I love that vampire!AU and I stalk it regularly for updates! But I also love Slave!Au's in general.
Okay, you'll have to be a little patient for Sherlock and his crop to show up, but I have a start.
John Watson carefully poured nails into the metal shaft of the pipe bomb. Reaching in with his forefingers he was able to pull out the ends of the copper wires that would eventually attach to the mercury switch. Pulling out a strip of black electrical tape with his teeth, he reached for the box cutters and noticed that his Sig was missing.
“Which ever of you has my gun, you have two seconds to give it back,” he said, spitting away the tape and having it, naturally, crinkle uselessly. He balled up the piece and looked around the dismal studio apartment. Though it was noon in Portland, Oregon, the sky was the color of slate, and a steady drizzle made the surrounding trees and buildings look foggy. John did a double take on the window.
Oh, god, it was amature hour in here.
“And who opened the hell opened the blinds,” said John. He jumped up and limped over to the window and pulled down the miniblinds again. There was little difference in the light level.
James and Kirkpatrick looked up from the foam they were shaping to eventually secure the bomb in the cardboard box. James eyes glanced towards the toilet. “Duncan did it,” said the former slave.
All his team were former slaves. That was the one thing that he'd insisted on when he took on projects. Only slaves understood viscerally the situation their brethern were in. James and Duncan had been slaves since childhood. James due to being orphaned, Duncan from birth. Kirkpatrick was stripped of his citizenship in debter's prison. All were ready to stick it to the man who had stuck it so hard and heavy to them.
“Duncan!” John shouted through the door. “What did I say about security? Leave the blinds alone!”
“Fuck off, Limey.” It was muffled by the wooden door, but full of anger.
John was about to say something more, but at that moment the front door burst open, and the apartment was teeming with men in black body armor. Imperialist Guard. James and Kirkpatrick leaped to their feet, scattering to flee a hail of AK-47 fire. The room seemed to erupt in noise and bits of foam. Instinctively John dived behind the kitchen counter. He heard nothing but his heart pounding in his chest.
They'd been made. How? Who'd ratted them out?
Where was the goddamn Sig?
Too late, the soldiers poked their gun muzzles down at John's head and he raised his hands to either side. He winced, expecting the sudden but breif pain of a bullet tearing through his brain. But it didn't come. Instead one of the soldiers handed off his weapon and then grabbed John's wrists, twisting him around and securing them behind his back. He was pressed down until he lay on his stomach on the kitchen linoleum.
“Target identified and secured,” one of the guard said. “Two dead.”
“Strike that, they've got collar scars. Mark them down as property loss.”
John heard the bathroom door open up. He turned his head to look. To John's surprise and anger, Duncan walked out with a smug smile on his freckled mug and John's sig hanging by the guard off his finger. Traitor, he thought.
“Yeah, that's him,” Duncan said. His accent was faintly southern. That should have been the tip off. The southern colonies had always been less sympathetic to abolutionism. But Duncan was a runaway himself, how could he do this? Sure enough one of the guard was now latching a standard issue collar around the boy's neck.
He didn't have time to say anything before a commotion alerted John that something about the situation had changed. The soldier next to him stood up and saluted.
A new voice, English and upperclass by the accent, rang out. “Now where is he? Ah, there you are!”
A smartly dressed gentleman stepped around the counter. He appeared to be in his early 40's, with slightly thinning brown hair and an expensive three-piece suit. He was using an umbrella like a cane, which suggested that it wasn't actually meant for the poor weather.
“John H. Watson, British national, citizen and Army doctor until two years ago. Unrepentant abolutionist terrorist ever since.” With an offhanded gesture, he signaled John be lifted up to standing. “I'm Mycroft Holmes, intelligence consultant to His Highness, King of England and Regent of the Civilized Wrelm. Good to finally catch up to you.”
John said nothing. He'd never heard of an intelligence consultant. It sounded suspiciously off the books.
“Not much to look at, now, are you.” The voice was easy, almost kind sounding despite the words. Smug. He could sense a psychological agenda behind it. Impressing on me his importance, John thought.
