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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[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.]

( And to that, Frank actually does have an answer. He leans forward in the chair, the front legs clack onto the floor, and he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. A couple tap tap taps pull up one Ethan Mills' Facebook page. It's private, but his profile photo's nice and clear. )

Gotta love social media.

( Not that he's a fan, or on it himself, or that he even really knows how to use it. He just knows it's a real bitch for personal privacy when all you gotta do is type in a name and you get a full face pic for free. )

What's your mark, you betting on business deals or collar play?

( Is it wrong to judge a book by cover alone? Absolutely. But considering they're gonna break his kneecaps potentially, offending him in spirit isn't exactly a primary concern. )

If all he wanted was a lapdance, he could've gone to any old strip club, sir. So. Either someone requested they meet there specifically for some reason, or he's got some tastes that aren't for polite company. [Clint's more thinking it through logically than about to judge anyone by face value alone.] Easier to make shady deals somewhere shady than go through the effort of a place that's going to have more rules and is more serious about security.

[In case Frank thought a sex club was gonna be lax on either of those things. So they're probably going to catch the guy getting his freak on. Or the guy's got contacts with particular tastes, look, these things can happen anywhere someone's not going to scrutinize too hard.]

I can't give you a layout on this one. We'll just have to go looking and not kick up too much of a fuss, sir. Maybe [with a little eyebrow raise] streetview the place, look for all the entrances and exits, see what buildings are in the immediate area unless you wanna just throw him in the back of the van.

( He had, as a matter of fact, been thinking that this club would be more lax on security. He's not exactly familiar with all the practices and safety nets involved in BDSM play, particularly not the kind of systems at play in a designated environment specifically for that. Kind of an old-fashioned guy, is Frank Castle, and he'd been assuming anywhere that lets people fuck on the furniture must be loosey goosey. Good thing he's got Clint here to let him know his beliefs are misguided before he walks in the damn doors.

But he doesn't have to go raising that eyebrow, okay. Frank doesn't know exactly what that expression's supposed to mean, but he can hazard a few guesses. O ye of such little faith in his ability to keep his shit together in the face of the scandalous. )

Tempting.

( Comes the deadpan reply — but no. Not ideal. More of a last case scenario. People street-level could still hear him scream a little too well there. It's looking like scouting mission tomorrow, infiltration the day after on Friday. Feels good to have a plan.

He plucks his phone back up, and before he puts it away, uses it to point at Clint. )

I want you to know something, Barton. I walked in that auction expecting to pay six grand instead of six hundred. Only reason I lowballed is because nobody else was bidding, but if I'd have had to pay the extra zero, you would've been worth every god damn penny.

( Maybe that's not much of a compliment considering it's still putting a relatively low monetary value on a human life, but that's more because Frank's not made out of money than that he thinks Clint isn't worth sixty thousand, or six hundred thousand, or six million or whatever. The point is: could he have done it without Clint? Yeah, for sure, probably — but it would've been three times as hard and twice the pain in the ass. Company's not so bad, either. )

[Clint's ears cannot physically perk up, but the way he straightens and hones his full attention on Frank at the compliment is not unlike a dog. He processes the compliment, and it passes muster, and he smiles.] That's still lowballing for the kind of prices I used to fetch, but thank you, sir. [And he still has to be a little shit about it, because he can therefore he will.

Although. It does make him think. Between Frank's contact that is trusted, the information he manages to dig up. He's already getting bolder today, why not keep the bold train going.]

Is Miss Karen your usual go-to for intel? [is not the bold question but a lead-up.]

( Castle does not bother concealing his eye roll. Cocky little shit, ain't he? So far, it seems well-deserved. Check back with him in a few months, and they'll see if that assessment still holds up. You know, if they're both still alive.

The question does sober him up a little, and while he doesn't lose the relaxed countenance he carries, it's definitely a little more restrained. Reeled in and reserved, like he's cautious of how he talks about her. It's instinct to be wary, to be paranoid, after everything she's been through because of him. After how hard he's been trying to make sure none of the trouble he gets into splashes over her direction. )

Yeah, she uh- she works for a law firm, and she's a journalist for The Bulletin. She knows a lot of people, knows how to bend an ear. Knows how to dig.

( And beyond that, there are very few people on the planet immune to Karen Page's kindness, who couldn't be convinced to do just about anything for her — but that might just be his own personal bias talking. )

Is she how you found out about me? Whose I was, where I was getting sold off at? [And, sure, his name, though that could always be found from his documents. Strikes him in a way that Frank calls him by last name. Not usual, to his ears. But that's the boldness that he's been considering. Because it doesn't matter. These aren't things that should concern him. He's to sit down, shut up, and then do his job.

It's different with Frank. And so he feels like he can ask.]

No, see Karen... that's the kind of question that would get her to keep digging. She'd wanna know why, and she'd track down more of your records than I could, and she'd set up some kinda notification or- something that tipped her off the second somebody else bought you. That's wrath I'm trying to avoid for as long as I can.

( Which, knowing Karen, won't be long at all — but the longer he can go without hearing her tear him a new one or shoot him her Disappointed Face for perpetuating the collar industry, the happier he'll be. He maintains that he's not lying, he's just not telling her, which is different — and definitely for sure an excuse she will accept without having a lot to say about it.

