bakerstreet | The Slave Auction Meme

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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.

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( She's right — that question gets absolutely no answer. All his attention goes to the tablet he's quickly reading through, or so it seems, until about two or three seconds of her staring at that key. He speaks up midway through swiping a signature onto the screen with the edge of his knuckle instead of the tip of his finger. )

Wouldn't do that, either. Don't be stupid.

( She's in a guarded club with security at every damn door. Even if she got herself unbound, what would she do? Where could she possibly go? If she's gonna make an escape attempt, at last wait until it makes sense — but hey, what does he know? He's just some asshole with a tablet.

He passes it back over, and the waiter offers him a polite little half-bow; "Thank you, sir. We appreciate your patronage."

Yeah, I doubt that, he thinks darkly, but that one stays inside his head for now. The key's swept off the surface of the table, and for a moment maybe Karen might think he means to undo her ankle cuffs so that she can walk out of here on her own.

Incorrect.

The key goes into his pocket, and in one smooth movement he's scooped her up out of the chair and thrown her over one shoulder in a fireman carry. He plans on casually striding the both of them clean out of this building without giving her a single opportunity to book it. Thanks for the honesty. )

[Her gaze returns to him sharply, a spark of irritation there at being called stupid. She knows she won't get far. Putting the key on the table is a test and an insult, the same way everything is with these people. Look how close freedom is. And look how far. The last time she was in this position, she'd watched a brunette grab the key and promptly get back handed so hard she'd fallen clean out of her chair.

It is interesting to note, at least, that this man is clearly paying attention to everything around him. Even though it doesn't look that way. He's also not leaving his fingerprints all over the screen. He's absent that - casual grace that wealthy, pampered people acquire after years of not having to think too hard about anything. Of being able to make problems go away with a snap of their fingers.

He reads more like someone that takes care of his problems directly.

Which doesn't exactly bode well for her.

She's still watching him as he gets up, and there's absolutely nothing that could have prepared her to be hauled up and over his shoulder. An indignant squawk leaves her mouth as she fights off a wave of vertigo at having the world suddenly upended around her.

She's only just managing to get a handle on her senses when another man dressed like a waiter steps in front of him, just feet from the door. She can't see him, but she can hear the service-with-a-smile posture in his voice as he says "sir, we must ask you to be more discrete. You can have your vehicle brought around to the loading dock out back if you don't wish to let this one walk."

Karen lets out a snort of laughter that's audible even from behind his back.]

( Yeah, there's no way in hell he's bringing his van around here. He's got no intentions of leaving any kind of record of what he drives on their security systems, no intention to let them catch sight of a plate number. Not after what he's got planned for this place. The only reason he even stops his stride is because the waiter physically moves to stand in front of him, otherwise he'd have just kept on striding past, clean out the door.

Might've been better for him if he had.

The lady over his shoulder laughs, and she can't see it from her perspective, but he's shooting her a withering look for just the most fleeting of seconds. Seriously? No time for that, though. Instead, it's the waiter he addresses. )

You can move, or I can break your nose. It's your choice.

( The waiter does the most whiteguyblink gif expression anyone has ever done — he's not accustomed to this sort of violence. That sort of behavior is usually reserved for off-premises hits, or the abuse here is strictly financial in nature. For a lengthy moment, he looks positively flummoxed. When he finally recovers, it's with an indignant, "Sir-"

Which is not, in fact, getting out of the way, and so before he can make it to the second word, Frank pops him swiftly in the face. There's a crack, a gush of blood, and he doubles over clutching his face, wheezing, "What the fuck, you fucking psychopath-" )

Should've picked the first one.

( Is his calm reply, and he carries on striding out. There is, of course, private security for this event. They notice about two seconds too slow to catch him before he's got his feet out the door and onto the sidewalk. )

Edited 2025-02-14 05:19 (UTC)

[Even though she can't see what's happening, the sounds coming from behind her are certainly distinct. The man carrying her shifts to swing one of his arms out, and the sound of the hit is clearly a punch. The waiter is spluttering, indignant and Karen might feel bad for him if he wasn't willingly working for the club.

