If you would like to read this on my livejournal instead of the evil ff net, you can find it at
pucktheperv [dot] livejournal [dot] com [slash] tag [slash] bornthisslave
o o o
Warnings:Slash, slave!fic, non-con, dub-con, h/c, kink, angst, fluffystuff, boysex,
Pairings:Kurtofsky (master!Kurt/slave!Dave), Sam/Dave, Others/Dave, Other Minor Pairings
Summary: Everything is going well for Glee Club until a drop in the economy leaves one of their own in a desperate situation. The bank is foreclosing on Sam and he is about to be sent into a world of legal slavery - a trade that is entirely foreign to everyone except the highest of society. The situation seems helpless until Kurt comes forward with a secret that may save Sam's life—but it may also lose Kurt his friends when they find out that one of their own is, in fact, a slavemaster.
About the Story: This is an AU based off the Glee world. All the Glee kids are students at McKinley, yaddayaddayadda, just like on the show but they live in a world where there is a treacherous system that allows for legal human slavery. It is both a hot political issue and a tradition passed down for generations. It's all explained throughout the story. What can I say? I love world building. So much I already have another chapter almost ready to go. :)
A Note About the So-Called "Dangers" of Slave!fic: As you may have noticed if you've seen my main notaman, Dave's, new fic, Country Slave, I have been dying for some slave!fic in this fandom. (Go read it. It's sweet and cute and fabulous!) Glee fandom seems to have a weird idea that slave!fic is scary and horrifically dark when, in reality, most of what I've seen in my years in fandom has been created with a hurt/comfort base that allows for angst leading to eventual romance and happiness. This, like, most of my fics, is going to be a nice mix of heart-wrenching angst, silly jokes, and happy endings. (I am the Queen of Happily Ever After, people!) This fic will have its dark moments (if you've read Cell Mate then you probably know I love me some angst) and will address the psychological, sexual, and societal implications of slavery, however, it is, at heart, a romance between Kurt Hummel and Dave Karofsky, with some nice plot on the side. And there will be plenty of humorous moments, as well as a lot of 'ohmygoshthatssosweet' times between Kurt and Dave. So if you're afraid that slave!fic=darkness, brutality, and death… well, you should know better 'cause I luuuuv it and I ONLY read stories with happy endings and a nice dose of hurt/comfort on the side. :) So give it a try and tell me what you think… Just remember: The Harry Potter fandom is EFFING FULL OF SLAVE!FIC and it's a rockin' fandom. Gotta love me some "Yes, Master Snape" from Harry. ;P Finally, if you don't like slave!fic, that's fine. But please don't attack us kinky people. BDSMers are people too! ;)
o o o
Chapter 1: Property Rights
"Oh, God, Mr. Schue… I just... I just don't know what I'm going to do!" A choked sob. "I just want to die."
Kurt paused outside the choir room, a little startled. He had never heard Sam sound like that, not even after he'd given in and eaten six bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. He just sounded so... desperate. This was definitely not something that could be fixed in the bathroom with a finger down the throat.
Kurt bit his lip and took a small step back. It wouldn't *really* be eavesdropping if he just stood out here for a minute to powder his nose. It wasn't like he didn't have a legitimate for being outside the choir room. He couldn't leave his precious Prada clutch in there all by its lonesome, after all. It was probably furious at him for forgetting it, but the sweater-turned-monstrosity that Rachel was wearing today had been so distracting, it was amazing that he'd remembered his right arm. Or that he'd come away from the experience with his sight still intact. It had been tough not to claw out his own eyes. It really had.
"Don't worry, Sam. I'm gonna help you, okay? You're not alone."
Kurt held back a little gasp, his fingertips coming to rest on his chest. Dear God, he'd been right. Sam *was* gay. He should have *known* it. No straight boy would dye their hair Madonna blonde just for the hell of it.
"But how can you help? They're just gonna take me. There's not anything you can do."
Wait… they were just going to take him? Who, the gay patrol? Were his parents Baptists or something?
"Sam, this isn't right. It's immoral and disgusting."
