Disclaimer: Not making any money, just borrowing the characters for a little bit of fun.

AN: Big thanks to my betas Romanse, Gabi and T'eyla for their help and support!

A fair warning first, this is a rather dark story, taking place in an AU quite different from the Enterprise universe that we know. Those of you who have read "Hunter" may notice certain parallels, and actually, this story was written because I wondered how the boys would have reacted if their roles in "Hunter" had been exchanged. It's not necessary to have read "Hunter" to understand the plot, though; it's a different setting and (hopefully) works as a story of its own.

Sorry for the long Author's Note, and, as always, all feedback is very welcome :)!


Chapter 1

„Or this one over there. He's very obedient, we've had him for a while."

He sounds like one of those people in the Adopt Me shows, Malcolm thought. "A friendly fellow, only fifteen years old, and he may bite off your toes when you're not careful, but he's so loving!"

Duvall seemed interested in the blond man the trader had pointed out. "How old is he?"

"Oh, can't be older than twenty-five," the trader said.

Make that twenty-nine, Malcolm thought. He wished the Captain would hurry up so they could get out of here. The room smelled, doubtlessly because of the twenty or so men who were sitting huddled together on the dirty floor behind the bars. None of them looked like someone Malcolm would have liked to share his living quarters, much less his bed with, but, of course, the Captain would have his toy washed before it was introduced to its new duties. And of course, the washing would be Malcolm's job.

I can hardly wait. Not.

"I'd like to have a look at him," Duvall said.

"Of course, sir." The trader waved at one of his men. Whip in hand, the guard opened the door to the holding space and went inside, whacking those who didn't scramble out of his way fast enough. The blond man at the back seemed to have realized that it was him the guard was coming for. He shrank further into his corner, and pulled away when the guard reached for him. When the whip came down on his bare back, he cried out and kicked at the guard.

"Obedient, huh?" Duvall asked as they watched the man being dragged to his feet. The guard continued to whip him as he herded him towards the door, and by the time he was being pushed outside, there was blood trickling down his back and shoulders.

"Well, he needs to be trained, of course," the trader said.

Malcolm looked at the filthy, miserable thing standing in front of Duvall and secretly crossed his fingers that the Captain would come to his senses and leave, preferably in the next five seconds. Why anyone would waste their money in this dump, he could not understand, and Duvall certainly had enough to go to some place with no cockroaches on the floor.

"Can he take those off?" Duvall nodded at the man's gray rags, which might have been boxer shorts one day.

"Certainly." The trader stepped behind the man and gave the boxers a sharp tug. Since the man was little but skin and bones, they immediately dropped around his ankles. The man gasped, and the startled expression on his face made Duvall laugh out loud.

The trader grinned. "Well, he's got nothing to hide, as you can see."

Malcolm thought that the man rather looked as if he wanted to hide when Duvall walked towards him. Eyes wide, he pulled back a little, only to receive a sharp slap from the trader.

"Keep still, will you."

The man obeyed, holding still as Duvall examined his eyes, looked in his mouth and squeezed his arms. When the Captain felt him between the legs, he flinched but otherwise made no sound. Finally, Duvall stepped back and nodded.

"Everything seems to be in working order. How much do you want for him?"

As they began to haggle over the price, Malcolm took a closer look at Duvall's new plaything-to-be. The man was of average height, a little too skinny although his muscular arms and legs testified to the fact that he was used to physical labor. His face was maybe the most interesting thing about him – while not exactly handsome, it was very expressive and, even with dirt and grime on it, had a certain, boyish charm. Suddenly, the man raised his head, and Malcolm found himself scrutinized by a pair of startlingly blue eyes. He quickly looked away, pretending he hadn't noticed.

"...fivehundred and sixty-five credits," Duvall said. "My last offer."

The trader sighed. "Well, it's less than he's worth, but..." He held out a hand for Duvall's money chip. "It's a deal."

Duvall grinned.


Oh dear God... where to start?

The naked body in front of Malcolm was so filthy that the skin had taken on a gray hue in places, and the smell was just awful. The man's back was covered with welts, old ones and those he had received earlier when the guard had beaten him up, and the insides of his thighs were mottled with fading bruises.

Go figure.

He cleared his throat. Might as well get started right now and get it over with. "Well, let's get you into the shower, shall we?"

The man didn't move, and Malcolm sighed inwardly. Duvall had told him to wash his new slave before taking him to the doctor for a thorough examination, and the Captain wouldn't be pleased if his toy wasn't ready and waiting for him when he went to bed. In fact, he might be displeased enough to have Malcolm standing guard in front of his quarters all night, the usual punishment when Malcolm didn't fulfill his duties as a bodyguard and personal "assistant" to Duvall's satisfaction.

