Chapter Two: Prisoners with Jobs
"Hello."
A sweet voice filled Hermione's ears, pulling her slowly from unconsciousness. Her eyes opened to blackness, and she had to blink several times to make sure they weren't still closed. She tried to move but found her arms and legs bound to a chair. Icy panic coursed through her as she tried to pull free, and just as she began to thrash about, the voice returned.
"Welcome to Sakaar."
A bright image flashed to her left, and as her eyes adjusted to the swirling colours, the voice continued.
"Fear not. You were once lost but now have been found. The Grandmaster, the first lost and the first found, welcomes you. He created Sakaar, located at the end of the cosmic gateway between the known and the unknown."
Hermione watched as the image beside her transformed into the silhouette of a man, buildings rising and falling around him. She could do nothing but stare as her chair moved forward, and the images transformed into something that resembled the Roman Colosseum, more silhouettes appearing to fight one another.
"It is the collecting point for all lost and unloved things. But here on Sakaar, you are loved. You are valued. You are significant."
A rainbow of colours swam by Hermione, her vision tunnelling as she gazed ahead into something that resembled a kaleidoscope.
"Where once you were nothing, now you are something. You are the property of the only one who loves you. You now belong to the Grandmaster. Congratulations, you will meet the Grandmaster in five seconds."
The colours picked up speed, and her head hit the back of the chair as it raced forward, sickness settling in her stomach.
"Prepare yourself to meet the Grandmaster."
Faster than she thought possible, the images flashed by. Hermione was unable to close her eyes, so intent on discovering just what was happening. The colours disappeared as quickly as they zoomed past her, and she found herself blinking against bright light.
She sat in front of a pedestal, a collection of odd-looking people around her and she realised with a start, that they were aliens . She should be panicking—should be thrashing about to try and get free, but instead, fear rendered her immobile. Just before she could think of moving, the man seated at a chair in front of her drew her attention.
"Wow, impressive." He uttered in an odd mix of monotone and astonished. "Most people vomit or scream."
Dark green hair sparkled beneath the light above them, and as he gestured for the domineering looking woman to push him forward, Hermione thanked Merlin he was at least human-looking. She, of course, knew enough not to be able to trust her eyes, but at the very least she could keep her thoughts about her without having to stare at something otherworldly.
"Where am I?" she inquired as he came closer.
"Where are—didn't the video explain?" He stood, his purple and red garb draping off of him. "I am the Grandmaster, and you, my dear, are on Sakaar!"
Hermione tested the bindings, her wrist aching against the strain of whatever electrical force held them to the arm. "And why, exactly, am I bound?"
"Well, you did stun one of my scrappers." He held his hand out to the woman by his chair, and Hermione watched in horror as she handed him her wand. "With this little piece of wood. I'm perplexed... Oh, hey, what's your name?"
Hermione kept her jaw shut, defiance coursing through her.
"Oh, come on." Grandmaster sighed and sat back in his chair, fiddling with her wand between his fingers. "I introduced myself; it's only fair you do the same. Manners and all that jazz."
The Grandmaster didn't seem like an evil person; on the contrary, he seemed polite and amiable. She found herself wanting to please him, to make him happy—was it a glamour?
"Hermione," she stated, though a small part of her brain warned her against it. "My name is Hermione."
"Hermione? Hermione, Hermione." The Grandmaster tested her name. "Interesting. What an odd name, but I suppose that matches you, doesn't it?"
He gave a small chuckle as he regarded her. "Well, your name now belongs to me. From here on you shall be known as Prisoner... Topaz, what number are we at?"
"Four thousand seven hundred eighty-two."
He waved his hand, "Too long. Don't we have any lower numbers she could take?"
Topaz pulled out a glowing, see-through tablet from her pocket and tapped at various buttons on the screen. "Three hundred ninety-four was killed two days ago by your champion."
"Perfect! There," he gestured to Hermione. "You will now be known as prisoner three hundred ninety-four, it has a nice ring to it."
"So, tell me, Three-nine-four. Just how does this thing work?" He held the wand out to her face, and if Hermione's hands weren't bound, she would have reached out and snatched it.
She ignored the name he gave her. "It's a wand. I'm a witch."
Hermione blinked as she realised how easily the words rolled off her tongue. She had just broken the statute of secrecy without a thought—if it even counted here. Something about the Grandmaster made her want to reveal her deepest secrets.
"A witch? Fascinating. Topaz, do we have a witch in our staff?"
"No."