Okay, now Kurt was confused. Mr. Schue didn't seem the homophobic type. No man who used that much hair product would dare to join Westboro—they'd burn him at the stake in an instant. And, with all that grease he smudged on his scalp, his head would be flaming in an instant, no gay-pun intended.
"It doesn't *matter*, Mr. Schue. The bank doesn't care. The corporations don't care. They're owned by members of the elite." He made a noise somewhere between a sniffle and a sob. "They're going to take me and do… do… I don't *know* what they're going to do, Mr. Schue. I just know that they're foreclosing on me."
Foreclosing on him… Oh God… It was worse than he had imagined. Way, *way* worse than he'd imagined. The members of Westboro Baptist would just beat the hell out of him, tie him to a fence, and leave him to die. The slavemasters, on the other hand… Citizens who became slaves rarely lived through training, but the short period before their unfortunate demise was probably the most horrific time of their lives. Kurt knew, in ways that none of the mess of middle class citizens at McKinley possibly could. He had experience living with the elite, had seen how slaves truly lived. And he knew how slaves were *trained*.
The elite claimed that slaves were 'born that way,' a real twist on Lady Gaga's good intentions. But whether you believed that or not, one thing was certain. If you didn't start them *young*, their minds didn't survive it.
"Look, the school gets three state slave scholarships each year to give to extraordinary slaves. And if anyone is extraordinary, it's you, Sam. You and I will go and talk to Figgins about getting you set up with one of those."
Ha. That was a joke. The state slave scholarships were a half-assed tactic to shut up the liberal media. Just another ploy by the slave trade to make the commoners comfortable with the fact that a class of people existed in their society who had no problem owning what the liberals considered to be "other humans." All a state slave scholarship did was give the slave's master a few bucks to let them "attend classes." Of course, they attended classes with other slaves—the slaves placed in the schools by private owners who simply enjoyed living vicariously through a pet who was stellar at football or cheerleading or could win a national spelling bee or something. And all those classes were was another form of slave training. In truth they made the unlucky corporately-owned slaves who were "gifted" with the scholarships less valuable because they took away the glory of being trained by a well known slavemaster. Any privately owned slave would definitely have received training on the side. Kurt's had.
If you wanted proof, you could see it branded into his ass.
The scholarships were a total joke and the slave classes were a waste of space. Hell, half the time private slave owners just let *their* slaves attend *regular* classes because the slave classes were so worthless. But those there on "scholarship" didn't rate that. They weren't worth the cost of text books.
The program produced its intended results, however, making the corporations who sponsored them look like "good guys" to the common people and keeping the Emancipation League's car-bombings down. So what the hell, right? The school board had no problem with it since the principals were allowed to choose the slaves and they always chose the types who would bring in extra funding and give the PTA a buzz. Top athletes. Special needs kids. Large breasted girls with pom-poms. Things like that.
Kurt wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his his chest, heart pounding a little too fast. His wished his slave was there to wrap his arms around. Its big chest always made him feel secure. Not that anything could really make this better. The idea that *Sam* was about to be taken into slavery… it just didn't want to compute. This wasn't possible. Sam would never *survive,* not with his mind intact, anyway. He was too much of, well... a *human*. He was opinionated and social and confident. Not the kind that trainers liked. But he was also beautiful, so, if worse came to wors,t he might not end up dead—he might end up a mindless toy sold off in the blackmarket fringe auctions that only the the dirtiest of slavers attended instead. Not exactly a stellar alternative
He had to do something. He couldn't just *stand* there while Mr. Schue monologued about his naive plans to play the teacher superhero. Kurt understood slavery, in a that way other common folk didn't. He had first hand experience. He knew all the secrets that the elite didn't want the average joe to know about the trade. And he knew that Mr. Schue's plans were flat out tomfoolery. But it wasn't as if he could really help. All the knowledge in the world couldn't help Sam now if the banks truly had a claim on him. And if he tried to help, his secret would come out. The secret that he'd worked his cute little butt off to keep under wraps so that his friends wouldn't scorn him. He knew how Tina and Mercedes and Rachel felt about slavery—they had started the school's chapter of SAS: Students Against Slavery for God's sake! Hell, Kurt had helped design the t-shirts! (Which were absolutely fabulous with their image of a purple sequined whip and the words 'Be SAS-y! Whip slavery!" on the front He'd made his poor slave wear one for a week.)