She can't exactly bring herself to relish the pain he's in either. Even when the man carries her out through the front door and she can angle her head enough to see the waiter holding one hand over his face in disbelief.

The private security is just far enough away that she doubts they'll be able to catch up with him on foot. Not with the purposeful way he's walking out of there. Between that and the fuck you attitude, she's starting to suspect he's not exactly a regular member of the club.

Interesting.

There's a van parked up the street - far enough to avoid the external security cameras - but no people around, which means screaming her head off isn't going to be worth it.

And they're still close enough to the club that trying to squirm her way free here just means she's going to get shot when security finally catches up. Seems like she's about to get well acquainted with what the inside of a creepy panel van looks like. Even though she doesn't have a lot of options, she is still good at putting things together. So instead of yelling, or trying to get free, she calls out just loud enough for him to hear.]

So did you steal someone's ID or just rob them so you could get in there tonight?

( Not every moment is a battle; some of them are spent in pointed silence — which is, coincidentally, also what she gets after her question. Not a single damn thing. They pass one small handful of twenty-somethings on their way down the road, and the only time he breaks the silence is to say: )

S'cuse me, sorry, my wife had a little too much to drink tonight-

( They don't give a shit, he doesn't give a shit, and she's absolutely deposited into that creepy murder van. Things get optimistic for all of a second when he pulls out that key to gently undo one of her cuffs, like he might be making the rookie mistake of letting her loose — but then in one smooth, ruthless motion he loops the cuffs around an Oh Shit handle in the back and slaps it back on her free wrist, securing her there high up on her knees, uncomfortable, suspended, unable to quite sit down.)

Stay here.

( He mumbles; and then he's gone.

For hours.

And eventually, there's gunfire.

And when he comes back, it's covered in bloodspray and in a fucking hurry. )

[Karen huffs out an annoyed sound, and she doesn't even bother trying to make allies with the twenty-somethings. No one in this part of town at this time of night is up to anything good. And part of her suspects that drawing anyone else into this is just going to get them punched like the waiter back in the club. Or worse.

There's a quick move as he frees her wrist, but it's not loose long enough for her to do anything other than painfully jerk her shoulder.]

Asshole.

[She's alone in the back of that van for hours. Her knees hurt. Her back hurts. Her arm is numb. But she's not idle in that time. First, she spends a not insignificant portion of her time feeling around with her free hand and both of her feet, trying to find anything in her reach that she could use to get free, or make into a weapon.

There's nothing. Fine. The next stretch of time is dedicated to extracting a bobby pin from her hair now that she can reach it. Not that she knows how to pick a handcuff lock. But that doesn't stop her from trying.

Six bobby pins later, she gives up with a groan of frustration. She yanks repeatedly against the oh shit handle, twisting her arm and trying different angles. The only thing she accomplishes is wearing a painful red mark into her wrist.

And eventually, there's gunfire.

She freezes, listening intently. It's just quiet - quiet for too long - until suddenly she hears footsteps and he's back in the van looking like he just escaped from an abattoir.

Frying pan, fryer. This might actually be worse than the situation she'd been in with her last master.]

What the fuck?

[It's quiet, but emphatic, and entirely heartfelt.]

( Well the good news is she's not gonna have to spend very long wondering if she should try to make amends with that last guy, see if she can't get re-sold back or something. That guy's dead. Or, if he isn't already, he will be in about three...

He cranks the van, throws it into gear, and they peel out.

Two...

She gets only a fleeting glance in the rearview mirror to make sure she's still cuffed, safe, still in the same place he left her, nothing distinctly amiss, and then his eyes are back on the road. And that's where they stay during the-

One.

-explosion that blasts glass and shrapnel and brick and mortar through the whole street, sending two separate cars into an alarm-fueled shit-fit of beeping, like the blast itself wouldn't do a good enough job dragging in the attention of anybody in a three block radius.