"Great!" The Grandmaster stood and clapped his hands together. With a snap of his fingers and a quick whistle, someone brought over a metal box, some type of forcefield surrounding it. He placed his hand against the blue shield and it instantly disappeared. Pulling a key from his pocket, the Grandmaster slid it into the lock and pulled open the lid.
"We can't have you galavanting around with this in case you decide to shoot me in the chest like you did our scrapper friend. Eck, Topaz could you imagine?"
The woman grunted as the Grandmaster dropped Hermione's wand inside the box and snapped the lid shut. The force field surrounded the box once more, and it floated behind him as if to tease her that it was just out of arm's reach. Hermione could taste bile in the back of her throat as fear gripped her while she watched them take her only means of protection.
"And what do you plan to do with it?" she asked, struggling against her bindings.
"It's just for safekeeping. Don't worry, Three-nine-four," The Grandmaster said. "You won't need it anymore anyway! You've been accepted into my staff! Congratulations, starting today, you are a... Topaz, what jobs are available?"
"Scrap collector, weapons finder, and entertainment fighter."
"Hm..." The Grandmaster looked at her with scrutiny. "Well, she doesn't seem like much of a fighter without her wand, and we definitely can't give that back to her. Scrap collector sounds boring. Let's make her a weapon's finder."
Topaz typed more on the screen, and as Hermione's chair began to float away, she watched in abject horror as the Grandmaster waved good-bye, the box containing her wand floating behind him.
The chair took her through metal halls and into an elevator, the shoddy quality of it made her stomach plummet as it descended. She was utterly alone, and she tried again on the electric cuffs. When they didn't give in, she took a deep breath and tried to will her magic into her hands.
"Accio wand," she whispered to herself, feeling the tether of magic leave in search of her wand.
Nothing returned, and crippling terror filled her veins. She was powerless. A handful of wandless hexes and jinxes, along with a concentrated Accio, were all that was accessible to her. But nothing was strong enough to get her out of there.
As the elevator came to a stop, Hermione watched in abject horror as some... creature opened the door.
It lifted a hand made of stacked rocks. "Sup, I'm Korg; I run the champion department. Not to toot my own horn, but kind of a big deal. You must be new."
Hermione said nothing, her voice thick as she stared at the giant rock alien.
"Scared, huh? That's alright; most people are when they first get here." He waved over a man in rags, metal bits dangling from the edges of his clothes. The goggles he wore were reflective, and Hermione could see her fear-stricken face in them. It gave her pause; she needed to keep her wits about her.
Korg awkwardly stood at the door as the man ran some type of scanner over Hermione, referencing a small tablet similar to the one that woman named Topaz had, though his seemed older and decrepit.
"Hey, what did one rock say to the other at dinner? I hope you brought your...apatite!" Korg... smiled? Or what Hermione could discern as a smile, his rock-made lips stretching.
When she only stared at him in reply, he sighed. "Damn, been working on that one for weeks."
"Prisoner Three-nine-four. Weapons collector this one," the man that had been scanning her said. "An Earthian, huh? Haven't had one of you in a long time."
Korg perked up, "You're from Earth? Oh, best rocks there. Really great stuff."
"I suppose..." Hermione muttered in confusion, finally finding her voice.
The man pressed a button on the back of her chair, and her restraints finally freed her. Rubbing her wrists, she stood on shaky legs, feeling suddenly small in front of the towering figure of Korg.
"Well, I'll show you around, though there's not much to see." He began to walk away, and unsure of what else to do, Hermione followed. She searched for exits, trying to formulate some type of strategy to hide and figure out how to get her wand back from the Grandmaster.
"I know you're thinking of escaping," Korg said quietly, surprising her. "We've had plenty of people try. But that zapper they've got in your neck? It's got a tracker in it. Even if you manage to make it out, they'll find you again and bring you back. And the Grandmaster doesn't like it when slaves escape."
Hermione gently touched the small metal disk, digging her nails under the edge. A sharp pain shot down her neck and spine as she tried to lift it away from her skin. She quickly let it go, the pain disappearing instantly, though a slight ache now sat around the disk.
"I don't know what to do," she said, feeling dread settle in the pit of her stomach. Her limbs felt heavy, breath coming in short gasps as she glanced at the unfamiliar faces surrounding her. The smell of petrol filled her nose, as did the iron tinge of metal.
Korg placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, and the weight of it brought her back to her body, though she still couldn't seem to breathe. "I'll help you; I can start a revolution, print some pamphlets."
The absurdity of the statement made Hermione suck in a strained chuckle. He reminded her so much of Ron. "If you think it will help."
