No-one died on Krakoa. Not for long, not for ever. Not for anyone did the resurrection queue stop its endless churn.
He'd been pushed back, of course. On account of his indiscretions. That was the euphemism that had been used, since everything he'd done - and oh, that did mean everything - was with at least the tacit approval of the Council. It was a nice, tidy little word, the broom that elegantly swept the mounds of shit into a dustpan to be ignored.
But that was the problem with sweeping things away to be ignored, with the concept of a queue, of pushing back and not simply removing. Eventually, especially on an island of forever, the problem came home to roost.
And so it was that Henry Philip McCoy was, eventually, reborn.
The diseased mind of the Director of X-Force was long expunged, of course. The gross little grey cells that had formulated uses for Logan's body that not even the Weapon X program could conceptualise were gone, surely ignored even by the worms and the bacteria because it would make them sick. Left to rot in the morning, afternoon, and evening sun.
The McCoy that came back was a young thing, barely 22. Fit, strapping, handsome - in his way, the most beautiful he'd ever been. Light caught him in just the right way, every way, every time. It had caught them all off guard when the shell had cracked and there he was - they had forgotten, just, completely forgotten, yes, that was what he'd been. Who he'd been.
He was so . . . soft.
It had taken them a good long while to acclimatise him, to get him to settle down, to get him to simply be calm. He was skittish and unsure of himself, full of propulsive energy and yet completely without direction. He was a genius who didn't know anything, what could be a more frightening prospect? He was naive, helpless, innocent.
So there he stood, on the edge of the island, throwing stones across the water, trying to work it all out, trying to puzzle out just who he was.
And then, along, had come, Logan.
He'd simply sat and watched for a time. Taking in this cute little blast from the past. Taking in the warm, royal blue fur, the twinkle in his eyes. The body that was unmarked, untouched. Pristine. Clean. Soft. He was so soft.
Something inside of him snapped at that, and he'd broken his stealth. Walked right up. Pointed ears twitched, and baby blue eyes turned to take him in.
Fucker didn't even know him, really. Oh, sure, he recognised him, but know? No. No, this cute little thing didn't know him.
"Hullo there! Wolverine, isn't it? You know, I don't think we've properly met - except for Jeannie's funeral, but, well, that's hardly a social occasion, and besides, I think I have to look back on that very differently now, given everything that's hap - "
His eye bursts first. Logan's adamantium bones make sure of that. It's messy. It's rough. He falls like a wounded gazelle, a whimper of pain leaving him that should tear at Logan's soul, but oh he's too damned angry, he's way too damned fucking mad at this little bouncy scientist fuck, he couldn't care less that he's snotting and crying and crawling on his back away from him. Hank's never known a pain like this, a brutality like this.
He doesn't like to fight. Ain't that funny.
He works him over with the kind of cruelty that transcends hatred, the kind of cruelty that can only be born out of love betrayed and envy left to stew. Bones break. Lungs lacerate. Behind him, he's vaguely aware of the rest of X-Force standing by. Watching.
They don't participate. Not even Omega Red. Definitely not Colossus. But they do watch. They watch every time as Logan beats the poor little cute thing to death, his soft, squishy little body beaten and cut and abused until it's meat. Barely breathing meat.
Meat he kicks off the island into the water. Meat he watches drown. Meat he watches bob away into the distance.
Everyone knows exactly where Hank McCoy's gone the next day. No-one says anything. Down he gets pushed, all along the resurrection queue. It's getting shorter and shorter these days. Before long, he'll be back the next day.
He'll be back. Just as soft as before. Just as sweet to watch break and burst.
847481 was being rewarded. Handler Wiley had said he’d been a very good boy for long enough that he deserved something nice. He deserved something other than pain and suffering and endless orders that ‘481 forced himself to pay attention to, no matter where else his mind was running.
‘481 had been doing everything right for days, maybe weeks now. He had stopped begging when Handler Ellis hurt him for fun. He stopped trying to remember bad things that made his head hurt and the rules slip from his mind. He obeyed without hesitating. He stopped twisting his collar around his neck four times in both directions before his handlers got him for training in the morning. Stopping that one was much harder, and he still sometimes did it in secret and then spent the rest of the day worrying that he would be caught and punished for it, the imagined discipline worse and worse every time. But that was okay, too, because Handler Wiley had taught him how to hide the worry he’d been drowning in for as long as he could remember.
Think of things you know. Recite your rules. Think of the positions. Do anything and everything to keep it inside, so your prospective doesn’t see your fear. If they do, you’ll be sent right back here. You’ll be a failure ‘481. Do you want that?
N-no Handler. I don’t want that.
Good. Then stop breathing so hard, and control your thoughts. Next time you’ll get the serum, understand?
Yes Handler.
So ‘481 pushed everything down as far as it could go and only thought of training. Not the scary parts where he got hurt, that was pushed down too. He thought of the correct way to hold a baby and how to do the Heimlich and what to say to lighten the mood and how to properly iron a dress shirt. He thought of only good thoughts, approved thoughts, and ignored the worry and the things that itched at the back of his mind as much as he could.
All his hard work had paid off in the end, and Handler Wiley had said he deserved the reward. ‘481 had thanked him profusely, so grateful for the handler’s mercy.
Part of his reward was a collar. Not the awful shock collar ‘481 had been wearing ever since he’d signed the contract he couldn’t remember, but the normal leather collars the good pets he passed in the hallway wore. Now he was one of those good pets.
“Th-thank you, Handler,” ‘481 had said as the new collar was buckled on. It felt so much better without the metal prongs stabbing into his neck, threatening him with their presence.
“That’s not all, trainee,” Handler Wiley had said. “You don’t have any training tomorrow.” ‘481 looked up at him in surprise. The shock must’ve been apparent on his face, because his handler laughed. “Tomorrow you will have the opportunity to work in the WRU daycare and prove your skills. Won’t that be nice, ‘481?”
He nodded, eyes still wide. Another spark of anxiety started in his stomach, his mind quickly running over all the things that could go wrong and all the ways he could mess up and be given all the bad things again.
Position one; stand with hands at sides, back straight. Position two; kneel resting on ankles. Position three …
He forced the bad thoughts away and focused on all he needed to know. “Thank you, Handler.”
“Only good pets are allowed to work in the daycare. This is work you’ll need with your prospective, ‘481. Don’t disappoint me. Your rewards can be taken away very quickly.”
‘481 resisted the urge to hold on tightly to his new collar. He nodded. “Yes, Handler Wiley. I - I’ll be good.”
Handler Wiley reached out a hand and ruffled ‘481’s hair, briefly. He chased the touch as his handler pulled away and headed to the door. “I expect nothing less.”
