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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I'll start packing the van, sir. [And there's a good split second where it looks like he's literally about to just abandon breakfast half-eaten to start doing that right this second. But. The moment passes over him, and he crunches some bacon instead.] After a shower. [Feeling that out. He wants to ask where they're going, but he'll find out before long.

The whole DA thing should worry him, maybe, but...it doesn't. This is his fight only because what else is he going to do. It's his fight because of Frank. He doesn't have any personal stakes in it. Would be nice for some people who think killing kids is okay get justice. Otherwise he's along for the ride. And as a collar, he's invisible a lot of the time. What's he got to do with any DAs unless he's ordered to kill one?] Guessing there won't be any hunting today.

( It looks an awful lot like Frank's grip on the lead is lax as hell, because not a single word comes from that after a shower hedge. This is true, to an extent. Little bullshit like this, human things, innocuous things, they don't matter to him. Clint can pour himself a cup of coffee, and he can decide when he showers, and Frank won't say a goddamn word.

If they go out in public, this might get a little problematic when everyone around him will be expecting him to treat Clint like a glorified teacup yorkie.

But there are other areas Clint hasn't stumbled into yet, other places where he'll have an iron grip. Strategy, battle, loss. Deciding who lives and who dies. Morality — what constitutes right versus wrong. What constitutes hypocrisy. These are all things he's inflexible about.

Hope you're ready for a little domestic slice of life, Clint, because — )

Nope. Not today. Probably not for a few days, until I can get in touch with a couple people that might be able to do some digging.

( Sure is a good thing he had a real good lawyer for is trial... too bad he's technically a prison escapee, but somehow he doubts Murdock's gonna call the 5-oh on him as long as Frank knows about the face under that red mask. )

Then I guess I'm at your disposal for whatever all you need from me, sir.

[Whatever that might be. Even if it's nothing. Even if it's lay low and take care of the dog and stay out of the way.

Said dog has his big square head on Clint's lap with big wet eyes staring up at him, and Clint breaks off a piece of bacon to hand over.] That's all you're getting; you got your breakfast, buddy. Just cuz we shared a water bowl doesn't mean now you get to share in all my people food. [Kuba just wags his stub and whines lightly for more. At least Clint holds to his promise of that being all the pup's getting.

His gaze goes back to Frank.] You ever wanted a collar, sir? [They talked about dogs. Might as well ask the flip side of that coin.]

( He eyes the dog again, the way Clint's taken to it, how much it seems to adore him. Maybe there's a way they can make it work. If they keep moving, if they lock the place down enough, maybe they can get away with keeping him. Is it selfish? Gambling that kinda thing? But Kuba's been docked, he looks like a trained goddamn killer. Who's gonna adopt him from a pound save somebody that wants him to do exactly what Kazi couldn't get him to do?

He shovels a bite into his mouth, and decides to make up his mind about this problem some other time, when he actually has to.

The question's not a surprising one, really — but he hadn't exactly been braced for having it lobbed at him this morning. He stares down into the contents of his bowl, crushes bits of bacon into it with his fork while he answers. )

No. It never made much sense to me. We talk about American values, what it means to be free, land of the free this, freedom fries that. Hell, they can ship my ass to Kandahar to protect all that freedom we're supposed to have. But then we turn right around and pretend like we haven't been running this whole operation on slave labor since the jump.

( He shakes his head, and then huffs out a flat, dark puff of a laugh. )

Look at me now. Practically the Statue of god damn Liberty. Tell you what, if my wife could see... ( He lets out a low whistle; ominous. ) She'd tear my ass to shreds. I mean, to shreds. There wouldn't be enough left of me to stick a collar on.

( And there it is: why he's such a bad owner. Why it doesn't seem like he knows the first thing about what he bought. It's like when a trailer park high-school dropout in Florida buys a fucking ball python because their cousin's best friend had one that looked cool, and the only thing they know about caring for it is that they usually eat mice. )

[There's probably some psychoanalytical shit to be said about how Clint has taken to the dog and vice versa. Similar circumstances, for one. But also something about a scared little boy that's spent a good chunk of his life lacking basic love and affection, and greedily eating it up from a source that gives it so unconditionally.