Every other girl (and the two guys) in there got bought but her. They all left. She'd have been the only one in the building still. At the end of the day, the reason their whole mess begins, is because nobody else wanted to buy her and he wouldn't blow up the damn building with her inside.

So he bought her to get her out of the way.

There are about twenty different reasons why he can't just let her go, ranging from tactics to secrecy to the consequences and attention it'd bring down on him, the legal fallout, probably more shit than he's even thought about yet.

Can't let her go, but he doesn't have the first fucking clue what he's gonna do with her. )

[Oh, that last guy was dead long before tonight. Rotting in a warehouse somewhere with the gun she shot him with at the bottom of the river. It occurs to her for the first time that there's a...not insignificant possibility that the waiter that tried to stop him from leaving was bought and paid for by the Kingpin. That he fired a text off to an anonymous number that would have relayed the information to another anonymous number that would in turn whisper that information into his ear.

A cold chill gets a grip on her that has nothing to do with that quick glance in the rearview mirror. Her mind is still working in double time when the building explodes and she lets out a yell of surprise, automatically cringing at the sound of it.

He's driving fast, bringing them both away from the scene as she cranes her neck to stare out the windshield with wide eyed horror.]

Oh - fucking hell, oh...no, no, no, no what the fuck did you do?

[She rattles the handcuff chain again, angrily. Maybe not for the reasons he's expecting. When she talks again, her voice is all - furious and urgent.]

Hey! Asshole! You used a fake name tonight, right?

( The traffic light turns red. He blows through it because there's no camera; a car lays on the horn in blaring protest, but he pays no attention to the rebuke of his driving courtesy. He's too busy putting distance between them and the source of the explosion — well, technically he's the source, but. Semantics.

And all the while, she's a nonstop voice in his ear, going off, pissed as hell, and he can't stop himself from finally acknowledging her. )

You always talk this much?

( He already knew she was gonna be a headache, he just hadn't been banking on that kinda headache. Stubborn, flight risk, willful, sure. Talking his ear off, that's a whole different ballgame, and he's finding it hard not to get irritated. Finding it hard to fight the itch to start talking back.

Of course he used a fake name, but he fails to see how that's her business. )

[Karen visibly cringes, swaying with the motion of the van as he blows through the light and evades an angry driver.]

You avoid answering reasonable questions this much?

[She snaps the answer back at him without thinking, the anger still bubbling up in her. The hand cuffed to that bar above her head has a white knuckled grip on it as she points out the windshield with her free hand.]

There's - someone out there - someone with a lot of connections - that's going to be very interested to know that I got hauled off with some jackass that blew up the club. So if you're not going to consider letting me out on the side of road, you better have used a fake name and have somewhere really off the grid you can hide if you want to wake up tomorrow.

[The anger is draining a little from her voice as she talks, though she's no less passionate. It's just that the fear is winning out. She's jabbing her finger repeatedly for emphasis, and there's a subtle tremor in her arm as she holds it aloft. She's afraid of this guy, of course - the one that bought her, carried her out, and blew up a building.

But she's still more afraid of Kingpin. The puppeteer in the shadows. The man behind her last master.]

( You avoid answering reasonable questions this much? Maybe she can't see it so good from her position, or maybe she catches it in the rearview mirror, but the fleeting expression that passes across his face is sort of a scrunched nose of consideration, a sway, a deadpan sort of yeah probably face that passes by in silence.

Someone with a lot of connections — yeah, he knew that. That's why he blew it up. The fact that she knows that is pretty interesting. Hell, it seems like she knows an awful lot more than any collar ought to know, considering they're meant to be pretty wallpaper, cooks, dishwashers, pets, things to play with or fuck. Not things you tell your secrets too. )

Trust me, ma'am, I'm not worried about waking up tomorrow.

( That's the only retort she gets at first, flat, gruff, utterly devoid of emotion. Whether he means he isn't scared, or he doesn't want to wake up, is entirely left for her interpretation. The truth lies somewhere in the middle, probably.