So ‘481 was standing with the other Box Boys and Babes chosen to work in the daycare as a handler gave them some last reminders about the job they had and the possible punishments they would face if they failed in any way, shape, or form.
‘481 pushed away the fear, tried to settle his trembling hands. He thought of how he was taught to talk to toddlers with gentle authority, establishing that he was the one in charge of them. It went against all his other training, to think of himself as the one in charge, but it was different with the young kids, he was told. They don’t understand the difference between him and a person.
He was assigned to the infant section, along with three other trainees. One for each of the four babies that were here for next few hours. The other trainees, the ones working with the toddlers aged 18 months to four years, were working one trainee to two or three children. ‘481 told himself he was lucky, that it was just the one baby for him.
But he couldn’t ever remember caring for a baby before. Sure, he knew what to do and he’d practiced everything from changing diapers to handling a seizure on the dummy babies, but it would be the very first time in waking memory ever handling a real live one. That baby’s wellbeing, and his own life, depended entirely on him doing everything correctly.
The trainees were let into the daycare, each led to their respective areas. The area for the infants was in a different room than the toddler area. It was colorful, with half a dozen cribs pushed against the far wall. Shelves lined the other walls, each one full of toys and snacks. There was a door off to the side they were told held a fridge and sink, along with a couple chairs, to feed them.
The babies were in the cribs, right then, taking their morning naps. The trainees were instructed to choose a baby and get them when they woke. There was a normal daycare worker just outside, in case of emergencies the trainees couldn’t deal with themselves. But other than that? They were totally on their own.
That thought alone made ‘481 nervous, but it only got worse when the handler left and the babies began to wake.
Each crib had a changeable plaque on it, reading the infant’s name and age. ‘481 went to one quickly, reading that he was a ten month old named Ben. He picked the baby boy up, trying to calm his pounding heart and shaking hands. He had to focus. He had to be a good boy. If he was, then maybe Handler Wiley would reward him again with something even better, or he’d finally be purchased and be able to go home to the happy family he was always being promised. He just had to focus.
Hours passed by relatively uneventfully. ‘481 changed baby Ben’s diaper a few times, fed him and gave him snacks. He had a couple teeth, and he used them to gnaw on toys when he was sat on the ground with a pillow behind him.
He’d been doubting his handler, when he called this a reward at first due to the huge amount of stress and responsibility put on him. But spending the day with a little baby boy instead of being meaninglessly hurt? He found himself thanking his lucky stars for allowing him to be taken as a Platonic so he could do this.
The other babies played on the ground, throwing around blocks. One of them could walk on unsteady legs, making her way around the room with her assigned Box Babe watching her closely. One of the babies was only a few weeks old, and his trainee spent most of their time in the other room, rocking him as he slept.
Near the end of the working day, when the children’s parents were beginning to show up, the baby Ben had started to drift off. ‘481 laid him carefully in his crib, cradling his still-soft head, and then went to help the others clean the room.
Ben’s mother was the last to show up. She walked into the room swiftly, asking with a smile how her baby boy was, reaching her arms out to the crib. ‘481 went to pick up the baby, answering her softly and telling her how long he had slept. He was looking at the mother, not the boy, so he had no idea that he hadn’t lifted him high enough before moving, and the baby smacked his small head right on the wood of the crib.
‘481 froze, the baby still held midair, as his blood ran cold. Baby Ben’s face scrunched up as he opened his mouth in silence for a moment, then gasping in air and beginning to scream. His mother rushed to him, taking him away from ‘481’s still frozen arms.
She held the baby close to her chest, bouncing and shushing him. She looked angrily up at the trainee. “What’s your number?” she asked, almost shouting over the sound of her baby’s crying. When ‘481 didn’t answer fast enough: “What’s your number? And who’s your handler?”
‘481 took a sharp breath and his hands began to shake. “847481. M-my handler is Handler Wiley. I’m so sorry ma’am, it was an accident, I swear, I would never --”
“I’ll see to it that your handler makes sure it never happens again. Understand trainee?” she hissed. She patted her screaming baby’s back, shushing him.
There was nothing ‘481 could do but nod as she turned and left, the sounds of the baby in distress getting further away with every passing second. He didn’t move for a very long time, letting the horrible feelings run through him one last time before he had to push them all deep down again. The other trainees moved around him, cleaning the room before their handlers came back to fetch them.
The baby was hurt. The baby was hurt because of him. He hurt that baby boy, he hurt the little baby boy that was trusted in his care. Did he do it on purpose? His eyes widened at the thought, his breath picking up just a little. No, no he didn’t do it on purpose, it was an accident. Then why wasn’t he watching the baby? Because he was talking to the mother right? Wasn’t he? Oh was he? Oh no he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember what happened and what was or wasn’t his fault. His head was getting all full again, the thoughts getting foggy and jumbled and incoherent except for the blaring panic that was filling his chest. Was he not fit to be a Platonic and watch over children? Would he be put back on the Drip and wiped all over again? Oh he didn’t want that, he really didn’t want that. It was an accident, it was a total accident and it wouldn’t happen again. But what if it did? his brain whispered. What if, when he was with his prospective watching over their children, they got really hurt under his watch? What if his prospective decided to just kill him then and there? No he couldn’t die if he died who would watch over --
He felt a light hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of his trance. The Box Babe that watched over the walking baby gave him a sympathetic look, biting her lip. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He only nodded, looking back at the ground. His brain was so full of nothing and everything all at the same time. He had the same thought, over and over, that his handler would bash his head into the wall to teach him his lesson. He thought about how his blood would look, dripping down the pristine white tile, staining it. He thought about how he’d be the one to clean it later, when he could barely stay awake and the cleaning products burned his hands. He twisted his collar back and forth sixteen times, praying it was enough.
When his handler eventually got him, he was led wordlessly to the small room he was unfortunately becoming accustomed to.
“Position two.”
‘481 dropped to his knees before his mind processed the order. He shook from the cold and the fear that he was having a very difficult time trying to pretend he wasn’t feeling.
“I heard you were a bad boy today, 847481. Is that true?”
He nodded, once. “Y-yes Handler.”
Handler Wiley removed the baton from his belt, making the trainee tense up. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you knew better than to make mistakes.” He pushed the button that filled the baton with electricity. ‘481 locked his jaw. “Better make sure you don’t make the same mistake twice.”
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In the end, ‘481 could only lay on the cold tile floor and cry, his muscles twitching with the aftershocks. Most of his exposed skin was bright purple and blue, breaking up the dull monotony of white and red on the walls. He thought one of his ribs might be broken, from the way Handler Wiley had kicked him with his heavy boots. He knew his nose was.