“I wasn't aware that you needed to be impressed,” said John. “I'll try better in the future.”
“Oh, but I am impressed,” said Holmes. “Did I give you the impression I wasn't? Forgive me. I would hardly be here if you were a run of the mill terrorist. I have better things to be doing.”
“Well then,” said John defiantly.
“You've been very busy on this trip. Since you've come to visit this lovely colony, you have coordinated the destruction of two slave records centers, an intake facility and a collar distribution warehouse. Because of you, there are now over twenty thousand slaves with no proof of ownership, and another five hundred crowding the jails, waiting for their collars, when they should already have been sold and set to work. Thanks to you, the Oregon has taken a rather severe hit to it's economy. Taxes are down. Naughty, naughty.”
He stepped closer and reached up a hand to touch the front of John's throat. “I can see why the property might like to strike back, but what would make a freeman like yourself take up this cause?”
“Slaves have as much right as us to their lives. They aren't property. We are all human. We are all equal.”
“You are far too smart to be this niave, Watson,” said Holmes, patting John's cheek gently. “The British Empire runs on three things: Loyalty, Inginuity, and Labor. Without slaves, and the revenue they generate, our economy would fall apart. Our standard of living would crumble. The world would be plunged into a new dark age of chaos.”
“Codswaddle,” said John. “This is morally wrong. Who decides which humans are worthy of full rights and which aren't?”
The man leaned forward, his brows raised with condescending patience. “I decide that. John.” The switch to first names sent a shiver down John's back.
He reached out a hand to one of the black clad men, who passed him a silvery object. A collar. John suddenly shook and tried to pull away from his captor, but was held still. “Forgive the ordinary workmanship, this is only a temporary collar. The real one will be much more sophisticated.”
John blanched. “No. You can't strip me of my citizenship like this. I haven't been tried.”
“Oh but records can be manufactured as easily as they are distroyed.”
“Don't do this. My family has friends --”
“Who will be far too embarassed by your behavior to speak up for a black sheep like you.”
John tried to squirm out of the way Holmes reached forward and put the collar around his neck. It was cold and solid seeming and it latched tightly around his throat just below his adam's apple. He fancied he could feel the needles entering his spine, just between the C4 and C5 vertabrae.
“Did you even know what that facility makes? The one whose CEO you were attempting to blow up with this crude device?” he pointed his chin at the pipe bomb.
“New innovations in collars.”
“Yes. Internal collars they are called,” said Holmes with that gentle smile again. “The one we have on you now is crude but effective. Three levels of enforcement: pain for the minor offenses. Unconsciousness for more unruly ones. And finally death, for when the other two fail to make a proper impression on the slave. Not very nuanced, I think you'll agree. And rather prone to occasional malfunction, which has at times killed perfectly useful slave.”
“Barbaric.”
“The new collars are surgically implanted. They can't be accidentally set off by impact or a poorly tuned radio. They also can't be removed by hacking. They use the slave's own brain to help regulate their behavior. Imagine it, John. A perfectly content and happy slave. There would be no need to inflict painful punishment, or expensive death.” He touched John's face again. “Even an unrepentant terrorist like you could be salvaged into a useful, productive asset for the crown.”
“I'd rather die.” John gritted his teeth.
“Well,” said Holmes backing off. “I imagine you would. Which is why we don't offer slaves those sorts of choices.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote. “Hold him steady, I don't want him injured when he falls.”
John opened his mouth to say something, then Holmes pressed the button and the room telescoped away.
I am so excited. You're brilliant at this kind of fic. *sucks up to you* The beginning is amazing so far. I mean, the whole set-up of BAMF!John fighting for human rights and powerful!Mycroft catching him. Sigh. This is going to be glorious. *double sigh*
“Now, John, hold out your arms and touch your nose with your forefingers.” Dr. Riner smiled unctiously.
