn't matter anymore.

Someone does take him. For a number so stupid low that he has to bite his tongue not to yell at the guy to at least add another zero onto that. He should be grateful. Happy would be taking it too far, but grateful that someone has kindly seen past the flaws to make an offer at all.

Clint's not happy or grateful, but he's got just enough good sense left in his skull not to say so. Or say anything at all while the deal is completed. The good sense tells him to take in his new owner. If he were rude, he'd think the guy paying pocket change for his new puppy looks like he'd fetch a good price on the auction block himself. The black is slimming, sure, but doesn't hide the muscle. Gives off the impression of big, even if he's not much taller than Clint. Haircut isn't douchebag with-it or political combover; seems military? Ex-military. Not the type to normally buy. Not the type to normally have the money to buy.

How did he wander into this joint?

Clint's done this song and dance. Not going to fuck it up from the get go. He stays silent through the exchange, and silent through the removal of his binds, and silent through being officially handed over to his brand new master. But his eyes rarely leave the man.]

[terrorisms]

( They give him a tablet with some bullshit to sign; something about his responsibility, something about actions reflecting on owners, something about regulations and guidelines, and — what — is that a goddamn waiver? He's never gone through this process himself before, but when he's tracked other people doing it, they usually didn't involve liability waivers. It has him casting a fleeting look from the tablet before him to the collar behind the desk, another appraising up-and-down, before his eyes drop again and he scrawls a swift signature on the thing with the edge of a knuckle instead of the tip of his finger.

And then it's done and dusted, and somebody offers him an honest-to-god leash — for an added price, a bargain, of course.

He looks at it, then casts his eyes to Clint.

First thing his new owner says to him is a gruff, blunt question: )

You gonna run?

( Stupid question to ask a collar? Maybe — any one with sense would lie. Yeah, sure they would, but Frank can generally spot a lie from twenty paces. Whichever way he answers, he's got betting money on figuring out what the truth is behind the actual words that come out. )

[brandingproblem]

[The paperwork's always a bitch. The under the table deals usually skipped a lot, save for the legal ownership stuff. Like a car dealership. He thinks. He got dragged to one, once, and no matter how much money you've got, that's a boring wait to wade through.

He's pretty sure they've added paperwork in the past many years. He's not sure, actually, how much of it is standard and how much of it is because he is what he is. Guy signs with his knuckle and not a finger. And sure. Those little digital tablet things can be unreliable. But he can't help but think about fingerprints for a moment before he's asked a question.

And a fair one. Clint, for his part, stands at something like military ease himself. His hands no longer have to be behind his back, but they rest there anyway. He doesn't hold himself stiff or rigid. Attentive, but ready to move at a moment's notice.

It's tempting to lie. But he doesn't know this guy. Doesn't know his countenance. If he went through the trouble of buying someone nobody else wanted, then he signed up for trouble knowingly and willingly. Going to break him in?] Depends, sir. [Honest answer. Depends on what kind of man he's dealing with. Depends what his lot in life ends up being. Depends on if he gets bored or desperate after a couple years. Clint's mouth is in a small smile, and there isn't anything genuine about that. It's placating only.] Not right now, sir.

[He wouldn't exactly get far.]

this got so long?! lmk if you need/want anything changed around.

[daughterofawolf]

"What are you doing, little miss?" Eponine startles. What had she been doing? Just taking a moment in the mirror; that's all. But no one had been near when she'd paused to look at herself.
"Just --"
"Just admiring yourself, it seems to me. Nothing I can see to spend so much time on."
"No, Madame."
"Get out there and make sure the clients remember you." Madame swats at her butt and Eponine ducks out of her reach easily, stepping out onto the floor.

This is part of it; this is always part of it, at least at the "markets" run by the Thenardiers and the Patron-Minette. Not the fanciest or most upscale venues, not the most imposing security, not even the most beautiful boys and girls to be bid for. But everyone comes in wanting something different, as her father has drilled into herself and her sister. Not everyone is there for want of sex or even companionship. Sometimes what they really want is attention, conversation. A cook, a housekeeper, a bodyguard. A friend who won't stop returning their calls.

And before they hear all about their assets'...assets, the Thenardier markets give them ample opportunity to socialize. A little extra fee here and there, of course: would you like to buy the merchandise a drink? Come a little early to have a little more time on the floor? We'll just add that to your tab.