He didn’t cry because of the pain, though. He cried because he’d had his soft new collar taken away, replaced with the one with the heavy box and the prongs that pierced his skin. He cried because he wasn’t a good boy anymore. He was a failure. He failed in training and he would fail when he got purchased, just like he failed taking care of Logan and Kyrie and --
‘481 whimpered at the sharp pain in his head that followed the thought. He blinked against the bright lights as the pain slowly faded. A couple weeks ago he might have tried to follow that thought, see why it hurt and where it took him. Now, though, he only allowed it to pass by and fade away.
Not all his thoughts faded on their own, but he appreciated the ones that did, no matter how guilty they made him feel.
He was bad. He knew he was bad. He knew he would probably be sent back if he was ever sold in the first place. He knew he’d been a failure his whole life, that he’d failed some people a long time ago he couldn’t know or remember.
He threw an arm over his eyes and sobbed, letting the guilt and anxiety take him over while there was no one else to see.
the fact that ashton took his time to think about what to say and how he wanted to phrase tweets and replies means so much to me as a black person. meaningful conversations and standing your ground against a sea of judgement and performative activism is everything in situations like these.
it’s so valuable to confront the society that silenced those that need a voice.
being an ally is about listening and doing everything that you can to make sure you’ve made an impact, no matter if it’s talking to your family or educating yourself to be better.
CWs: 17 yo whumpee, slavery universe, police, manhandling, brutality, abuse, everything I write is self indulgent and silly
Masterlist
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The privilege to watch TV was not given lightly (anymore), but Kensington had managed to earn it. He finished all his chores early on, and was ecstatic to be allowed to sit down and relax for a while. He found a channel that played documentaries and reenactments of murders and kidnappings. They were dark and scary and he couldn’t help but find himself morbidly curious. Some of the bad guys reminded him of someone… He shook the thought away, lounging on the couch with the volume low because Master was home.
He was sick with a cold, but still had to go to a virtual meeting for work. He’d locked himself in his room, laptop on, and told Kensington very sternly to not disturb him.
So he was very confused when Master suddenly opened the door and called his name. “I need you to do something for me,” he said.
Kensington stood, turning off the TV and turning his full attention to his master.
“Okay, I forgot a folder I need for this presentation. I need you to go to my office and grab it for me.”
Kensington felt his eyes widen. “You want me to go into town?” He’d been banned from ever going into town ever since he was late that one time. He’d hardly been outside at all, the fear that Master would think he’d tried to run off or disobey him too strong. His heart jumped at the thought of feeling fresh air and sunlight.
“Yes. To my office. I’ll text Karie and tell her to let you in. It’s the blue folder on my desk in my new office, Karie can show you where it is. Listen, Kensington,” Master said, stepping closer, “I’m trusting you with this. Think of it as a test. Maybe you can earn back the privilege of going into town.”
“Really? I can?” Oh he would love being able to go out again. He hadn’t left the house in weeks, and he really missed the people and things he would see when he went out. Now the whole world consisted of him, Master, and the pain he earned. It would be nice to earn something else.
Master nodded. “It’s 1:32. My presentation slot is at 2:30. There’s no way this should take you more than half an hour at most, but you have until 2:15. Kensington?” He raised his eyebrows and stared at him seriously. “Do. Not. Be. Late.”
Kensington shook his head, heading to the door to put on the shoes he hardly wore anymore. “I won’t be! I swear to you I won’t be late, I can do it! Thank you Master!” He hurriedly brought his master the collar he was bound by law to wear in public.
It was clipped on and without another word Kensington was out the door, walking downtown.
He’d had to get things from Master’s office before -- on weekends or when he was busy or lazy. It was about a ten minute walk each way. He should have plenty of time to get there and back and prove to Master that he can be trusted.
It was a warm day, with just a slight breeze that his flannel protected him against. He wanted to go slowly, feeling the sunlight and the breeze. He wanted to watch everyone else walking on the streets, both slaves and free people alike. He wanted to enjoy it, but he only allowed himself a few glances here and there. His attention was on his task, on making the right turns and crossing the streets and just getting there and back on time.
Kensington pushed open the heavy doors to the office building, feeling a bit self conscious as he made his way to the stairs. He was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he had not interacted with or even seen someone that wasn’t his master or his master’s friends in weeks. He used to make small conversation with different people every day when he got the mail or groceries … he missed it.
He had to get home soon.
He nervously opened the door to the office, the fluorescent lights and smell of cleaner assaulting him. A young woman with pretty dark skin, Karie, looked up as he opened the door.
“Kensington right? You’re here for Grayson’s stuff?” He nodded, straightening his shirt. She stood up, leaning over her desk to point at a dark office in the corner. “That’s his.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly, heading to it. Heads turned and watched him as he walked across the floor, but Kensington tried to ignore them.
It was something he had to learn to get used to, the stares. Slaves were a novelty to some people, something they didn’t see or associate with in their normal lives. People stared. They saw the collar and the barcode on the top of his hand and couldn’t look away, like seeing a bad car crash. Except the car crash was a societal mistake that damned Kensington and a million others to a life of painful servitude.
He shook his head as he entered the office and took the folder. Weird thoughts like that kept making their way into his head, things he never would have thought about before. Things he would get beaten for if he spoke them aloud.
Kensington and everyone around him jumped suddenly as the intercom speaker jumped to life, the lights on the fire alarms flashing silently.
“Everyone in the building, report to the lobby immediately. I repeat: everyone in the building report to the lobby immediately.”
Employees stood up, heading to the door. Some looked confused, maybe a little scared, but most seemed bored or annoyed. Kensington had no choice but to follow them all, clutching the folder close to his chest.
The lobby was full of disgruntled and puzzled employees from the different companies housed in the office building. It was loud, crowded and confusing, and the lights kept flashing on the fire alarms. None of that was what made Kensington nervous though -- it was the police officers lined up by the door and around the walls.
Kensington had never come face to face with a police officer before, but he’d heard stories of those who had. Free people had power over slaves, and so they were treated badly. It was a simple fact of life. But the police had power over the free people, which meant that slaves were worth even less to them. While most people might hesitate over unnecessarily harming a slave, officers wouldn’t and didn’t think twice.
One of the officers held a microphone. “Atten--” Kensington flinched at the feedback. “Attention! Thank you all for coopera--”
“Why are we down here?” a man yelled.
“Yeah, can we go back to work?”
“I was in a meeting!”
The officer pushed a button on the megaphone and a loud sound went off, silencing the room and making Kensington cover his ears.
“Remain calm! We got a bomb threat called in at this location. Now there is no -- there is no need to panic! HEY! …Thank you. We’re searching the building as a safety measure, but it is most likely a hoax. This isn’t the first call we’ve gotten this week. But we need everyone in the building to stay in the lobby. No one goes in or out until we give the all clear.”