Clint just think the dog deserves better, thinks he's cute, and most of his other owners didn't bother with pets.

(The animal kind, anyway.)

The irony of The American Way^TM has never eluded Clint. But at the same time, it's simply the way that it is and the way that it's been for so long it hardly bears thinking about. He's not about to spark some kind of revolution all by his lonesome. He's just trying to make it to the next day, and then the day after that. He lets out his own little laugh at the description of how little left of Frank there'd be.]

Think you're scary, the missus woulda had you beat, huh. [But she's gone, and that's thrown all the usual rules out the window.] Well, we're usually more a to the highest bidder kinda commodity, less than for the average family, sir. If your son had asked for a collar instead of a dog, I imagine that would've been a whole conversation.

( A grimace flashes across Frank's face; his fork-poking slows to a standstill. He doesn't go rigid, doesn't stiffen, stays soft, he just... stills. Everything stops, and a memory not so different from that conversation plays out in his mind. )

He did, once.

( He hasn't talked about them since it happened, really. Hasn't had anyone to talk to about them, except Karen now and then — but Karen's better off as far from him as she can get. Safer that way. That means all these memories, all these truths about his family... they only exist for him, and the more he forgets as time goes by, the less they exist. Maybe that's why he talks about it. Just so they stay real. )

He, uh- you know how twelve-year-old boys can be. Thinking they're cool, thinking they can impress their friends by saying shit they don't mean, that they don't even think about. My baby girl, she never- she was always too soft, she took after her mom like that, but my son... He wanted to be tough, you know. Wanted to be the man of the house when I wasn't there, except the problem about not being there is I never got much of a chance to show him what that was really supposed to look like.

( Which is altogether more than Clint asked for, but sometimes it feels like once he starts opening his mouth, the words take on a life of their own, and they won't stop until they're all out. )

[Frank becomes still in a way that sets Clint's nerves on edge. It isn't an angry stillness, just a stillness, one of thought and memory and--pain. The grimace proves that much for sure. But he doesn't know Frank and his moods, doesn't know what might set him off.

A story about his son is better, at least. Makes the alarms in his bloodstream quiet down. Does he know how twelve-year-olds can be? He must've, once upon a time, back when he was one. Though his circumstances weren't exactly typical. Sounds about right, though. Want to be a man, want to act grown up. Want to be rich and famous and cool. Have a big house and a cool car and some collars to do all the boring chores.]

You were there enough to matter, sir. That's not nothing. A lot of boys don't even get that much. [He eases into another huff of a sound that could be a laugh.] But I can see being too young to get the implications. Bet most kids have that thought, y'know, about owning a collar to get them to do homework for them.

( That last part lightens the mood enough to earn a huff from him — a rare, sideways smile with the hint of teeth as he drags his eyes up from his bowl and points them away at nothing in particular. )

Homework. ( He echoes, wry, amused. ) Yeah, that's about right. Think I probably heard that a time or two. I almost forgot.

( It's those little things, those little moments that don't drift up into his mind on their own. That's how they disappear. Complaining about homework, about getting someone to do it for them... yeah. It happened, in passing and lightly, he knows it did. He remembers now.

He shakes his head, something fond, something stupid, and then spears his fork into his breakfast, swallowing down the last bit before abandoning the bowl into the sink. )

Alright, I think that's enough of a trip down memory lane. Finish your breakfast, take your shower or whatever it is you do. I'm gonna go start packing.

[Little things. Little memories. Little smiles, little laughs, little flashes of Frank-the-husband, Frank-the-dad, Frank-the-guy. Rather than Frank, owner, soldier, one man army.

They aren't necessarily important. Frank can be whoever the fuck he thinks he is and make no concessions for anyone, much less a collar. But it's nice. Knowing that they're both people inside.

