bakerstreet | The Slave Auction Meme

The Slave Auction Meme

â§ 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.
â§ Respond to others with one of the scenarios below or feel free to make up your own.
â§ 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.

Snagged from here.

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Huh. She doesn't react at all to his baiting. That either means she's pretty hard to ruffle, or she's one of those people who's calm on the outside right up until they snap. Tony doesn't like the second type - they're dangerous, and unpredictable. Still, he's dealt with people like that before. He can deal with it again.

Then she starts talking, and all Tony's plans go out the window.

His expression shifts from insolent to wary when she tells him about people being murdered - he's not sure why she's telling him about it. So she does some kind of spook work, or maybe something illegal, but what's it to him? What exactly is she expecting him to do? What did she buy him for?

When she mentions his name, though, his face shuts down. His hands clench around his teacup. "What do you mean?" His voice is tight, hard, uninflected. He's angry.

Edited 2016-10-01 07:07 (UTC)

She's evidently hit a nerve. She shouldn't be so surprised. She hadn't heard much of him since his parents' deaths made the news, but if he went from Howard Stark's son to ward of the state to slave, she can guess what's happened to him since.

She supposes it's natural that he might be upset.

It is bothersome, though. The mission is all that counts, not how they feel about it.

She pours some more tea, feeling along the bottom of the pot for a bug. She tinkers with the rest of the set, doing the same with each piece. "Your family was wealthy once. Powerful. Like some of the people you'll meet if you stay with me." She's read his file; if he doesn't run, he'll find a way to get sent back.

"I can't help but think there are some notable differences between these people and your family, though. Perhaps in their view of slavery?" About that, she doesn't actually know. She'd never met the Starks. But Tony is a slave. He can't approve, surely. Maybe he thinks well enough of his family to think they wouldn't think well of it, either.

"I need your help. When we're done here, I'll give you your freedom. And maybe we can make sure you're set up well enough that you never have to worry about being a slave again."

Tony listens to her speak, eyes narrowed, posture tense and hostile. His gaze flickers down to the tea set very briefly as she fidgets with it; he notices the behavior, wonders about it, files it away. Collecting data. This Tony Stark has not grown up privileged and coddled. Observing and analyzing people is a survival skill, and he does it almost as deftly as he manipulates technology.

He doesn't believe for a second that the comment about his family is anything other than a calculated play for his emotions. "I guess you'd know better than I would. Since, you know, my parents died when I was six and I barely remember them." A gambit of his own. If you knew my family, if you know anything about them... prove it.

He leans back in his chair, his air of nonchalant arrogance returning (except that his eyes are still hard, and his hands are still clenched around his cup. He hasn't drunk any of the tea yet.)

"What makes you think I need your help?"

Edited 2016-10-06 08:48 (UTC)

She takes a slow sip of her tea. No, she'd never met them. Is that what the boy is digging for? She can find out about them, though.

She sets the tea down carefully, not looking at his still-full cup.

"Because if you're a runaway slave, you'll be on the run for the rest of your life. You will never know for sure if someone is hunting you. You will never know for sure if you are safe. I propose that we find a way to secure your freedom."

She studies him for several moments. He still looks upset, but she can't blame him. He'd just been bought, and he has no idea how bad things are going to get.

"I have a meeting in two hours. I'm not certain they'll feed you. Would you like to look at the room service menu before getting ready? I've got some clothes that ought to fit you in your room."

Tony scoffs. "Yeah, whatever." He's a legal adult, now, and out of the system. It's not that hard to forge a new identity with the skills he has. The only people who'd care to look for him are Rhodey and Pepper, and they wouldn't rat him out.

He looks interested in the offer of food and clothing, but it's a calculating, dispassionate sort of interest, born of a life where good food and clothes were not always easy to come by. If she's hoping to bribe him or gain his trust with that, she's barking up the wrong tree.