If his girlfriends had a clue that Kurt was a slavemaster, they'd never speak to him again. And he understood that. Emancipation was the in thing. The youth of every generation needed something to fight for and, once they'd realized that the rainforests were a lost cause and that nobody was ever going to treat women completely equal, they had turned against slavery.
The straightforwardness with which they despised it was simpleminded to say the least—the movement had its roots in the middle class and everything the middle class knew about the slave trade was a mix of erotic tales, false media, and pure myth. The slavemasters worked hard to make certain that the common people had no part in the trade, crafting legislation that called for an enormous yearly fee in order to acquire a Slavemaster's Permit. That way slaves could still be sold on the cheap, but they could be certain that all the buyers were of the elite class.
What always astounded Kurt was how none of his friends ever noticed that, despite how charged the issue was, none of the freedom fighters were ever slaves. Of course, the whole thing was founded in the naive notions of The People and, most likely, they just assumed the slaves were afraid or unable to come forward to fight for themselves. After all, a lot of corporate money went into making certain that the corporate owned slaves who did every day work like manning cash registers and driving taxis acted as "normal" or "human" as possible when in the presence of commoners. And any slave who violated this unspoken law quickly found themselves involved in a tragic accident. The common people never got to see slaves in their natural setting, under the watch of the elite class. There, they were a whole different species. Which was, of course, the elites' one last grip on morality. It was believed that slaves were a different species, homo servus, with lesser minds and perhaps even a lack of soul. They considered it a *gift* to the slaves that they would care for them, since their lesser kind surely couldn't exist in this world on their own. And all that was owed to them in return was the slaves' complete and utter obedience.
Kurt was the son of a working man at heart—the elite was *not* what he wanted to be—but even he wasn't sure on this point. He knew slaves. He *had* a slave. And while it might be arguable whether or not they were physically human, they definitely didn't think like any freeman Kurt had ever met.
Which was, of course, why the retraining of freemen as slaves did not tend to succeed. Hell, private slave owners wouldn't even waste their time looking at what the banks called their 'First Generation Slaves.' Mostly they were bought off by large companies and stuck doing the worst of jobs, digging in garbage all day, or purchased by newly rich businessmen looking for little more than a living blow up doll.
Many of the "old money" slave owners actually thought it was morally disgusting. After all, if slaves were a separate species, born that way, then freemen couldn't be 'retrained' into slaves. But with the economy tanking and quick money to be made through corporate buyouts of poorly trained First-gens, the banks were running wild, letting everyone and sundry take out loans on themselves or on anyone whom they had guardianship over.
But surely, surely Sam's parents wouldn't have been stupid enough to do that? Everyone knew that the banks targeted only the most desperate with their slaving schemes, knowing they'd turn a profit on the re-sale. Well, everyone in the elite knew that, and anyone who had a finger in the slave trade. Probably your everyday American man just thought it was a good way to save his house. Banks could make anything seem pretty—they just covered up the ugly fine print with silky lies.
"—really think this will work? Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Schue!"
Apparently Kurt had missed a bit of the conversation, lost in his horrified thoughts, because Sam was now in Mr. Schue's arms, crying in relief as the older man patted him tenderly on the back. They had absolutely no idea what they were up against.
What to do? If he let them know their plan was insane, everyone would find out about his little secret. He'd be forced to tell them-how else would he explain his in depth understanding of all things slavery? Maybe he could say that he'd taken a class? No, they didn't *offer* classes on this stuff. That he'd just figured it all out in his head? Ha. Einstein couldn't have figured out the complex web of half-truths and subtle lies that was the slave trade. You had to have insider knowledge. Kind of like playing the stock market blindfolded.
He could just do nothing. Sam would get what was coming to him—or that was what the bank would say, anyway. His life would be destroyed and he might not even survive a years. Or worse, he *might* survive, trapped in a life where he'd rather be dead. They counted on the fact that the First-gens would be tossed into the system knowing absolutely nothing, and then they gave them the crash course. To be a slave you had to live with a certain mindset. Some people might call it brainwashing. But whatever it was, it was incomprehensible to a freeman's mind and the punishments for thinking outside that 'slave box' were brutal.
