Slave Breakers sequel, chapter one
Aug. 15th, 2007 09:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeOkay, cats and kittens, I've got enough sketched out towards the sequel to "The Slave Breakers" that I'm going to bite the bullet and post chapter one. I hope you enjoy! I also hope you comment if you do, as comments appear to stimulate me to produce more fic the same way bells stimulated that one dog to produce more saliva. Cool neurology, huh? I'm writing my dissertation on it. Whenever I have time.
The Slave Breakers (completed fic to which this is the sequel)
“Perfect,” said Lord Presniakov, smoothing Jesse’s hair back from his forehead and surveying him approvingly. “I don’t believe even the slave breakers could find anything to improve upon in your attitude now. And to think what you were ten days ago. Perhaps I should go into their business myself.”
“Perhaps, master,” said Jesse quietly.
Presniakov laughed. “Men of my class don’t go into business, you fool. It’s well enough for trash like Alix and Holden. Jamesen and Larssen, excuse me– as if they were born high enough in the world to lay claim to surnames. But a pig will lie back down in the mud however well you scrub it. It’s fitting that they deal now with their own sort of filth. Gutter rats and wayward brats– and runaways. Those whose masters can’t deal with them themselves.” He touched Jesse’s cheek gently. “Not like me, eh?”
“No, master,” said Jesse, lowering his eyes.
“Still, they serve a purpose, and if they want to meet with me– well, I won’t turn down a contact, however distasteful to me personally. And you’ll be on your best behavior, won’t you, dear boy?”
“Yes, master.”
“Of course you will.” Presniakov kissed Jesse lightly on the mouth. “If I’d known it would improve you this much, I’d have killed your little boyfriend a long time ago.”
“Yes, master,” said Jesse without emotion, moving to follow Presniakov downstairs.
He had not been surprised when his master had ordered him to serve the drinks and stand in attendance at this meeting. Gregorei Presniakov no doubt wished to show off Jesse's new, exemplary behavior to the well-known couple. As for the slave breakers, their motives for seeking an informal visit with his master were less clear; slave gossip and his master's muttered remarks in the past had left Jesse and Quen with the distinct impression that they dealt only with an exclusive cabal, selected for reasons of their own, and that their master was not part of this privileged circle. But Jesse and Quen no longer existed, and Jesse alone could not care enough to speculate.
His first vague impressions of the infamous couple were of a handsome and well-matched pair in their early forties, the woman blonde and prim, the man dark and expansive, both charming and almost effusively polite. The slave they had brought with them, a young man of about Jesse’s own age, knelt between them with his gaze submissively lowered.
“Isn’t he pretty,” Alix remarked of Jesse, and Jesse caught a quick glare from her husband. “And so well behaved.”
Presniakov smiled, pleased despite himself. “Yes, he’s greatly improved lately. You may have heard of my trouble recently with an attempted runaway.”
“We did hear something about it,” said the woman– Alix– absently, still looking at Jesse. “Killed trying to escape, wasn’t he? Too bad– perhaps we could have made something of him. Bran here was a runaway once, you know.”
“It was, of course, an accident,” said Presniakov, smoothly, the distaste in his voice so delicately modulated as to be undetectable to anyone who did not know him well. “My dogs are trained with soft mouths, but-- the thrill of the chase, you know. They do sometimes get carried away. However, I doubt if even your considerable talents could have rehabilitated Quen. The boy was a troublemaker, and he incited Jesse here to defiance and disobedience. But since Quen was killed Jesse has been a positive model.”
“Happens that way sometimes,” agreed Holden, glancing down at his cocktail glass as if surprised to find it empty and holding it out to Jesse, who mutely moved forward and took it to refill. “Neither is so bad individually, but together--” He shook his head. "Sorry you lost the other kid, though."
Jesse tuned out their chatter, focusing on standing straight and still at attention and refilling any glasses that emptied. He registered only vaguely, as the hour progressed, that the slave breakers were both looking less attractive and refined by the moment. Holden had downed four drinks in an hour, and his tone had grown rough and boisterous. Alix's lips, meanwhile, had thinned to a slit, and she sat drawn in on herself, shooting frightened glances at her husband, who had laughed much too loudly and too long at Presniakov's last joke and was now draining the last drops of his fourth drink, glancing around for Jesse. Their young slave, Bran, knelt in as small a space as possible, obviously hoping to escape his master’s notice.