But the agitation mounts, and finally it breaks through sharply: )

It occur to you at any point in this whole rant that maybe I want the target on my back? That maybe I'm trying to attract a little attention on purpose? If I wanted to be subtle, even you wouldn't have known I was in there. You don't know what I do, so keep your opinions to yourself. Last thing I need right now is advice from somebody that somehow screwed up bad enough to become a bedwarmer.

[She can't see his expression from where she is in the back of the van, which is a shame, because it probably would have made her laugh despite herself. Still, all of her attention shifts back to him when he answers her. It's just...flat. Unbothered. Sort of like - he's the kind of man that doesn't give a shit, because he's going to do what he wants either way. But it's still not that fuck you, I'm rich cockiness. There's a resignation behind it. Or an inevitability.

Huh.

Before she can really parse her way through that, he's firing back at her sharply, and her eyes narrow. She can feel a flush rising to her cheeks, her own anger flaring again like a fire in the dark.]

Did it occur to you that you don't know shit about me, what I can do, or what those assholes did to me?

[The heat is back in her voice, but she's not gesturing at the windshield anymore. She's just leaning back against the wall of the van, looking pissed off, trying to get some slack from the unyielding cuff on her wrist to give her arm a break.]

Look, I get it. You're a big, scary guy. That's great for you. But you're not asking the right questions. Do you even know why that target's going to be on your back after tonight?

[Maybe he made a point. Maybe his point is just 'none of you are safe, I'll kill you all.' Which is certainly something else she's going to have to be concerned about. But those people behind the scenes - Kingpin and the other ones like him - they don't give a shit about everyone he just shot or blew up. They're just...blood and memories.

No, they care about usefulness. About power, and secrecy, and feeling like they're untouchable. Maybe they'll get his message. Or maybe someone in the back of his van knows a lot more than she should about what Kingpin gets up to in his spare time.]

( -or what those assholes did to me? His hands, already tight on the steering wheel, go even tighter. It creaks under his calloused grip, knuckles white, jaw clenched. But he says nothing about that part.

He's not asking questions because he doesn't have questions — and that attitude is clear in his tone when he fires back: )

Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. It's because half the guys in that club used to belong to Wilson Fisk, and he's gonna be real pissed when he starts tallying up the damage. Is that what I'm supposed to be asking, or do you got something better to volunteer?

( Which probably makes it roughly clear that he doesn't know about her connection to the man in the slightest. Nothing about her history, nothing about why she might be bait in and of herself. He cheated on the math homework with a calculator, and he's got the right answer but he didn't show his work, so he deserves to have points deducted.

One way or another, he's got Kingpin's attention, and he plans to keep it — for a reason. This wasn't a mindless wrecking ball hit. This was phase one of a plan. )

[It's a good thing that it's dark in the back of the van, because her poker face is middling at best on a good day. And her expression is all raw surprise and fear when he actually names Kingpin. She even goes still like an animal with its leg caught in a trap, like she might be thinking about gnawing off a limb to get out of there. Christ, her life is a joke. How long is she going to spend being tossed around by the whims of angry men?

When Kingpin's real name doesn't summon him like a nightmare spectacle, she doesn't let herself relax, exactly. But she does let herself refocus. The fact that this guy knows Kingpin's name, knows how many people in that club answered to him - that's a problem. Could mean that he wants to take him down, set himself up the throne. Could be that he just wants to tear apart the industry from the inside out.

Does it really matter? At the end of the day, she's still cuffed in the back of his van.]

Nothing I want to volunteer to you.

[The rest of the heat has drained from her voice, but it's clear that she's still not resigned, exactly. The only things she has in front of her are bad options. So she's going to have to wait and try to figure out what the least bad option is. Maybe it's this guy. Maybe she makes a run for it wherever he ends up taking her.

Maybe he and Kingpin get into it before the night is over and they kill each other.