Eponine lifts a glass of water to her lips, taking in the crowd. Abruptly, she lifts her chin and faces it head-on, picking up the lacy edge of the thin slipdress she's wearing and stepping playfully into the throng of buyers and louder music, swaying a little with the beat. She puts on the show she's meant to, coy, teasing; plays it a little flattered and obedient when someone comes on strong, blushing and deferring at overt talk or -- if she can't quite manage that -- giving what she gets; it's memorable, at least.

As she makes a circuit of the room, nursing a drink she's been bought, she notices a man sitting and watching more than interacting; curious. Not the only person to wait until someone comes to him, or to be hands-off for other reasons. But it is unusual.

Her view is cut off when a big man steps across her path.
"Oh, excuse me, sir," she says, and nods to him, taking a step back.
"You," he says. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
Eponine can't tell if the answer to that should be yes or no, for his taste. For multiple other reasons, she defers. "I don't go to school."
"I guess you don't. You know, girls your age are supposed to." She starts to shake her head and he catches her chin. "Look at me when I speak to you. You like doing this more than school?"
"Yes, sir. It's -- I wouldn't want to stop."
"Hmm. That's what I thought. Girls like you --"
"Sir -- you're hurting me."
"And?"
She turns that over. If he's here just to play and not pay -- another frequent aphorism of her father, whose laugh she can hear rising above the talking as he too rubs elbows -- she'll be the one who catches hell for it if she's marked up before the bidding. If he's a big spender -- and the way he talks, she expects he is on someone -- and she doesn't play along...

Or you could punch him, the voice in the back of her head suggests, and she has to bite back on it, as she so often does. Right. Sure. In front of him.

In a wild act of guesswork she says softly, "I -- I like things like that to be private," and he raises an eyebrow and huffs a laugh, letting her go. For a moment, she thinks, smart!
Then he backhands her across the face.
Her ears ring; for a moment it feels like the entire city must have turned to look.

[terrorisms]

It happens in a flash, in a blink. One moment her ears are ringing as he stands triumphantly over her, the next he's backed up into a wall with a forearm at his throat digging hard into his windpipe, eye to eye with the man who put him there. She might not have seen him approach, but the people around her certainly watched Frank's purposeful stride across the hall and the way he flung the other man back by the scruff before pinning him.

"You like roughing up girls, tough guy? Is that what you like, you like hitting kids? Look at her," Frank shifts away just enough to give a good view of Eponine still recovering. The man doesn't stop staring wide-eyed at Frank until he snarls out a vehement, "Look at her!"

Only then does the man look, still terrified, but that terror pointed Eponine's direction for a fleeting moment.

"She looks like a real easy target, huh, big man? Think you can do that, think you can just put your hands all over her? Well how 'bout this, you look like a real easy target to me, that mean I can put my hands on you? Huh? That mean I can slap you around, make you bend over, make you do what I want? No? No?"

The man, red-faced and purpling from lack of air, strains to shake his head as he clutches at Frank's forearm.

"Let me tell you something, if I ever see you do that again, I don't care if it's here or in the god damn street two states over, I will break you, you understand me? Am I clear?"

That frantic head-shaking turns into frantic nodding. Frank spends another two seconds staring him directly in the fucking eyes...

...

...

...before finally easing off so the man can suck down air and grip at his throat. In the meantime, he crosses over to steady Eponine gently.

"You okay, kid?"

[daughterofawolf]

The man's blow knocks her sideways, stumbling; Eponine grabs for a nearby chair for a moment as the world spins, cursing herself for not having been more careful, more prepared, especially with a patron like this one. Stupid girl, thinking you were so clever.

'Ponine realizes then that not only has the man not made another move, but he's no longer in her space; parses, belatedly, the other man's snarl. Look at her! She lifts her chin to take in this impossible scene. The patron who'd been so intent on her looking at him before: now his eyes meet hers, wide and frantic.

She thumbs away blood from her cheekbone and doesn't look away.
And then the moment's over, and he's gurgling and protesting as the man goes on. Eponine reaches, distantly, for a glass that's all ice sitting on the table to dump it into a napkin. She feels almost more off kilter by the altercation itself than the blow.