"What am I supposed to be getting ready for?" He asks. Emphasis on the 'supposed to.' He's never made a habit of doing what he's supposed to. "Who are these people? Who do you work for? What do you need me for? Because so far you've talked a lot, and told me pretty much nothing, and you're going to have to spill a lot more before I decide if I feel like helping you or not."

That's an audacious way to address any master, but she's put up with a lot of sass already, and he's not afraid of pushing the envelope. She's made it clear that this is an... unconventional situation, and he's going to push that as far as it'll go.

He starts asking questions, and she purses her lips together with the corners quirked upwards. She had known he would have questions. That doesn't mean she's prepared to answer them. Not yet.

"It's best if you see for yourself," she says instead. She sets her tea cup on the table and gets to her feet.

"I realize that I seem lenient to you. And you're right. I am being lenient. But I am working on something larger than the both of us. I would like your assistance in this." She walks to the doorway and stops to turn and look at him. "Give me tonight, at the very least. I understand that you probably want to leave. If you don't understand what's at stake after tonight, we will discuss terms for your freedom."

She glances at her watch, a thin, gold watch that looks expensive. "You're running out of time to eat. The kitchen here isn't known for its speed."

"And I'd like a Lamborghini," Tony snarks, but it's too late - she's found his weak spot. Now he's curious.

"...But I'll take some lobster in the meantime. They have lobster on the menu?" He's never had lobster before, unless you count the suspicious gloop in 'lobster rolls' from street vendors.

He finally takes a sip of the tea. He doesn't much care for it (he's never understood the appeal), and he sets the cup down. She's standing, so he stands too. "So, you'd really give me my freedom? Just like that?" Tony knows 'too good to be true' when he hears it, but he's starting to suspect she thinks he's kind of stupid, and that can be its own advantage.

Edited (formatting) 2016-11-01 08:25 (UTC)

Her head tilts to the side, and one corner of her lips rises in faint amusement. Of course he'd go for something notoriously expensive. But he's not jumping off the balcony, and she suspects he might stick a little longer. It's a start. "Nothing in life is 'just like that.' I think we both know that."

Then she shrugs, stepping closer so that she can speak more softly. "But all I'd really have to do is arrange for safe passage for you and then fake your death." She steps away and speaks at her volume. "By all means, order your lobster. But be ready to go soon. These are not people to be kept waiting."

"Or you could just pay off my contract debt, but sure, the nuclear option works too."

Disappearing and changing identities had been his first plan anyway, so it's all the same to him. This whole business is obviously super shady, and if she prefers to make her new acquisition disappear rather than freeing him the easy way, Tony's sure she has her reasons. Her sneaky, crazy, paranoid reasons.

Anyway, the fastest way to have his questions answered is to go along with whatever she has planned. And there's some new clothes and a lobster tail calling his name.

He saunters off to his room, calls room service, showers, and tries on his new clothes. They fit well enough. Definitely nicer than anything he's ever been able to buy for himself.

Looking a little bit more like a put-together adult and less like a scruffy teenager, he returns to the main area of the suite. She'd said the room service was slow, so his food probably isn't ready yet, but there's nothing in his room to entertain him, and there's nothing Tony loathes more than being bored.

She sits in one of the lounge chairs, idly flipping through one of the tourism books. She's changed into a midnight-blue dress, just as tight as the white dress earlier. Her legs are crossed, one foot bobbing up and down as she waits. She looks sedate and in control, but the second the doorbell rings, she pulls her skirt up and pulls out a gun.

Seeing Tony, she holds the gun lower and nods to him. "Be a dear and get that, would you?"

Tony nearly jumps out of his skin when he walks into the room and she pulls a gun out of... freakin' hammerspace, or something.

"Jesus!" he mutters, trying to put a lid on his overactive fight-or-flight response (fight, it's mostly fight). Come on, Sharon, it's not nice to startle a neglected orphan like that. "Where did that come from? You're, like, shrink-wrapped into that dress. What else have you got stuffed under there?"

Nevertheless, he complies with the request (order?). Shaking his head, Tony moves to the door and cracks it open. "Yeah?"