If he worked with Sam, shared his knowledge, they might be able to figure out *some* way for him to end up in tolerable existence, at least. It *was* possible to bail oneself out of slave training. Born-slaves were registered at birth, but First-gens weren't registered until they finished their training. That way, if they killed themselves during training, the bank could still hold their family responsible for the unpaid loan since they had not yet made them "officially" a slave, a form of insurance that guaranteed the bank would be paid off in some way. Until Sam was registered, his parents could buy him back. Training would start immediately, but it lasted six months. Six months was a good amount of time. Maybe the Glee club could work to raise the money?
Of course, the real risk was that Sam's mind could be broken in a week, and then what was the point? But once again, a slave's survival depended on its' mindset. Freemen tended to break down because that slave mindset was too non-sensical to integrate it into their thinking and, without that ability to analyze their actions as a slave would, they couldn't bear it. But if Sam had someone to explain it to him, a sort of mentor who could teach him how to survive… A true slave, born to his place to help him… Maybe, just maybe, he could make it through.
Kurt took a deep breath, steeling himself. His mind was made up. Sam was his friend, and a freeman, and Kurt couldn't abandon him to this. His friends would either come to understand why Kurt kept a slave or they wouldn't. It would be painful, but losing his friends wouldn't destroy his life, not in the way this would destroy Sam's anyway. He could make new friends and he would still have his slave, ever faithful, to be there for him. It was time to be the bigger person.
"Your plan won't work."
Sam and Mr. Schue practically jumped apart, staring with wide eyes as Kurt waltzed into the choir room, his fuscia sweater flowing like a cape behind him. He was Kurt, Supermaster. Whether that was a hero or villain, he wasn't really sure.
He came to a halt in the center of the room and put a hand on his hip, taking on a sassy pose. "My mother's family are members of the elite. I've spent three weeks out of every summer at their manor house my whole life. They own over thirty slaves. I have been to slave auctions, watched training sessions, and spent time with the most adamant members of the pro-slavery factions." He paused. Might as well be dramatic while he could. "And... I own a slave. I *know* how the slave trade works and I can tell you that it is *nothing* like the myth they portray. I can't say for certain what I believe regarding the ethics of keeping slaves, but I can tell you that I believe the re-training of freemen into slavery is immoral, a wretched process that the greediest of business tycoons use for their own profit. And most of the elite would agree with me on that issue. But that *doesn't* mean that they will lift a single finger to stop it and it *definitely* doesn't mean that your little plan to 'Save the Sam,'" Kurt made quotation marks in the air, making a face, "will help him in any way. No freeman can go into slavery and live a happy life, and a thousand scholarships won't change that."
Mr. Schue's mouth was hanging open and Sam's eyes looked like saucers. Kurt swallowed down the sick feeling in his gut. They could think what they wanted. They needed his help.
"Kurt…" Mr. Schue said slowly, Sam looking like maybe he was going to hyperventilate. "I don't know that-"
Kurt held up a hand. "Wait, please. Hear me out. Like I said: No freeman can go into slavery and live a happy life. The only chance Sam has is to begin training and hope that we can come up with a way to pay off the loan that was taken out on him before the six months is up and he is registered as a slave. After that he will be a slave for life and his children will be slaves and his children's children will be slaves. And somehow I *don't* think he wants that."
Mr. Schue's forhead wrinkled up his mouth twisting into a weird sort of face. "I agree that slavery is obviously *not* what we want for Sam, but this is not the Dark Ages, Kurt. Emancipation is coming." He gave Sam a supportive look, though his smile was definitely forced. "Even now the state is working to help slaves be more educated through its scholarship programs."
Kurt let out a short laugh. "It's a bunch of bullshit, Mr. Schue, if you will excuse my Français. I know this because I *know* the slave trade. They don't expect people like you to understand it, which is why they manage to actually encourage slavery and still come off looking like the good guy with their little scholarship farce."
"W-wait," Sam said, his voice rough. "You… you're a *slavemaster*?"
Okay, someone was running a few steps behind.