It's not the violence: fuck that guy. It's more that ...people don't do this. Not over a girl they don't know; sure as hell not for some already-bruised-up contract that they haven't got a bid on. That's movie stuff, someone "defending someone's honor" or protecting some teenager while they kill monsters.

It makes her wonder what he wants, a little, twists at her stomach.
But the way he asks if she's okay softens the way kid chafes, and she nods. "I've had worse," she plays it off with a necessarily lopsided smile, then remembers herself and adds more politely, "Thank you. Sir, you really shouldn't have --"

"Gentlemen!" Oh, fuck. She'd seen security approaching at a safe distance, the other man stumbling over toward them just now. Her father comes from behind, where she isn't expecting him. "Now, I'm not a man to get -- overly involved in other people's affairs -- but this is a place where we strive for pleasure, not violence. All this fuss over one young lady? Surely I can find a solution for everyone, among all the delights in the room."

[terrorisms]

Oh, good, Frank thinks as Eponine's father strolls over with his mouth running a silky mile a minute, I was hoping this asshole would show up.

Not her father specifically, not specifically this asshole — just the concept of the asshole who runs this joint. What people do in their own free time's none of his business. People go into sex work, people follow laws he doesn't agree with, sure, it chafes, but it's none of his damn business. This? This teenager? That makes it different.

"You the one in charge?" He asks, unabashedly ignoring the chastisement and the offer both in one fell swoop. The moment it's confirmed, he barrels on with his next question — a point at Eponine. "How old is she?"

Her father seems to get the wrong idea. Seems to think that, like the man putting his hands all over her a second ago, Frank's interested because he likes 'em young. Takes all his self-restraint not to break the man's jaw.

When he finds out her age, the third and final stroke of the sword is the last question: "How much?"

[cw for awful guy using gross insult(s, but one in particular). also for this whole au, but.]

[daughterofawolf]

Eponine has to restrain a sharp laugh when the man asks if her father’s the one in charge. Mostly because he’ll hate it —- he takes real pride in being the one who makes everything happen, the arbiter of every deal —- and a little because it seems absurd.

Most of the patrons here at least know someone who knows someone who was invited personally — and if not, they try very hard to imply they were, to play the game of spun-sugar implication with the man with all the access codes.
And he’s never as insufferable as when people want something he has.

So Eponine counts her blessings that it would hurt to smirk, because she can hear his irritation at not being recognized. While it delights her, she doesn't think her brain needs a smack upside the back of the head too.

This next part, Thenardier is more familiar with, and Eponine too. He (maybe) plays at having to scan her wrist cuff to remind himself of her birthday. He adds caveats like just as though it's a silver lining on the unfortunate fault of reaching sixteen. She smiles politely and turns around when he gestures.

It reminds her keenly that everyone has a motive. Who is this man, and what was his purpose before she dared to protest the grip on her chin? Can he really not know whose place he’s in? Is he genuinely offended by the interrupted disciplinarian, or does he just have as keen an sense as she does for what leaves her in his debt? Eponine has picked up some things about him, standing here, but they make more questions than they answer them.

Whoever he is, he doesn't get to hear the price. The Fucking Truancy Officer — unfortunately having regained both the balls and the ability to speak now that he’s got Jerome from security in an uneasy at-ease between himself and his assailant — protests in a stream of swears. “I'm done, Thenardier. First you let this — this animal in here — fucking tried to kill me! Over her insolence! And now you’re hearing offers? Though you would, wouldn't you, you grasping fucking Shylock. It's not like anyone else would want the bitch."

Ponine grits her teeth and tucks her face against the ice in the napkin. It's not like it isn't true. The way he spits out animal, bitch, even Shylock -- she just wants to punch him, and she can't.

"No?" Thenardier is unmoved by the vitriol. "Then we shouldn't have a problem, Stephen. As for the violence, as I said, this is a place we put all our little wars aside for a night. That's against key and collar. A man's got to...have standards." Eponine actually does lift a dubious eyebrow at that. Sure. A man's got to make sure people have something they're paying to take the collars home for, and that there are patrons to take them home. If the market, the whole system, didn't depend on that agreement, her father wouldn't give a shit if people were coming in with a flogger in one hand and a sawed-off-shotgun in the other. All of them standing here know that.

"But you'll have your entry fee recompensed. Unless..."

"Unless what." His tone is flat.