After a moment, she asks - because she can't help herself from asking questions, even when she knows she probably won't get an answer. If Wesley couldn't break that habit out of her in the years he had her, this guy's not going to manage it behind the wheel of the world's most conspicuous get away van.]

Why'd you bother getting me out of there before you blew the club up?

( Nothing I want to volunteer to you; and like a real asshole, the words are barely out of her mouth before he cuts in with the retort. )

Yeah, that's what I thought.

( She thinks he's some goddamn idiot vigilante meathead running around gunning down collar clubs because, what, he's trying to play hero? No, he's got reasons, and while these assholes deserve to go down, he's not doing it just because. He's got a mission, an objective. He's looking for something.

It's clear she doesn't have the first clue about that when she asks her follow-up question, because apparently there's always gonna be a follow-up question, because he got saddled with the world's pushiest, most audacious collar in the known god damn universe. )

You wanna know why, it's because out of all of 'em, all those other ones, you were the only one that wasn't gonna be outta there by the end of the night. Why is that? No- you know what, don't bother. Think I figured it out already. Trust me, I don't want you here any more than you wanna be here, but it's too late for that, so you're welcome.

( It's snappish and irritated, and if she asks anything else she'll be met with a stone wall of silence until they finally clear the city and start hitting suburbs, housing developments still under construction, somewhere a little out of the way. Finally, finally, the van comes rolling to a stop. Finally, finally, he opens the back doors to the van, handcuff key in hand, and makes to undo one of her cuffs. )

[It's not that she thinks he's a meathead, exactly. It's obvious that he's got some kind of plan in mind. An end goal. She just hasn't figured out what it is yet. There's pieces there, sure, but she still needs to find the one that's got his motivation on it. People do things for all kinds of reasons. She can't risk what she knows on someone who thinks blowing up a club is the solution to his problems.

His snappy retort to her question is interesting, despite the fact that he's clearly pissed off about the whole situation. This guy - with ready made explosives and guns, the one that had hauled her out of the club over his shoulder - cares about fairness. Not about her, in particular, but he hadn't wanted to get someone in her position killed. It's an unusual line in the sand to draw as regards to morality, but she can still recognize it for what it is.

She's not entirely sure she would have been left unsold at the end of the night. In her heart of hearts, she'd been waiting for Kingpin to do something insulting. Wait until the last moment and have some other lackey put a dollar down on her. Get her right back in his collection. Artwork, money, people, expensive wines - they're all just objects to him. Still, the timing would have been dicey. It's entirely likely she would have ended up dead.

It's quiet, and she's still tense but reflective as she considers - a million different things at once. All the information she has, all of the secrets she's still missing. What the rest of this night might have in store for her. When the van finally comes to a stop, she peers out the windshield, trying to piece together where they ended up.

And then the back doors open, and she turns to look at him. Wary. He'll be able to see the broken hair pins littering the floor from her attempts to get the cuffs off herself. She's not trying to pull away, but she's not exactly going to help him either. What she does is finally speak.]

Thank you.

[The words are bitten off, like she doesn't want to say them. She's not entirely sure she means them, because she's not afraid of dying. Or rather - she's no more scared of dying than she is of anything else. It's just another unknown. Another door she has to walk through. But at least not being dead means she has a little more time to figure out the mystery behind Wilson Fisk and this guy's connection to him. And maybe, finally, make sure the Kingpin gets knocked down the way he deserves.]

You're welcome. Appreciate the manners.

( He deadpans in return, flat and unimpressed - never seen a collar with so much spitfire in 'em before, and he can't say he loves it. It's gonna make his life a hell of a lot harder, and maybe the best thing he can do here is find a way to keep her from being a flight risk until he can find someone to offload her on. Somebody reasonable, somebody not likely to mistreat her, but that can give her more attention than he can. Some out-of-the-way trainer or something.

Don't miss the pointed look he casts between her and the litter of hairpins as he affixes the cuff back onto her wrist again now that it's not threaded through a handle. No way in hell he trusts her enough to go completely unbound. Not yet, maybe not ever. )

You gonna walk, or you gonna make me carry you?

