thisavrou_log | ( july event log )

Entry tags:

( july event log )

Who: Everyone
When: July 18th and on
Where: Slave trade outpost in the Runoff.
What: The Ingress malfunctions, sending the Moira into a different universe. Some of the crew end up on one of the Runoff’s many slave trading outposts.
Warnings: Sex, murder, kidnapping.

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deep in the murk
"It comes first and follows after. Ends life, kills laughter."

With the outcome of the battle against the Caducans and the Moira having twisted together with their ship to form a strange combination of glass, metal, and organic parts (both across the ship and among the crewmembers), there is still the matter of the Ingress not functioning “properly”. It hasn’t worked correctly since the very first person arrived on the Moira through it, and there is little the Captains themselves know about its functions. However, now, more than before, it’s even worse than that. The Ingress malfunctions yet again. This time, though, it doesn’t simply combine time and space and objects around it—it encompasses the entirety of the ship and sends it far off into a completely different universe. Welcome to:

( click text for a rough map/layout )

This puts the Moira closer to its final destination, and most of the glass has disappeared as the Caducan ship has been left behind aside from small things here and there (i.e., some of the walls in the corridors, random furniture in the rooming decks, the rooms themselves). Even the mess hall has permanently changed. Yet, there is some bad news that comes with this transition. The universe the ship is in is so terrible that it has been given its own name so that travelers avoid it altogether. Even the Captains themselves are aware of just how Bad News this universe is and had originally planned to take “the long way around” to avoid it. Anything shady or unsavory can be found in the Runoff, and while it might not appeal to the majority, it is simply second-nature to those who inhabit it. From arms trafficking to drugs, whatever one might think is illegal somewhere else is suddenly very legal and very dangerous.

Through the transition, some of the crew will accidentally end up on a nearby outpost specifically used for slave trade. It is a covered, temporary establishment used only for this purpose, meaning there are no open markets, hotels, or businesses of any sort. Stalls and tents line dirty streets, and ships litter the space around the outpost. This is a slave trade zone. People come and go but do not stay. Various lifeforms can be found here, and there are many different forms of slave trade happening. The motto “honor among thieves” does not exist in this place either. Crew who end up here will be “free”; however, this means that there is the potential to be taken and sold or kept by those of the Runoff. The Moira will not be close to this outpost, but the signals given from their MIDs will alert the crew to their location. Rescue, obviously, is imminent, but those who choose to help their fellow crewmembers must keep to small stealth missions using transporters or other crafts with one important detail in mind: they cannot bring attention or notice to the Moira itself.

Almost one-third of the crew has found themselves on the slave trade outpost, leaving the rest to plan for rescue. The Captains will immediately divulge all information that they have about the outpost, which is unfortunately very little outside of the stigma associated with the Runoff. The Captains will ask any MID techs or those with skills to create a program that allows person to person location; this function will allow crewmembers to search for those on the outpost via their MIDs. Rescue efforts are encouraged, and all the ships and transporters in the cargo bay will be available for public use. Crew will be told to be careful and quiet, bringing no attention to the Moira’s location, and most importantly, do not stand out. If crew look and act like they don’t belong there, others will notice. Stealth is the name of the game, and blending in is a necessity.

☄ time goes by slowly

The unfortunate crewmembers who ended up on the outpost have now found themselves pursued by those looking to make a profit through slave trade. The standards of hard labor vary from owner to owner, but it is what it sounds like. Rough, hard work that will last as long as the body performing it can endure. If purchased, owners might examine their new property to determine what type of work they’d be best suited for and then split them up into holding areas until they are done with their purchases. Others might have their slaves begin work by cleaning their ship or holding stalls or packing up their tents and gear. The owners, and their needs, are as varied as the universe. Did you manage to escape? Or were you forced to work before you were rescued?

☄ and it seems to last forever

Like the crewmembers taken by general labor owners, the murdersport slavers buy and take whomever they believe can last the longest in the pit. Some take those who appear to be strong or have great stamina, and some take those who are light on their feet or are quick-witted. Some crew are chosen simply based on appearance and how good they’ll look in their gear. If pursued, the slavers will do everything they can to capture the Moirans, and if captured, crew might be taken to a holding stall or a testing pit so that their skills can be witnessed by the public and tested. Some slavers want to show off their new property by throwing them into small roped off areas with other slaves, various creatures, or machines. Some make them stand up in front of groups and simply show them off, boasting that, at the next big event in the Runoff, they’ll surely win the grand prize. What kind of slaver has taken you? Will you be forced to fight before you rescue? Or will you not make it to the Moira before the Ingress pulls you back?

☄ but then it starts to fly ( cw: sex )

As is typical of this universe, slave trade comes in various forms. The most notorious being its illustrious sex trade. Slaves are bought and sold quickly and often, with no notable preference for appearance or species. Buyers come from all over to find slaves to work in their brothels, for personal use, as in-house entertainment, and much more. While the other two most popular type of slave trade don’t care as much about the physical well being of their property, these specific owners usually do. They might try to incapacitate first, so that the slaves aren’t bruised or cut, and if necessary, use binds until they can get them back to their ships or holding stalls. Some owners have their slaves cleaned and dressed in the finest attire, while others shove them into uniforms and tossed into stalls. Were you captured? Did you escape? Or were you rescued before something untoward occurred?

What's more, events of the past always have a way of coming back to haunt you.