Kurt took a deep breath, holding his chin up high. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He loved his slave—it was his most precious possession. And he had no problem with freedom fighters. His *slave* was the one disgusted by emancipation. To turn his slave loose was what would be the ultimate cruelty. Like... like abandoning a child in a Macy's dressing room. Kurt had actually done that to his slave once, in a fit of annoyance, and when he had returned for the big lug it had cried for an hour. He'd felt guilty enough that he'd actually let it loose in the food court, God help his credit card. Eight slices of New York style pizza, two plates of orange chicken, sixteen buffalo wings, a gallon of Big Red, and one of those giant cookie-cake things later the tears were dried and his slave weighed twice as much as when they'd gone in.
"Yes," he said, voice flat. "Though I don't like to spread it around. I am proud to be the son of a common man, but my grandparents are elite. I honestly am not comfortable in that environment and would never want to live in that class, much to my grandparents' disappointment. My mother was their only child and they were horrified when she married a working man. But my slave was given to me by them and I care for it very, very much. It is my prize." He sniffed and ran a finger along his bangs. "We could probably discuss the ethics of slavery for a month, but right now we don't have time. When are they foreclosing on you, Sam?"
The boy just stared at him for a long moment. He was probably deciding whether he wanted anything to do with Kurt or not now that he knew he was a slavemaster. Apparently self preservation overcame disgust, however, because he let out a loud sigh, running his big palms through his very-much-dyed mop of blonde as he looked nervously up at the ceiling like it might magically have some answers. "Three days. Today was our final notice. And I can't run, Kurt. If I do, they'll arrest my father and they might take my little sister or brother." He sniffled, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. "I don't know what to do."
It was soon, but that was to be expected. They *didn't* want him to run, after all. "Mr. Schue is right about one thing: We can't stop them from taking you, though his idea to let it happen then try and help you be a happy slave on a scholarship or whatever is just laughable. But we *can* prepare you for what's to come and help you survive the training period so that we can raise the money to bail you out."
"Wait... Did you just say you'd help me *survive* the training period?" Sam questioned, a terrified look on his face.
Kurt sighed. They really had no idea what they were dealing with. The poor boy probably thought he was gonna be given a job mowing lawns for an hour a day or something. Trained to, like, dust the living room once a week and make sure the DVDs were stacked neatly.
"It's not going to be easy, Sam. And we're also going to have to be real careful that the bank doesn't realize what we're doing. They want you to get through training, but they *don't* want you to be bailed out. They will make way more money off the sale of a young, attractive male like you than whatever the minimum return on the loan is." He reached out to the boy, trying to ignore the flash of pain when Sam took a pointed step back. Willing to accept his help, but not what he was.
"Slave training is brutal for a freeman. You're thrown into a world that you know nothing about, being punished for things you don't understand. My slave can help you, though. He's a true slave and he'll be able to sort of mentor you. You know, explain what they expect of you and whatnot. Because they don't bother to tell you. They want you to have to figure it out." Kurt paused, frowning a little. "What we need to figure out is how to make sure that your training is here in Lima. They can move you wherever they want and they likely will. They want to cut all the ties to your life as a freeman. And even if you survived the training without coaching, we might never be able to find you after we come up with the money. Banks are really in this to trap people in slavery, not to get their loans back."
"Oh, God," Sam muttered, all the blood rushing from his face, his tan skin turning an unhealthy shade of white. "I hadn't even thought of that. Of course they wouldn't want me to be near my family and my friends and stuff!" A tear slipped from his eye and he wiped it away with the collar of his t-shirt. "They're not just gonna take me away, they're gonna take me away to someplace where I don't know anybody!"
"Wait a second," Mr. Schue said slowly, raising a hand in thought. "I might have an idea… We were talking about the state slave scholarships—"
Kurt made a sound of annoyance. "Mr. Schue, we don't have time to argue this. Please, please, *please* just believe me that those things are worthless."
"No, I believe you, Kurt," Mr. Schue said, holding up his hands. "I... I know that I was being maybe overly hopeful. I'm not totally blind—I realize that emancipation is a long, long way off. And if slaves aren't emancipated in our lifetime then a slave scholarship isn't going to do anything but put off the inevitable. I just figured it was better than doing *nothing.* But what if we used it to our advantage? Schools are allowed to select the slaves who receive their scholarships, after all..."