John gritted his teeth. What he wanted to do was to rip the leads from his hospital-gowned body. He wanted to jam his fingers up into the incision at the base of his head and yank out the wires that now threaded through his brain. What he wanted to do was to grab the metal tray and smash it against this Colonial doctor's face and then storm his way up to the viewing gallery and strangle Mycroft Holmes.
What he did was hold out his arms and touch his nose with his forefingers. Immediately he felt a mild wave of euphoria. His body relaxed into it.
“As you can see by his heartbeat, complying with orders reduces the stress to his body.”
“Will it effect his judgement or his abilities?” asked Holmes.
“It's non-narcotic and localized, it consists of electrical stimulation of certain centers of his brain. He should remain sharp and capable. However it's not wholey without risk.”
“Such as.”
“Addiction mainly. Psychological addiction, I should clarify. A slave can get used to being ordered about, they may require it or become despondant. On the other hand, you'll need to make sure that he's given a reasonable number of orders to fill each day, if you want the collar to have it's proper effect.”
“And what happens if he chooses not to comply to orders. Will it punish him as well?”
Dr. Riner turned back to his patient. “John, heel!”
John gasped and fell to his knees. His skin was on fire. All thought left him and he was at mercy to the agony. It lasted the space of a second, then his skin cooled and he found himself on all fours, sweating and staring at the tiled floor. “While pleasure is automatic,” Dr. Riner said. “There is no way to predict how much time a slave needs to comply with an order, therefore punishment must be induced by specific verbal command. The actual wording may be changed to suit the owner's preference. I suggest something that is unlikely to be casually mentioned, but not easily forgotten.”
“Forgotten, would that really be a problem?” Mycroft frowned. “Is positive feedback really that effective?”
“You'd be surprised!” Dr. Riner grinned. “So far with my other test subjects, punishment was not required after the first week.”
Mycroft lifted his head. “Ah! Fascinating results!”
“This is the wave of the future, Mr. Holmes,” said Dr. Riner proudly. “Clean, effective, and best of all ethical slavery. A life of service and pleasure instead of service and pain. I really don't understand why the abolutionists targeted my technology.”
“I imagine it's because it rather undermines their message. Why would slaves wish to be freed if slavery if this is what it entails?”
“You're right,” said Dr. Riner. To John he said, “Up.”
Shaking John rose up and got his expected burst of calming pleasure. He gritted his teeth as soon as the brief bliss was over.
“What is the security on the device,” asked Mycoft Holmes. “What's to keep him from simply ordering himself - or from taking orders from unauthorized personale?”
“The software is keyed to his own recognition centers. Once authorization is set, he will recognise visual and verbal commands from those programmed to be in authority over him. He will not, however, recognise written orders, nor second hand ones. This might be inconvienient, but better that than allowing loopholes that could be exploited.”
“Excellent.”
Dr. Riner frowned. “Tell me,” he said, almost reluctantly. “There's a rumor that John is a freeman. When I went in to operate I saw only very recent marks on his spine from a collar.”
“He's newly aquired. Did John tell you about the pipe bomb he was planning on killing you with? This man is one of the most blazon abolutionists it's been my pleasure to apprehend.”
Dr. Riner shook his head and jumped back away from John, looking at him for the first time as if he might be dangerous.
John considered reinforcing this, but the memory of the pain was too fresh. He needed a plan.
“Well then, I don't think this rumor is something that needs to make it's way into your report. Besides, having data on someone who is not prejudiced by prior slave conditioning is invaluable, wouldn't you think?”
Dr. Riner nodded. “Absolutely.”
“When can I take him back with me?”
Dr. Riner reached over and began disconnecting the leads. “Any time. I'll leave you a sheet on the aftercare for the incision, but otherwise he can be treated like any other property.” He smiled up to the viewing gallery. “It's good to see you in person, Mr. Holmes. And thank you so much for the support with my research.”
Behind the glass, Mycroft smiled down. “No, no. Thank you.
Hmmmm, pleasant tingles. I don't know, this hits all my kink buttons. So very, very much. *feels only a tiny bit bad for it* You're doing so great. It all comes across as horribly authentic.