Months past, a monster terrorized the crew and left a very literal mark upon those that it touched. Those scarred by encounters with the Ploiatos will find their minds drifting as they work and go about their day. They may also find themselves in a different part of the ship than intended when they come back to themselves. It happens slowly, these small moments of lost time. But both before and after these events occur, one might notice that the scars seem to shift slightly. Where the patterns have been stable for months, suddenly the branching arms of the scars appear to be in a slightly different position than before. More often than not, those who lose time will regain awareness and find themselves in Navigation. When this happens, oftentimes Captain Manasseh will herd them out with a quiet, but undeniably firm, suggestion to visit the infirmary. More unsettling are the moments when they awaken in the I.L.R. standing outside the one door that should never be opened. As for those who were lucky enough to avoid encounters with the creature locked within, they must figure out how to deal with their friends and fellow crew who seem to walk around in a fog with no control of their actions.

( ooc; Please mark all sensitive topics in subject line! )

Threaded | Flat

It all happens in what seems to be a blur. Dutch finds herself not on the Moira, but on some sort of outpost. She’s stunned, feeling her head as the glass that had attached itself to her head is once more replaced by her natural head of blonde and dyed black hair. She doesn’t have time to be grateful. The next thing she feels is some sort of lasso around her neck. Dutch is pulled towards a rather aggressive slaver who sizes her up and slaps restraints around her wrists. It happens so fast all Dutch has time to do is shout obscenities at the man as she’s pushed into a stall.

The stall has bars, enabling Dutch to see the horrors of the market all around her. She is far from the only person being exploited there. People of all ages and races seem to be for sale. The question on her mind is why? Why are they all for sale? What kind of person buys another person?

As someone nears her stall to inspect her she rears her head back to launch a giant ball of spit at them. The slaver who so roughly captured her, though, won’t have that behavior. He reaches a rod into her stall and jabs it at her, sending a small electric current at her and effectively tasing her. Dutch yelps and jumps slightly, retreating to the far side of her stall. With a resigned look on her face, she peers outside at the others who share her fate in nearby stalls.

slavers outpost: 18th - 23rd [ota] —

After the initial shock wears off, Obi-Wan finds that he has no choice but to focus on gathering information while avoiding the market. He finds slavery detestable, downright cruel, and its thriving culture on this output leaves a strong, bitter taste in his mouth. Particularly when he thinks to his friends that are now forced to suffer the same fate that's currently threatening him.

It makes sense to organize. Whenever there's an opportunity, Kenobi is colluding. He finds those he can trust — Moirans — and that's where his focus remains. He's a problem solver, after all, and this is one problem he feels is in everyone's best interest to be solved once and for all. It won't be easy, no, but enough willing people to provide assistance, even the longest odds don't seem so unfavorable.

He will be moving freely through the outpost for the first week, from one shadow to the next, operating under the assumption that he's untouchable, breaking free those who seek his help, planning with the brightest minds in an effort to secure an escape for them all.

It's hard work, but familiar work, and for once, Kenobi welcomes it.

slavers outpost: 23rd - 25th [ota] —

But as with all things, nothing lasts forever. Some time near the end of the first week, Obi-Wan Kenobi, for whatever reason — reasons likely unknown to anyone but him — finds himself a slave once again. His few short days on Zygerria, while difficult, are a lasting reminder of toils once wrought, and with that in mind, he takes to being a owned with as little grace as possible, while still remaining active in his previous pursuits.

When he meets with anyone — clients specifically — he does so in private, as is the way of things. But he doesn't play along, not as he's been told to. A mindtrick or two does wonders, and fine words can solve more problems than any one person might imagine.

Behind enemy lines, gilded by his owner, the Jedi Master looms undercover, lurking in the depths of darkness in order to save as many people as he possibly can from this very barbaric trade.

This, too, is hard work, but familiar work just the same. Good work, that needs to be done, for good people who need to be saved.

slavers outpost: 26th on [closed] —

Tak-Fren knows of many ways to break a slave. By her skilled hands she sits proudly on a proverbial throne, her legacy, the highest rate of success among her peers. She has never failed in this task, partly owed to her inability to survive any other way. She'll be damned if she gives in to starvation now simply due to an iron will and some unseen protector.

Dealing in sex is easy. On a good day she can turn a profit without issue — one or two fresh faces around these parts, particularly pliant slaves, yields capital enough to keep her in business — but Tak-Fren needs more than a roof and supplies. Like all of her species, she occasionally needs to feed, and like all of her species, feeding is complicated.

"Nuu-nuu," she coos, settling in next to her prey. Her sharp claws drag lightly along a bristly jawline, one scaly hand on each side of ginger whiskers. A second pair of hands wave a bouquet of burning herbs into the atmosphere, ceremoniously spinning the smoke around her prone victim. A crackling rumble shudders from a gland in her neck, the sound reminiscent of a human's laugh. "Breathe deep, rasha. You will work, you will work for me..."

A haze rolls in, thick like fog, obscuring, all encompassing. It curls, smoke in the nose, out the mouth, silent, stealthy, invasive. It takes hold, into the lungs, the blood, the heart, the mind, snaking around hostile territory with a built-in numbing agent, leaving no trail in its path, no indication of its presence in the now...
Stubbing out the smouldering bunch, Tak-Fren clicks sharply as she looms over Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. In the short time he's spent as her slave, the human has reacted uniquely compared to others of his species. He has performed — seven successful appointments in a row — but what Tak-Fren knows that her clientele does not, is that his success is born of trickery, much like her own.

"Fair money," she crows, raising her arms in victory. She would punish him for the insolence if she didn't admire the resourcefulness of it. It's made her a lot of money in a very short time.

Her sensitive eyes — two pair to match the arms — read the levels within her prey, sensing as the last of his active consciousness dips below the surface. Whatever advantage he'd had over this situation — whatever planned level of protection he'd thus far maintained — gives way, and Kenobi's connection to the Force goes with it. Set adrift, separate and sedated, his mind becomes open. Suggestible.

