Okay, so this one's kind of odd. (And long. Over 50,000 words. One chapter a week. We're going to be here for a while.) I'm not 100% sure where this came from. Suffice it to say this is an extreme AU - to the point where, if I decided to change it to an original story, you might never notice that it was ever fanfic. This is not a light and fluffy story.

Many thanks to Sabrina06 for beta.

Archive warnings: rape/non-con (not explicit). Many characters are dead in backstory as well.

Rated M for violence, language, mature themes including slavery and rape, and non-explicit consensual sexual activity.

Trigger warnings: mention of suicide, death, loss of autonomy, slavery, discussion of triggers, discussion of rape.

An explosion shook the building, and the lights flickered. Isabella glanced around and typed faster.

The war was lost, and she knew it. Everyone knew it, but the Southwestern Concord's government still refused to surrender. More people were going to die for their stubbornness, more prisoners enslaved. Isabella's first goal: make sure she wasn't one of them. Enslaved was better than dead, but alive and free was still better.

Gunfire, and the weird crump sound of a tumbler bomb. Getting closer. She'd gambled that she'd be able to finish this before the Central Alliance troops got here, but it was going to be a lot tighter than she'd hoped. Should have done this yesterday. If only the truck hadn't broken down.

Should have gone to a center further from the front, but I didn't realize the front was collapsing this quickly.

She finished typing the command she wanted to run, and sat back to look it over before hitting return. It had taken her almost an hour to break into the primary Concord computer system enough to be able to do this. She confirmed it should do what she needed, took a deep breath, and pressed enter.

The network indicator flashed, and the command prompt came back. She typed a quick command to confirm that it had worked.

NO RECORDS FOUND

She logged out of the computer, smiling as she stood. Project Dewdrop no longer existed. General Maybourne and the scientists had died a couple weeks ago when a tumbler bomb hit their bunker, and all the paper records had been vaporized with them. The rest of her team was gone. Isabella was the only person left, and the last thing she wanted to do was become a lab rat for Central scientists. The Centrals would be looking for Project Dewdrop, but as of now, Isabella Garcia-Shapiro was just another staff sergeant in the Southwestern forces. There were no records left to connect her to Echo Three, the biomechanically-enhanced assassin with over a dozen high-profile kills to her name.

Now I just need to stay alive until the cease-fire.

She headed out of the computer room, slipping through the door. The few remaining clerks were quickly packing up what they could. She nodded to a few on the way through, her forged access badge hanging from her uniform.

"Hey, you!" a scared-looking lieutenant called, running a dark brown hand through his short black hair. She looked up at him inquisitively. "Carry this out to the truck." He gestured toward a box of file folders.

"Yes, sir," she said crisply, picking up the box and heading toward the door. It was moderately heavy, but she carried it easily out to the waiting vehicle.

Outside, the sound of gunfire was louder, and seemed to be getting closer. The sun was setting, and the shadows stretched out across the hilly forest surrounding this command center, somewhere in Colorado.

"There," a corporal waved without looking up from the tablet she was using. Isabella dropped the box in the appropriate spot, then jumped out of the truck. Once she was out of sight of the corporal, she slipped around the corner and took off, jogging away from the building, and away from the fighting. She reached the woods and ditched the forged access badge. Civvies are in the truck. She was wishing she'd brought them along right now, but she didn't want to risk getting caught in them by Southwestern forces. They'd probably just shoot her on the spot. Desertion was becoming a major problem, and the leadership was cracking down hard.

She was about a hundred yards from the building when she heard the characteristic warbling sound of a tumbler bomb behind her. She'd been told what was known about how it worked - something about tumbling between dimensions - but all she knew was that it shattered the strongest buildings and that people hit by it looked looked like they'd been through a food processor, if there was anything left of the body at all. She took off running, kicking in her implants for extra speed, hoping to get far enough out of the blast radius that it wouldn't hurt her.

A pulse of light behind her was followed by the crump of the bomb, and Isabella was close enough that she could faintly hear the screams of those who had been merely maimed. She slowed back to a jog, hoping that dealing with the people in the building would keep the Centrals busy long enough to let her get back to the truck she'd hidden. Once there, she could get clear from the front. She just had to stay alive, and free, long enough for the surrender, and...

Bright lights came on around her, blinding her in the fading twilight, and she flinched. "Halt," a female voice said. "Surrender, Sweaty. Hands in the air."

Shit. So close. She raised her hands slowly, her eyes adjusting as a young man in Central fatigues came up to her, twisting her arms behind her and fastening her wrists together with a zip-tie. She tested the bonds; her implants would let her shred zip-ties, but the last thing she wanted to do was make it clear to Centrals that anyone from Dewdrop was still alive.

The young man led her to a truck, where a harried-looking captain sat behind a folding desk. "How many more are following you?" the captain asked abruptly.