Korg showed her around while she tried to reign in her impending panic attack. The weapons racks were an odd mismatch of slapped together scrap bits, none of it making any sense, but then, neither did anything else. He told her of the arena, how the contest of champions worked, how Sakaar worked. The only thing she seemed to gather was that the hierarchy reminded her heavily of the wizards and house-elf dynamic—only now, she was the house-elf. Those at the top enjoyed finer living under the Grandmaster's favour, while those at the bottom were considered less than insects.
Once Korg finished showing her around, and introducing her to an array of other-worldly people, he took her down the slave quarters.
"This is where you'll be staying," he said, walking up to a metal door that slid open as they approached. "Best room in the place."
It housed only a single bed and nightstand made of scrap metal, the fluorescent light overhead dim with age.
Korg scratched the back of his head when Hermione gave him a questioning look. "Sorry, another joke."
She stepped inside, looking out the single-pane window at the vast city below, heaps of junk scattered between. The sun began to set in the distance, casting a faint orange glow on the mounds of rubbish and metal buildings.
Hermione's throat filled with bile.
"Well, I'll leave you to it. I'll be back tomorrow and take you through your first day, teach you the ropes. Goodnight." Korg walked away, mumbling to himself when Hermione didn't reply, "Goodnight Korg, you handsome devil."
When the door slid shut, panic-filled every vein in Hermione's body.
Dropping to her knees, her breathing became erratic as her magic thrummed through her. She didn't know what to do; didn't know where to go from here. The lightbulb overhead popped as her magic spiked, and the loud sound pulled Hermione from her terror as the room sank into darkness with the setting sun.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady her mind.
"List off the things you know, Hermione," she mumbled to herself, rocking back and forth. "You're on a planet called Sakaar. The Grandmaster runs it. Korg is made of rocks; he runs the champion department. You're a slave, and now a weapon's collector." Whatever the hell that meant.
She continued to rock, muttering other things to herself to quiet her mind. As she did, a plan began to formulate. There was no way for her to get out of here without help, that much was evident. So, she would need to be an obedient little slave, get on the Grandmaster's good side, and steal her wand back. Maybe Korg could help her work out the logistics of just how to get off this planet.
Looking up, she discovered a small door that looked like a closet, and her curiosity got the better of her. Standing on weakened legs, she walked to the door, the metal sliding open in a rush of air, another weak bulb flickering to life. On the other side was a bathroom so small the expanse of her arms could touch both walls. A thin shower stall stood in the corner, along with an odd-looking toilet and tiny sink. The cracked mirror above showed her reflection, her hair in knots and dirt smeared across her face.
The faucet creaked and groaned as she turned the handle, sputtering with air before a weak stream of water escaped. She cupped it in her hands, taking a few sips of the metallic tasting water before splashing it over her face. The thin towel hanging next to it felt like parchment as she swiped it over her face.
Bracing her arms against the edge of the sink, Hermione felt hot tears prick the corner of her eyes. "Stop it, Hermione. You're fine, you're fine, you're fine."
Going back to the room and climbing into the shoddy bed that felt like she was lying on Korg, Hermione fell into an instant sleep, her body and mind fatigued with all that had happened.
Tomorrow she would begin phase one of her plan: be the best damn slave this planet had ever seen.
A loud knock outside her room had her groaning into her pillow. "Go away, Ginny."
"Erm, it's Korg, actually! Ya know, we met yesterday? Tall—made of rock?"
The muffled voice of Korg had Hermione scrambling, her half-awake mind thinking she was in her room at the Burrow. Raking her hands through her dishevelled curls, Hermione patted her face and adjusted the wrinkled Auror robes she still wore from yesterday.
"Come in," she called out as she stood, her bare feet cold on the metal floor.
"Morning and happiest of days to you," Korg greeted as he filled her small space. "I've got a set of our prisoner-with-jobs uniforms."
He handed her a bundle of clothing, a too-large, stained white t-shirt and a pair of dark blue dungarees made of some type of canvas material.
"I'll be back in a few minutes and take you to where we get food. I reckon you're hungry."
A sudden emptiness filled Hermione's stomach as she became aware of the last time she ate. When Korg left, she slipped into the bathroom and tested the buttons of the shower. The water only ran for a few seconds before she had to press it again, and the bar of soap that sat on the ledge had nearly no scent. Peeling the clothes from her body, Hermione stepped into the narrow compartment, jumping as ice-cold water hit her when she pressed the button.
After taking the fastest shower of her life, Hermione dressed in the uniform; the material felt thin—as if one wrong move would cause it all to unravel. She was thankful she had decided to wear her boots when she had tracked down those odd people in London; they were undoubtedly sturdier than whatever the hell Korg gave her.
