WARNING: Brief scene containing short, dubious oral sex, not too graphic.
Wake-up calls were never on the list of nice things.
Following the rotational patterns of a planet nearly thousands of light years away, he would wake by the cacophony of mismatched aluminum cans rattling against each other as the allocated sleeping time of five Terran hours trickled to an end. The remaining eighteen hours in this forcibly fabricated Terran day cycle was to be filled with the same, grueling routine he had known for the entirety of his life. He struggled to stand with a straightened spine as the usual inspections began. One man halted before his cell and peered suspiciously at the rotting anklet tied around his wrist. When the cell door was opened, he had no choice but to remove the band and surrender it to the white, outstretched hand.
He had found it in the dining area yesterday while retiring to his cell for the night. It had been dropped by a girl who had picked the wrong fight with a couple of men standing guard, and had been tasered to death in the process. He'd long since learned that it would not bode well to those who showed signs of mourning, and thus had been too relieved that it was someone else's body and not his that was being thrown out of the trash chute into the freezing, galactic abyss (he had never spoken to her once on this ship) to grieve. However, a little portion of his mind thought it was minimal courtesy to retain her memory, no matter how small and insignificant.
He had nothing he could call his own ever since he could remember. Any other person not aboard the ship would have thought it strange that he could not recall having a childhood, or much of his adolescent years, but then again such things had no meaning in this life. What mattered most was that he was awake every morning at five o' clock and kept his eyes shut as cold hands groped at him in vain searches for weapons or any other non-existent tricks they thought he'd keep up his sleeve.
He'd thought it unfair at first when he'd discovered that no other crew member of his own kind went through the same inspection. But with time he'd also realized that the men always strived to handle him less violently than others. Perhaps they were once scared of him, the action a result of their caution, but the thought wasn't something he'd dwell on for long; throughout his long time here, he'd never sported a lasting injury of any kind on his face, unlike the rest of the slaves who would always be seen nursing wounds of all sorts and sizes with no body part excluded.
Of course, that did not mean he was safe from all punishment. Sometimes he'd receive lashes on his back for looking at one of the men the wrong way, or not speaking fast enough when prompted to. Other times they merely slapped him, and on the rare occasion used their knee on him. The slapping he'd gotten used to quickly and now rarely felt the sting, but everything else still hurt as most blows seemed to land on bone. But he deserved it, they'd say. It was his fault, everything was. Plus he is 'Kree', so he's built to take it. He is built to take anything.
He had been told as such a thousand times over. Ever since he had woken up to find himself being pushed around in the dirt, to being picked up like a rucksack over a shoulder and tossed into a claustrophobic storage unit, ever since he'd still attempted to resist. And he believed them.
"Can't be too careful with your kind," the man complained intermittently as he patted down the length of the slave's thighs. "Always plotting... can probably turn a damn spoon into a deadly military asset... nasty lot, them Blues..."
There had been no name to call himself by, no date of birth or origin to identify his age or kind, and certainly no materialistic possessions to hold on to.
Then they had come, and given him all those things. They called him Nine, meaning the ninth male individual to be 'specially recruited' into their collection. They had guessed him to be a 'Kree', referring to the species as a 'violent and savage' race. They robbed him of his only possession; a pendant, a small metal hammer hanging from a cheap leather thong and they'd replaced it with reinforced chains and a collar. It was his to keep, they had said. He, while none the wiser to the implications of such an accessory, had been grateful to have something to call 'his', despite the words spoken to him in laughing mockery.
The man, now finished, pulled on the chain connected to his collar, leaving him no choice but to stumble forward in that direction. He was lined up with twelve others, all bound like he, and together they shuffled towards the toilets. Here they were given twenty seconds each to clean up and present themselves for the day. Never in his life—or what he can remember of it—has he felt hot water on his skin.
They were never given breakfast, as the men always claimed that a full stomach will only slow them down. Immediately they'd get whisked off to their appropriate stations, ready for another day of work.