Kurt raised an eyebrow. It wasn't a bad idea. Maybe he needed to give Mr. Schue more credit. "That might work."
"But you said I'll be in training," Sam said, looking worried. "That I won't be, like, registered yet? Could I *get* a slave scholarship then?"
A fair question. Kurt wasn't entirely sure...
"You can," Mr. Schue said firmly and Kurt looked at him with interest. "I *do* know that. I know they can give them to seized freemen in slave training, because Sue's done it."
"Sue?" Kurt asked, frowning.
"You know Becky Johnson? Her parents lost her because of all the medical bills associated with her Down Syndrome last year. Sue threatened to launch a missile inside Principal Figgins' church if he didn't give Becky a scholarship so that Sue could watch out for her." Mr. Schue tugged at the edge of his sweater vest, looking excited. "If we can just convince Figgins to give a scholarship to Sam so that he can stay in Glee Club... Maybe tell him that we need him to help us win at Regionals? Then we'll have the time to get the money together *and* your, uh," he cleared his throat, "erm, your slave," Mr. Schue stumbled over the word, looking uncomfortable, "can help Sam get through this without any trauma."
'Without any trauma' sounded like high hopes to Kurt, but overall the plan wasn't bad. It wasn't bad at all. "You think Figgins would go for it?"
Mr. Schue took a deep breath, fists clenching. "I'll find a way to convince him. If I have to, I'll pull a Sue. I'm sure Sandy Ryerson knows where I can get roofies, then it will be blackmail city." He reached out, roughly hugging the Sam. "Don't worry, kiddo. The Glee Club is family, and we're not going to let them take one of ours."
o o o
"William, you know very well that all of our state-given slave scholarships have been taken by the very limber members of the Cheerios!"
"Oh, come on! Half of the Cheerios are privately owned slaves, funded by their own masters! Surely you can spare a single scholarship for someone *other* than Sue!"
Principal Figgins sat back dramatically in his chair, hands waving in the air. "Those scholarships are very much coveted! I owe it to the school to use them for our best interests! The Cheerios win national championships! Your Glee Club does mattress commercials! There is no way that I can justify removing one of the slaves in the Cheerios so that your little beach boy over there can do the Twist!"
"Vocal Adrenaline is full of slaves!" Mr. Schue protested as he slammed a palm down on Figgins' desk. "Obviously Carmel can spare some scholarships for the Glee Club!"
"Once again, their Glee Club is a *national champion*, William, and the majority of their slaves are privately owned! Masters with talented young slaves seek out programs such as that and foot the bill on the whim that their pet might turn into a pop superstar one day! The next Key-Dollar-Sign-Ha! We must use our slave scholarships to bring in the most talented to help the *successful* programs so that other masters will also bring their slaves to take part in these programs!" He shook his head derisively. "We are a public education facility, William! These freemen's children bring in no money! But the private masters *pay* for their slaves to attend! And they want them to attend with champions, not the members of Hanson!" He rubbed his fingers together in the international symbol for cold, hard cash. "It is all about dollars, William. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do."
"It's all about dollars, huh?" Kurt said suddenly, moving forward from where he'd been lurking off in the corner. They'd been arguing long enough. Kurt had to do something. What could he say? He just didn't trust Mr. Schuester's blackmailing abilities. He was a talented man but he had nothing on Sue Sylvester when it came to vicious.
Mr. Schue shot him a strange look and Kurt waved it away, marching forward until he was standing right in front of Principal Figgins' desk, arms crossed over his chest. "And how much *does* a privately owned slave bring in per year for the school? Quite a bit, I believe. Somewhere around the range of… hm…" He tapped his fingers on Figgins' desk, pretending to contemplate the question. "Six thousand dollars? That goes a long way toward renovating the library, Principal Figgins." He paused, frowning. "It would be very sad if a slave you counted on for tuition was removed by his master… Hm… And just who has a slave that you rely on for tuition?"
Sam made a surprised sound and Mr. Schue kind of sounded like he was going to choke. Kurt ignored them. Yeah, his slave went to McKinley. Surprise. He stared down at Principal Figgins', delighting in the darkening of the man's face.