"If you think she could benefit from some education..." he starts, slowly. Eponine glances up at him; his eyes flicker between the two men, spotting an entirely different sort of fight to provoke to his own benefit. Part of her can't blame him: she's set this trap before, sort of, just not in this exact way. "I can't think of anyone more qualified, really, to break a girl's bad habits."
There's something almost considering in his voice, and Eponine can feel herself tense. She takes a slow breath and ignores the way her edges feel like they're disintegrating into bees; lifts her chin and regards him neutrally.

"But there are plenty of other contracts to sign," he goes on, "if that's not what you signed up for." He turns to the other man as though this is all a day's work. Which it is, or at least a fortnight's. "We usually start this one at five. She's quite...adaptable. But given the unfortunate circumstances, I could -- hmm, considering any services that may be needed, and waiving the option to bid...I could knock it down to 35, if either of you fine gentlemen find that an acceptable offer."

There's a breath, and Eponine can't tell quite if they're considering murder (and of who), walking, or if one of them will demand three or even two. She wouldn't buy herself for 3500 right now.

[reexamines]

The unassuming warehouse sits just close enough to the docks for the tang of seaweed and decomposing fish to prickle at Karen's nose. All the worst smells of the sea, drifting in with each gust of wind tugging at Karen's coat. The sun, beating down too bright at the asphalt, does little to dispel the chill in the air.

Winter has lasted for at least five years, and though the gritty snow has finally melted away, there's little promise of spring. In the air, or otherwise.

The door is unattended, and Karen slips inside. The first thing that hits her is the smell. A metallic, almost bitter oiliness laced over the stench of unwashed bodies and bodily fluids that Karen would rather not think too hard about.

There's no heating, no sound insulation. The voices and twisted laughs of the potential buyers bounce between the sheet metal covering the ceiling and walls.

One side of the warehouse is lined with rows upon rows of cages. Each one big enough to hold a single occupant. Tall enough for most to stand straight (though Karen sees the occasionally set of sloped shoulders and bent necks) and wide enough to sit or lie curled up. The iron bars are solid -- if rusty -- and spaced too close for even a small child to slip between them.

This is where slaves go, when they commit a crime.

They don't get trials. Karen should've known, should've figured-- Of course there's no due process for property. But Foggy had to be the one to break it to her, when she brought up defending Frank Castle. Foggy had to explain the process. The punishments. The ten day holding period, waiting for someone dumb (or criminal) enough to take ownership of someone with a violent past, and the subsequent termination of anyone who fails to attract an owner in that period.

Or! Foggy adds, trying to wipe away the horror on her face, The non-violent ones get sent to labor farms or factories! Which is little more than death sentence in and of itself. Karen has to bite her tongue to keep from throwing words like "concentration camp" back at him. He doesn't deserve that; he didn't set up the system.

The cages don't seem to have changed since the warehouse was built in the late 1800s. But where there was once clipboards detailing the crimes, skills and prices of the inhabitants of each cage, there are now QR code stickers. Some faded, some peeling.

Easier to keep the cage number and just update the description each time the person inside of it is switched out. No one has a name down here. Just numbers.

The righteous anger that carried all the way down here begins to fade, leaving only the guilt sitting like a boulder across her shoulders. How is she ever supposed to find him in all of this?

Karen's gaze runs from one end of the warehouse to the other. It's hard to believe that this place is all above board. Legal. But it's overseen by New York's finest. Slaves from all over the state being brought in to be sold to whoever is cheap or dumb enough to take them in. Supposedly the justice system in action.

Left or right? Where does she even start?

As if summoned by the twist of indecision on her face, a fifty-something cop -- uniform looking as if he's slept in it for the past week -- approaches her.

"New arrivals are in the two hundreds," he offers kindly. "If you're looking for someone."

Karen swallows and nods a little too sharply, her hair falling into her face. He's obviously drawn a conclusion about her and why she's here. He's not entirely wrong, though she's willing to bet the motive would surprise him.

"Thanks," she says, though it's hardly even a breath, just a silent movement of her mouth. She pushes her hair out of her face, frowns towards the cages.

The cop gestures towards the right.

"Second row," he tells her. "Watch where you step."