If it's somebody else with a gun and not his lobster, he is so outta here.

Her features darken as she prepares to order him more harshly, but he fortunately moves to do it on his own. She keeps the gun out of sight, quickly slipping it back in its holster as she sees the hotel employee on the other side. She affects utter disinterest once again, flipping through her magazine before waving a hand in the vague direction of an empty space.

"Give this to him." Her tone is firm, and, despite not lifting her head from the article she's reading, obviously intended for Tony. She holds up a twenty dollar bill, welcoming Tony to take it from her. Why should she have to get up, after all, when she has him around?

Your stink eye doesn't scare him, Sharon.

Fortunately, expensive seafood is a way better motivator than intimidation. Tony sighs and walks over to grab the twenty, rolling his eyes at her for good measure.

"Thanks, man." Tony gives the hotel employee his first genuine smile of the day, and trades him the twenty for the tray of food. The kitchen wasn't as slow as she'd threatened - they probably fast-track orders from the penthouse suites.

He seats himself in one of the other lounge chairs and digs in.

"Do I get any kind of orientation now, or am I walking into this totally blind?" he asks, dunking a chunk of lobster tail in the melted butter.

"Totally blind." She needs his reactions to be genuine. "And don't expect me to protect you. Also, if you try to run tonight, I will have you sought. I have a reputation to maintain. After you're done, when we return, then we'll discuss the matter at hand."

She flips another page in the magazine. "If it matters, I won't punish you without good reason. And use a napkin. And don't eat too fast - you don't want to throw up lobster."

Tony almost rolls his eyes again. "If you're trying to scare me, it's not working." He dunks an extra-large chunk of lobster. And doesn't use a napkin. She's his owner, not his mom.

"I don't get scared easily. Whatever Mission Impossible crap you've got planned is better than being a boy toy for one of those other creeps who bid on me, so I'm on board." He takes another defiant bite of his lobster. "I'm eighteen, not eight." He can handle himself, and he doesn't need to be talked down to.

Of course, she's his owner - she can talk down to him if she wants. It just means he'll probably ignore her.

She raises an eyebrow and sets her reading material aside. Her hands drape over the armrests of the chair. "I would appreciate you taking it more seriously. I like to think I'm not a bad person, but I don't tend to forgive people who fuck me over." Her tone is light, but there's undeniable sincerity underneath.

She pauses, her thoughts elsewhere as she plays out possible ways tonight could go. "You really don't want to eat the lobster that fast," she says at last.

He doesn't respond to the continued commentary on his lobster. If she thinks he can't power eat and still parkour his way through her super secret mission, she has clearly never spent much time around the caloric black holes that are teenage boys.

Anyway, what's she gonna do? Take it away from him? (Maybe. His body language becomes just a shade more defensive.)

"Did I say I wasn't taking it seriously? This is me taking it seriously." An understandable confusion, since he sure acts like he never takes anything seriously. "You said you'd free me for just one night of shadowing you at Fight Club or whatever. I'm taking that really seriously."

He still doesn't actually believe that she'll do it, but, hey, he'll try anything once. Known factors are safety— but unknown factors are opportunity.

She glances at her watch and sighs. "The car is scheduled to be here in less than twenty minutes. You'd better get ready."

She, on the other hand, is ready to go and has been for a while, so she gives him a meaningful look that says, "Get going," and turns back to her magazine.

"Oh, no, how will I have time to do my manicure?" At least this time he actually sounds amused, not insolent and vaguely hostile.

Since she won't tell him what they're going to be doing and he's already dressed, finishing his meal seems to be the only thing on the "get ready" checklist, and he completes that item with great satisfaction. The hype is justified after all: lobster is pretty damn delicious.

He still has a few minutes to spare, and she's ignoring him, so Tony goes to wash his hands and does a quick pass of the kitchenette while he's in there. There's a bowl of complimentary snacks on the counter: some fruit, three little squares of expensive chocolate, and a couple of fancy hippy granola bars. Nice. He eats the chocolates and pockets the granola bars.