As she leans in to drone softly in his ear, tendrils from her chin curl around Obi-Wan's face, grasping as Tak-Fren's alien words seed his mind with thoughts of suggestive situations. An unfettered thrill shudders through her as her hunger flares. Just there, she sees it: a pool of intensity that's been long reserved, emotions unspent over years and years, a veritable feast living shallowly on her floor.

"Rasha, oh rasha... How do you live like this?" Clever and so full of potential. Pitifully unspent. She'll eat for a week, gorge on every constructed production, on every raked up desire.

[[ OOC: Need or want your own custom starter? Feel free to PM me or hit me up on plurk @ blakeroo and we'll work it out! Otherwise, will match style, beware of sensitive subjects, and so on... ]]

Edited 2016-07-19 06:23 (UTC)

ｐｒａｙｉｄｏｎ＇ｔａｌｔｅｒｉｔａｎｙｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ

[The keen avoidance of the markets hadn't lasted long. A day, two at most. Time seemed difficult to tell out here, or perhaps, in the face of electric shackles that keep even the Chosen One subdued, it doesn't really matter. The slow passing of an hour, a day, it all fades into a periphery when Anakin only has one thing on his mind. The anger sits plainly bared in his expression, a burn that churns through his veins like acid rather than flame. It is a deep, unsettled thing, so encompassing that he doesn't even think twice about trying to subdue it, to "play along" or make any of this easier on himself.

There is, simply, nothing in the whole of any collective universe that Anakin Skywalker hates more than this. There is no dislike, nothing to soften the indignation, or fury, or fury so thoroughly felt it may well have been the fabric of his entire being.

What that sort of anger leads to--the invariable outcome he's been so warned of, so blamed for, so guilt-ridden over--is not even a consideration. Vader can rot in every single one of the Nine Hells, or he could come out now and the galaxy would rue the day. Neither thought even fazes.

The only thing that distracts from being here--Tatooine, Zygerria, this Sith-forsaken hellpit, they're all the same--chained up and being auctioned off like a piece of meat, is that he's not here alone. He can't be left to stew exclusively in his own upset when that voice next to him sounds off. Suddenly he's cognizant, present, and his vision is only a dull shade of grey instead of the stark color of blood he wants to wash it in.]

I'm sorry, what?

ｉｗａｓａｓｌａｖｅ，ｏｎａｗｏｒｌｄｍａｄｅｏｆｄｕｓｔ

[Anakin doesn't take to the idea of being owned...again with any modicum of grace. He's defiant, mouthy, and the picturesque example of what happens when one in his position tries to openly flout an established authority. The resulting punishments exacted are harsh and painful, and they leave marks on old wounds and scars, some of which don't show, but ache just as much as those that do.

He's not simply doing this to make a point, though that part gives him a satisfaction he's not about to try to dig into now. It keeps the overseers' attention off the others in the room, all awaiting their various, horrible fates. What's a whip, a cracked rib, and some bruises next to that? He's had worse.

Unfortunately, his body can take less than his attitude, and he eventually ends up knelt on the floor, breathing harsh and heavy. The overseer eventually leaves, and if you're about to tell him he's an idiot, now would be the time.]

ｗｅｇｏｔｉｎｔｏａｇｇｒｅｓｓｉｖｅｎｅｇｏｔｉａｔｉｏｎｓ (closed to jedimindtrick)

[After the awful premonitions started in his sleep--since when has that ever delivered good news?--and Obi-Wan dropped off the Force map, Anakin had wasted no time in breaking out his hidden lightsaber, and forcing his way back out to the streets of the outpost. The various and sundry wounds together with the staggered limp and heavy breathing of a man who has broken the wrong pieces far too recently are dead giveaways of his status, but without the market shackles, or giving away every last bit of energy to a taskmaster bent on breaking him long before he's ever forced into the real backbreaking work, slipping into the Force and vanishing seems easier than it should.

He's one with it, and this "trick" was never meant to encompass the meaning of hidden so completely. It's dangerous work, giving control to the Force like this, just as susceptible to its Will, maybe even more so, than cognizant thought outside of it. If he's not careful, if he holds it for too long, he might very well never come back.

But he has one thought on his mind, one anchor. And that anchor always holds. Which is why Obi-Wan's disappearance within the Force is so alarming. He can't be dead, he'd have felt that, he knows he would have. But something is very, very wrong, and it no longer prudent to wait any of this out.

It takes days to do reconnaissance, assisted just barely with a MID signal that keeps flashing, though no real response ever comes back. He keeps to the shadows, vanishes where necessary, and only asks conscious, too-careful questions of other slaves; it's the one part of this whole historied affair that almost makes him thankful to understand how to pull information out of those cautious glances and whispered non-answers.

Three days of excruciating silence, whispers in the Force on-and-off again that leave him no less sick to his stomach with worry, he knows he's found it. Not in Obi-Wan's presence, which is still terrifyingly silent, but in the sick satisfaction of the other being in the room; those thoughts are like sirens, and they call in some saccharine sweet song to that blood-lust he's kept bitten back just under his tongue this last week and a half.

When he bursts into the room, he doesn't even try to temper it. The problem with sirens is that they lure death: they never stop to think that it might touch them.]

Get. Away. From. Him.

[His words are cautious, measured, and steeped in murderous lust.]