Today he was ordered to wipe the seats, command panels, and floor of the cockpit. They handed him a rag and bucket, and secured his chain to one of many rings bolted to every wall found within the ship.
Not ten minutes into scrubbing out sticky messes in between levers and controls, he made his first mistake of the day. In truth, it had been due to one of the larger pilots tripping on the bucket he had balanced on a rusted filing cabinet, but now there was dirty water sloshed over the blinking buttons and small sparks burst from the panel as a few electrical devices short-circuited. The ceiling lights suddenly switched to the dim, red LED of the emergency generator.
The pilot howled in outrage and shoved him down on his knees with a booted heel. "You stupid shit," he roared. "Are you tryin' to strand us in the middle of uncharted space!"
He uttered a stream of apology after another, the words dying quickly on his lips as the breath was slowly choked out of his lungs when the pilot started pulling at the chain attached to his collar. The thick leather dug into the tender flesh of his neck, over old bruises and chafed skin.
"What've we told you about proper titles," snarled the man. "Say it!"
"Master," he managed to rasp in between his futile struggles to draw in air. He involuntarily raised his hands to claw at the suffocating material that was crushing his windpipe. "M-mas—"
"Useless," the pilot spat, releasing his iron grip on the chains. The human watched with contempt as the Kree collapsed at his feet, coughing up a storm as he greedily sucked for oxygen. He stalked over to the controls and punched the comm. "Oi Brant, get your ass in here. The blue bastard has fucked up again."
A few minutes later they were joined by another man, Brant. He, unlike the pilot, was of slimmer build, but had intelligent eyes tainted with a decade of cruelty. He took one look at the still coughing Kree and said, "Well he's not going to fix anything if you keep rough-handling him."
"He had it coming," the pilot grumbled. "Nearly busted the whole cont here, y'know? I can't have him on my ship if he's going to tear it apart!" He turned an accusatory glare at the other man. "Ever since you found him, he's been no good with anything, has he? Maybe there was a reason he was outcasted!"
"Well, he's good with one thing; don't tell me you've forgotten," Brant said, lips twisting into a humorless smile. "Especially after I let you sample the goods."
"... yeah," the pilot admitted eventually, watching the slave slowly recover and struggling to remain kneeling on the floor. "But I hate them Krees. Think they're so high n' mighty and ruin our business all the time. How many targets have we lost 'cause of them?"
"Well this one is far from 'high 'n mighty', so don't take it out on him," Brant said. He raised a foot and rested it on the nape of the slave's neck so his forehead would touch the ground. "I know he's not handy with tech—bit disappointing, sure—but he's the best toy we've had so far. The customers love him, and I need him in the best condition."
"And it's about time you stop with that," the pilot griped. "You know we don't do rents, Brant. You'll lower his pricing if the market found out."
"Oh quit whining, Meyer," Brant said. "They don't dirty him, at least not in a way we'll lose the income. I usually just have a setup so high-payers can enjoy a nice show. They haven't touched him that way, if you're so keen on knowing."
"Just makin' sure," Meyes muttered. "This'll be our biggest catch yet, and I wanna see those zeroes going up on my account."
"And you will," Brant said coldly. He nudged the barely responsive Kree with his toe. "In fact, I'm thinking of putting him up at the auction they're having at The Gorge next month. This one will definitely catch their interest. Most folk down there haven't seen an exotic creature in a long while and are pretty willing to dig out their credits right now. I can call whatever price I want."
He'd grown long accustomed to them talking about him as if he weren't there. He barely heard the actual conversation, and merely listened to the voices mingling with the steady hum vibrating through the hull, the engine old enough to still require fossil fuels. The floor smelled of grease, stale soil, and old metals. He remained with his face pressed into it, waiting for the men to finish speaking, the weight of the boot anchoring down upon his neck like a solid warning and reminder.
...