"Isabella Miriam Garcia-Shapiro, staff sergeant, serial number GIM46231," Isabella stated.

The captain frowned, and said, "One of those, eh? Fine. Corporal, put her with the others."

The corporal pulled on her arm, leading her to a small fenced-in area with about ten other women in Southwestern fatigues sitting on the bare dirt. A similar pen sat about fifty feet away, holding about a dozen men. Guards with assault rifles stood just outside the fence along one side. The zip-tie was cut off, and she was pushed into the pen with the others.

"No talking," one of the guards said.

Isabella sat, her eyes searching for ways to get away. So far, she wasn't finding anything that wouldn't reveal her secret.

"Call for you from Chicago, Mr. Flynn," Carla said over the intercom. "It's General Archer."

"Thanks, Carla," Phineas said. "I'll take it in here."

The Central Alliance, the true (or at least victorious) successor of the American government, had taken Chicago as its capital. The war had gone on for almost twenty years now, and was finally drawing to a close, in no small part because of the efforts of Phineas and his brother Ferb. Phineas should feel proud of this, he knew, but somehow, he felt a tinge of shame.

The phone rang, and Phineas picked it up. "Flynn," he said.

"Phineas? Archer here," the voice on the other end of the line said, and Phineas rolled his eyes. Archer was such a pain in the ass, but he was their main contact into the military, and therefore the main source of income for Fletcher-Flynn Research.

"What's up, General?" Phineas asked.

"Need your help. We captured a Southwestern control center with its computer core mostly intact, but parts were damaged by a tumbler bomb."

"Not a lot I can do there."

"Can you go take a look, and see if you can...untumble it?"

"That's like unscrambling an egg."

"Just go take a look, okay?"

Phineas sighed. "Fine. Where is it?"

"Colorado. A car will be by to pick you up in an hour."

"It's safe, right?"

"Yes, the front lines have gone about ten miles past now. We've got them on the run, Phineas."

"Ten miles doesn't sound like much."

"It'll probably be twenty by the time you get there. Head out tonight, get some sleep, and then take a look bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Fine. I need to go get ready, General."

"Good man. I look forward to hearing about your progress." A click, and the line went dead.

Phineas took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He stood and walked to the office next door. Unlike Phineas's office, which had blueprints, notebooks, and coffee mugs strewn everywhere, Ferb's was clean and neat. Ferb looked up inquisitively.

"Need to head out to Colorado. General Archer wants me to unscramble an egg."

Ferb looked puzzled.

"A computer got grazed by a tumbler. He wants me to see if I can fix it."

Ferb rolled his eyes.

"I'll probably be gone for a day or two. I'll keep you posted."

Ferb nodded, and shooed him out of the room so he could get back to work.

Isabella followed the woman in front of her into the empty warehouse that had been designated the "courthouse". The guards had been paying too much attention for her to slip away overnight, and this morning, after she was fed, they'd re-applied the zip-ties. Now, fifty-odd captured soldiers were led in, in two lines, all of them bound similarly. They were led to benches and told to sit; Isabella found herself in the middle of the second row.

A makeshift desk stood in front of them, raised up so that anyone sitting at it would be above their eye level. An dark-skinned MP with close-cropped black hair sat in a chair next to it; she stood and looked out at the assembled prisoners.

"Here's how it's going to go," she said. "You folks are captured traitors. And the law is quite clear on this. We're going to try you all, convict you, and sell your treasonous asses into slavery."

"You can't do that!" one of the men shouted from his bench. "We have rights! The Geneva Convention! The Thirteenth Amend...ah!" His shouts turned to screams as two burly guards grabbed him, threw him to the ground, and started kicking him. Isabella winced at the sounds of their boots hitting him.

"Any other smartasses?" the MP said as the guards heaved the prisoner back onto his bench. His face was bloodied and one eye was swelling shut. Blood was starting to seep through the back of his shirt.

"No?" the MP continued. "To answer your stupid-ass questions: the Geneva Convention doesn't really apply because you fuckers are rebel insurgents, not foreign military. So Geneva just says we have to follow our laws in how we treat you. The Thirteenth doesn't apply to convicted criminals. Guess what? This is your trial, sweaties. Rise for the judge."

Isabella stood, along with most of the rest of the prisoners. A few stragglers stood quickly as the guards headed towards them.

A middle-aged man in fatigues came in and took a seat at the desk. Silver eagles on his collar flashed just below the pale skin of his neck. "Sit down." Isabella sat with the rest. "Bailiff, confirm that everyone's here."

The MP picked up a tablet. "When I call your name, stand up. Adams, Michael." A young man across from Isabella stood, and the MP checked a box. She went through the list; Isabella stood when her name was called. Finally, after "Young, Paul," the MP looked up. "Anybody who I didn't call?" When there was no answer, she turned the the judge and said, "All present and accounted for."