Then he returns to the living room. "Okay, Boss, ready when you are." (The 'Boss' is definitely sarcastic.)

She holds herself back from rolling her eyes.

By the time Tony is back, there's a man standing at the door, dressed as a chauffeur. Sharon is still sitting, looking for all the world as if neither of them are there. Once Tony announces his arrival, she sets the magazine aside and strides toward the door.

"Come along, then."

She doesn't wait, instead following the man to the elevator. She doesn't speak along the way; neither does the man. Nor do either of them speak outside on the way to a limo waiting at the curb.

The man holds the door open for her, and she slides in. She still hasn't so much as glanced at Tony; she doesn't seem inclined to start now, either.

Tony follows his master and the silent chauffeur with some approximation of obedience. The limo is swanky as hell – "Nice," Tony says as he slides in after her.

He settles in, patting the leather seats appreciatively. "Not a Lamborghini, but it'll do." He grins. "So, what's your name? Or, your cover name, right?" After all this cloak-and-dagger crap, she's surely not going to tell him her real name.

She tilts her head as she studies at him. They're obviously going to have to talk about how the limo doesn't belong to her and might be bugged.

"My name is Sharon Carter. I work with SHIELD." She smiles thinly. "The cloak-and-dagger crap, as you call it, was to get you to make less of a fuss. I hate dealing with tantrums. Not many people are appropriately afraid of me when they first meet them, and it's easier - and oftentimes more entertaining - to manipulate them into doing what I want. I trust, though, that I won't have to worry about you at all after tonight."

She doubts he'll do it, but nonetheless, she mentally yells at him to play along, to shut up, to at the very least keep his damned mouth shut.

"You work for SHIELD?" There's that calculating interest again, just like when she'd offered him new clothes – but now it's more intense, and laser-focused.

He could say something snotty to her comments about manipulation and tantrums, but he'd rather push her for information about SHIELD, while she's in a sharing mood.

Tony knows SHIELD – who doesn't? – and he also knows that, once up on a time, his dad had had some big contracts with them. Stane International still sells them weapons, of course, but Howard Stark's contracts had been a little more... wide-ranging. A lot of it had been real cutting-edge stuff, at the time.

SHIELD's bought tech from a Stark before. Maybe they'd be interested in the work of another Stark, if he can find an opportunity to prove he's just as smart as his father was.

It's not the way out he'd been planning, that's for sure. But he's flexible.

"Did I stutter?" Her voice is calm, but has turned even colder than before. "Now behave, or I may just shoot you myself."

She takes out her phone and reads and types, not looking at him again even after they've arrived at their destination. The chauffeur opens the car door, and she slides out, accepting the man's help to stand.

They're in front of a nondescript office building, one that wouldn't look out of place in any metropolitan city in the world. There's a doorman who obviously isn't a doorman - too many muscles, and his eyes are too suspicious - and he regards Sharon and Tony as if they're murderers who may go ballistic at any moment. Sharon eyes him surreptitiously as she studies her phone screen, but he holds the door open as she walks through. On the other side of the door, another man leads them to the elevator. Only when she's dropped her phone into a small bag is she allowed on, with yet another man pressing a button that he shields with his body.

She doesn't look back at Tony to see if he's following, but he damn sure better be.

"Gosh, and here I thought we were developing a rapport," Tony snipes back, to disguise the fact that he's actually a little stung. Apparently all the information he's going to get about SHIELD is that its agents are super rude. He shouldn't have expected anything else from someone willing to buy up expendable slaves just to throw them into a black ops meat grinder.

As ordered, he keeps his mouth shut after that. He spends the rest of the drive sulking and desperately wishing he had something to entertain himself with. What are the odds she'll give him a smartphone for this? Not good, probably.

He tails Sharon into the office building, assessing the muscle out of the corner of his eye. They haven't been searched yet, but they sure have met a lot of thugs already, for having only just walked in the door.

The Slave Auction Meme

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It's the oldest established permanent floating crap game-- uh, illegal gladiator ring-- in New York