Not!Fic: Slave Rodney
I'm still not writing that story where John buys Rodney at a slave auction.
Erm.
But if I did, it would start like this...
John paused at the entrance to the Bilanese open air market and flipped the hologram recorder in the air, hefting it in his palm before tossing it again. He'd only used it once in all the years he'd had it, but he took it with him everywhere he went, like some guys carried a lucky coin. John wasn't superstitious, though, and he kept the thing in his pocket mainly so he'd have something to toss in the air while he made sure there wasn't anyone around who wanted to kill him.
There were a few familiar faces milling around under the awnings. Most nodded at him, except for Cranitch, who pointedly turned his back and ignored him, obviously still pissed John had beaten him to the punch on the job with the slimedogs. Cranitch probably didn't even know about the slimedogs, which explained why he wasn't getting down on his damn knees and *thanking* John for besting him on that one.
He shuddered and slid the recorder back into his pocket as he chose an aisle and made his way through. That wasn't a memory he liked to revisit.
The market smelled like spices and fresh bakery, strong and enticing enough to make him pause and buy a round loaf of dark bread, wrapped in yellow paper for the trip home. He was tempted by the sample squares of cheese and fruit, but the freeholders were best visited on an empty stomach, just in case. Done shopping, he threaded through the crowd, bread tucked under one arm, his other hand hovering casually near his holster as he walked.
The freeholders were in the rear of the market, so the good and proper clientele could buy their cakes and their meat without laying one titled eye on the poor wastrels for sale to the highest bidder. The smell back here wasn’t as nice--rotting food and dirty bodies, the kind of ingrained stench that got right in your clothes and your hair.
Each freeholder had his own stall, some hawking their wares aggressively to everyone passing by, others lounging around, looking bored and sleepy as they watched over their merchandise. The dirt-floored stalls were crammed with strong, heavily muscled men--and a few women--marked for manual labor by the smudges of red ink on their upper arms, most of them wearing filthy clothes. Other stalls were more elaborately decorated and set up to show off their contents to their best advantage, with flowing curtains and soft pillows. These people were finely dressed, cleaned and perfumed, and the dye stained their lips, marking them for the bedroom.
Bracka's daughter wasn't anywhere, but John hadn't really expected her to be. Only an idiot would try to sell her at public market, and the men who had taken her were not idiots. He made his way over to Nagel, who could always be counted on to know what was going on in the freeholder market, and also counted on to share the information for a reasonable price.
Nagel was pleased to see him, smiling broadly as he got to his feet. "Ah, Sheppard! You have not visited me for a long time." He squeezed John's hand between his two bony ones. "What brings you to the market?"
"I'm wondering if you've seen anything new," John said, then more quietly added, "Something from the Bracka line."
Nagel's smile never faltered, but his eyes flicked side to side, checking to see if anyone was within eavesdropping distance. "Not here, Sheppard, but perhaps you might find what you are looking for on Cahoy."
John nodded. "Thanks." He dug into his pocket, intending to fill Nagel's palm with coins, but as he pulled out the money, the hologram recorder came with it. It bounced once on the ground before landing at the feet of one of the men sitting in a row along the wall.
"Pick it up, give it to him," Nagel commanded sharply, and the man shifted to reach for it.
To both his surprise and John's, the recorder lit up with a happy chirp when he touched it. He made a startled sound and dropped it quickly, examining his fingers with a worried expression as Nagel rushed in, chastising him for being clumsy. The freeholder snatched up the recorder, now silent and dark, and handed it to John with a rush of apologies.
John absently waved Nagel off, attention fixed on the man who had somehow activated the device. He'd never come across anyone else who could operate Ancient technology, and it was doubly surprising to find such a person here.
The man had stopped inspecting his fingers, but he was watching John nervously, obviously not happy to have called attention to himself. His pale face was shadowed with stubble, and he looked like he could use a few solid meals, but his clothes were relatively clean and he didn't have any bruises that John could see. A smudge of red decorated his left temple. A scholar.
"How much is that one?" John asked, before he could reconsider.
Nagel was plainly startled; John had never shown any interest in his goods before this. "Forty brallas," he said, recovering quickly.
John turned to peer at him. "Why so cheap?"
The freeholder looked pained to admit anything, but knew it was better to disclose upfront. John had seen several deals of this sort go bad, and was well aware misrepresenting the facts could destroy Nagel's reputation.
"He is defiant. Through three Keepers, no one has yet thought his wisdom and skill worth the price. He has great knowledge of the stars, and of mechanics, but finds it difficult to do as he is told." He hesitated. John gestured with his free hand. Out with it. "He also claims to be sickly," Nagel continued, his tone making it clear he thought perhaps the man was feigning illness. He paused again, gauging John's interest. "For you, twenty brallas."