Jesse managed to catch the other boy’s eye and lifted his hand unobtrusively, glancing at Holden as he pointed at himself. It was one of the discreet nonverbal signals most slaves understood: am I in danger from him? Bran could have touched his fist to his own chest-- you're safe-- or rubbed at his eyelid-- watch out-- without being noticed by his owners, but he seemed not to see or understand Jesse's signal, staring up at Jesse with large, frightened eyes.
“Darling,” Alix said softly to Holden, laying a protective hand on Bran’s head, “don't you think you've had enough?”
Holden slammed his empty glass down roughly and glared at her.
“Women,” he said bitterly to Presniakov, then laughed again. Locating Jesse with unfocused eyes, he snapped his fingers. “You, boy– what's your name?”
“Jesse, sir,” he said, moving forward quietly.
“Jesse, your master has the finest damn liquor in the country. And my dear, sweet wife here doesn't want me to have any. She wants me to die of thirst. So she can fuck her little slave boys.” He jerked a thumb at Bran, who cringed, biting his lip. “That's what happens when a man gets old, Jesse. Ain't that a fucking shame?”
Jesse bowed his head as Presniakov started to speak.
“I asked you a fucking question, boy,” Holden slurred, moving as if to get up. Alix laid a timid hand on his arm. He slapped at it furiously and she pulled back, biting her lips and trying to smile at Presniakov.
“Get me another fucking drink, Jesse,” Holden said, and Jesse glanced at his master, who mouthed “Weak” at him. Obediently Jesse moved to the bar in the corner and began pouring with his back to them, mixing a drink with a large proportion of tonic to a mere splash of gin.
“You're a smart guy, Grisha,” Holden told Presniakov, leaning forward earnestly. “Never married. Now me–“ He flung out his hands expressively. “Man turns forty-three and his old lady won't even let him in the bed. Loves her little boys, this bitch.” He glared at Alix again, then, as Jesse approached with his fresh glass, snatched it from him and took a long swig. After a moment, he choked and threw the glass at the wall. Alix cried out as it smashed, and Bran whimpered and curled up into a near-fetal position. Jesse took an automatic step back as Holden surged upright.
“You fucking with me, boy?” he bellowed, as Jesse stared at him, wondering if he should feel afraid and instead merely feeling a dull disgust. “You fill up my glass with water? You fucking stare at my wife's tits all afternoon and now you fucking disrespect me– Don't you fucking disrespect me–“
As Jesse backed away, Holden aimed a punch at him. Jesse felt a moment of detached wonder before the older man's fist smashed into his face with unbelievable force, knocking him flat on the floor with a choked cry and his mouth filling with blood. Something hard-- two hard things-- came loose inside his mouth and he spat them out onto the rug as his tongue disbelievingly probed the bleeding spot where his top front teeth had been. Presniakov leaped to his feet. Alix jumped up a second later, her hands making futile gestures towards Jesse while she edged away from Holden.
“Lord Presniakov, I apologize, I'm very sorry, I, is the boy all right?” she babbled.
Presniakov had grabbed Jesse roughly by the upper arm and yanked him upright. He pulled Jesse's bleeding face close and shoved his cut lip up from his teeth. Half conscious and dizzy, Jesse gasped in pain and nearly choked on his own blood; Presniakov let him crash to the floor again and turned on Alix, who stood dithering and wringing her hands. Holden had sunk back into his chair, muttering to himself about disrespect.
“His front teeth have been knocked out,” Jesse’s master said grimly, while the room spun around Jesse.
“Oh no,” said Alix unhappily. “I– I'm very sorry– my husband– he's been under a great deal of pressure lately–“
”Ms. Jamesen. Your husband has ruined a valuable piece of property. He's of no use to me now. I expect to be compensated.”
“Of– of course,” said Alix, diving for her pocketbook. “I should think– ten thousand–?”
“Ten thousand–“ Presniakov made a visible effort to contain his rage. “Jesse would fetch easily five times that on the market if your drunken boor of a husband hadn't just permanently disfigured him. I don't think fair market price is too much to ask.”
Alix's manner grew markedly less apologetic. “Fifty thousand? You have a very high opinion of your lad's attractiveness, Lord Presniakov. Fifteen thousand.”
“So did you, until two minutes ago, I believe. Forty-five thousand.”
“Twenty,” said Alix, looking down at Jesse. “I didn’t like the look on his face, even before.”
