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.
Mycroft had a chartered a jet for the trip back to London.
John hoped to use the confusion of the airport as a way of dislodging the man long enough to send a coded message out. He needed to let his people know to go to ground. He'd been held incomunicado for four days, who knows what had happened in his absense. But they bypassed the main terminal entirely and drove right into a hanger farther down the access road.
John did his best to seem invisible, expressionless, watching the seemless dance of Mycroft's underlings. It seemed almost choreographed. As he exited the limo, four black clad minions (and John could only describe them as such, if they had rank or insignia, it wasn't visible on their uniforms) swarmed around him. A languid reach in one direction was answered immediately with a mobile being offered. A tap to Mycroft's temple and other people raced on some task or other. Mycroft managed to give the impression of relaxed, almost lackadaisical composure while dealing with one situation after another.
For the most sake Mycroft ignored him, allowing him to hang back a few feet, seemingly disinterested in what he was looking at. John scanned for holes in the security. The minions seemed to dismiss hs presence entirely, as though they thought him of no significance. As well they might if they considered him a slave rather than a prisoner. The hanger itself was large, and other than the limo it contained a single Lear Jet and not much else. Attempting to run to its wide open doorway would invite attention, but smaller movements, standing farther and farther off against one of the walls, for example, seemed to elicit no alarm. While Mycroft instructed the porter on the handling of his luggage, it seemed for just a moment that no one was watching at all.
John drifted, nonchallantly towards an unmarked door.
“John, stop,” said Mycroft casually. He hadn't even turned around. The porter craned his head over at him, curiously.
Startled, John held still and then tightened his lips as the thing in his head rewarded him. Distracting, annoying. Like a pat on the head every time he behaved like a dog. He didn't want to feel good every time he followed this man's orders.
“Come along then,” Mycroft said a moment later, finally turning around. Then glancing at the door John had considered he let his lips quirk up. “You wouldn't have gotten far. That door is locked, and even if it weren't it only leads to an office.”
John gave nothing away with his expression. He had no illusions of escape at this point, but an office had a phone.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “You might want to take a look at this before you do anything rash.” He reached out and a minion handed him a rolled up paper.
The headline read: LARGEST ABOLUTIONIST BUST IN LAST 25 YEARS. In smaller letters it went on to say that twenty three citizens had been apprehended and over a hundred runaway slaves had been liquidated in a series of raids. Mycoft finger slid down the column until it reached John Watson's name. “You've made it to the papers. Congratulations. Your fifteen minutes of fame.”
John hung his head. God. His family must have seen that.
Out of masochism, he read the article and silently checked off people who he'd worked with, liked, trusted. Dead. Dead. Dead. Most had been slaves. As property they were simply disposed of on site, no trial, no chance. Not even a grave. Those weren't used for medical research would have their useful organs removed and then burned to ash in the colonial run crematoriums. All their dreams and hopes simply ended. Friends. Gone.
“I do so love a happy ending,” said Mycroft, unironically. “Good triumphs over evil. Justice wins out. Very satisifying. But I suppose you wouldn't see it that way. Yet. Give it time, John.” He clapped John's shoulder in a sympathetic way.
John turned his head away.
Mycroft shrugged and turned away. “Now, step lively. Here we go.”
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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*flails with excitement* I love John being an epic rights activist xD He was so effective
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John hoped to use the confusion of the airport as a way of dislodging the man long enough to send a coded message out. He needed to let his people know to go to ground. He'd been held incomunicado for four days, who knows what had happened in his absense. But they bypassed the main terminal entirely and drove right into a hanger farther down the access road.
John did his best to seem invisible, expressionless, watching the seemless dance of Mycroft's underlings. It seemed almost choreographed. As he exited the limo, four black clad minions (and John could only describe them as such, if they had rank or insignia, it wasn't visible on their uniforms) swarmed around him. A languid reach in one direction was answered immediately with a mobile being offered. A tap to Mycroft's temple and other people raced on some task or other. Mycroft managed to give the impression of relaxed, almost lackadaisical composure while dealing with one situation after another.
For the most sake Mycroft ignored him, allowing him to hang back a few feet, seemingly disinterested in what he was looking at. John scanned for holes in the security. The minions seemed to dismiss hs presence entirely, as though they thought him of no significance. As well they might if they considered him a slave rather than a prisoner. The hanger itself was large, and other than the limo it contained a single Lear Jet and not much else. Attempting to run to its wide open doorway would invite attention, but smaller movements, standing farther and farther off against one of the walls, for example, seemed to elicit no alarm. While Mycroft instructed the porter on the handling of his luggage, it seemed for just a moment that no one was watching at all.
John drifted, nonchallantly towards an unmarked door.
“John, stop,” said Mycroft casually. He hadn't even turned around. The porter craned his head over at him, curiously.
Startled, John held still and then tightened his lips as the thing in his head rewarded him. Distracting, annoying. Like a pat on the head every time he behaved like a dog. He didn't want to feel good every time he followed this man's orders.
“Come along then,” Mycroft said a moment later, finally turning around. Then glancing at the door John had considered he let his lips quirk up. “You wouldn't have gotten far. That door is locked, and even if it weren't it only leads to an office.”
John gave nothing away with his expression. He had no illusions of escape at this point, but an office had a phone.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “You might want to take a look at this before you do anything rash.” He reached out and a minion handed him a rolled up paper.
The headline read: LARGEST ABOLUTIONIST BUST IN LAST 25 YEARS. In smaller letters it went on to say that twenty three citizens had been apprehended and over a hundred runaway slaves had been liquidated in a series of raids. Mycoft finger slid down the column until it reached John Watson's name. “You've made it to the papers. Congratulations. Your fifteen minutes of fame.”
John hung his head. God. His family must have seen that.
Out of masochism, he read the article and silently checked off people who he'd worked with, liked, trusted. Dead. Dead. Dead. Most had been slaves. As property they were simply disposed of on site, no trial, no chance. Not even a grave. Those weren't used for medical research would have their useful organs removed and then burned to ash in the colonial run crematoriums. All their dreams and hopes simply ended. Friends. Gone.
“I do so love a happy ending,” said Mycroft, unironically. “Good triumphs over evil. Justice wins out. Very satisifying. But I suppose you wouldn't see it that way. Yet. Give it time, John.” He clapped John's shoulder in a sympathetic way.
John turned his head away.
Mycroft shrugged and turned away. “Now, step lively. Here we go.”
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