"Huh." John looked at the scholar, who stared back boldly. He could already see how this one would have been a problem for his past Keepers. And he wasn't fooled by the special-for-him discount; it probably meant Nagel wanted to get rid of him.
John hunkered down and set the recorder on the ground between them, consciously keeping it turned off. "Pick it up." The scholar regarded him suspiciously and made no attempt to touch it--a gutsy move in front of Nagel. He could make or break the deal, and would certainly be punished if he ruined a potential sale. "It won't hurt you. Pick it up."
The scholar obeyed, and once again the recorder lit up brightly as soon as his fingers made contact. He didn't drop it this time, or appear frightened. John glanced up at Nagel, who looked like he was hovering somewhere between confused and hopeful, then back at the scholar, who was turning the recorder over in his hands, examining it with obvious interest.
"I'll take him."
Nagel looked surprised, but eager to seal the deal. "Come, come," he said, face breaking into a wide smile as he ushered John to a table in the back. "Just a minute for the Binding, and then you shall be on your way. I'm sure you will be quite pleased with him," he added, obliviously contradicting his earlier statements.
The scholar came silently and obediently to the table, but with an air of insolence that was hard to miss. He was clutching his tattered pack tightly, as if he expected to be separated from it at any moment.
John had never done this before, had never in his life even contemplated buying another person, regardless of how commonplace it was, and he had a sudden attack of cold feet when Nagel put the collar around the scholar's neck, slipping the end through the catch. He reached for John's hand. "Here now, just the one," he said, pressing John's forefinger against the small reader on the catch. It beeped and clicked shut over the end of the leather strap, and John felt a moment of panic. The freeholder made it worse by solemnly intoning, "Until death separates you."
John gulped. Until death did them part? He hadn't anticipated *that* particular phrase.
Nagel clasped his hands at his waist and dipped his head. "You are Bound and Keeper. I wish you well. Please come again."
~*~
John left the market feeling shaky, and a little like he'd just gotten married. Oh, he knew he still had an out--Keepers sold their Bound all the time, so it wasn't like he couldn't just walk right back in there now and undo the whole thing. He just hadn't counted on it feeling so … permanent.
The scholar, following the required two paces behind, broke into his thoughts just before John had a full-on panic attack. "Just so you know, I'm not going to wash your feet or do any kinky sex stuff and I'm a lousy cook and I can't work in the sun and I don't have a strong back, so if that's what you're thinking, you can forget it."
John looked over his shoulder, amused. Two minutes in, and he was already living up to his publicity. "You're not marked for any of that. If I'd wanted kinky sex stuff, I could have picked someone else. And I don't think you're supposed to talk to me like that."
The scholar nodded, seemingly satisfied, and he lost a bit of the insolence he'd been projecting up to now. "I haven't eaten in a while," he said a little hesitantly. Bound weren't supposed to ask for things, but they could make statements about their needs, and he'd obviously learned that very quickly.
John led him over to a stall that smelled particularly good, and set about choosing a few things while his new acquisition chimed in with, "I like this," or, "Those are my favorite." It was allowed, but he was pushing it a little, as evidenced by the look on the vendor's face the fifth time he interrupted
"Okay, that's enough," John said, earning an approving look from the vendor. He handed the scholar an apple while he paid. "Eat this."
He obeyed, munching at it with contended little sounds as he trailed along behind. On their way out, John saw Cranitch staring openly at them. John ignored him and did his best to look nonchalant, like this was just part of another job.
Once they were out of the market, John slowed to let the scholar catch up a little and asked, "What's your name?" Keepers could assign any name they wanted to their Bound, but he didn't really see any reason to; this guy was probably pretty attached to his own name, and it would be more work to think up a new one.
The scholar's chin lifted, mouth working. "Dr. Rodney McKay," he said, through a chunk of apple.
"You're a doctor?" John asked, surprised. Doctors, midwives, and other healers were never Bound, as far as he knew.
"Not a *medical doctor*," McKay said derisively, then nibbled around the edges of the apple core while giving John a hopeful look.
He unwrapped the bread and tore off a hunk. "Here you go, McKay. Enjoy."
It was a pretty good walk back to the clearing where he'd left the jumper, made even longer by the fact that McKay couldn't keep the same pace John was used to, and they had to stop a few more times so John could dole out more bread, until he finally gave up and just handed him the rest of the loaf.
As he decloaked the jumper, John turned to watch McKay, because he always liked to see a person's first reaction to his kick-ass ship. Sure enough, McKay stopped dead in his tracks, mouth full of bread and hanging slightly open.