Kensington’s heart dropped.
“How long will this take?” a woman asked.
“We’ll have you all back to work in under an hour.”
The crowd began protesting once again, but the officer only turned off the megaphone and signaled for some other police to head into the building, fanning out and down hallways. Kensington pressed himself against the wall as they passed by him, one or two making a face at his collar.
His heart pounded in his chest. The last time he was late Master had exploited one of his biggest fears and locked him in a dark closet for days. He had been banned from going outside and having any connection with the outside world. Kensington had swore he’d be home on time with the papers, he had even been given extra time to do it!
The clock on the wall read 1:46. He had half an hour before he was due home. Under normal circumstances, Kensington would have done everything in his power to stay out of the way and then wordlessly slip out once the search was over. These circumstances, however, were not normal. He had been trusted to complete a very important task and only had a half an hour to get home and return to his master, who he was pretty sure had severe anger issues--
Kensington shook the thoughts away, scanning the room. His eyes landed on a female officer several inches shorter than him. She didn’t look particularly approachable, but she was the only officer physically smaller than Kensington, so if she decided to hurt him it wouldn’t be too bad. Compared to the others at least.
He took a deep breath and walked forward. She caught sight of him immediately and didn’t move as he approached her, eyes on his collar. He opened his mouth to speak.
“What’s your business in this building?” she asked first.
He blinked. “What?”
“Do you belong to a business here?”
“Oh. No, I was sent here by my master. To get something for him.” He held up the folder uselessly.
She narrowed her dark eyes. “Hmm.”
Kensington wished he could read her nametag. It would help her seem less terrifying, he thought, if she had a name. “Um, listen, I -- I have to go. My master needs this and it’s a ten --”
“No one’s leaving,” she said curtly.
Kensington cleared his throat, ignoring the alarm bells going off in his brain telling him to shut up. “Yeah, I know, but I really have to get home. I have to be back with this folder by 2:15. My master said --”
“Boy!” she shouted. Heads turned their direction. Kensington lowered his head, hands trembling around the folder. “No one is leaving the building until the all-clear has been given.”
He swallowed. “Please, Officer,” he said quietly, “please let me go home. I need to go home. You don’t know what my master will do if --“
“I don’t. Nor do I care. So, slave, I am giving you one last chance to drop it and back off. I suggest you take it.”
He wanted to. Oh, Kensington really really wanted to. He was shaking and scared and tears were shining in his eyes, but the mere thought of the punishment he would face if he was late -- the knife, the whip, the closet, the breeders -- forced his fragile bravery to cross the thin line into foolishness
“Officer please, I am begging you, I need to leave. I have to get home, please let me go home!”
He took a step closer, gesturing towards the door, but before he could even turn to look in the direction his arm was pointing, the officer had jumped forward and pushed him up against the wall, one hand gripping his flannel and the other forearm pressed against his throat. His collar dug in uncomfortably as he stared at her with wide eyes, his too-fast breaths making it tighten even more.
She spoke through a clenched jaw. “You are on very thin ice, slave, do you understand me?” When Kensington didn’t answer she dug her arm into his throat even more, making him gasp. “Do you understand me?!”
“Y-yes! Yes ma’am!”
She pushed off of him, and he coughed and gasped for air. Almost everyone in the lobby was watching them now. He thought he saw someone with their camera. “Sit against the wall. Hands where I can see them.”
Kensington slid down the wall, knees drawn up and hands resting on them. His jaw trembled, tears still not yet fallen.
“And I’ll take this,” the officer said, taking the blue folder.
No. No no Kensington had failed in every conceivable way at his task except for the fact that he had at least gotten the blue folder. Now when he went home later Master would only see his stupid empty-handed slave and think that he was too inept to even attempt the order.
“Wait!” Kensington didn’t think, he only began to move, one hand on the wall for support, the other reaching out. “Wait no, that’s my master’s--!”
The officer didn’t say a word as she tore the baton from her belt and turned on Kensington. He hardly had time to curl against the wall, hands over his head protectively, before she brought it down on his back.
Kensington didn’t scream, not even when she hit him two more times just because she felt like it. He grit his teeth and powered through despite the ever-constant pain in his ribs worsening. The tears finally fell, but he never sobbed like he wanted to. He kept quiet and took it like a good slave, opening his eyes again once she left.
No, Kensington didn’t scream. He would save that for his punishment at home, once his master saw that he had failed him.
-----------------------------------
Kensington walked slowly home a little over two hours later. The search had ended a bit before, but the officer wouldn’t let him leave -- arguing with her superiors that he should be brought in. She eventually, reluctantly, let him go.
He never saw the blue folder again.
The thought of the punishment he would receive at home made him consider just running away. It wasn’t like he had anything there. But if he was caught, and Master found out, the punishment would be even worse than whatever he was going to get now.
He paused in front of the door, hand hovering over the handle. Maybe he would just beat him. Or take away food for a bit. As horrible as being locked up is, he’d even be okay with that, so long as he knew he would be let out eventually. Anything besides being sold to the breeders. That was the only thing he knew he wouldn’t survive.
Kensington closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the door, tentatively stepping inside.
Master wasn’t waiting behind the door, waiting to pull him in and beat him like last time. Instead he was seated on the couch, some video game playing on the TV. He glanced back when the door closed and Kensington tensed up all over.
“Hey, Kensington,” he said, looking back at his game. “They keep you a while?”
“Um, yes.” He waited for a moment before speaking again, heart pounding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t … I didn’t get your folder.”
“Hmm? Oh Karie told me she got it from the cops. Meeting was cut short anyway, the VP leading it was in the building.”
He let out a breath, stepping away from the door and taking off his shoes. “Oh.”
“Yeah, crazy stuff.” He said nothing else, turning his attention fully to his game.
Kensington waited a little longer, not quite believing his luck. He wanted, more than anything, to take full advantage of his distracted mood and head to his room, but he couldn’t quite yet.
“Master?” he asked quietly. “Um, did -- do I -- uh, did I earn it back? Going outside?”
He didn’t answer for along moment, taking time to pause his game and set down the controller before turning around. “Well, Kensington,” he said, looking dramatically at his watch, “it’s well past 2:15 isn’t it?”
Kensington felt his face fall as he nodded.
“Hmm. Maybe next time.”
Kensington watched Master turn back again before walking away. Master had taken his bedroom door off the hinges after the incident where Kensington had locked him out, so he didn’t head there. Instead he went to the half-bath next to it, closing and locking the door before sliding to the ground and letting the tears fall. It was the only way he got any privacy to cry.
okay! i wrote this a couple months ago and came across it when i was rereading some stuff, and decided to post. idk if i'll write anymore for these characters but i might try to!