OP is speechless and does happy dance fyliwionvilyaerJanuary 24 2011, 07:12:26 UTC
*flails and attempts to not look like a fangirl* I love it so far... and now I'm going to be checking updates every two seconds ^^;; (Especially since I simply adore your other fics)
*squees* Thank you so much!! I can't wait to read the rest!!
I really, really, really need more of this in my life. RIGHT NOW. Fascinating AU; extremely intriguing scenario; gorgeous writing. I'm tracking this like mad, yes I am.
I just want you to know, this fic inspired one of the sexiest and most UST-filled dreams I've ever had last night. Although for some strange reason, John had a mustache and was played by Rupert Graves.
Okay, you'll have to be a little patient for Sherlock and his crop to show up, but I have a start.
John Watson carefully poured nails into the metal shaft of the pipe bomb. Reaching in with his forefingers he was able to pull out the ends of the copper wires that would eventually attach to the mercury switch. Pulling out a strip of black electrical tape with his teeth, he reached for the box cutters and noticed that his Sig was missing.
“Which ever of you has my gun, you have two seconds to give it back,” he said, spitting away the tape and having it, naturally, crinkle uselessly. He balled up the piece and looked around the dismal studio apartment. Though it was noon in Portland, Oregon, the sky was the color of slate, and a steady drizzle made the surrounding trees and buildings look foggy. John did a double take on the window.
Oh, god, it was amature hour in here.
“And who opened the hell opened the blinds,” said John. He jumped up and limped over to the window and pulled down the miniblinds again. There was little difference in the light level.
James and Kirkpatrick looked up from the foam they were shaping to eventually secure the bomb in the cardboard box. James eyes glanced towards the toilet. “Duncan did it,” said the former slave.
All his team were former slaves. That was the one thing that he'd insisted on when he took on projects. Only slaves understood viscerally the situation their brethern were in. James and Duncan had been slaves since childhood. James due to being orphaned, Duncan from birth. Kirkpatrick was stripped of his citizenship in debter's prison. All were ready to stick it to the man who had stuck it so hard and heavy to them.
“Duncan!” John shouted through the door. “What did I say about security? Leave the blinds alone!”
“Fuck off, Limey.” It was muffled by the wooden door, but full of anger.
John was about to say something more, but at that moment the front door burst open, and the apartment was teeming with men in black body armor. Imperialist Guard. James and Kirkpatrick leaped to their feet, scattering to flee a hail of AK-47 fire. The room seemed to erupt in noise and bits of foam. Instinctively John dived behind the kitchen counter. He heard nothing but his heart pounding in his chest.
They'd been made. How? Who'd ratted them out?
Where was the goddamn Sig?
Too late, the soldiers poked their gun muzzles down at John's head and he raised his hands to either side. He winced, expecting the sudden but breif pain of a bullet tearing through his brain. But it didn't come. Instead one of the soldiers handed off his weapon and then grabbed John's wrists, twisting him around and securing them behind his back. He was pressed down until he lay on his stomach on the kitchen linoleum.
“Target identified and secured,” one of the guard said. “Two dead.”
“Strike that, they've got collar scars. Mark them down as property loss.”
John heard the bathroom door open up. He turned his head to look. To John's surprise and anger, Duncan walked out with a smug smile on his freckled mug and John's sig hanging by the guard off his finger. Traitor, he thought.
“Yeah, that's him,” Duncan said. His accent was faintly southern. That should have been the tip off. The southern colonies had always been less sympathetic to abolutionism. But Duncan was a runaway himself, how could he do this? Sure enough one of the guard was now latching a standard issue collar around the boy's neck.
He didn't have time to say anything before a commotion alerted John that something about the situation had changed. The soldier next to him stood up and saluted.
A new voice, English and upperclass by the accent, rang out. “Now where is he? Ah, there you are!”
A smartly dressed gentleman stepped around the counter. He appeared to be in his early 40's, with slightly thinning brown hair and an expensive three-piece suit. He was using an umbrella like a cane, which suggested that it wasn't actually meant for the poor weather.