The next day was different. They had not sounded their alarm at five, though he'd awoke on his own anyway. He remained seated in his favorite corner, the cold bars pressed against his temple and probably leaving marks. He'd likely receive a scolding for that, but he found he didn't mind so much. He traced his fingertip along the length and crisscross of his chain, counting the loops until he got to the end of his reach and started over. Sleep pulled at his eyelids, his limbs and pulse weighed down with exhaustion. He struggled to keep himself awake, digging nails into his arms every time he began to doze off.
At precisely seven thirty three, the door to the singular room in which his cell was kept was unlocked and Brant stepped in. Knowing protocol, he immediately heaved himself up from his corner and kneeled to greet the man, lowering himself until he was almost kissing the floor, waiting to be addressed.
"What are you?" Brant prompted suddenly.
"Nobody," he recited tonelessly, his first words of the day, "except for who you command me to be."
"And what am I?" Brant asked.
"You are my master, sir."
"That is correct," said Brant. "Good boy." And suddenly a tray was being pushed into his cell. There was a tin bowl of canned stew, a slice of bread, and a small carrot. The bread was old and the stew was unheated and clumped together, but nothing was spoiled and the carrot even appeared fresh. For a moment he was so caught up in his bewilderment that he forgot his gnawing hunger.
Brant shrugged at the look on his face. "Meyers says you're useless at cooking and cleaning, but right now I don't care for menial tasks. Sure, we could use a few hands down in engineering, I've heard Kree people are particularly skilled in such things..."
"I apologize, sir." He did not know why he was apologizing, as he still did not know who these 'Kree people' were, even if he was apparently one of them. "I require punishment for my uselessness. Please give it to me, sir."
"Higgins taught you well," Brant approved. "Not all slaves have manners like you. Though you were quite feisty in the beginning. But there is no man or woman in the galaxy we cannot break, with our training and expertise."
He did not understand what Brant meant by 'breaking' someone, but like all other things, he assumed it was good if the man was not yelling at him. "My master knows best," he replied quietly with a lack of anything else to say, and wondered if the slight hesitance before the phrase would go unpunished.
If the man had noticed it, he spoke nothing of it. "It saddens me to say that we won't be your masters for long," Brant said. "Next month, you are going to find a new master, and you will serve them well, better than you did us. We never expected much from you, Nine, but when you leave our ship you must be prepared to do anything. In no way am I accepting refunds, so see to it that there is no need to bring it up."
His head was raised a long time ago and he was now openly staring at the man before him. Leave the ship? A long time ago there might have been a time where he'd wished to do just that, but now the notion instilled only fear. Where was he to go, he wondered. He knew nothing of the world outside the walls of this ship, only having caught glimpses of it whenever they stopped to rest and reload supplies. While one part of him wanted to explore the expanses and learn many things the galaxy had to offer, right now he was too terrified to be excited at the dream possibly becoming a reality. "How will I..." he whispered, trailing off uncertainly as a myriad of potential horrors began to unfold before his eyes.
"I'll see to it that your new master is selected for you," Brant assured. "Worry not. Until then, you must simply do as I say and all will be fine."
At that, he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. At least he now knew that he wasn't to be abandoned to fend for himself for the time being. "Thank you, sir."
"Are you now?" said Brant. "Well let's see how grateful you are." There was a cold gleam in his eyes.
He knew that look. It was the same look he got from everyone else on the ship, and they had all wanted the same thing. Every time he thought he'd become used to this lifestyle, he still felt this stupid, useless fear. Stupid Kree, they'd shout at him. Can't do a single thing right. And perhaps they were right. Despite knowing what was to come, he still felt his heart sink when Brant stepped inside his cell. But then the scent of food wafted up from beside him, and he thought this time it might be worth it.
Brant stood in front of him, waiting. Out of all the men, Brant had always been the most patient. He was also the most unpredictable, and most brutal with punishments, however. With trained fingers he swiftly unzipped the man's trousers and lowered his mouth over Brant's groin like he was taught. His throat convulsed involuntarily when his airway became obstructed, and he almost backed off, only stopped by the man's firm grip.