“I understood that attitude adjustment was your specialty. Forty thousand is the absolute minimum I can accept.”
“And how do I know he’s not going to try and run away, too? I’ll give you twenty-five thousand for him, and that’s more than he’s worth even without the damage.”
“Thirty-five,” said Presniakov coldly, “unless you want to address in court how your husband punched my slave in the mouth while ranting about your marital difficulties.”
Alix's eyes narrowed. She yanked a checkbook and pen from her bag and began to write a check.
“This is blackmail,” she said, ripping the check out angrily and pushing it at Presniakov. He took it fastidiously and tucked it into a breast pocket.
“He's all yours,” said Presniakov. “What’s left of him. Now I recommend you take your husband home and put him under a cold shower.”
Alix grabbed Jesse by the arm and pulled him upright again. Jesse was drooling blood, open-mouthed with shock. Alix looked at him with obvious disgust. Jesse pulled back against her hand, gathering his scattered senses as he reached out his free hand desperately towards Presniakov.
“Master, please,” he gasped through through swollen and split lips, his speech thick and strange to his own ears. "Don't let them--"
Presniakov eyed him coldly. “I’m not your master.”
“Shut up, you worthless brat,” said Alix viciously, and then, “Pick up the teeth, Bran. We still might be able to– Holden? Are you coming?”
Holden got heavily to his feet, following Jesse, who was being dragged by Alix, feeling as if he had gone to sleep peacefully and awakened on fire in a burning building. Bran scrambled after them, looking ready to cry.
“Thirty-five thousand for a toothless twink,” Holden managed to mutter fairly comprehensibly, glaring balefully at Jesse. “Well, she's the one with the money.”
Alix slammed the passenger door of the car on Holden, who lolled back with his eyes closed, while Jesse huddled in the back seat with Bran, one hand over his mouth, trying not to bleed on the upholstery. She got in the driver's seat herself, shut and locked the doors, and drove off. Holden sat up quickly, rummaged at his feet for a moment, produced a small jar of opaque white liquid, unscrewed the top, and turned around, holding his hand out to Bran. Bran put Jesse’s detached teeth into his master’s palm, and Holden dropped them into the jar. As Holden replaced the lid, Bran put a hand on Jesse's shoulder, smiling when Jesse turned to stare at him.
“Hey, Jesse,” he said, and made a fist with his free hand, touching it gently to his own chest. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bran.”
Part Two
The Slave Breakers (completed fic to which this is the sequel)
“Perfect,” said Lord Presniakov, smoothing Jesse’s hair back from his forehead and surveying him approvingly. “I don’t believe even the slave breakers could find anything to improve upon in your attitude now. And to think what you were ten days ago. Perhaps I should go into their business myself.”
“Perhaps, master,” said Jesse quietly.
Presniakov laughed. “Men of my class don’t go into business, you fool. It’s well enough for trash like Alix and Holden. Jamesen and Larssen, excuse me– as if they were born high enough in the world to lay claim to surnames. But a pig will lie back down in the mud however well you scrub it. It’s fitting that they deal now with their own sort of filth. Gutter rats and wayward brats– and runaways. Those whose masters can’t deal with them themselves.” He touched Jesse’s cheek gently. “Not like me, eh?”
“No, master,” said Jesse, lowering his eyes.
“Still, they serve a purpose, and if they want to meet with me– well, I won’t turn down a contact, however distasteful to me personally. And you’ll be on your best behavior, won’t you, dear boy?”
“Yes, master.”
“Of course you will.” Presniakov kissed Jesse lightly on the mouth. “If I’d known it would improve you this much, I’d have killed your little boyfriend a long time ago.”
“Yes, master,” said Jesse without emotion, moving to follow Presniakov downstairs.
He had not been surprised when his master had ordered him to serve the drinks and stand in attendance at this meeting. Gregorei Presniakov no doubt wished to show off Jesse's new, exemplary behavior to the well-known couple. As for the slave breakers, their motives for seeking an informal visit with his master were less clear; slave gossip and his master's muttered remarks in the past had left Jesse and Quen with the distinct impression that they dealt only with an exclusive cabal, selected for reasons of their own, and that their master was not part of this privileged circle. But Jesse and Quen no longer existed, and Jesse alone could not care enough to speculate.