CWs (let me know if i missed any): slavery universe, police interrogation, threat of torture, brutality, manhandling, seizure, threat of rape. (he gets called kid a lot, but is 18)
(Also i know nothing about medical stuff or police. So.)
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Adler heard the door shut in the front room. He stepped away from the food he was preparing and saw Elaina walking down the hall.
“Hi, Miss Elaina,” he said. She didn’t answer, just kept going down the hall. “I made dinner, do you want some?”
“No, I’m not feeling too good. Thanks though, Adler,” she said. She shut her bedroom door behind her.
Adler stared after her closed door for a moment before going back into the kitchen. Was she slurring her words or was that his imagination? … No. If she needed his help, she’d ask him.
He busied himself with putting away the dirty dishes and setting aside a plate for his master when he got home. Maybe he should set aside a plate for Elaina too. He decided it would be worth the risk to ask. Even if she didn’t want any, he could probably get her some ibuprofen or water.
He was walking down the hallway when a muffled thump came from Elaina’s room. Adler froze and listened but he couldn’t hear anything else. He quickly went to her door and knocked.
“Miss Elaina?” he asked. There was no answer. A sick feeling began to settle in his stomach as he knocked again. “Miss Elaina are you okay?” Still no answer. He took a deep breath and pushed open her door.
Elaina lay unconscious on the ground, her head lolling to the side. Adler rushed to her and dropped to his knees by her head.
“Miss Elaina?!” He shook her shoulder, but it did nothing. “Please wake up, please!”
Oh gosh, what is he supposed to do? Call Master? No, there’s a number you’re supposed to call when people get hurt right? It’s short, only two or three numbers. It’s 19, or 99, or 991… 911!
Elaina’s phone was next to her, already open. Alder closed the page she was on and clicked on the phone icon. Numbers filled the screen and he dialed with shaking hands. It began to ring as he held it to his face.
“911 what’s your emergency?”
“Oh, uh, my-my master’s daughter passed out,” Alder said in a rush.
“Your master’s…? Oh,” the woman on the line said. She changed her tone when she spoke again. “Are you the only one home? Is your master there?”
Adler switched hands to hold the phone with. “No, it’s -- it’s just me and Miss Elaina.”
“Do you know the address of the house?” the woman asked. He could hear her tapping away on a keyboard.
“304 West Second Street,” he said.
“In Hallstatt?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Elaina began to move. Adler almost sighed in relief, but it caught in his throat when he realized that she wasn’t stirring -- she was seizing.
“Oh -- oh no! I -- I think she’s having a seizure! Wh-what do I do?” he asked. His heart pumped hard in his chest with panic. Oh, what was happening? What was he supposed to do?!
“Stay calm,” the woman directed. “Clear the area around her, and then turn her on her side. The paramedics are on their way.”
Adler put the phone on speaker and set it on the ground. There was nothing immediately around Elaina, so he went ahead and turned her onto her side, which was harder than he thought it would be, with her body tensed and convulsing.
“Okay, I did it,” Adler said. He kept a hand on Elaina’s side to keep her from falling back over. He could hear the sirens as the paramedics made their way towards him.
“The paramedics should be there any minute. Stay on the line with me and let me know when she stops seizing, okay?”
“Yes ma’am,” Adler breathed. Elaina stopped not long afterwards. “She’s stopped.”
“Alright. Stay on the line. The paramedics are on your street. When they get there, hand them the phone, okay?”
“Yes ma’am.” The front door opened and heavy footsteps got closer.
“You did a good job,” the woman said.
Adler sighed in relief as the paramedics came into the room, rushing to Elaina. He did a good job.
-----------------------------------
After the EMT’s left with Elaina in the back of the ambulance, Master finally got home. Adler had called him a few minutes before when he was on his way home, and told him what had happened. Honestly, Adler was shocked that Master wasn’t going straight to the hospital.
Adler waited nervously by the door, his master’s footsteps getting closer. The door slammed open and Master had his hands on him in a second.
“What did you do?!” Master yelled, pushing him against the wall.
Adler cried out as his head hit the wall, the air knocked out of him with his master’s hands on his chest. “Wha -- Nothing! I didn’t do anything!”
“What did you do to Elaina?!”
To Elaina? Adler only helped her! He opened his mouth to answer, but the sound of a car pulling in the driveway made him stop.
Master smiled. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll have to answer to the police now.”
“To -- what?!” Despite knowing better, Adler began to struggle, pushing against his master’s grip. “Why?! Master why? Please, I -- I didn’t do anything!”
There was a knock on the door, and Adler’s head whipped around. He turned back to his master, pleading with his eyes. Please please don’t let them take me.
“Come in!” Master called with a smile.
-----------------------------------
Adler folded his hands on top of the metal table. There was no clock in the room, but he was sure he’d been sitting there over an hour. No one had come in the room since he’d been brought there.
The police had come into the house and pinned him against the wall. He didn’t fight back against them, but he still had a bruise forming over his jaw where he was hit.
The door opened and a slave trainer entered. Adler tensed, straightening his posture. He thought he'd be questioned by an officer, not a trainer from a facility or auction house. He wished it was an officer. They had more rules. He put his hands under the table so the trainer couldn’t grab them. He sat across from Adler, staring at him and forcing him to break eye contact. Slaves aren’t meant to look their betters in the eye unless told to.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Adler stared at the table in front of him, focusing on controlling his breathing. He was trying to do everything in his power to not give the trainer a reason to hurt him. But he also knew that when when it came down to it, he was just a slave. And the man in front of him could do anything he wanted.
“So you hurt your master’s daughter?” the trainer finally asked.
“No, sir,” Adler answered.
“Look at me when I talk to you.”
Adler closed his eyes for a moment, and took a breath. He looked up. The nametag on the trainer’s chest read Miller. Adler quickly looked away from it and into his eyes.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said.
“I’m not lying, sir.”
“Listen, slave, the punishment for hurting a free person is bad enough, you do not want to add lying on top of it.”
“I’m not lying, sir,” Adler repeated. “I didn’t hurt her.”
Miller leaned forward suddenly, making Adler flinch. “Do you know what happens to slaves that injure free people?” Adler swallowed. “Why don’t I let you know? Slaves that injure free people -- their own masters no less -- have one of three things happen to them. The first is that they go to prison. Slave prison, where it’s full of trainers like me. Except most of them are a lot less civil than me. You look pretty well fed. That won’t happen in prison. You’ll get fed once every three days. Maybe four. It depends on the trainer in charge of you. Then every day you’ll either go to do backbreaking work, or you’ll stay in and be the trainers’ toy for the day. And I’m telling you now -- you’ll pray that you go to break rocks. I’ve seen trainers’ toys gutted, burned, raped, broken. Recovering from a broken femur bone in slave prison is hell. You don’t want that do you?”