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John said nothing. He'd never heard of an intelligence consultant. It sounded suspiciously off the books.
“Not much to look at, now, are you.” The voice was easy, almost kind sounding despite the words. Smug. He could sense a psychological agenda behind it. Impressing on me his importance, John thought.
“I wasn't aware that you needed to be impressed,” said John. “I'll try better in the future.”
“Oh, but I am impressed,” said Holmes. “Did I give you the impression I wasn't? Forgive me. I would hardly be here if you were a run of the mill terrorist. I have better things to be doing.”
“Well then,” said John defiantly.
“You've been very busy on this trip. Since you've come to visit this lovely colony, you have coordinated the destruction of two slave records centers, an intake facility and a collar distribution warehouse. Because of you, there are now over twenty thousand slaves with no proof of ownership, and another five hundred crowding the jails, waiting for their collars, when they should already have been sold and set to work. Thanks to you, the Oregon has taken a rather severe hit to it's economy. Taxes are down. Naughty, naughty.”
He stepped closer and reached up a hand to touch the front of John's throat. “I can see why the property might like to strike back, but what would make a freeman like yourself take up this cause?”
“Slaves have as much right as us to their lives. They aren't property. We are all human. We are all equal.”
“You are far too smart to be this niave, Watson,” said Holmes, patting John's cheek gently. “The British Empire runs on three things: Loyalty, Inginuity, and Labor. Without slaves, and the revenue they generate, our economy would fall apart. Our standard of living would crumble. The world would be plunged into a new dark age of chaos.”
“Codswaddle,” said John. “This is morally wrong. Who decides which humans are worthy of full rights and which aren't?”
The man leaned forward, his brows raised with condescending patience. “I decide that. John.” The switch to first names sent a shiver down John's back.
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John blanched. “No. You can't strip me of my citizenship like this. I haven't been tried.”
“Oh but records can be manufactured as easily as they are distroyed.”
“Don't do this. My family has friends --”
“Who will be far too embarassed by your behavior to speak up for a black sheep like you.”
John tried to squirm out of the way Holmes reached forward and put the collar around his neck. It was cold and solid seeming and it latched tightly around his throat just below his adam's apple. He fancied he could feel the needles entering his spine, just between the C4 and C5 vertabrae.
“Did you even know what that facility makes? The one whose CEO you were attempting to blow up with this crude device?” he pointed his chin at the pipe bomb.
“New innovations in collars.”
“Yes. Internal collars they are called,” said Holmes with that gentle smile again. “The one we have on you now is crude but effective. Three levels of enforcement: pain for the minor offenses. Unconsciousness for more unruly ones. And finally death, for when the other two fail to make a proper impression on the slave. Not very nuanced, I think you'll agree. And rather prone to occasional malfunction, which has at times killed perfectly useful slave.”
“Barbaric.”
“The new collars are surgically implanted. They can't be accidentally set off by impact or a poorly tuned radio. They also can't be removed by hacking. They use the slave's own brain to help regulate their behavior. Imagine it, John. A perfectly content and happy slave. There would be no need to inflict painful punishment, or expensive death.” He touched John's face again. “Even an unrepentant terrorist like you could be salvaged into a useful, productive asset for the crown.”
“I'd rather die.” John gritted his teeth.
“Well,” said Holmes backing off. “I imagine you would. Which is why we don't offer slaves those sorts of choices.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote. “Hold him steady, I don't want him injured when he falls.”
John opened his mouth to say something, then Holmes pressed the button and the room telescoped away.
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I am so excited. You're brilliant at this kind of fic. *sucks up to you*
The beginning is amazing so far. I mean, the whole set-up of BAMF!John fighting for human rights and powerful!Mycroft catching him. Sigh. This is going to be glorious.
*double sigh*
I am so so so so happy right now.