ｉｗａｎｔｔｈａｔｓｈｉｐ，ｎｏｔｅｘｃｕｓｅｓ (wildcard)

[Rescue is inevitable. He has to think it, however true he has to make it himself. The MID might make his location easier to pinpoint, if he knew where he was properly. He's seen too little of the outpost, and exploration is a risk without reward.

That is, of course, unless you're still stuck here too and need some help. "Doing the right thing," is reward enough.]

Edited 2016-07-19 06:49 (UTC)

[Outpost]

[Everything was a blur the moment he showed up here. The first thing he remembered was being closely followed, and having to run through different alleys and streets. But no matter how far he tried to get away, he was smaller and slower than his pursuers.

He was grabbed up and carried off - he tried biting the people carrying him. Bad move, it ended with a rope around his snout. Despite his struggling, he can't get away or call for help. And as they reach the stalls, he's placed in metal restraints around his wrists and legs, as well as fitted with a proper muzzle before being lead in.

Asriel's a terrified, shaking mess - but it soon becomes obvious that he's not the only one here.]

[At work]

[If you've been enlisted into manual labor, you might notice the small fuzzy child with the metal collar around their neck. Asriel looks terrified being there, but he's busy transporting boxes for right now.

Every once in a while, he'll get one that's too heavy for him and he'll start to drop it...]

[Dinnertime]

[Every muscle in his body aches from being overworked. His hands and feet are scuffed up, and his neck is sore from the collar scraping up against his neck. It's a relief when he's finally led away for food and a chance to rest. His throat his dry and his stomach hurts, and all he wants to do is cry but he thinks that would be a bad idea.

His "living arrangements" turn out to be much different than he expects, a small holding cell that seems more suited for keeping animals for transport. The stench hits him immediately, and he can he growling and scratching from the wall next to him. He tries to back away fearfully, but the owner shoves him inside and closes the cell door.

But not before tossing in a bag filled with torn up and dirty papers, wrappers, and empty cans.]

"Here, you can eat this kind of stuff, can't you?"

[He closes and locks the cell door, leaving Asriel to desperately pound on the door as agitated noises from the animal next door get louder.]

W-wait, please don't leave me in here! Please!

[He'll keep crying out for a while, until it dissolves into actual crying. Anyone passing through will see Asriel curled against the opposite side of the wall.]

[Punishment]

[After days of working, it's continuously taking it's toll on Asriel. Each day he looks a little worse than the last, and today his body has had about all it can take. In the middle of dragging heavy cargo, he stumbles dizzily and crashes to the floor.

He can't find it in himself to get back up. Unfortunately, his owner does take notice and walks over.]

"Get up and get back to work."

[When Asriel doesn't respond, the man roughly grabs and pulls him up by his ears. There's a loud, pained yelp from Asriel as he's dragged up and shoved towards the cargo box.]

I-I can't...

"Do you wanna know what happens to animals around here that I don't have a use for? Get back to work."

[He yanks Asriel's ears again until he's weakly standing upright, but in Asriel's poor state, he looks like he's still going to collapse again anyway.]

[Escape!]

[Part 1 - Closed to Kyoko | Asriel's Holding Cell]

[After so many days of constant work and being locked in a cell with barely anything to eat, Asriel's barely got enough energy to move. He tried to sneak out while the owner's eyes were elsewhere, but the action only got him in bigger trouble. Now not only does he have the collar around his neck, but there's shackles on both of his legs too.

No one knows where he is, no one's going to come rescue him. It's been a few days, right? Maybe the Moira moved on without him. The thought makes him shudder painfully, and he buries his face in his hands as he lets out a sob.]

Someone please... I want to go home...

[Part 2 - ota | Outpost]

[Asriel's finally made it out with Kyoko's help, but unfortunately she couldn't make it out with him. He doesn't know where to go from here, and he doesn't know where to find help for Kyoko either. If he can just find the Moira, just someone he recognizes... he'll be okay, right?

He recognizes this place as the place where he was first kidnapped, but he doesn't have any idea if the Moira is near or not. He's dizzy, weak, and malnourished to the point where everything feels so fuzzy. Any slaver could see that he was an escaped slave and just simply pick him back up.

He wanders around uselessly, shackles still around his legs and a thick metal collar still around his neck.]

H-hello? Can... can someone help me? Please...

i get up in the morning to the beat of the drum [open to slaves]
[Zam wakes up to pitch-blackness and the roar of engines rumbling through her surroundings. She quickly realizes that she’s moving -- or rather, that she’s in a moving vehicle. Her memories of the previous hours are foggy: suddenly finding herself on an unfamiliar world, wandering the streets looking for a spaceport, bartering for a bite to eat, and then… this. Her heads is pounding as she feels her way around the darkness, her mind a fog. Her best guess is that she’s in the back of some kind of speeder truck, though that raises more questions than answers. She moves from corner to corner, one hand dragging along the wall -- and then almost stumbles over a shape crouched in front of her. There’s someone else here with her, she realizes. She stumbles back, reaching for her MID -- thank the stars it’s still there -- and summons the holographic keyboard, glowing faintly in the gloom.]

Friend or foe? [The words glow almost painfully bright in the pitch blackness of the truck.]

i get up to this feeling makes me want to run [closed to anakin]
[Zam’s still woozy when they take her out of the holding pen and push her up onto the display platform. The harsh light from above and the chains around her ankles only add to the sensation that she’s about to topple over and she finds herself wondering what exact cocktail of drugs her captors had dosed her with to make her feel this unbalanced. It’s clever, for slavers. A slave who had trouble standing would have even more trying to run away.

The presenter rattles off information about her health and pricing and Zam sees quite a few gazes lingering on the glass that still covers the lower left side of her face, the shape of it carved into something very clearly nonhuman. She wonders, distantly, if it adds or subtracts from her value.