( Because running's less of a risk in those shoes right now. Just sayin'. Worst thing she can do is be too stubborn to move on her own, and he's got no qualms throwing her over his shoulder again. They're in less of a hurry now, though, so he'll give her a shot. )

[Karen doesn't miss the pointed look, but she just shrugs. All what, like I wasn't going to try? It's a relief that she at least isn't stuck dangling from that stupid van handle anymore. All of her muscles are aching from having to hold that position for so long.]

It's going to be slow going.

[But she's still going to do it. She scoots to the end of the van and then pauses, pulling the shoes off so she can carry them in one hand. It's absurd that they put her in heels. She's already 5'10.

The chain between her ankles makes it so she can only take small, halting steps. She's so clearly frustrated at not being able to walk at her natural pace, but she bites her tongue. Literally.

They're out in the suburbs somewhere. It's a quiet neighborhood. Not rich, but not a bad area either. Even if somebody looks out their window at this hour, they're not going to get a good enough look at her to think she's anything other than some tired party girl that Frank brought home.

She's thinking about Wesley's incredibly stringent rules as he lets them into the house. Part of her is just - curious to see what he'll make of it if she does something he's not expecting. He's clearly not a man of many words, so if she wants to pry anything out of him, she's going to have to put some work in. That's fine. She's good at getting the information she wants.

Once the door is closed behind them, she bends and puts her shoes down. Then moves further into the living room and kneels with her hands folded in her lap.]

( What might seem strange is, despite his impatience in every moment leading up to their escape from the burned-out husk of that building, it seems like he has infinite patience now. He doesn't hurry her along as she takes painstakingly restricted steps, he doesn't yank her by the arm or snatch her up around the waist again. Now, he simply trails by her side, expressionless save for a hint of exhaustion, letting her struggle all the way in the door.

The buildings around them aren't actually occupied. Technically, legally, the one they're heading into now isn't supposed to be occupied. It's a show-house filled with cheap display furniture, the kind a realtor would display as an example of what's coming in the future way down the line six or nine or twelve months from now. Everything about it is plastic, from the smell in the air to the fruit on the kitchen island.

And the way she kneels pretty in the living room is plastic too; he huffs out a sardonic little sound, idling to a stop in the threshold between kitchen and living room, arms crossing over his chest at the audacity of it. )

You think what you're doing now is cute? That last one teach you to do that? Bet he gave you some real thorough guidelines to follow. Tell me somethin', did you malicious compliance your way through 'em for a while, or did you just jump straight to the kicking and running?

( He can tell the difference between real and fake. She's doing this now not because she's got the drive, the desire, the will, the interest. There's no real service or submission in this posture. There used to be a right way and a wrong way to do this whole collar business, but at some point in the last twenty years people started getting it all screwed up, weaponizing it, bastardizing it, and now here they are. It's all wrong. It's all for show, and he's not interested in her acting. )

If you're not kneeling for real, don't even bother. You may as well get up.

Why would I think any of this is cute?

[She sounds astonished and - angry again. Or still angry, maybe. Like it's all just sort of ebbing and flowing underneath the surface. She stays where she is for a moment, silent, thinking hard. She's not even insulted that he didn't buy the act. Concerned, maybe, that it sounds like he's some kind of true believer.

Could be that's his interest in the club. Maybe he thinks that he can do it better. Maybe he thinks he stands a chance to be a bigger, badder piece of shit than Wilson Fisk. Build things from the ground up. Form his own little empire.

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Maybe it would change things if she told him how she got here. But she's not sure it will. Not sure enough to risk it yet, at least. So instead she gets to her feet. It's not exactly graceful, but there is muscle memory to it. And determination. Like this isn't the first time she's had to get off the ground under less than ideal circumstances.]

I haven't had the dignity to be able to make choices for myself in a long time. That last one made sure of that. So no, I'm not going to kneel for real. I'm going to kneel and play along and grit my teeth until I get the chance to kick and run again. Bad choices are better than no choice at all when it's the only thing you have.