"Excellent. Prosecutor?"

A smiling young Hispanic woman in a dress uniform stepped up. "The usual, your honor. These were all captured in Southwestern uniforms and claimed to be members of the alleged Southwestern military." She handed a folder to the judge. "Testimony is there."

The judge flipped through it briefly, then nodded. "Everything looks in order. Defense?"

A bored-looking young Caucasian man looked at a similar folder. "No defense, your honor."

"Okay." The judge looked at the prisoners. "Any of you who want to plead guilty, sentence will be enslavement for a minimum period of five years. After that, your owner may free you. If they choose." He smiled ferally. "Any of you who want to plead innocent, we'll put you on trial, and when you're found guilty, we'll shoot you. Any takers?"

The prisoners looked around at each other silently.

The bailiff stood up. "Okay. Those of you choosing to plead guilty, please stand and exit through the door to your left. Consider yourself sentenced as described. Those of you wanting to plead innocent, stay right where you are so we can count you and prep the firing squads."

Isabella stood. Where there's life, there's hope, right?

I need a drink.

"Stop here, Sergeant," Phineas said to his driver as they passed the next bar he saw, a little place called the Main Street Tavern. She pulled into a parking space and opened the door for him. He went in, taking a seat at the bar as Sergeant Carruthers took up a protective position in the corner. Several people were clustered around a television set showing a football game, St. Louis vs. Chicago, while a couple men in nice suits sat separately at the bar, nursing their drinks. The walls were covered with old Western-style decorations and memorabilia. The bartender, a thin white man with slicked-back brown hair and a pencil moustache, came over to him. "What'll it be?"

"Double scotch, neat," Phineas said, putting a bill on the bar. The man saw the Central currency, nodded, and pulled out a bottle and glass. Pouring out the scotch, he placed it on the bar, made change out of the bill, and headed down the bar to watch the game.

Phineas looked at the scotch, taking a sip and feeling it burn. He'd been out taking a look at the captured command center. The computer was beyond hope; the tumbler bomb had shredded the hardware irreparably. The problem had been getting to it. The computer wasn't the only thing that had been shredded. The troops had cleaned up some of it, but...he'd seen pictures of what tumbler bombs did to humans, but never seen it in person before. He shuddered at the image, tossing the scotch down his throat in hopes of chasing it off.

He waved to the bartender, who came over. "Another."

They'd locked the electronic collar around her neck, with its tracking device, sensors, and alarms. She was familiar with them; she'd worn fake ones on missions a few times, where they provided useful disguise and access to areas she wouldn't have been allowed near. It was a silvery band with an LCD screen on one side, next to the electronic lock. The collar would be tricky to get off without setting off the alarm, but as soon as she had access to tools, she could manage it. She needed to wait for the right time, though. Getting across the border into Canada or Mexico would keep her safe. Neither country would extradite escaped slaves.

After a shower, she found that her fatigues were gone, replaced by sandals and a thin white tunic. There was nothing to go underneath it, of course. Sighing, she put it on. It clung to her, coming down to mid-thigh.

"Let's go, ladies. Auction starts in ten minutes," a female guard said outside the shower stall.

Isabella slipped the thin sandals on and opened the curtain, stepping out into the hall. The guard nodded at her, pointing down the hall. "That way."

She followed the pointing finger to a room with a couple dozen other newly-enslaved POWs, standing around silently, avoiding each others' gazes. The women wore tunics like hers, while the men wore light-colored shorts. Several guards flanked the room, and a raised platform to one side had a bored-looking Central soldier holding a microphone loosely at his side. A few more people trickled in behind her, then the doors were closed.

"Okay, your attention, please," the soldier said, and the slaves all looked up at him. "You have now all been collared. Your collar is much more than just an indication of your new status. The readout on the front will give ownership information. There's a tracking device in the collar to help us find you if you decide to run away, and any attempt to force it to open without authorization will cause it to send an alert to the local police. You're not going anywhere, folks, so don't try to run."

Some low murmuring from the slaves was silenced as he put the microphone back to his mouth. "Biometric data will be sent to your new owner's control unit, which looks like this." He held up a small silvery remote with a readout panel in his other hand. "The control unit can activate the shocker unit in your collar, which hurts like hell if it activates. The shocker will also activate if you try to pick up the control unit, or try to force the collar open. Do not make your new owners' lives difficult. They will make yours hell."

He smiled, a feral grin. "Now, you'll get called out for auction one by one. Do not speak to buyers unless spoken to. The next few of you to be auctioned will be staged in the entryway for inspection. Be good, hope for the best, and you might get freed in five years."

One of the slaves laughed bitterly.