Another nod and Karen braces her shoulders before striding across the warehouse and into the crowd. With her heels and skirt, and the flowy blouse beneath her coat -- a little thin for the season -- she doesn't exactly match the other clientele; men, mostly. A little rough around the edges, looking for deals. The kind of crowd Matt and Foggy would have a collective heart attack if they knew she was walking into it voluntarily. Which is exactly why they don't know she's here.

Karen walks down the path between cages. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her purse, her gun a comforting weight in it as she hefts it up higher on her shoulder. Her heart still beats too quick in her chest. A trapped bird beatings its wings against the bars.

Her eyes flicking between the the clumps of what she's really hopes is mud on the concrete floor, and the figures in the cages, she makes her way down the row. Her eyes slip quick past women, or men too short, too tall, too skinny, or too bulky to be him. Some are fully dressed, some less so. Some have welts circling arms, legs, or ribs. Others have bruises or split lips. Some don't even acknowledge her as she passes, some lower their eyes instinctively, others stare defiantly back at her until her gaze skitters away, embarrassed. It's a tableau of human suffering, and there's nothing she can do but keep moving until she sees him.

By the time she does, her eyes have begun glazing over, the features of the people blurring together until all details are lost. It's a wonder she doesn't walk straight past him. It's his ear, of all things, that stops her in her tracks. It cuts through the noise, a flicker of familiarity. Once she lets herself look -- really look -- the rest of the pieces fall into place. It's him.

Karen's hands may shake as she digs her phone out of her purse, but her chin is set with determination. Fingers still trembling, she scans the QR code from the sticker sitting crooked on one of the bars. #279 She doesn't bother to read the description, just scrolls down to the price. Bargain basement deal for a human being, but still enough to almost clean out her savings.

"You don't want that one," a voice next to her drawls, and she startles. Bad.

This cop is younger. His uniform pressed and clean. Later, she'll remember the shine of his badge more than she does his face.

"All due respect," she says, looking back to the cage and the eyes of its inhabitant. She's not sure if the bars between them are an improvement over the barrel of a sniper rifle. "You don't have a clue what I want."

"Suit yourself," the cop snorts.

Karen doesn't look to see if he leaves. Just keeps her eyes on the man in the cage. She's the reason he's here. This is her fault. He deserves a trial -- no matter how many times she's washed her hands since, her fingers still feel tacky with Grotto's blood -- but he doesn't deserve this.

"Hi." A small smile, and an aborted gesture of her phone that might have been intended as a wave. "Frank?"

[terrorisms]

Frank Castle looks like twice-hammered shit. Two black eyes, a nose that's obviously been broken too many times and was recently re-broken, a split lip. It's all too fresh to be the same injuries he'd been sporting when they first hauled him in, too fresh to be the same ones as his mugshot. His split knuckles imply he probably gave as good as he got, so at least there's that.

He's a little too tall to stand comfortably in the cage; if he stands up straight and lifts his chin, the top of his head presses into the unrelenting metal. It's still not enough to stop him from standing, shoulders taut, eyes alert and unafraid of making contact with anyone who happens to linger too long. Coupled with the utterly slack, empty expression on his face, he makes for a particularly unsettling atmosphere to spend any amount of time around, so he'd imagine from the start that she's not just hanging out in his area out for shits and giggles.

And besides that, he recognizes her. Her profile, her hair. He spent a good amount of time being meticulous about not putting a bullet in either.

Not a speck of that recognition makes it to his face. Not a word, not a nod, nothing but an empty, distant stare as she approaches and as she scans the QR code that brings up all his sins, misdemeanors, and infractions. A long, methodical list of all the reasons why he's on the chopping block to get put down, because nobody with any sense in their head is gonna spend money on a collar with a history like his.

The first hint of anything resembling emotion to flicker through him is the soft exhale of breath he lets loose at you don't have a clue what I want. Might be a laugh, if you know what to listen for. Got a lot of attitude for a slender woman on her own that probably ought to be intimidated by the population around her, let alone a cop, or the brute of a man in the cage she's studying.

His silence lasts several seconds after she greets him by name, and when he breaks it, it's with a voice that's hoarse and rusty enough on its own without the help of frigid air and days of neglect ramping it up. As far as greetings go, it's not much of one. Just a short, terse: "Ma'am."

She here for an apology? She's not gonna get one. An explanation? Sure, but she better hurry the conversation along, they're operating on a narrow time window here. Last thing he'd ever suspect is that she's here to buy.