Adler shook his head, his breath hitching. He knew that those things happened to slaves, but hearing it from a man who’d done those things himself and was threatening to do them to Adler? It made him sick.
Miller smiled. “I didn’t think so. So let’s look at the other options, yeah?
“The second option is that you’re sold off at a back auction. You know, to the people that run fighting rings and brothels. I’ve heard of a few poor suckers that had the unfortunate luck to be sold to psychos that used them for experiments. Cut parts of them off, rearrange their faces, things like that. Nothing good comes from being sold at a back auction, you know that?”
Adler looked down. He didn’t want Miller to see the tears gathering in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around his waist, balling the fabric of his shirt into his fists to hide his shaking hands.
“Look at me.” Adler closed his eyes to hold back the tears. Miller suddenly slammed his hand on the table. “LOOK AT ME!” Adler jumped and forced himself to look back into his cold eyes. The tears fell down his cheeks, making Miller smile.
“Let’s talk about your last option hmm?
“The only other thing that could possibly happen to you, is you getting put down. Put to sleep. Executed. You get it, don’t you?” Adler didn’t answer, only took a shaking breath. “And let’s be honest, that one seems like the best option out of all of them right?”
No. All of them sounded like Adler’s worst nightmare. But the trainer was right, wasn’t he? There was no way they’d believe that he didn’t hurt Elaina. Adler knew the only reason they were interrogating him instead of sending him straight to the gallows was because of that law Master hated. The one that said that all slaves needed to confess to their alleged crime before they were punished for it. There were no cases of a slave being innocent or not confessing.
Because trainers really didn’t care. They’d just keep threatening or hurting slaves until they confessed to something they didn’t do just to get away from them. And now it was happening to Adler.
But he didn’t hurt Miss Elaina.
“So why don’t you tell me what you did now, and I’ll make sure you get that last option?” Miller said. He leaned back in his chair and smiled like he’d just gotten praise for a job well done. “We can spare you being unnecessarily hurt, and just get right to the end. That sounds good right? So tell me--what did you do to your master’s daughter?”
Adler closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Nothing. I didn’t touch her.”
-----------------------------------
Two more trainers had interrogated him since Miller. They were getting more and more impatient and violent every time. The last one, a woman named Neisler, twisted Adler’s arm behind his back and threatened to break it unless he confessed. She was eventually called out from the intercom.
Adler was getting more and more desperate trying to convince them that he didn’t hurt Elaina, but every time he tried to tell them what happened, they accused him of lying and told him that he didn’t want to get punished for that on top of everything else he’d done.
He was sitting across the table from another trainer. Pask, his nametag said. He’d been sitting across from Adler for quite a while, not saying anything. It seemed like he was waiting for Adler to speak first, but he knew better.
Finally: “So why’d you do it?”
Adler wanted to cry again. “I didn’t,” he said miserably.
“Oh come on,” Pask said casually, “we all know you did. Just tell us why. Did she hurt you?”
“No. Miss Elaina has never been anything but kind to me. I’d never hurt her.” Adler looked at Pask’s eyes, too exhausted to care about the rules. He wasn’t yelled at for it.
“So would you hurt her if she’d been aggressive toward you?”
“No!” Adler said, with a little too much force. “I’d never hurt any free person! No slave in their right mind would ever hurt a free person!”
Pask took out his phone and stared at the screen. “Maybe you’re not in your right mind.”
He’d said it so nonchalantly that Adler almost missed the meaning of the words. But as soon as they processed, he felt cold dread fill the pit of his stomach. “Wh-what?”
Pask set his phone down and looked up at him. “Have you ever been called...unstable before?”
The panic that hit Adler was almost blinding. Before he knew it he was standing up, his chest moving rapidly with his heavy breaths. “What -- no! N-no! I’m -- I’m not unstable, I’m not!”
“Sit down.”
“I am not unstable,” Adler said desperately. “You have to believe that I’m not!”
“Sit.” Pask’s tone indicated that there would be no debate. Adler sat and wrapped his arms around himself again, his whole body shaking.
“I’m not unstable,” Adler repeated quietly.
“That’s not for you to decide,” Pask said. Then he left.
Adler slumped forward in his chair and rested his forehead on the table. He was hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and so, so scared. This couldn’t possibly be happening. It was bad enough that he was being accused of attacking a free person, but being accused of being unstable? That was a guaranteed death sentence. If he was declared unstable, then the trainers and police could stop bothering with the interrogation and skip straight to putting him down. He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought. If they would just listen to him then none of this would be happening.
But they’d never listen to him. And it was happening. And Adler was going to die.
-----------------------------------
Detective Morgan watched the slave boy slouch against the table, all the fight drained out of him. He’d been in the interrogation room for almost six hours, being grilled by trainer after trainer with no results. Pask entered the observation room and stood next to him.
“I feel like we’re close,” he said.
“You’re wrong,” Morgan answered.
Pask rolled his eyes. “If he thinks we’re going to declare him unstable, he’ll confess to anything. That scares slaves.”
Morgan sighed. He hated trainers in the precinct, especially when they were interrogating slaves. They were cocky and needlessly aggressive. Morgan honestly didn’t even think this kid did anything. “But being declared unstable and confessing are going to yield the same results. He’s going to keep trying to get out of it.”
“Alright, well why don’t you do it? Go in there and talk to him,” Pask said, annoyed.
Morgan looked through the window at the boy. “I will.”
-----------------------------------
The door opened and closed, heavy footsteps stopping in front of the table. The chair scraped against the ground as someone pulled it back and sat in it. Adler pushed himself up to see his new tormentor.
It wasn’t a trainer. It was a man who looked a good ten years older than the brash young trainers he’s been dealing with. He was in plain clothes, with nothing to determine his rank except for the badge hanging from his neck. He set a bottle of water on the table, which immediately stole Adler’s attention.
“You want this?” the man asked. Adler looked up with what he hoped was pleading eyes. Please don’t force me to confess to something I didn’t do for some water. Please. The man surprised him by sliding it across the table in front of him. “Here. Drink.”
“Thank you,” Adler whispered, taking it. He hadn’t had anything to drink for hours--before he’d even begun making dinner earlier that evening. Or the day before. He really had no way to determine how long he’d been there. He’d drained about half the bottle before the man in front of him spoke again.
“I’m Detective Cody Morgan. Can you tell me your name?”
Adler blinked, and realized none of the trainers who’d been in there before had bothered asking his name. “Adler,” he answered.