[She lifts her cuffed hands to push some of her hair back. That elaborate updo is deflating absent the pins that were helping to maintain the structural integrity.]

Unless you want to let me go.

[Her tone doesn't change, but there's something almost - challenging in her eyes. She knows he won't. He can't risk it. She's an eyewitness to his murder rampage. Which, truth be told, she doesn't seem nearly as alarmed by as she should. It sort of speaks volumes about the kind of shit her previous master was involved in.]

( Yeah, that's what he thought. It takes effort not to roll his eyes; kick and run again, well, at least she's honest. Whether she knows it or not, that's another part of this whole thing that everybody's flagrantly ruining. He doesn't give a shit about flag burnings and bible burnings or whatever, but this is a little bit more like pissing on a wedding ring as far as he's concerned, and that-

After everything? No. He'd rather not even see it. )

You're smarter than that.

( Maybe it's supposed to sound patronizing, but mostly he just sounds... tired. There's no letting her go. Yeah, she's an eyewitness, but she's also registered to him. Or, rather, she's registered to someone that'll inevitably link back to him sooner rather than later, and he doesn't need that attention coming down on his head.

It's not just the cops. It's not just law enforcement. It's the entire goddamn community surrounding this collar business; last thing he needs is to get blacklisted by it before he finds what he's looking for. What he's doing is already hard enough as it is. )

Tell you what I am gonna do...

( He says, ambling a few slow steps toward her. )

Is I'm gonna give you twenty minutes to shower. I'm gonna feed you, because that's my responsibility. And I'm gonna tuck you into one of these rooms for the rest of the night since I can't trust you not to book it out the door, and while you're bored outta your god damn mind in there, maybe you'll reconsider finding those manners you lost somewhere between the van and the front door. We clear? Any questions?

( Expectation, behavior identification, consequences. Clear, concise, fair. All laid out for her so she knows exactly what's in store for her the rest of the night — and no need for a what happens if she doesn't follow the plan bullet point, because he's not gonna give her a choice. Trust is earned, she's got none of it, and he highly doubts she'll earn any before he finds someone to rehome her to. It's an old-fashioned strategy, but he's an old-fashioned guy. )

Edited 2025-02-28 01:21 (UTC)

[One shoulder lifts in a shrug when he points out that she's smarter than that. Of course she is. But she had to ask anyway. She wouldn't be herself if she wasn't asking a million and one questions, trying to drive at the heart of an issue.

Her eyes follow him as he makes his way closer. Wary. Not exactly thrilled by his proximity, but she doesn't back away. The idea of a shower is appealing. Would be even more appealing if she thought he'd uncuff her so she could actually undo all the absurd scaffholding in her hair. But she'll make do with some soap and shampoo. It's better than nothing. A flash of annoyance crosses her face when he says he's going to feed her, like she's a pet he's going to put out a bowl of kibble for.

Honestly, it wouldn't surprise her. It wouldn't even crack the top ten list of most insulting things that have happened to her since she found herself caught up in this life. Her jaw tightens a little when he talks about her finding her manners. It stays tight as she considers his words. Does she have any questions? Yeah. But he hasn't been answering them anyway.]

More of a statement.

[She doesn't want to tell him anything about herself. Not really. But she's exhausted. And he's going to figure out pieces of it eventually anyway once he inevitably goes poking around in her history. So she steels herself. Bites the words off reluctantly.]

My ex sold me to - a real asshole. For revenge. And I ran because of the things I know. This isn't something that I'm doing because I think it's fun or cute. I'm doing it because I'd rather die on my own terms than anybody else's.

[There are tears threatening in her eyes, but she doesn't let them fall. Just takes a moment to draw a breath, straighten out her posture.]

Where's the bathroom?

( More of a statement — he's bracing himself for some bullshit, some commentary about how he's an asshole and this is all the worst and what he did back at the club was insane. Something about how he's a psycho and this house is a shithole, and a whole bunch of other shit he already knows — but that's not what he gets.