"Really, young Mr. Hummel, why *is* it that you are so very concerned about Mr. Evans' schooling?" Kurt didn't like the suspicious tone of Figgins' voice so he flashed his most diva grin. "Schooling? Who said anything about me caring about *schooling*? I care about Glee Club! Sam is one of our best singers—and pretty much the only boy willing to do a duet with me! As a gay teen, I appreciate that support."
Figgins' began to speak, a scowl on his face, but whatever he had been about to say was interrupted when the door slammed open and Coach Sylvester stormed in, a tornado in a yellow track suit, her face making Hurricane Katrina look like a gentle breeze.
"What is this I hear about you taking away one of *my* slave scholarships, Figgins?"
The principal blinked up at her, obviously surprised. "Sue… how in the world did you hear about that? It cannot be around the school already!"
The woman snorted, a disgusted look on her face. "Did you *really* think that paperweight I gave you for Christmas was just a paperweight? Hidden camera, Figgins!" She pointed threateningly at him. "You would be *amazed* the things I know!"
"Oh, for goodness' sake, Sue! A hidden camera? What is this fascination you have with spy gear? First the tranqualizers in your fountain pen, now *hidden cameras?* Are you to become the next James Bond?"
"Don't try to change the subject, Figgins! I'll drive an Aston Martin if I damn well please! But you are *not* giving one of my scholarships to Ken doll over there!"
"They are not *your* scholarships, Sue! They belong to the *school*! I will give them out as I see fit!"
Sue glowered at him, lip curling. "And you think it's A-okay to take a scholarship away from one of my Cheerios in the *middle of the year* just so Schuester can get his rocks off looking at someone with hair more ridiculous than his own?"
"I didn't say that, Sue!" He frowned at Kurt, who raised an eyebrow pointedly. It was all about they money. Figgins sighed. "But perhaps is *is* unfair that you have all three scholarships, Sue. I mean, perhaps slaves who are not cheerleader material deserve a chance to attend McKinley."
Sue moved around Figgins' desk, leaning over him, her voice low. "I have *proved* myself, Figgins! I have six storage units filled to the brim with trophies to show that *I* bring prestige to this school! You start taking my scholarships, I may be taking my squad elsewhere!"
"Sue," Figgins said, voice exhasperated. "Really, you cannot spare *one* Cheerio? Not even one of your best ones! Just one of the state supported ones!"
"I am a *winner*, Figgins. I have brought *so* much to this school. All Schuester has done is scare away charitable donations with the smell of lard wafting from his hair!"
"You know what?" Mr. Schue said suddenly, leaning forward in his seat, an almost wicked look on his face. "Maybe Sue is right."
Sue straightened abruptly. "Is 2012 here already? I think the world just ended. Just in time for you to finally come to your senses."
Mr. Schue ignored the woman, eyeing Figgins seriously. "How about this? Give Sam the scholarship. If we win at Regionals, he gets to keep it until Nationals. If we win at Nationals, he gets it for next year, too. We lose, Sue can have it back."
"Oh, that is a bunch of bullhinky!" Sue snapped her fingers in Mr. Schue's general direction.
Principal Figgins ran a finger across his chin thoughtfully, thinking for a moment, then glanced over at Kurt. "This is acceptable to you, Mr. Hummel?"
It wasn't a bad deal. Regionals was only three months away, but that would give them *some* time at least. And if they won at Regionals then they'd have another three months until Nationals. After that, it wouldn't matter, because Sam would either be a freeman once more or be registered as a slave.
"It's acceptable," he said shortly.
"And your slave will remain at McKinley?"
"Yes. I will keep it at McKinely."
Figgins clapped his hands together, a bright smile on his face. "Wonderful! We are all agreed!"
"I don't remember agreeing to this!" Sue shouted as they all began to move toward the door.
Kurt smiled supportively at Sam as he moved up next to him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder as they entered the hallway. "Don't worry, Sam. We're going to fix this."
"Thank you, Kurt," Sam replied quietly, sniffling a little. "I guess if anyone can do something unbelievable, it's you. You can dress pretty unbelievable, anyway."
Kurt only hoped he was right.