The material itched at her skin as she pulled her hair into a bun, using the lace from her cloak to tie it in place. Curls began to pop free almost instantly, and she blew them from her face in irritation.
Opening the door, Hermione startled again at the odd sight of Korg. She'd seen her fair share of oddities in her life, but still—to see someone made of rocks was quite shocking.
"Good morning!" Korg said, giving a small bow. "Terrible, isn't it? The clothes."
Hermione nodded her agreement as Korg began to lead them down the hall.
"Glad I'm made of rock, don't even need to wear clothes really." He gestured to his red trousers. "I just like to wear these cause they make my bum look nice."
Hermione quirked a brow at his conversation. Korg truly knew how to put someone at ease; she felt as if she'd known him for years.
The sounds of boisterous chatter drew her attention from the rock-man to the approaching door.
"What is that?"
Korg chuckled, "Meal hall, it's where all the slaves—er, prisoners with jobs eat. Word of advice before we go in, stick close to me. Don't want the wrong sort messing with you."
They stepped through the wide double doors, and Hermione's heart jumped to her throat. The meal hall was twice the size of the Hogwarts Great Hall and like the rest of the building, made entirely of metal. Hundreds of odd-looking people sat at long tables, and Hermione couldn't help but stare as she followed Korg. A man with cat-ears bared his teeth to her, a woman with blue skin glared, and something she could barely identify aside from a hat made of scrap metal followed her every movement.
She had never felt more exposed or in danger—not even during the war.
"Who are all these people?" she whispered to Korg, afraid if she spoke any louder, someone else would hear her.
"All of the Grandmaster's prisoners-with-jobs," Korg replied as they stepped into a line of the exact people Hermione was worried about.
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to keep her face impassive as she squashed down her fear. She couldn't allow these people to see just how fast her heart was beating or how her hands shook.
"How does he manage it? Keeping all these people as his prisoners?"
Korg tapped his chin, "The Grandmaster isn't exactly... he's ageless and powerful. He may look human, but he's far from it."
Hermione shivered at the idea. "Then, what is he?"
"He's an Elder of the Universe, sweetheart."
Hermione turned, staring at the face of a woman, her dark, normal-looking skin contrasting against the grey leather of her outfit. A smug smile graced her lips, her posture imposing and filled with confidence. She looked almost human, except there was an etherealness about her, as if she belonged to a higher world that even Merlin himself couldn't reach.
"A—" Hermione's voice caught in her throat, and she cleared it nervously. "A what?"
The woman crossed her arms, her self-important grin widening. "An elder . It basically just means he's all-powerful, immortal, yadda yadda." she waved her hand dismissively and looked to Korg. "Where did you find the human? Seems the scrap yard is missing some trash."
Hermione felt her face flush in anger.
"Prisoner Three-nine-four, meet Scrapper one-four-two." Korg introduced them. "Three-nine-four is from Earth."
One-four-two's eyes widened, the grin dropping from her face as she regarded Hermione, who stood straighter and held her head up high.
"An Earthian? Here ? Oh, Odin would have a field day if he knew—" she cut herself off, glaring at Hermione. "How did a mortal Earthian wind up on Sakaar?"
"I'm not just some plain-old Earthian!" Hermione hissed, annoyed at being treated like a child by Korg and whoever this woman was. "I'm a very powerful witch, I'll have you know!"
Statute of Secrecy be damned—she could deal with the Wizengamot.
One-four-two blinked, looking at Hermione in a new light, something akin to surprise on her face. "A witch? Like the ones that raised Frigga?"
"Who?"
One-four-two shook her head, "Nothing, sorry. Another life. If you're a witch, then why can't you just use your magic to leave?"
Hermione huffed, "It doesn't work like that. I need my wand—my magical conduit," she clarified at seeing the confused expression on one-four two's face. "I need my wand to use my magic. Without it I can only do small spells, but nothing powerful enough to get me off this planet. Even with my wand, I'm not sure I could."
"And where is your wand?"
Hermione crossed her arms and glared at the floor. "The Grandmaster has it."
"Well," a leather-clad arm shot into Hermione's view, extended for a handshake. "Either way, I would very much like to have a witch on my side."
Hermione stared at the hand for a moment. Could she trust this woman? She didn't know her, but yet there was a friendliness about her—if her rude comments were ignored. She reminded Hermione of Ginny, headstrong and without a filter. Either way, Hermione had no choice; she needed help if she were to make it out of Sakaar alive.
"Call me Hermione." She took the hand and shook it.
The smug grin returned to the woman's face, wrinkling the white face paint beneath her eyes. "Val."