He gets something real, or at least the hint of something real. A truth about herself, voluntarily submitted.

He considers this.

It's not his job to train her, but if she's gonna be here, he might as well establish a few habits anyway. If she picks up on 'em, great, it makes their lives easier. If she doesn't, whatever, at least he tried.

And so, after a moment, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the handcuff key. )

Good girl.

( It's an approving murmur, complete with a fleeting glance at her face before he — very warily — takes a knee at her feet. She opened up, she gave him something, she gets a reward. In this case, it's getting her ankle cuffs taken off during her shower. The key goes in, the cuffs click, and he pulls them delicately away from her ankles, detaching them from the wrist length. When he stands up again, it's a little too deep in her personal space just as a byproduct of where he'd been kneeling. He doesn't seem to notice or care. )

It's right there, across the hall. You go straight there, come straight back here, or these are goin' right back on.

( Again: clear instructions, behavioral expectations, consequences. Concisely and clearly communicated. It'll become a pattern, she'll realize, that he's never gonna make her have to guess what he wants. No uncertainty, no shades of grey. Transparency and trust are different things, but if they're both shallow enough, they look the same.

In the meantime, yeah, he's gonna get her something to eat — not like a pet, like a god damn living person that eats. Just like everybody else. Maybe she can stow her offense at every little thing at some point in the short duration he plans for them to know each other.

The bathroom's within line of sight of the living room, and while there is a little window in there, it's taller than it is wide. A slit of a thing it'd be damn near impossible for any adult human to get their shoulders through even if they turned themselves sideways and lubed up with crisco. Nothing in there she can get into trouble with, she'll be fine granted this much autonomy. )

[Karen just about manages not to roll her eyes at that approving murmur. Theoretically, she can see the appeal of the - inherent level of trust necessary in the dynamic. Trust has never come easily to her. It was hard even when she was a restless teenager, even before everything went down with her ex. The issue has only compounded in the long years since then. But the way that Kingpin and the club have made things, there's just...no space for that kind of thing.

She still doesn't back off when he straightens up, way too inside of her personal bubble for comfort. Just studies his face from this different vantage, like she might be able to suss out what he's thinking about if she has enough time to work at it. There's already a picture forming somewhere in the back of her mind. Impersonal, but concerned with fairness. Solitary. Motivated.]

Okay.

[Still wary. She shifts her weight a little, taking a moment to appreciate the lack of restriction. He's already moving away, towards the kitchen, apparently to do something about dinner.

She takes a step, and then pauses, looking down at her hands as something occurs to her. She's not going to be able to get the dress off with the cuffs on. Sure, she could tear the straps off, but then it won't stay up. Or she could just let it...hang off the cuff chain and get sopping wet. There's no particular attachment to the dress. But she also doesn't exactly relish the idea of sitting around in a wet dress all night.]

Hey, uh, John.

[Look, in the absence of a name, she's just going to make up one of her own. She moves into the kitchen doorway and lifts her hands. There's no hiding the hint of annoyance in her voice.]

Any bright ideas on how I get dressed with these on?

( His broad back is facing her as he rummages through what meager supplies he's got packed away in the cabinets out of sight. He'd only been cooking for himself, so there isn't much — canned goods, nonperishables, things that can be made quickly with the maximum quantity of calories possible. He wasn't exactly banking on bringing anybody home with him tonight.

Um, John; he pauses, a screwed up, bemused sort of look on his face that he barely angles her direction. Where the hell's she pulling that from?

But then he recovers, and he doesn't stop what he's doing as she asks her question. Bread from bag, butter from fridge, paper plate, stove on- )

Ask nicely.

( It's a low rumble, absent, detached — and maybe that's more annoying. The fact that he's not gloating, or being smarmy, or intentionally antagonistic. It's almost like an adult reminding a child to employ their please and thank yous, but in a way that suggests that they're not all that attached to the outcome.

Manners. It really ain't that hard of a concept. )

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