[reexamines]

Between her heels and the fact that he can't stand quite straight, they're evenly matched, height-wise. She doesn't have to tilt her head up or down to meet his eyes. All the same, his physical presence -- even in the cage -- is more imposing. She stands with her shoulders curved forward and slightly hunched, like she was the tallest girl in her class (she was) and changed her posture to try to make herself smaller (she did).

Karen's not sure what she expected. Anger, maybe, Recognition at the very least. Some emotion. The lack of anything throws her. In the face of his silence, she thinks about turning on her heel and just walking away. No one would blame her, she thinks. No one would even know.

No one except her.

And Shiny-Badge. Which is somehow worse.

The deadness in Frank's features doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're bright and alert under the mask he's hiding behind. That, and a little bit of spite, keeps her standing frozen in her spot resolve a little bruised but still intact.

"I'm Karen, uh, Karen Page." Like her name will mean anything to him. It's not like they were formally introduced. He wasn't there for her, she was just caught in the crossfire. "We, uh, met the other night."

For a given value of met.

Frank's not wrong. She should be intimidated about everything in here, him most of all. And she's scared all right -- her fingers tight around her phone like it's a lifeline, a slight tremble to her lower lip -- but she refuses to be intimidated.

Karen's eyes keep snagging on the bruises on his face. The depth of color to them. The swelling of his split lip. Jesus Christ. They sure did a number on him. The determination doesn't fade from her expression, but it softens around her eyes. These are just the injuries she can see.

"You killed-- uh, allegedly killed our client." Except there's no allegedly. Karen knows he did. The law knows he's an owned man holding a weapon and that makes him guilty enough to be lawfully murdered. It's enough to make her stomach turn.

"Look I don't--" The tremble of her lower lip threatens to overtake her, and she looks hurriedly away. Nervously, she drags her fingers through her hair, combing it back from her face.

Shiny-Badge is still hovering a couple of cages down, not even pretending that he's not watching her. Somewhere in the vast depth of the warehouse is the clang of metal against iron bars followed by a scream and Karen can't help but flinch.

This is not a good place. For anyone.

She sucks in a deep breath, forces her lungs to fill against the heavy weight pressing on her chest, and looks back at him. A little calmer, a little more resolute.

"Look. Before I do this. I just need to know that I'm not making the worst mistake of my life." She hefts her phone at him, thumb hovering over the darkened screen where the big red PURCHASE button was before the phone locked itself. "I need your word that you won't hurt me and you won't run."

They can talk about the fact that she'll be legally responsible for him and his actions later. Just promise her.

Please.

[terrorisms]

Once upon a time, back when serving meant serving, actually earning his way out of his collar, Frank had a CO who used to say that the way he could read people was downright unsettling. He can look at a person and see what makes them tick, see into them, see the traits that make them up at a glance, in a second. It made him a good soldier. Would've made him a good collar, if it weren't for his temper — but then, that temper's what got the collar put on him in the first place.

Still, he looks at her, he measures her, and he can't help but respect what he finds.

She's scared, he can see that — which is good, it means she's not stupid. There's a sharpness in her eyes, she's keen... but she's also defiant, stubborn. She came here with her mind already made up. She's good, and whatever she's doing this for, it's probably because she's got it all up in her head that she thinks it's the right thing to do. She seems like a good person. Seems like somebody he'd admire, if he got to know her. Seems like someone that would drive him up a fucking wall, too, just like-

He leans forward, wrapping his hands around the bars of his cage, reddened split knuckles on display. From down the line, Shiny-Badge barks out some bullshit about hey, no touching- but he completely ignores it in favor of tilting until his forehead's nearly pressed against the metal, too. Close enough to her to murmur so that only she can hear.

"I know who you are. I looked up your office while I was hunting down your piece of shit client, and lady... you got nothing to fear from me. You didn't the other night, either. You were never in any danger. That scumbag you were lookin' after, the things he did... he deserved what he got. You don't have to believe me, but that's the truth. And I'll tell you what else is the truth..." His eyes flicker down to that purchase button, and then back up to hers. Locking in. "Whatever you think you're doing here... whoever you think you're saving, it ain't me. Find some other charity case. We're both better off letting them put a bullet in my head."