Detective Morgan nodded. “Adler. Listen Adler, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to answer me honestly, okay? Because I don’t want to ask again.” Adler swallowed reflexively, fiddling with the lid on the water bottle. “Did you do anything to hurt that girl?”
Adler took a deep breath and looked up. “No.”
Morgan tilted his head. “All those trainers seem to think you did.”
“I didn’t. If they would listen to me, they’d know I didn’t.” It was daring to say, he knew that, but he was tired. And so sick of being there, and accused of something that didn’t happen.
“Tell me.” Adler looked up in surprise. Morgan’s face was relaxed, his pose non-threatening. He pointed to a camera in the corner of the ceiling. “I’m listening. Tell me what happened. Back up your claims. Say everything that happened from the time this started to the time you were put under arrest.”
Adler quickly recovered from his shock and began talking. “Uh, I was finishing making dinner--”
“Do you know what time it was?”
“Around six fifteen. Master gets home about six thirty every day, and he likes dinner ready. I was putting aside a plate for him when Miss Elaina got home.”
Morgan leaned forward. “Where was she?”
“I don’t know. She’d left the house earlier in the day, but I don’t remember what time.” Morgan sat back and indicated for Adler to continue. “She got home and I asked her if she wanted any dinner, she said she didn’t feel well and went to her room. A few minutes later I went to go see if she needed anything when I heard her fall. I knocked on the door, but she didn’t answer, so I went inside and saw she was unconscious.”
“What then?” Morgan asked.
Adler took a breath and continued, so relieved someone was actually listening to him, all his words were coming out in a rush. “I called 911 on her phone, and told them what happened. The operator said she’d send out an ambulance and paramedics. That’s when Miss Elaina started seizing.”
“When did the paramedics arrive?”
“I don’t know, just a couple of minutes after I called.”
“So you never laid a hand on Elaina?” Morgan asked.
Adler paused. “I mean, I turned her onto her side. The operator told me to. And when I first saw she was unconscious, I tapped her shoulder to try to wake her up. But that was it.”
Adler folded his hands on top of the table and exhaled. He’d been so desperate for someone to listen to him, but what if it didn’t mean anything? Would Detective Morgan ignore his story, and the way it wasn’t possible for him to have hurt Elaina? Would he still be declared unstable and sent to die? He held his breath and waited for him to speak again.
“So, you never hit her? Gave her anything?"
“I didn’t. She came home, went to her room, and passed out.” He took another drink of water. “Is...is she okay?”
“Hmm?” Morgan asked, like he’d been lost in thought.
“Miss Elaina. Is she alright?” Alder hadn’t really thought about her since he’d been arrested, but he was extremely worried. He knew seizures were serious. Was the reason he was being so forcefully questioned was because she was really hurt? Would she die?
“She’s in the hospital. Still unconscious. Last I heard, she was stable, though.”
Adler let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good,” he said. Then: “When she wakes up she can tell you! She can tell you that I didn’t do anything!”
Morgan put up a hand. Adler fell silent. “That really won’t be necessary.”
His grip on the water bottle tightened. “Why not?” he asked nervously.
“Because I believe you.”
Adler’s eyebrows shot up. “You do?”
Morgan nodded. “Yes. I do. The trainers are just an angry mob -- they want someone to condemn. But there were no signs of struggle on Elaina, and no signs of her being hit. Your story matches with the timestamp for the 911 call. Plus, if you did hurt her, I don’t see why you’d call 911 at all.” He thought. “Unless you were unstable.”
“I’m not!” Adler said quickly. Morgan scrutinized him some more.
“No, I don’t think you are. You’ve been very reasonable.”
Adler slouched in his chair, relieved and upset at how his night had turned out. He crossed his arms, the muscles in his right shoulder pulling painfully. “Thank you,” he muttered.
Morgan stared at him for a moment before checking his watch and standing. “Alright. Well. It’s late, so I’ll have you stay the night. You’ll go home tomorrow.”
He sighed at that, some of the tension dropping from his shoulders as he stood up. “Thank you sir.”
-----------------------------------
Morgan had put Adler in a small holding cell with a bed, and gave him another bottle of water and a sandwich from a vending machine, which he took gratefully.
“Okay. So your master should be back sometime in the morning. If I’m not here, then one of the officers will take you to meet him.” Adler nodded, sitting on the bed and eating. Morgan closed the door to the cell. “You did a great job cooperating, kid.”
As soon as he left, Adler wanted to collapse into bed. He was exhausted--both mentally and physically from the day. Morgan had told him it was a little after 1 o’clock in the morning, and he’d been awake since five a.m. He’d hardly sunk into the cot before he was asleep.
-----------------------------------
Adler was awakened by the sound of the cell door opening. He blinked against the bright lights and rubbed his eyes. Morgan stepped inside with a bag in hand.
“Morning, kid,” he said. He handed Adler the bag, which contained two donuts and a chocolate milk. “Eat up.”
“Thank you,” Adler murmured. He usually never got breakfast, so one as good as this was a nice surprise. Morgan sat next to him on the cot as he ate.
“So, I have some bad news.”
Adler froze mid-bite, his stomach dropping. Oh no, was it Elaina? Did something happen overnight and now Adler was back under suspicion? He wasn’t sure he’d walk away from the interrogation room scott-free again.
“Your master doesn’t want you back.”
He swallowed his food thickly. “He doesn’t? W-Why not?” Adler could hardly hear Morgan’s answer over his own growing panic. Master didn’t want him back? Then what? Was he going to get sold again? Oh he hated auction houses so much. They were loud and scary and he was always hurt for getting returned. He’d really really liked Master’s house and he swore he would be good so why wouldn’t his master want him back?!
“He said he doesn’t feel like he can trust you to be in his house,” Morgan said. “So I’m taking you to the auction house as soon as you’re ready. Alright?” Oh gosh no it was not alright. Adler felt himself nod. “Finish eating, and we’ll head out.” Morgan patted Adler on the leg and left.
Despite the horrible dread filling his stomach, Adler forced himself to eat the rest of what he was given. He knew that he wouldn’t be fed until he was sold, and who knew when that would happen? He’d spent almost a week at an auction house once -- he’d known slaves who were there for longer. They survived off of scraps sympathetic browsers gave him. If he became one of them, then every little thing counted.
He took a deep breath and made himself get up and leave the cell.
-----------------------------------
Morgan glanced at the kid in his passenger seat for the umpteenth time. He wondered if he gave him too sugary a breakfast -- he wasn’t looking too good. Morgan pulled into the parking lot of the auction house and turned off the car. He unbuckled and got out, but the kid didn’t.
“Adler?”