"Shower," he repeated, and nodded at the cubicle behind them. "You need to wash."

The man only stared at the floor. Malcolm waited, wondering what was wrong. It didn't look as if the man was offering passive resistance, at least not on purpose; the expression on his face was scared rather than rebellious. But he still didn't move, and Malcolm was beginning to get impatient.

"What is it?"

The man raised his head, and looked at Malcolm for the first time. "I... can't," he said hoarsely, his voice and inflection sounding somewhat off, although Malcolm could not have said exactly what it was that sounded strange.

"What?" he asked. "You can't what?"

The man pointed at his left, then at his right ear. "I'm deaf," he said, very quietly.

Malcolm stared at him. "You're deaf?" he repeated, pointed at his own ears and shook his head. "You can't hear at all?"

He made a gesture to express finality, and the man nodded.

"I'm deaf," he said again, in that strange inflection of his. "Don't understand."

Malcolm closed his eyes and sighed. Bloody fantastic. When Duvall found out, he was going to hit the roof, especially since they couldn't turn around and ask for his money back. The trader's ship would have long disappeared from the station, and Starfleet would not be happy if they learned that Duvall had altered Shenandoah's course just to return damaged goods.

He looked back at the man, who was watching him anxiously, obviously expecting an angry outburst, maybe even a blow. Malcolm shook his head.

"Well, it's not your fault, is it," he said. "You still have to wash, though. Come on," he took the man's arm and steered him towards the shower, opened the sliding door and pointed at the fittings inside. "Wash," he said, careful to look at the man and pronounce the word clearly so that it could be read from his lips. "Shower."

The man nodded and carefully reached out to turn on the faucet, as if he had never seen a shower before. When the warm water came down on him, he flinched and made as if to pull back, but Malcolm motioned for him to stay put. He went to get a bottle of shampoo from a shelf and handed it to the man, who took it but didn't seem to know what he was supposed to do.

Malcolm sighed inwardly. Using both hands, he signed to the man to open the bottle by unscrewing its lid, then mimed turning it upside down over his head. The man stared at him, then, hesitantly, began to undo the top. When it was open, he brought the bottle to his nose and smelled, his eyes widening at the scent. Again, he glanced at Malcolm, as if to ask if this thing of luxury was actually meant for him.

Malcolm had to stifle a grin. "Go ahead," he said. "Wash your hair."

The man carefully squeezed a dollop of shampoo onto his head, then held his head under the shower. The water washed away the shampoo almost at once, foaming up the water at the man's feet. The man seemed a little confused about the whole exercise, but gamely raised the bottle to repeat the procedure.

Malcolm sighed. "No," he said, carefully pronouncing the word. "You need to massage it in before rinsing." When it was obvious that the man had not understood him, he demonstrated with his hands. "Like this, see."

He brought his hands up to his head and began to massage his scalp. The man stared at him, and suddenly turned a deep red. Half turning away from Malcolm, he began to wash his hair properly, massaging his head for almost two minutes before he held it under the shower to rinse. It took Malcolm a while before he realized that the man was ashamed.

"It's okay," he found himself saying, even though he knew that the man couldn't hear him. If he had never seen a shampoo bottle before in his life, he supposed he wouldn't know what to do with it, either. It wasn't as if the thing came with a manual. And he began to wonder how this man had lived, in a world so different from his own that even a bottle of shampoo was a foreign thing to him.

As he waited for the man to finish, he automatically checked the skinny body for any leftover traces of dirt, and it was then that he noticed the swollen red wound on the man's thigh.

"What's that?"

The man seemed to have seen his lips move and turned towards Malcolm. "Sir?" he asked hoarsely.

Malcolm pointed at the man's leg. "That," he said. "What is it?"

The man glanced down at the injury, as if he had only now remembered that it was there. "For a while," he said.

Malcolm frowned. "You've had it for a while? How did you get it?"

The man only looked at him.

"I mean..." Malcolm trailed off. Then he pointed at the wound again, giving the man a questioning look and mouthing: "How?"

The man looked at his feet. Then he said very quietly, "With a knife. One 'f the guards..."

Of course.

Malcolm could guess how the man had received the wound, and he knew better than to ask for details. Now that the man had washed, Malcolm could see for himself what Duvall had seen even under the layers of dirt and grease – an attractive body, lean but well-muscled, with golden skin and mussed, dark-blond hair. No wonder the guards had singled this one out for their personal after-duty amusement.

"The doctor will have a look at it," he said. "Come on, dry off and get dressed. We have an appointment in sickbay."

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!