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John gritted his teeth. What he wanted to do was to rip the leads from his hospital-gowned body. He wanted to jam his fingers up into the incision at the base of his head and yank out the wires that now threaded through his brain. What he wanted to do was to grab the metal tray and smash it against this Colonial doctor's face and then storm his way up to the viewing gallery and strangle Mycroft Holmes.
What he did was hold out his arms and touch his nose with his forefingers. Immediately he felt a mild wave of euphoria. His body relaxed into it.
“As you can see by his heartbeat, complying with orders reduces the stress to his body.”
“Will it effect his judgement or his abilities?” asked Holmes.
“It's non-narcotic and localized, it consists of electrical stimulation of certain centers of his brain. He should remain sharp and capable. However it's not wholey without risk.”
“Such as.”
“Addiction mainly. Psychological addiction, I should clarify. A slave can get used to being ordered about, they may require it or become despondant. On the other hand, you'll need to make sure that he's given a reasonable number of orders to fill each day, if you want the collar to have it's proper effect.”
“And what happens if he chooses not to comply to orders. Will it punish him as well?”
Dr. Riner turned back to his patient. “John, heel!”
John gasped and fell to his knees. His skin was on fire. All thought left him and he was at mercy to the agony. It lasted the space of a second, then his skin cooled and he found himself on all fours, sweating and staring at the tiled floor. “While pleasure is automatic,” Dr. Riner said. “There is no way to predict how much time a slave needs to comply with an order, therefore punishment must be induced by specific verbal command. The actual wording may be changed to suit the owner's preference. I suggest something that is unlikely to be casually mentioned, but not easily forgotten.”
“Forgotten, would that really be a problem?” Mycroft frowned. “Is positive feedback really that effective?”
“You'd be surprised!” Dr. Riner grinned. “So far with my other test subjects, punishment was not required after the first week.”
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“This is the wave of the future, Mr. Holmes,” said Dr. Riner proudly. “Clean, effective, and best of all ethical slavery. A life of service and pleasure instead of service and pain. I really don't understand why the abolutionists targeted my technology.”
“I imagine it's because it rather undermines their message. Why would slaves wish to be freed if slavery if this is what it entails?”
“You're right,” said Dr. Riner. To John he said, “Up.”
Shaking John rose up and got his expected burst of calming pleasure. He gritted his teeth as soon as the brief bliss was over.
“What is the security on the device,” asked Mycoft Holmes. “What's to keep him from simply ordering himself - or from taking orders from unauthorized personale?”
“The software is keyed to his own recognition centers. Once authorization is set, he will recognise visual and verbal commands from those programmed to be in authority over him. He will not, however, recognise written orders, nor second hand ones. This might be inconvienient, but better that than allowing loopholes that could be exploited.”
“Excellent.”
Dr. Riner frowned. “Tell me,” he said, almost reluctantly. “There's a rumor that John is a freeman. When I went in to operate I saw only very recent marks on his spine from a collar.”
“He's newly aquired. Did John tell you about the pipe bomb he was planning on killing you with? This man is one of the most blazon abolutionists it's been my pleasure to apprehend.”
Dr. Riner shook his head and jumped back away from John, looking at him for the first time as if he might be dangerous.
John considered reinforcing this, but the memory of the pain was too fresh. He needed a plan.
“Well then, I don't think this rumor is something that needs to make it's way into your report. Besides, having data on someone who is not prejudiced by prior slave conditioning is invaluable, wouldn't you think?”
Dr. Riner nodded. “Absolutely.”
“When can I take him back with me?”
Dr. Riner reached over and began disconnecting the leads. “Any time. I'll leave you a sheet on the aftercare for the incision, but otherwise he can be treated like any other property.” He smiled up to the viewing gallery. “It's good to see you in person, Mr. Holmes. And thank you so much for the support with my research.”
Behind the glass, Mycroft smiled down. “No, no. Thank you.
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*feels only a tiny bit bad for it*
You're doing so great. It all comes across as horribly authentic.
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*squees* Thank you so much!! I can't wait to read the rest!!
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(But I doubt a slave would get to be a policeman in this AU so I'll leave it up to the wonderful author where (if) he fits in.)
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