Adler jumped and looked up, like he’d just realized they’d arrived. He unbuckled his seatbelt with trembling hands and followed meekly behind Morgan.
“Hello, buying or selling?” the receptionist asked inside.
Morgan gestured to Adler behind him. “Selling.”
The woman wrote something down. “Alright, just let me scan his barcode, and I can send you back to talk to the auctioneers.”
Adler let the receptionist take his hand, and Morgan really noticed how badly he was shaking. The receptionist scanned the code on the back of his hand and they were sent through the back doors to the auction floor.
A few slaves were standing on the stage, but Morgan knew that most were kept in the back houses, waiting for their turn that day. A few early-risers were on the floor, bidding. Trainers were spread throughout the house, presumably keeping the slaves in check. Morgan noticed Adler’s gaze linger on the stage before he continued to follow Morgan as he searched for an auctioneer.
“Hello, can I help you with anything?” a young man asked. His nametag read Nate.
“Yeah, I’m selling him on behalf of the police department,” Morgan answered, pointing at Adler beside him. He hung near Morgan, but he was far enough away from the auctioneer that it was noticeable.
“Did he do something illegal?” Nate asked.
“No. it was a misunderstanding, but his master doesn’t want him back.”
Nate exhaled in visible relief. “Follow me and I can get everything down.”
Morgan glanced back at Adler as they began to walk to one of the desks lining the left-hand wall. He was looking more and more nervous as time went on, and Morgan worried he would try to bolt. But one look at the trainer guarding the desk area told him Adler would never risk it.
Nate sat and gestured for Morgan and Adler to do the same across the desk. He pulled out some papers and a pen. “Alright, what’s his name?”
“Adler,” Morgan answered.
Nate began to write. “What type of work has he done?”
Morgan looked at Adler and waited for him to answer. Adler cleared his throat and spoke softly. “Field and house, sir.”
“How many years did you do both?”
“I’m not sure how long I’ve been doing house. Most of my life, though. I only did field for three.”
After writing the information down, Nate furrowed his brows and looked up at Adler for the first time. “How old are you?”
Adler swallowed. “Eighteen.”
“Have you ever done any sex work?” Morgan felt his eyebrows shoot up. He watched Adler for his answer. He shook his head. “Hmm. I’ll put it on your file as an option,” Nate said casually.
Adler looked like he was going to be sick. He closed his eyes, his chest rising dramatically with a deep breath. It looked like he was trying to calm himself, but, based on the sweat beading on his forehead, it wasn’t working.
“Hang on, doesn’t he need to be a little older for that?” Morgan asked, trying to ease the situation.
Nate didn’t even look up from the papers. “No, he’s of age.”
Adler took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes, staring at nothing. Morgan worked his jaw. He wouldn’t consider himself anti-slavery but something about selling this kid, barely grown, to do who-knows-what against his will seemed wrong. Immoral. Illegal. His discomfort only grew the auctioneer continued getting information -- pulling out a measuring tape and taking down his height, directing him to the scales to get his weight. It felt like he was taking him to the gallows.
Finally everything was ready. Nate bid Morgan goodbye and took Adler away to the back houses. Morgan didn’t watch him go. He just left and sat in his car, feeling...gross.
He kept telling himself to put his key in the ignition and leave -- just leave. But he couldn't. The more he thought about how pale and shaking Adler was walking through the auction house, the more he felt like he couldn’t leave him there. He swore under his breath as he got out from his car, and went back into the building.
-----------------------------------
Adler was pushed into the dark holding cell. There were already two other slaves there -- one boy who couldn’t have been older than eleven or twelve, and a girl who seemed to be in her mid-twenties. They were both in opposite corners of the cell, heads down. Adler took a free corner and did the same, trying to not think about what would happen to him later.
He’d be punished. The trainers always had the slaves punished for getting sold again -- for not doing a good enough job for their previous masters. Adler already had scars from his other trips to auction houses, and the thought of new ones being added made his hands tremble.
Footsteps sounded down the hall, and Adler put his head in his hands, waiting for the trainer to pass. But they stopped at the cell he was in, and the heavy door opened. He held his breath, hoping they’d go for one of the other two in the cell, but rough hands gripped his shirt collar and hoisted him up.
He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Was he really being sent to be punished so soon? Adler trained his eyes on the ground, his breathing becoming more and more rapid. He waited to turn down the hall and into the punishment rooms -- full of whips and crops and restraints -- but they didn’t. Instead the trainer pushed him out the back door. Outside.
Adler blinked against the bright morning light, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When they did he saw Detective Morgan talking to the auctioneer they’d talked to before, who looked very upset. His heart jumped in his chest. Did his master want him back? Was Morgan going to take him back?
“Here,” the trainer said, pushing Adler forward gruffly.
Morgan gave him and the auctioneer a stern look before walking away, signaling Adler to join him.
Inside his car, Adler finally had the courage to speak up. “Did -- did my Master change his mind?” he asked, daring to hope.
Morgan put the car into drive and left the parking lot. “No. He didn’t. I did. You’re coming home with me.”
Adler felt his jaw drop. “I -- I am?”
“Yep.”
And before Adler knew it he was crying. He honestly didn’t even know why. He was just so exhausted from the interrogation, and spending a night in jail, and the fear of being sold again that when he heard he’d just be going home with someone who’d actually been nice to him, he broke. He put his head in his hands and tried to keep quiet, but he knew Morgan had already noticed. He put a hand on Adler’s back comfortingly.
“Hey, it’s alright. I know this has been stressful, but I promise I’ll treat you good, Adler.”
Adler looked up and wiped away his tears. “Oh I’m just -- thank you! Thank you so much, I promise I’ll do my best for you. I’ll be good and do anything you want me to, I promise!”
-----------------------------------
Morgan smiled. “I know you will, kid.”
He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d gotten himself into with this, but he knew one thing -- Adler’s life was about to get much better.
So many people on Twitter are attacking Ashton, and maybe it’s bc I’m white and dont fully understand, but it seems to me like he’s trying? Did he do something wrong with what he tweeted?
Twitter is a hellscape where fans and people that are “trying to help” are attacking celebrities and keeping track of who to cancel instead of actually contributing to the causes they apparently “care about”. Let me say something here: it’s largely non-black people trying to police others on how to be the best activist they can be. That’s about power, and we all know how ugly stan culture is with that.
Drama isn’t what black people need. Ashton is doing his absolute best and you can tell by the way he’s talking about black lives specifically. He’s asking how he can help, he’s listening.
I’m not at all giving him special treatment for tweeting. It’s just important to see the difference of someone spectating what’s going on and someone actively trying to be a part of the conversation.
Ashton set a wonderful example, and I hope a lot of people can learn from what he did. 💓