"That reflex of yours still needs work," Brant grunted offhandedly. "Can't have you sicking up on the new buyer..."
He'd been through this many times, and not once had he managed to resist the urge to gag. He had tried; oh, had he really tried. The first few times he'd really sicked up, and those had been dark days indeed. He'd spent days recovering from the flogging he'd endured, and even then they had come for more. Memories of vile hands rubbing him in places that shouldn't have been touched flooded his mind and he had to pry himself out of Brant's crotch before he really did something he regretted. Pushing away from the human, he doubled over and dry-heaved for a good minute or two, the strong acidity of stomach bile burning in his chest and making his eyes sting with tears.
Brant sighed behind him. It was not a good sound.
"I am sorry, sir," he said in a rush of breath. "I will not do it again, I promise—"
"You've said that every time you try, Nine," Brant said, rubbing at his eyes.
"I am sorry," he repeated shakily, shifting so that he was once again on his knees. "I am sorry. I can be better, master please—"
"Enough," Brant said sharply, cutting off the slave at once. "I've had enough of your excuses. I don't care if you sick up here, Nine. If you need to, do it now. But not in front of your new master. You can never, ever do that outside this ship. Or else no one will want you, understand?"
"Yes, sir," he answered, shivering lightly.
"They will hate you," Brant threatened softly, "and you will not be taken by anyone. You will likely die horribly; you don't want to die out there, do you?"
"No, sir." He did not want to die. Out there in the cold, abysmal depths of space, he did not want to die.
"Then you have to learn, goddammit!" The outburst was unexpected and loud, and the slave flinched away. "I use a Happy Potion to make you feel good, don't I, Nine? Do you remember what the Happy Potion is? Well that shit is expensive, and I don't wanna have to keep using it on you! It won't be there to help when we find your new master. So dammit if you don't learn to enjoy it on your own..."
The 'Happy Potion' was something he, while having been exposed to it numerous times, never liked hearing of. It was an orange liquid contained within a small plastic bottle and they would give him three drops of with his water once every month or so. It would make his body sweat, feel light and heavy at the same time, and it was such a peculiar feeling that he would probably never become accustomed to it. But that was only part of the first ten minutes of the Potion doing its work. After twenty minutes, he would always start to experience strange and disjointed sounds, hallucinations, and alien feelings to his skin. Then it would grow almost uncomfortably warm, and then he'd wake up hours later unable to recall a shred of detail pertaining to the events that might have unfolded in his delirium.
It was the blank gaps in his memory that unnerved him the most. Perhaps he might never remember what happened, but each time he found himself back in his cell after ingesting the Happy Potion, he was always more tired, more dirtier than usual, as if he'd been rolling in dust. And there was always something else there as well; something white and pearly would be found dried and crusted over his face, chest, and back, and he'd done enough 'favors' for the men of this ship to know what it was.
He'd never dared to linger in his thoughts then. In times like those, he'd lie as still as he could and pretend he was far, far away from this place, mind flying free and detached from this piece of flesh that his wretched soul was bound to.
"You are the most expensive slave on this ship, and you will act like your price," Brant finished with a growl. "And if you can't even suck cock then I lose my money and reputation, and you lose your head. Got it?"
"Yes, master," he whispered.
Even when Brant had marched out of his cell and his room noisily, he did not bother to stop kneeling. He stayed that way for a long time until his legs could no longer support him and he lay on his side, the tray of food no longer appetizing to his stomach which was now churning for a whole other reason. He closed his eyes and wished his tears would just fall, but they had dried up quite some time ago and he was left with nothing but heavy eyelids, heavy limbs, and a heavy heart. He also realized he had forgotten to keep track of the minutes and had no clue what time it was to expect what was to come next.
But alas, tomorrow was just another day.
If the very last line sounds familiar, it is because I took it from the Five Nights at Freddies 4 game cutscenes. I thought it was a good line, and I couldn't come up with anything better. I love the Five Nights at Freddies series!