"Holy crap!" he said. "You have a gateship?"
Erm.
But if I did, it would start like this...
John paused at the entrance to the Bilanese open air market and flipped the hologram recorder in the air, hefting it in his palm before tossing it again. He'd only used it once in all the years he'd had it, but he took it with him everywhere he went, like some guys carried a lucky coin. John wasn't superstitious, though, and he kept the thing in his pocket mainly so he'd have something to toss in the air while he made sure there wasn't anyone around who wanted to kill him.
There were a few familiar faces milling around under the awnings. Most nodded at him, except for Cranitch, who pointedly turned his back and ignored him, obviously still pissed John had beaten him to the punch on the job with the slimedogs. Cranitch probably didn't even know about the slimedogs, which explained why he wasn't getting down on his damn knees and *thanking* John for besting him on that one.
He shuddered and slid the recorder back into his pocket as he chose an aisle and made his way through. That wasn't a memory he liked to revisit.
The market smelled like spices and fresh bakery, strong and enticing enough to make him pause and buy a round loaf of dark bread, wrapped in yellow paper for the trip home. He was tempted by the sample squares of cheese and fruit, but the freeholders were best visited on an empty stomach, just in case. Done shopping, he threaded through the crowd, bread tucked under one arm, his other hand hovering casually near his holster as he walked.
The freeholders were in the rear of the market, so the good and proper clientele could buy their cakes and their meat without laying one titled eye on the poor wastrels for sale to the highest bidder. The smell back here wasn’t as nice--rotting food and dirty bodies, the kind of ingrained stench that got right in your clothes and your hair.
Each freeholder had his own stall, some hawking their wares aggressively to everyone passing by, others lounging around, looking bored and sleepy as they watched over their merchandise. The dirt-floored stalls were crammed with strong, heavily muscled men--and a few women--marked for manual labor by the smudges of red ink on their upper arms, most of them wearing filthy clothes. Other stalls were more elaborately decorated and set up to show off their contents to their best advantage, with flowing curtains and soft pillows. These people were finely dressed, cleaned and perfumed, and the dye stained their lips, marking them for the bedroom.
Bracka's daughter wasn't anywhere, but John hadn't really expected her to be. Only an idiot would try to sell her at public market, and the men who had taken her were not idiots. He made his way over to Nagel, who could always be counted on to know what was going on in the freeholder market, and also counted on to share the information for a reasonable price.
Nagel was pleased to see him, smiling broadly as he got to his feet. "Ah, Sheppard! You have not visited me for a long time." He squeezed John's hand between his two bony ones. "What brings you to the market?"
"I'm wondering if you've seen anything new," John said, then more quietly added, "Something from the Bracka line."
Nagel's smile never faltered, but his eyes flicked side to side, checking to see if anyone was within eavesdropping distance. "Not here, Sheppard, but perhaps you might find what you are looking for on Cahoy."
John nodded. "Thanks." He dug into his pocket, intending to fill Nagel's palm with coins, but as he pulled out the money, the hologram recorder came with it. It bounced once on the ground before landing at the feet of one of the men sitting in a row along the wall.
"Pick it up, give it to him," Nagel commanded sharply, and the man shifted to reach for it.
To both his surprise and John's, the recorder lit up with a happy chirp when he touched it. He made a startled sound and dropped it quickly, examining his fingers with a worried expression as Nagel rushed in, chastising him for being clumsy. The freeholder snatched up the recorder, now silent and dark, and handed it to John with a rush of apologies.
John absently waved Nagel off, attention fixed on the man who had somehow activated the device. He'd never come across anyone else who could operate Ancient technology, and it was doubly surprising to find such a person here.
The man had stopped inspecting his fingers, but he was watching John nervously, obviously not happy to have called attention to himself. His pale face was shadowed with stubble, and he looked like he could use a few solid meals, but his clothes were relatively clean and he didn't have any bruises that John could see. A smudge of red decorated his left temple. A scholar.
"How much is that one?" John asked, before he could reconsider.
Nagel was plainly startled; John had never shown any interest in his goods before this. "Forty brallas," he said, recovering quickly.
John turned to peer at him. "Why so cheap?"
The freeholder looked pained to admit anything, but knew it was better to disclose upfront. John had seen several deals of this sort go bad, and was well aware misrepresenting the facts could destroy Nagel's reputation.
"He is defiant. Through three Keepers, no one has yet thought his wisdom and skill worth the price. He has great knowledge of the stars, and of mechanics, but finds it difficult to do as he is told." He hesitated. John gestured with his free hand. Out with it. "He also claims to be sickly," Nagel continued, his tone making it clear he thought perhaps the man was feigning illness. He paused again, gauging John's interest. "For you, twenty brallas."