He scarfs down the rest of the food, and no Kuba cannot lick it clean, not for puppies, and makes sure he's quick about his care. Showers don't have to be long, just thorough. Technically all the Kazi had gotten scrubbed from him before getting dressed and covered in makeup at the auction house, but, well, then he went back, so the Kazi's still kind of clinging to him, huh. Just quick enough to seem (and smell) clean as a whistle, and then it's throwing on some clothes, still hopping on one foot to tug his boot back on to help with the packing.

He can be a good pack mule. The muscles aren't for nothing. The real trick is making sure the dog's out from immediately underfoot, which really just amounts to closing him in a bedroom until later. And then comes the realization that with all the space in the back of the van going to get taken up, he and the dog will have to fit up front.

One step at a time.]

( He walks the dog while Clint showers. Just before he slips into the bathroom he might catch it: Frank bending down to dog level, murmuring out a quiet, c'mere buddy, and offering up a very thorough scratching underneath the collar, where he assumes it's gotta itch the most. Then a quick clip to a leash, a trek around the block, and he's back before Clint gets out.

Weapons are broken down and packed into their respective cases. Nonperishables are thrown into a tote. Clothes in a duffel. Even the One Singular Table gets folded up, the van packed to the gills. They're going to a place he scouted down by the waterfront, warehouse district. Some recently-emptied place with a little living-quarters loft up on the second floor of an otherwise wide open, completely empty poured-concrete-and-steel kind of deal. Separate bedroom's apparently out of the picture temporarily, but there's more than enough space to be on opposite ends of the building and barely even see one another if push comes to shove.

It's a good forty-minute drive, and yes, both Clint and the dog get to ride up front. Welcome to the big leagues, Roomba. Don't touch the radio. )

[It's not a pretty place, and it doesn't have to be. It just has to be functional. He gets that that's the whole deal. And, hell, with the amount of gear in boxes loaded up, it'll look more like a warehouse when they're done.

But it's a lot of space. And that ain't half bad. Loses some of the hominess from before, though. Clint knows he's going to have to find something appropriate to throw so Kuba can run around to his heart's content. And also a dog bed's probably going to have to be in order. Or a couch. A couch can be a dog bed, too.

Clint decides for himself without being told to do a perimeter check. So long as things are more or less intact, no obvious gaping holes, no structural integrity concerns, any broken windows that can be easily covered, nothing sparking weird--place isn't gonna go up or come down on them. And then, finally, he comes to rest against one of the weapons crates, the way he'd done before where he'd gotten his nickname. Attentive, but sitting cross-legged on the floor.]

Home sweet home, sir.

Somethin' like that.

( It's the mild, somewhat flat agreement — in truth, his mind's on the other side of the city, on a little two-story home with a yard. Full of too many toys, dishes in the rack, family photos on the wall. There's an acoustic guitar in his bedroom, a piano downstairs. Frank's interest in music still lives in that house, and only traces of it have followed him out of it.

There's no music here; there's barely even a bed so much as a box spring and mattress directly on the floor, but he's slept in worse. Once you've done a tour in Afghanistan, you can sleep anywhere.

It doesn't slip his notice that Clint did a perimeter check. It's good, actually. Doesn't completely quiet the paranoia in his still-healing bullet hole recovering mind, but it does drop things down a notch or two. That's not nothing. Matter of fact, it's looking like the first few tentative stages of trust might be accumulating here.

Which is the only reason why, when his phone rings, he actually answers it in front of Clint. )

Hey, Karen...

( Followed by a slow ambling away, and a lowly murmured conversation that includes the words district attorney and the Blacksmith in equal measure. )

[Frank's distracted, but understandably so. He's been waiting for this call from, apparently, Karen. He listens in the best he can without straining. That's a way to pass the time and a way to get a lot of information, just sit down, be quiet, turn invisible, and listen, and watch. This is clearly the person who is supposed to help them (them? they might as well be a them, now) with the DA's office in connection with this Blacksmith person. So someone with connections. With a bridge Frank hasn't burned to the ground yet.