The soldier nodded. "Yeah, I know. Best you can hope for, though." Somebody handed a sheet of paper up to him. "Okay, first three up for inspection: Hopkins, Christopher Oliver; Day, Melissa Stephanie; Wilson, Jennifer Angela. Everybody else, just wait your turn."

Phineas left the bar after his third scotch. The pleasant warmth spread through him. "Mr. Flynn, why don't you get in the car and we'll drive back?" Sergeant Carruthers said.

Phineas considered being alone in his hotel room with his thoughts. It didn't sound pleasant right now. He propped a hand on Carruthers's shoulder. "I...I don't want to get back in the car right now." He looked around for something else to do. Carruthers rolled her eyes.

Next door, Phineas saw the barkers outside a storefront being used as an impromptu auction house; apparently a new batch of slaves had just come in. He shook his head sadly. The Central Alliance had introduced the idea of enslaving POWs, and both Columbia (the northeastern faction) and Dixie (the southern faction) had taken to it enthusiastically, while the Southwest had repudiated it. The leaders of both Columbia and Dixie had ended up convicted and enslaved after they'd surrendered, while their soldiers who hadn't been previously captured had been given amnesty and drafted into the Central army.

"I hate this," Phineas muttered. He wasn't even sure that Carruthers heard him. "Hopefully, when the war ends, all this will stop."

"Come on in, folks! Got us a fresh batch of sweaties, just captured yesterday! Get 'em before the whorehouses 'n factories buy 'em all!" the barker shouted. Phineas frowned at the slur - Southwesterners had been shortened to 'sweaties', Columbians had become 'cummies', and soldiers from Dixie, the southeastern faction, were referred to as 'dicks' whatever sex they were. Apparently the usual slur for Central soldiers among the other factions was 'cows', because much of the midwest had been under Central control.

He looked down the street toward his hotel, then shrugged and decided to go look at the auction. Maybe something else to be outraged at would help wipe the memories of today aside. It was a bad sign when seeing people treated as property bothered him less than...what he'd seen.

The next several slaves were lined up outside the auction room so that people could examine them. One of them, a young woman with black hair that just came down to her shoulders, looked oddly familiar, although he couldn't place where he'd seen her. He furrowed his brow, looking her over, wracking his brain.

"What's your name?" he blurted out. Carruthers stiffened.

The young woman looked up at the guard overseeing the area; he nodded at her. "Isabella," she said.

He didn't remember knowing anyone named Isabella. "Thanks," he said, puzzled. He looked at her some more; she was quite pretty. The slave tunic showed her off well, clinging to her chest while revealing her strong legs, muscles showing under tanned skin. Her blue eyes looked at him, questioning, as if she recognized him, too, but couldn't place him. Shrugging, he continued on into the auction room.

A dark-skinned young man was on the block as Phineas entered. Phineas looked away, heading along the side of the room away from the auction block.

"Here you go, sir," an attendant said, handing him a bidding paddle, number 104.

"Wait, I don't..." Phineas started, but the attendant had already moved on.

Phineas sat as the young man was led off. Carruthers took up a defensive position along the wall, with several other men and women who looked like they were doing the same. A young woman was led on next, pale with short blonde hair. Phineas watched the auction dispassionately; the woman was clearly quite beautiful, and bidding on her went quite high, but...he just wasn't attracted to her.

Demisexual, Ferb had called it. Phineas was really only sexually attracted to people he had an emotional relationship with. He'd dated a friend named Holly for a bit in high school. They'd been sexually active, eventually, but outside of that, he'd never really looked at anyone and thought, "Gee, I'd like to have sex with them".

The blonde was sold for almost 100,000 Central dollars, to a man in a suit who looked like he did this for a living. Probably a broker, planning to resell further away from the front. Most folks couldn't afford to spend that much for a personal slave. Phineas could, with the profits from the weapons research he and Ferb had done, but very few others had the free cash. He'd need to transfer money back from his offshore accounts, though, or take out a loan until he could.

Another young man, this one looking like he had Korean ancestry, was led to the block. His right arm was missing below the elbow, and the marks along the edges of the bandages looked like he'd just caught the edge of a tumbler bomb. Phineas had to look away with guilt, seeing someone that was wounded by his work. How many didn't even make it here? How many have I killed? This was a mistake.

I wish I could just save one somehow.

He looked up, and the bidding on the young man was over. He hadn't even heard it. The black-haired woman - Isabella, and the name rolled around the inside of his head looking for a connection - was on the block.

"75,000 going once...do I hear 80?" the auctioneer said. "Going twice...80. Can I get 85?"

Phineas hadn't realized that he'd raised his hand, but there it was, holding up the paddle. The other bidder shook his head, frowning.

"80,000 going twice...three times, and sold, paddle 104."

What the hell am I going to do with a slave? Phineas thought as Sergeant Carruthers covered her face with her palm and shook her head.