Eventually, prospective customers are invited to inspect the merchandise for themselves. They come up one at a time, giving orders. Turn this way, turn that way, open your mouth, look up, smile. It quickly becomes clear exactly what kind of work most of them have in mind for her and maybe if Zam had been feeling more clear-headed, she would have changed faces before being pushed up here. Oh well. Better late than never. When the next prospective buyer steps up to inspect her, he has only a moment to appraise her “human” face before it suddenly twists into that of a corpse, eyes clouded over milky white and skin mottled gray except for flashes of red pigment that create the illusion of rivulets of blood running down to her neck. She grins at him with rows of needle sharp teeth and hisses low in her throat.

His reaction is gratifying, to say the very least. The slaver leaps back with a cry of alarm, stumbles over the edge of the platform, and topples back into the crowd, eyes fixed in horror on Zam’s altered face the whole time. There’s a brief uproar of confusion and anger among the spectators, and it isn’t long before Zam is yanked down from the platform and half-thrown back into the holding pens in fury by the seller. She collides with the other occupant behind her as the cell door slams in her face. Zam unsteadily rights herself and turns to face her new cellmate, face smoothly changing back into that of her previous form -- only to find that her fellow captive is more familiar than she expected.]

i get up, i get up, i get up again [open to murdersport slaves]
[The pre-fight holding cells smell like stale blood and cheap disinfectant. After the several days she’s spent going between this room and the ring, you think she’d be used to it by now -- she isn’t.

The first fight had been an obvious test. The man they threw in the ring was a forfeit: a contender who had refused to fight in a previous match and was thus disposed of as bait to test the resolve of newly purchased fighters with more promise. He must have been a good man, to refuse to participate in a sport like this. A better man than Zam, unfortunately for him. Since then, her opponents have been more like her: captives fighting to win because victory meant survival.

Zam’s managed to kill every single one they’ve thrown at her so far.

Zam is given a chance to hose the blood off like usual and then shoved back into the holding cell with no further ceremony. To any casual onlookers, she seems eerily unfazed by the circumstances; she merely walks in, wipes the clinging drops of water from her armor, and then find a place to sit on the floor. She doesn’t even seem to notice the person in the cell next to hers.]

[1. SERENITY IS THE DEVIL (the outpost)]

Liquid has no goddamn idea where he is.

The MID isn't much help, since it only seems to map out the ship. So he's wandering around, looking at everything in hopes of figuring a thing or two out.

The delicate-looking glass of his arm still remains, and isn't delicate in the least, especially not with the reinforcements it's received thanks to the medbay being ready to fix the issues.

"Alright, so... where the hell are we?"

He might also be trying to contact people on the MID to see if they can shed any light on the situation.

[2. LOCK THE TARGET, BAIT THE LINE, SPREAD THE NET, THEN CATCH THE MAN (getting captured)]

It becomes increasingly obvious that something's off on this little outpost. And especially obvious once, while he's slightly distracted trying to contact people, he just gets straight up captured. Oh, sure, he tried to fight back, but they must have had some really advanced technology, because he was taken all the same. How could this happen to him? He should have been better at fighting, should have been paying attention, should have been... well, it's pointless now.

They toss him into a temporary cell with more people, and it's kind of embarrassing how much he struggles without actually getting anywhere. Sure, these restraints might be higher-tech and more complicated than things he's used to, but damn, can't he even escape just a little bit?

Eventually he stops struggling with a huff, choosing to look around instead. He's not the only one in here by any means; there's a number of others, and who the hell knows where they're all being carted off to?

[3. CELEBRATE RELENTLESSNESS MENACE TO SOCIETY (murdersport)]

Of course Liquid's good. He's trained in many types of combat, so whether he needs to beat people up hand to hand or go for whatever weapons are available, he's going to have skill.

And the crowd loves him.

Whether he's actually fighting or just being shown off, he seems popular with crowds. It probably helps that he's definitely not bad-looking (among humanoids anyway), and it's clear that even fighting species he doesn't recognize that he knows what he's doing.

While obviously there's slaves more popular than he is, he's doing pretty damn well on the fame circuit for a new guy. Is it really that difficult for it to get to his head?

Maybe he's in the middle of a fight. Maybe he's being paraded around the outpost for advertisement. And damn, he looks good in that collar. Sometimes that and a pair of shorts is all he gets to wear. Sometimes he's suited up in as much gear as they can fit on him. Some seem fascinated by his glass arm. Some seem to think their guy's better than him. Some resent the guy when there's older slaves who don't get as much attention.

Where do you fit in?

[4. CLEAN ALL YOUR WOUNDS, CURSE ALL YOUR BONES (murdersport)]

This becomes routine. Liquid's good, damn good, and while he can't stand the fact that he's being forced into it, eventually it doesn't matter so much anymore. He's good. He's popular.

He knows this isn't good for his mental state, but it's hard to keep caring after a while.

They've been showing off his skills wherever they could but there isn't another fight for a while, so they've taken him back to a cell, and he's clearly restless. He's not alone, though. Someone else is in there, and he actually recognizes them. He offers about the friendliest look he can give someone in a situation like this.

"Been doing well, then?"

[5. I BREATHE IN, YOU BREATHE OUT (a daring rescue) (ocelot and ??? let's coordinate this!)]

It's been a few days, at least. Maybe more. He's lost track of time. Or maybe he just doesn't care about time. It doesn't matter. He's here for battle. But he's not alone, not this time.

He glares at the intruder, as if that's going to make them leave. Sure, he recognizes them, but he's got a fight to rest up for. He can't just sit around shooting the breeze with someone he knows.