Kuba comes over and flops with a doggy sigh, and Clint rubs his side.

When Frank's done, he tips his head, looks at him sidelong. But doesn't immediately say anything. Thinking things, but not saying them.]

( Karen comes through, because she always comes through. She's got an in at the DA's office who pulled some records and found somebody directly involved in the shooting, with a few noteworthy ties leading up to it. She gives him a name, she gives him the guy's frequent haunts, and if he... conveniently forgets to tell her he bought a collar, it's only because he doesn't wanna hear the disappointment in her tone.

It's some twenty or so minutes later when he finally hangs up and paces back to their little living area hub complete with 1 (one) table — and sees a look on the guy's face.

Strange to think they've gotten to know each other well enough in a day and a half that he can tell something's up, but he can. )

Your thinking face is loud, what's up?

( This isn't a correction; Clint's input has been invaluable so far. )

She isn't a fan of collars, either, is she, sir? [He doesn't mind getting called out for his loudly quiet thinking. It's just not always clear, the lines, when he should say something, when he should sit on his laurels. And maybe he missed something in the conversation, but he's pretty sure the word collar never even came up.] Guess I'm just not used to being someone's secret.

( Christ, this one's smart. No wonder Kazi couldn't figure out how to earn a little loyalty at him, it's gotta be like when idiots get huskies for Christmas without having the first clue how much exercise they really need to keep their minds occupied. You let 'em get bored, they shred your whole damn house and jump the back fence.

Good news is, if Clint's a Husky, Frank's a German Shepherd. No wonder they've been getting on like a house on fire. )

No, she's uh... she's good people. Better than I'll ever be by about a million years.

( Which, honestly, reminds him of something- )

If anything happens to me before this is done, you go to her. She can get you where you need to be.

( If Frank can't follow through on his promise to throw Clint over the border, Karen can make it happen. No question. )

You leave me a name, number, address, sir, and I'll make sure to paint you in the best light.

[It's hard to tell, currently, if he means that or if that's a joke. But if she's good people who's willing to work with Frank, it means she already must have some idea what he's like. Which apparently is: for all his faults, not someone who owns a fucking collar. Clint will remain a surprise if nothing else.]

She get you a lead, sir?

( Doesn't matter too much whether Clint means it or not, Frank's more than aware that there's no such thing as a good light to paint him in. And anyway, Karen sees straight through bullshit — you can't slap a paint of coat on a jalopy and call it a Corvette.

He'll still leave her name, number, the address to her work. Scrawl it on a slip of paper or something, stuff it somewhere nobody but Clint's likely to find it. In the meantime: )

Yeah, she got me a name. Mills. Undercover agent who'd been working with the Irish for a few weeks leading up to the shooting. He was there day-of, but he left right before before it went down.

( If that doesn't scream insider information, he doesn't know what does. )

Couldn't get his address, but her contact says he frequents some club in Queens, goes every Friday like clockwork, uh- the Red Door? Some kinda hipster bullshit like that?

( Clearly not a place he's ever heard of — also clearly thinks the name is stupid.

Anyway, the plan forming in his mind is pretty simple: go to the club, scope for the target, drag him out the back and lean on him until he talks. Easy. )

[Clint is dutifully following along--he's never dealt with the Irish, personally, but broadly knows them to have a deep history with the city and a certain propensity to violence not all gangs aspire to, and that's about it. When Frank says the club name, says it in a way to indicate he's utterly unfamiliar, Clint...is polite about it, keeps any kind of smirk or sass to himself. He'll be very helpful, in fact.]

It's a sex club, sir. Collar-friendly. [Because there are some that are not, for various reasons of liability, owner's personal taste, simply Not That Kind Of Club, so on and so forth. But there are plenty that are.]

( What's hilarious is how he'd just been taking a drink of a cup of coffee that's been sitting on their singular maps-ammo-explosives-dinner-breakfast-confessional-coffee table for so long it's gone cold roughly around the time he says sex club, and while liquid does not spray out of his mouth like a sitcom, it definitely sloshes out of his mouth and back into the cup as he lightly chokes — but totally recovers, wiping his mouth quickly. )

It's a- what? Friendly, what- are you serious? Or are you screwing with me?