His first vague impressions of the infamous couple were of a handsome and well-matched pair in their early forties, the woman blonde and prim, the man dark and expansive, both charming and almost effusively polite. The slave they had brought with them, a young man of about Jesse’s own age, knelt between them with his gaze submissively lowered.
“Isn’t he pretty,” Alix remarked of Jesse, and Jesse caught a quick glare from her husband. “And so well behaved.”
Presniakov smiled, pleased despite himself. “Yes, he’s greatly improved lately. You may have heard of my trouble recently with an attempted runaway.”
“We did hear something about it,” said the woman– Alix– absently, still looking at Jesse. “Killed trying to escape, wasn’t he? Too bad– perhaps we could have made something of him. Bran here was a runaway once, you know.”
“It was, of course, an accident,” said Presniakov, smoothly, the distaste in his voice so delicately modulated as to be undetectable to anyone who did not know him well. “My dogs are trained with soft mouths, but-- the thrill of the chase, you know. They do sometimes get carried away. However, I doubt if even your considerable talents could have rehabilitated Quen. The boy was a troublemaker, and he incited Jesse here to defiance and disobedience. But since Quen was killed Jesse has been a positive model.”
“Happens that way sometimes,” agreed Holden, glancing down at his cocktail glass as if surprised to find it empty and holding it out to Jesse, who mutely moved forward and took it to refill. “Neither is so bad individually, but together--” He shook his head. "Sorry you lost the other kid, though."
Jesse tuned out their chatter, focusing on standing straight and still at attention and refilling any glasses that emptied. He registered only vaguely, as the hour progressed, that the slave breakers were both looking less attractive and refined by the moment. Holden had downed four drinks in an hour, and his tone had grown rough and boisterous. Alix's lips, meanwhile, had thinned to a slit, and she sat drawn in on herself, shooting frightened glances at her husband, who had laughed much too loudly and too long at Presniakov's last joke and was now draining the last drops of his fourth drink, glancing around for Jesse. Their young slave, Bran, knelt in as small a space as possible, obviously hoping to escape his master’s notice.
Jesse managed to catch the other boy’s eye and lifted his hand unobtrusively, glancing at Holden as he pointed at himself. It was one of the discreet nonverbal signals most slaves understood: am I in danger from him? Bran could have touched his fist to his own chest-- you're safe-- or rubbed at his eyelid-- watch out-- without being noticed by his owners, but he seemed not to see or understand Jesse's signal, staring up at Jesse with large, frightened eyes.
“Darling,” Alix said softly to Holden, laying a protective hand on Bran’s head, “don't you think you've had enough?”
Holden slammed his empty glass down roughly and glared at her.
“Women,” he said bitterly to Presniakov, then laughed again. Locating Jesse with unfocused eyes, he snapped his fingers. “You, boy– what's your name?”
“Jesse, sir,” he said, moving forward quietly.
“Jesse, your master has the finest damn liquor in the country. And my dear, sweet wife here doesn't want me to have any. She wants me to die of thirst. So she can fuck her little slave boys.” He jerked a thumb at Bran, who cringed, biting his lip. “That's what happens when a man gets old, Jesse. Ain't that a fucking shame?”
Jesse bowed his head as Presniakov started to speak.
“I asked you a fucking question, boy,” Holden slurred, moving as if to get up. Alix laid a timid hand on his arm. He slapped at it furiously and she pulled back, biting her lips and trying to smile at Presniakov.
“Get me another fucking drink, Jesse,” Holden said, and Jesse glanced at his master, who mouthed “Weak” at him. Obediently Jesse moved to the bar in the corner and began pouring with his back to them, mixing a drink with a large proportion of tonic to a mere splash of gin.
“You're a smart guy, Grisha,” Holden told Presniakov, leaning forward earnestly. “Never married. Now me–“ He flung out his hands expressively. “Man turns forty-three and his old lady won't even let him in the bed. Loves her little boys, this bitch.” He glared at Alix again, then, as Jesse approached with his fresh glass, snatched it from him and took a long swig. After a moment, he choked and threw the glass at the wall. Alix cried out as it smashed, and Bran whimpered and curled up into a near-fetal position. Jesse took an automatic step back as Holden surged upright.