Wait.

He shakes his head. Why's he thinking like that? God, it's just like Del Pascia, isn't it?

He might need to get the hell out of here before he starts actually wanting to do this for a living.

[6. WILDCARD]

[Anything else you want to do? Just pick something or plot with me here or at

agentkaz!]

Edited 2016-07-19 23:26 (UTC)

A - at the outpost (open to all slaves)

[Capturing Papyrus was hardly a feat -- once he'd found himself off the ship, he'd waved down the nearest group of slavers for assistance, and they'd easily brought him back to the outpost without so much as a pair of handcuffs. All they'd had to do was assure him they knew his friends and could help him find them. Once there, however, he was quickly restrained -- both arms chained to the wall. He actually seemed put out by it, but seeing a familiar face nearby makes him grin bright as ever.]

Well! It wasn't a trick after all -- they did know where my fellow Moirans were! Hello there!

B - Murdersport - pacifist run

[One after another, crew members were sorted and selected for their specific trade. Papyrus was chosen for combat, something he actually doesn't seem too upset about. He sits down obediently enough after he's shoved into a holding cell and gives the nearest person a little wave of greeting.]

Wowie, they chose you for combat too? I wonder what sort of stunning displays they expect from us? Have you thought of any special attacks to perform? Maybe we ought to coordinate!

[He actually seems pretty excited. The thrill of victory! The... somewhat less thrilling thrill of a defeat gracefully accepted! He's ready to get out there and impress them all.]

C - Murdersport 2: no some mercy run

[Word spread quickly about the oddball display going on in the arena -- a skeleton, not the usual flyblown corpse of some unfortunate vertebrate, but a "live" one that's actually holding its own rather decently so far. It's a novelty, if nothing else, and there's a little crowd gathered as slave traders come to watch and place bets on how long before those bones crack.

Papyrus is getting a little tired -- they've thrown machine after machine at him and he's spent magic to stop them, but he's holding up. In fact, he's doing better than that -- the attention and obvious approval bolster him, and he can't help showing off a little, swinging a 'weapon' made out of a long bone and flexing for the crowd.]

Nyeh-heh-heh! Witness the battle prowess of the great Papyrus! There's no machine powerful to defeat me! Bring on your... your very best... um.

[His bravado visibly deflates as his next opponent is thrown in. This isn't the same thing at all, this is a living creature, a person, with a soul he can sense. He's willing to fight them, but he had to fight every single battlebot until it broke down. Nothing less pleased the crowd.

They didn't mean for him to...? Right?]

Wait! Excuse me, I believe there's been some sort of mistake! I'm supposed to be fighting machines, right?

Edited (html) 2016-07-19 14:04 (UTC)

A: Slave Trade Hub

[Saitama was just sipping on some of the Sunset Sarsparilla he'd been mysteriously mailed when the shift happened. He suddenly found himself somewhere quite different, blinking down the length of the bottle in his mouth. Huh.

He'll start to look around after that. If he spots anybody he recognizes (or thinks he recognizes), they'll get a loud "Hey!" and a wave, Saitama running toward them.]

What's this about, huh? [it's not an accusing question, he's calmly concerned. He's not sure if this is Just Another Moira Thing that he's not used to]

B: What happened to laying low?

[Walking through the market, still oblivious to where he ended up and what this planets function is, he'll hear a ruckus up a head. Rushing forward, a metal beam had become loose and was ready to fall. People were scattering, some leaving cowering slaves in their chains to be squashed. Saitama positioned himself under the beam as it fell, catching it in a single palm, indenting the metal with his fingers. He'll heft it and set it down with ease. Needless to say, this stunt has gathered some attention.

He'll be approached by a man, who chats with him for some time. Saitama's given a card with a time and a place. An arena, huh?]

This might be fun.

C: Taking the Sport out of Murder Sport

Is this really the best you have? [he'll call to the stands, slavers gawking in a mixture of anger, outrage, and surprise. His tone isn't triumphant or even that indignant, no, Saitama just sounds bored. He'd been told there was a challenge, if he wanted to fight with that great strength of his. Instead, they'd sent some rickity robots at him with stun guns and chains, which they intended to use to capture him.

After he punched those to scraps, they released several monstrous aliens, which where mildly amusing due to their numbers, but lasted about as long as the robots. Saitama brushed guts off his shoulders, the meaty chunks melting his clothing with their acidity.]

Gross. Send out something better!

D: We didn't want you anyways!

[Turns out that slavers do not like their best and strongest punched into oblivion. Who knew, right? Saitama had refused to fight any human opponents beyond knocking them out and the monsters he faced were quickly turned to gooey smears in the arena. If Saitama had been a little showy about it, he may have made for some entertainment. That's not Saitama's style, Saitama has no style. People aren't very impressed when a supposedly Great Beast is destroyed by an unimpressed looking bald guy. He used one whole special move, but "Consecutive Normal Punches" was not a crowd pleaser.

So, after an evening of that, he's coerced out of the arena. The now fearful slavers shove a cartoonish sack of money at him, since he outright refused to budge without the reward he had been promised. Turns out they would rather cut their losses than risk any more property damage. The money was real, too, they didn't want this man's wrath turning back on them. Saitama will open the bag and rummage through the coins noisily.]

What the hell do I do with all this? [He should probably spend it all here, right? The Moira didn't need currency. Maybe a nice dinner, some new clothes, and then he'll try to find other crewmates around. This could buy some others out of trouble, he bets.]