"Huh." John looked at the scholar, who stared back boldly. He could already see how this one would have been a problem for his past Keepers. And he wasn't fooled by the special-for-him discount; it probably meant Nagel wanted to get rid of him.
John hunkered down and set the recorder on the ground between them, consciously keeping it turned off. "Pick it up." The scholar regarded him suspiciously and made no attempt to touch it--a gutsy move in front of Nagel. He could make or break the deal, and would certainly be punished if he ruined a potential sale. "It won't hurt you. Pick it up."
The scholar obeyed, and once again the recorder lit up brightly as soon as his fingers made contact. He didn't drop it this time, or appear frightened. John glanced up at Nagel, who looked like he was hovering somewhere between confused and hopeful, then back at the scholar, who was turning the recorder over in his hands, examining it with obvious interest.
"I'll take him."
Nagel looked surprised, but eager to seal the deal. "Come, come," he said, face breaking into a wide smile as he ushered John to a table in the back. "Just a minute for the Binding, and then you shall be on your way. I'm sure you will be quite pleased with him," he added, obliviously contradicting his earlier statements.
The scholar came silently and obediently to the table, but with an air of insolence that was hard to miss. He was clutching his tattered pack tightly, as if he expected to be separated from it at any moment.
John had never done this before, had never in his life even contemplated buying another person, regardless of how commonplace it was, and he had a sudden attack of cold feet when Nagel put the collar around the scholar's neck, slipping the end through the catch. He reached for John's hand. "Here now, just the one," he said, pressing John's forefinger against the small reader on the catch. It beeped and clicked shut over the end of the leather strap, and John felt a moment of panic. The freeholder made it worse by solemnly intoning, "Until death separates you."
John gulped. Until death did them part? He hadn't anticipated *that* particular phrase.
Nagel clasped his hands at his waist and dipped his head. "You are Bound and Keeper. I wish you well. Please come again."
~*~
John left the market feeling shaky, and a little like he'd just gotten married. Oh, he knew he still had an out--Keepers sold their Bound all the time, so it wasn't like he couldn't just walk right back in there now and undo the whole thing. He just hadn't counted on it feeling so … permanent.
The scholar, following the required two paces behind, broke into his thoughts just before John had a full-on panic attack. "Just so you know, I'm not going to wash your feet or do any kinky sex stuff and I'm a lousy cook and I can't work in the sun and I don't have a strong back, so if that's what you're thinking, you can forget it."
John looked over his shoulder, amused. Two minutes in, and he was already living up to his publicity. "You're not marked for any of that. If I'd wanted kinky sex stuff, I could have picked someone else. And I don't think you're supposed to talk to me like that."
The scholar nodded, seemingly satisfied, and he lost a bit of the insolence he'd been projecting up to now. "I haven't eaten in a while," he said a little hesitantly. Bound weren't supposed to ask for things, but they could make statements about their needs, and he'd obviously learned that very quickly.
John led him over to a stall that smelled particularly good, and set about choosing a few things while his new acquisition chimed in with, "I like this," or, "Those are my favorite." It was allowed, but he was pushing it a little, as evidenced by the look on the vendor's face the fifth time he interrupted
"Okay, that's enough," John said, earning an approving look from the vendor. He handed the scholar an apple while he paid. "Eat this."
He obeyed, munching at it with contended little sounds as he trailed along behind. On their way out, John saw Cranitch staring openly at them. John ignored him and did his best to look nonchalant, like this was just part of another job.
Once they were out of the market, John slowed to let the scholar catch up a little and asked, "What's your name?" Keepers could assign any name they wanted to their Bound, but he didn't really see any reason to; this guy was probably pretty attached to his own name, and it would be more work to think up a new one.
The scholar's chin lifted, mouth working. "Dr. Rodney McKay," he said, through a chunk of apple.
"You're a doctor?" John asked, surprised. Doctors, midwives, and other healers were never Bound, as far as he knew.
"Not a *medical doctor*," McKay said derisively, then nibbled around the edges of the apple core while giving John a hopeful look.
He unwrapped the bread and tore off a hunk. "Here you go, McKay. Enjoy."
It was a pretty good walk back to the clearing where he'd left the jumper, made even longer by the fact that McKay couldn't keep the same pace John was used to, and they had to stop a few more times so John could dole out more bread, until he finally gave up and just handed him the rest of the loaf.
As he decloaked the jumper, John turned to watch McKay, because he always liked to see a person's first reaction to his kick-ass ship. Sure enough, McKay stopped dead in his tracks, mouth full of bread and hanging slightly open.
"Holy crap!" he said. "You have a gateship?"