“You fucking with me, boy?” he bellowed, as Jesse stared at him, wondering if he should feel afraid and instead merely feeling a dull disgust. “You fill up my glass with water? You fucking stare at my wife's tits all afternoon and now you fucking disrespect me– Don't you fucking disrespect me–“
As Jesse backed away, Holden aimed a punch at him. Jesse felt a moment of detached wonder before the older man's fist smashed into his face with unbelievable force, knocking him flat on the floor with a choked cry and his mouth filling with blood. Something hard-- two hard things-- came loose inside his mouth and he spat them out onto the rug as his tongue disbelievingly probed the bleeding spot where his top front teeth had been. Presniakov leaped to his feet. Alix jumped up a second later, her hands making futile gestures towards Jesse while she edged away from Holden.
“Lord Presniakov, I apologize, I'm very sorry, I, is the boy all right?” she babbled.
Presniakov had grabbed Jesse roughly by the upper arm and yanked him upright. He pulled Jesse's bleeding face close and shoved his cut lip up from his teeth. Half conscious and dizzy, Jesse gasped in pain and nearly choked on his own blood; Presniakov let him crash to the floor again and turned on Alix, who stood dithering and wringing her hands. Holden had sunk back into his chair, muttering to himself about disrespect.
“His front teeth have been knocked out,” Jesse’s master said grimly, while the room spun around Jesse.
“Oh no,” said Alix unhappily. “I– I'm very sorry– my husband– he's been under a great deal of pressure lately–“
”Ms. Jamesen. Your husband has ruined a valuable piece of property. He's of no use to me now. I expect to be compensated.”
“Of– of course,” said Alix, diving for her pocketbook. “I should think– ten thousand–?”
“Ten thousand–“ Presniakov made a visible effort to contain his rage. “Jesse would fetch easily five times that on the market if your drunken boor of a husband hadn't just permanently disfigured him. I don't think fair market price is too much to ask.”
Alix's manner grew markedly less apologetic. “Fifty thousand? You have a very high opinion of your lad's attractiveness, Lord Presniakov. Fifteen thousand.”
“So did you, until two minutes ago, I believe. Forty-five thousand.”
“Twenty,” said Alix, looking down at Jesse. “I didn’t like the look on his face, even before.”
“I understood that attitude adjustment was your specialty. Forty thousand is the absolute minimum I can accept.”
“And how do I know he’s not going to try and run away, too? I’ll give you twenty-five thousand for him, and that’s more than he’s worth even without the damage.”
“Thirty-five,” said Presniakov coldly, “unless you want to address in court how your husband punched my slave in the mouth while ranting about your marital difficulties.”
Alix's eyes narrowed. She yanked a checkbook and pen from her bag and began to write a check.
“This is blackmail,” she said, ripping the check out angrily and pushing it at Presniakov. He took it fastidiously and tucked it into a breast pocket.
“He's all yours,” said Presniakov. “What’s left of him. Now I recommend you take your husband home and put him under a cold shower.”
Alix grabbed Jesse by the arm and pulled him upright again. Jesse was drooling blood, open-mouthed with shock. Alix looked at him with obvious disgust. Jesse pulled back against her hand, gathering his scattered senses as he reached out his free hand desperately towards Presniakov.
“Master, please,” he gasped through through swollen and split lips, his speech thick and strange to his own ears. "Don't let them--"
Presniakov eyed him coldly. “I’m not your master.”
“Shut up, you worthless brat,” said Alix viciously, and then, “Pick up the teeth, Bran. We still might be able to– Holden? Are you coming?”
Holden got heavily to his feet, following Jesse, who was being dragged by Alix, feeling as if he had gone to sleep peacefully and awakened on fire in a burning building. Bran scrambled after them, looking ready to cry.
“Thirty-five thousand for a toothless twink,” Holden managed to mutter fairly comprehensibly, glaring balefully at Jesse. “Well, she's the one with the money.”
Alix slammed the passenger door of the car on Holden, who lolled back with his eyes closed, while Jesse huddled in the back seat with Bran, one hand over his mouth, trying not to bleed on the upholstery. She got in the driver's seat herself, shut and locked the doors, and drove off. Holden sat up quickly, rummaged at his feet for a moment, produced a small jar of opaque white liquid, unscrewed the top, and turned around, holding his hand out to Bran. Bran put Jesse’s detached teeth into his master’s palm, and Holden dropped them into the jar. As Holden replaced the lid, Bran put a hand on Jesse's shoulder, smiling when Jesse turned to stare at him.
“Hey, Jesse,” he said, and made a fist with his free hand, touching it gently to his own chest. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bran.”
Part Two