Wildcard:

[Feel free to drop a scenario here or PM me to plot something out! If you would like your character "rescued" by Saitama and his winnings, he'll likely be going around looking for Moira captives to buy back their freedom.]

Edited 2016-07-19 16:41 (UTC)

( cw: mild body horror mention, kidnapping, slavery, general violence )

the outpost;
[ The first thing he notices is the very sudden lack of the discomfort inside his skull. That discomfort that's been there since the end of the battle with the Caducans, since his neural implants had been turned to glass. A quick touch over the scarred skin and the port at the back of his neck tells him that it's not glass anymore, that it's all back to normal. Thank god.

It's only then that he realizes that there's not much cause for celebration just yet. This is absolutely not the middle of a hallway in the Moira, which is where he'd just been. Freezing in place, Wash slowly lowers his arm and takes a long look around. None of his surroundings are familiar. The place is dirty, full of unfamiliar people and beings, and he instantly has a bad feeling about this.

Where he is, how he got here, he doesn't know. What he does know is that this is not safe, and he's in nothing but civilian garb--his armor is still in his room on the Moira, wherever that is now. He's more panicked than he lets on, he's pissed, and he's determined to find his way out of here. Wash can be found pretty easily, brushing and shoving his way through crowds, seeking an exit more than he is familiar faces, though those aren't unwelcome. It hasn't really occurred to him that more of the crew may have been affected by whatever the hell happened. ]

captured; ( open to murdersport slaves )
[ The last thing Wash has a clear memory of is searching through the outpost for some way back to the ship. But the situation he's in now comes clear relatively quickly--pain in the back of his head indicates someone knocking him out, bindings preventing much movement of arms or hands indicates capture, and the things he hears being discussed around him...are unsettling. Things about being a purchase, about him being a sure thing to win 'the next one', and other things along those lines. Unsettling and enough to make his blood boil. Oh, like hell is he going to allow himself to be sold and used as a source of entertainment. He's been used enough for one lifetime.

Needless to say, as soon as these new 'owners' try to move him, Wash does anything but comply. With only his arms bound, he can still do plenty. He absolutely gets into a scuffle, making use of his shoulders, legs, and head to fight the assholes off of him. He does some good damage, too. At least, until they bring in more people, outnumbering him. He still fights, because like hell will he go willingly no matter how many people the creeps have working for them, but ultimately, he's subdued.

By the time he's dumped into some holding stall, bindings removed, he's not in great shape. Yes, he was left well enough that he can still move, can still fight, having been ultimately subdued by another blow to the head, but he's not without pain. There's bruising, there's blood, and goddamn, is his broken rib ever going to get a chance to actual heal before he gets shoved into another situation that only makes it worse?? Huffing a breath as he picks himself up off the floor, Wash shoves himself back up against one of the walls and glances around. ]

What the fuck.

[ Wiping away at some of the blood trickling down his forehead, that's about all he can think to say after the events of this stupid damn day. Whether there are any other people in the stalls around him who can hear him, he has no goddamn clue. Right now, he's just focused on being pissed. As soon as his head feels a little less disoriented, he's going to be right back to trying to get himself the hell out of here, but... yeah, for the moment, he needs a quick break. ]

the arena; ( open to murdersport slaves )
[ All escape attempts futile thus far, Wash has spent most of his time holed up in his stall. All too much like his prison cell back home, which only aggravates him further. He'd been cleaned up, had his wounds from his attempts to fight himself free tended to, but has only once or twice been taken out to be shown off like some prize pig at a county fair. This has mostly been due to the fact that every time he's been taken out, he's been mouthy as hell and made another attempt to fight for escape. He might be a decent piece to show off and brag about, given his lean frame but relatively tone muscles and all his scarring that shows he's a fighter and a survivor, but evidently it's not worth the fuss he causes. Okay by him, the whole process is demeaning as all hell anyway.

There are a few times he's dragged out more for his 'intended purpose' though. Tossed into a pit for obvious testing of his abilities. Being told that it's fight and kill or die himself? That's enough to have Wash showing no mercy. He hates being used for entertainment, but if he's in a life or death situation, he will fight to survive. Sometimes it's nothing but his fists, sometimes he gets a weapon. Sometimes he's fighting other slaves, sometimes they're bizarre creatures. Doesn't matter. He kills them. He wins. He survives.

Today is different, though. Today it's an arena he's tossed into, nothing but the clothes on his back and a single knife that he's handed, and his opponent? ...Someone he recognizes. Someone he knows he's seen around the Moira, whether they've ever interacted or not. He's being pitted against them in another fight to the death.

Doesn't matter if they're familiar. He's going to survive, whatever it takes, and if that means killing a crewmate? He can live with that. He's made it this long, he's sure as hell not going to be brought down now. ]

wildcard;
[ rescue attempts, other encounters throughout the time in the outpost, whatever! throw it at me. hit me up on plurk (

notcrazyokay) if you want to plot something. ]

☄ UNDERCOVER; OPEN TO ENSLAVED CHARACTERS.

[ Few places shock Bruce these days, but this is definitely one of them. As if jumping to a whole other universe wasn't enough, they land right at the edge of a system with an economy largely built on slave trade, the people with clearly no idea whatsoever of what's morally and ethically wrong with something like this.

The icing on top of the cake? A third of the crew ends up stuck in a trade outpost. Bruce doesn't need to be told to know that most of them, if not all, have likely been captured and made a slave, yet another source of profit for one of the few free people there.

It's a terrible idea to go down there, Bruce knows. People are making plans to try and rescue people, though, and he knows that won't go far if they don't have some notion of how that place works. So, getting himself a couple of willing companions —although Wanda and Loki wouldn't really be his first choice, at least he knows they'll be able to hold off anyone trying to attack them— he gets on a transporter and makes his way to the outpost.