( Look, he's not a prude. He's been around the block, he had two fucking kids. He's been to the seediest underbellies and seen some real shit, shit that would make a porn star blush. But he does not, by and large, go into those kinds of clubs for shits and giggles. There's a difference between a strip club on a Tuesday and a "collar friendly" sex club on a Friday night.

Please be screwing with him. )

[Do not laugh at the owner. Don't do it. He knows better. He feels like there wouldn't be consequences with Frank, but he's had a lot of years of learning that don't get un-learned overnight, so, do not laugh at the owner.

Even if him choking about sex clubs is funny. Clint shrugs lightly.]

It's a kinky sex club where collars or pretending to be a collar is allowed, sir. It's not like they check your papers at the door. [Okay, so maybe he has to do just a little cheekiness.] Didn't think that'd offend you so hard, sir. You don't have to fuck anyone if you go there.

( Yeah, okay, Roomba — don't think he doesn't see you getting all cheeky over there, like he doesn't know you're laughing in your damn head. He is not impressed. He is not offended, but mostly he's the very, very much not impressed thing. )

Oh, really, yeah, you don't say. Thanks for that.

( He knows, okay, he knows, he can figure shit out through context. It just threw him, is all. He was expecting some bullshit divebar or some ritzy richie mcritchperson swankfest bullshit, that's all.

He scrubs a hand over his face, and then sighs, slipping back into something resembling professional. )

Well, that doesn't change the plan. We go in, we recon, we find the target, we take him somewhere nearby, and we get what we need.

( Whether that means dragging him out the back door and into the van, or finding some building under construction nearby to prep in advance, or some rooftop — just somewhere they can get twenty minutes of time uninterrupted to hear what this guy's story is, and to loosen his tongue about the Blacksmith. Who's screwing who in what position in that club doesn't make a damn bit of difference, at the end of the day. )

They don't frown on beating someone up as long as it's safe, sane, and consensual, sir. [Okay, so now he is smirking, but ducking his head just a bit to try and hide it. Not very well. But like, an attempt was maybe made.] Though I'm guessing Mills won't be very consenting to getting his knees blown out with a crowbar.

[And you know what, there might be a smart remark in there somewhere about knees and blowing, gosh, it's on the tip of his tongue but not quite there--]

Obviously he's there for pleasure, but do we know if he's also there for business? Meeting some of his Irish contacts? Making deals under tables?

( Yeah, he's definitely made some mistakes letting Clint get so comfortable here. At least when he was uncomfortable and wary he didn't have the audacity to give Frank shit. Not that he's gonna do anything about it now either, but he'll look back on the good old days fondly, that wonderful time before he felt comfortable pointing all that sass a the man who legally owns him.

Anyway.

There's a discontent little shake of his head; he sets the coffee cup down. Folds his arms across his chest, tips the chair back on two legs as he idly thinks. The whole thing's more fluid, more flexible, more at-ease than he was yesterday. Whether it's what he got out of his system for a little while yesterday, whether it's their comfort levels with each other, whether it's the dopamine that comes with formulating a strategy, who could really say. )

She didn't know much, her contact wasn't the most forthcoming with the details. I get the sense this was a real IOU situation. She pulled every string she could just to get a name and a place, whether or not he switch hits or just networks wasn't on the menu.

[What are boundaries for if not for pressing up against with your whole body once you're done tapping it with your knuckles?]

We can't just kick in the doors of a club and start asking around for a name. Shockingly gets people all kinds of squirrely. Any idea who we're looking for, sir? [He can also hunker down and get himself more in the work mindset, don't worry.]

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cw: america is a hellscape & always has been

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I know it's not the SAME but also: how do I keep doing this

if only you knew how many times you've done it so far lmaooo it's incredible

obviously I'm a showrunner at heart

could it be that mcu is fomulaic? no, no... it's the children who are wrong...

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