But he knows where this question's going, knows it doesn't stop at was it Karen, it stops at who was it, then? )

It was one of Kazi's lackeys. I didn't know half the stuff you spilled in the van day one, your whole... list of owners. I got some jackass to open up about what he knew about that asshole, he mentioned selling a collar in passing. I went through the auction house's sales history, found Kazi's signature on a purchase order. Had your name, reason for the sale, stuff like that, but not his address. Nothing useful.

( Nothing but Clint himself. Karen's better at following threads like that than he is by leaps and bounds, but Frank's no slouch either. He's not a stupid man, he's done this kinda thing before and he'll do it again — just slower, and with less technological proficiency than he needs to accomplish anything bigger than auction collar records. Odds are she could've gotten him Kazi's address using the computer systems rather than having to ask a person about it, but hey, his way's working out pretty good so far, this time.

It's his turn to ask a question now. )

Why? Why's it matter to you?

[It all makes sense. Frank did the digging himself, didn't get as much intel out of some nobody way down the totem pole as he wanted, but got just enough to follow some threads, do his own work, track down someone who would intimately know layouts and timetables for his target, put in the work to acquire that tool, and now--

And now here they are.

When Frank asks in return, there's a moment of self-doubt that creeps up Clint's throat. Why's it matter? Why wouldn't it matter? But. Should it matter? Is it strange that it matters? Maybe it shouldn't matter. Maybe he needs to stop thinking so loudly and keep his questions on the inside.

But. He lets that slide through him and past him. If he says nothing, that's suspect. If he says a blatant lie, Frank's going to call him out in an instant.]

I know you didn't do it for me, sir. You were being practical. You needed intel. Still, lotta effort to go through for a collar. [He shrugs his shoulders, though tucks his head down.] You spooked me in the van when you used my family name and asked after me some. Most use my first name or just give me some nickname. [Well, Frank's done the latter, certainly.] And I've changed a lotta hands. Not all of them nice. Didn't know what all you knew, what you wanted me for, if you were picking me up for someone else. I know most of that's not the case anymore. Guess I was just...curious, sir. Was wondering ever since that night.

( Here they are. Probably the best call he's made in a hot minute, all things considered. If all he wanted from Clint was an address, realistically he could've snagged the guy for a conversation without a full-blown purchase — but the skill set listed on that order caught his eye. The idea of a little backup seemed more appealing than he necessarily wants to admit. It's hard to call it an impulse purchase since it was planned, but in some ways, for Frank, it kind of had been. He had a feeling, so he followed it.

But he gets it. He'd be curious, too. It's Clint's life, after all. It's his agency on a leash. Being curious about where somebody found that leash is pretty natural.

This does crack the door to his curiosity about the guy open a little wider, though, which prompts him to ask-- )

You don't like the family name thing?

( An owner gauging Clint's preference on what he wants to be called is probably an uncommon sensation, but it's not like Frank's got strong opinions on the matter. Not really a big ask to adapt. )

I... [Being asked personal preference is uncommon. Not unheard of. But definitely not common. Especially for something as simple yet easily overlooked as what do you like to be called. An odd feeling to sort through, given he's never been asked to express a feeling on it in a long time.] ...don't dislike it, sir. It's kinda formal, it's distant, it's military; it's very you. You can call me whatever you like, so long as I know you're talking to me.

[It could be hey shithead for all it really matters. Though. He thinks, briefly, about Frank opening up about his family. Cracking that door open into a rich past and an inner life that isn't all grief. Clint could keep quiet, but. Maybe he can give back some of the same, even if it's not much.]

Never really understood bothering keeping a full name for collars. 's almost like you're getting adopted into a new family each time, y'know? What does it matter where I come from if I'm pretty much less than a person? But I don't forget, sir. Where I came from. And if the only thing I've got from my mom is her name, then...I'm grateful to have it.

( He's a little surprised there's no cheek in the answer he gets. None of that dry, vaguely smug sort of sass that crops up from time to time. Whether it's the name thing that's hitting him or the being asked is up in the air at first, until he gets back that relative neutral. Makes it the latter, then. Interesting. Something to keep in mind.

He's not expecting the greater insight that follows. He's quiet through it, a soft knit in his brow, something visibly affected in his features. His eyes fall away from Clint, settle on the dog snoring upside-down on the mattress in the distance.

the only thing I've got from my mom is her name...

After a few contemplative, silent seconds his low voice rumbles through, faintly hoarse as it often is when he's speaking quietly. )

If I had to guess... it's because they gotta be able to tell you apart, but when you start taking away names and assigning numbers... that's when people have to face something about what they're doing, about what it makes them, that they really don't wanna see.

( They, he says. They, like he isn't part of the problem now. )

Also probably the possibility of freedom, you gotta still have something. [It's uncommon. It's involved. There are special circumstances, and there are (very unpopular) advocacy groups that can help, but it's also bound up in so much red tape that the few who might think about it (and who wants to give up perfectly good help that they paid for?) find it difficult at best. But it happens.]

Anyway. [With a little clearing of his throat.] Thanks for letting me know, sir.

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