There, he poses as an interested buyer. He's no actor by any means, but it's not the first time he's pretended to be someone else entirely to sneak in somewhere, and wearing plain unassuming clothes and a cloak just to add some discretion to his attire, he makes his way through the outpost, barely sparing anyone a word, letting his eyes wander the rows of slaves offered for trading and buying. He's got his black spending card in his pocket and he intends to use it on a few of them, at least, but he also has a number of bugs he intends to plant around the outpost, which will feed both sound and image back to the Moira.

If he sees any other Moirans, he'll pretend to not know them in front of other people— if he manages to find one alone, he will definitely approach. If it's someone he knows and trusts even just barely, he'll try to hand them a few bugs so they can help him spread them around. Do a little insider work, if you will. ]

☄ PDA: POINTLESS DUMB ARGUMENT; CLOSED TO TRISH.

[ Once he comes back from what was doubtlessly his weirdest shopping spree, Bruce practically beelines to the science department, quickly surrounding himself with holoscreens and a 3D rendering on the holotable, unfinished for now. Flipping from one camera to the next at a somewhat quick pace, he uses what he can get from the bugs to build as accurate a map of the outpost as he can manage. One of the camera views moves too, a very tiny drone that's apparently crawling along the walls and ceilings down at the outpost, scanning the corridors and rooms and feeding that information straight into the map.

There's little more he can do, sadly. Hulking out wouldn't really help, with that many people down there he can't risk either killing innocent people or that the enslavers have just enough power and means to actually capture the Hulk. And Bruce is definitely not a person that can be made a slave, because that would only spell disaster in the long run. ]

☄ DAZED AND CONFUSED; OPEN.

[ To add to all this, Bruce has noticed something else happening to him, something... strange. He's spent a few minutes too long staring at himself in the mirror by now, prodding at the black markings going down his neck, and he's sure it's moved. He could've sworn some of the tips were closer when now they're farther apart, not just his skin shifting but the veins themselves having moved from where they were.

He's also been feeling a little distracted at times, suddenly finding himself on random areas of the ship— he thinks it's only exhaustion at first, but when those thoughtless steps lead him to the door of one of the ILR's that should definitely not be opened, he can't help but find that too much to just be a coincidence.

Whether in front of that room or elsewhere on the ship, Bruce might be found looking almost lost at times, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out how he ended up wherever he is, especially when it's nowhere near where he was intending to go. ]

((more cw: mentions of mercy killing a pregnant woman, needles/being drugged, will add more if needed
also using small brackets just for this post because walls of bracket text thoughts))

Arrival:

[This place sets Boone on edge. Worse still, when he arrived here he didn't have his weapons on him. The only bright side is that his hands seem to be back to normal all of a sudden, but even then he feels oddly defenceless. Well, looks like he'll just have to start walking. He's fiddling with his MID at first, but he can feel eyes on him. After a while, he realises he's actually being followed. Why? He doesn't know. He's kind of assuming they're planning on killing and looting him. Too bad for them, he doesn't have anything all that valuable on him. They don't know that though, and Boone has no intention of getting killed here.

He tries to lose his pursuer for a short while, and soon enough it seems like they've finally left him alone. Taking the opportunity to duck into a slightly more secluded area, Boone goes back to his MID. Maybe he can contact Elle, let her know he's stuck out in the middle of nowhere. He doesn't get the chance, though. Something grabs him from behind, pressing an arm against his throat. He struggles as his feet are lifted off the floor, but whoever they are, they're tough. Nothing he does loosens their hold on him, though he keeps on trying to break free even as his vision starts to fade. Eventually he goes limp, and he's dragged away. If anyone else saw what just happened, they didn't care.]

Captured | Open to all slaves:

[When he wakes up, he's lying on the floor of a cell. His hands are bound behind his back, and his shades and beret have disappeared. There's something around his neck, but he's not sure what it is. His head is spinning, and his neck is no doubt bruised, but physically he feels fine otherwise. He sits up, glancing down at himself. Those... aren't his clothes. And, looking around, he's not the only one stuck in here. Some of the people here are in similar outfits. Some have collars around their necks as a way to identify them, and most are bound the same way as him. And suddenly, as he takes all of this in, Boone figures out what is happening.

The realisation hits him hard, and for a moment all he can do is stare blankly at the other slaves. He's... being sold. He remembers the slave pen in Cottonwood Cove. This seems like the same thing. So this must be what Carla went through. The thought sits heavy on his chest. He looks around at the others. Most look resigned to their fate. A few are crying, others silently fuming. Most of all though, the atmosphere is thick with hopelessness. The worst part is that he can see Carla in every single captive here. If he hadn't ended it when he did, this would have been the rest of her life. This would have been their child's life, from the moment he or she was born.

All because he'd fallen in love with her, stupidly believing he could just go on living without paying for what he'd done. Carla's last moments play out in his mind, vivid as though he'd only just pulled the trigger, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

When he opens them again, his gaze lingers on one of the nearest collars. It looks like they're used to identify what the slave is being sold for, and who they belong to. They're not quite as sinister as the bomb collars back home, but Boone suddenly remembers something anyway.

Do you know what I love about our slave collars, Lieutenant? I love how tightly they fit. I train my men to make sure the slave's flesh bulges a bit around the top and bottom. Know why? If you fit it just right, their body never gets used to the feeling of wearing it. It cuts in just enough when they swallow or turn their head to remind them who they belong to. And it's that constant reminder that keeps them docile.

Who they belong to.

He feels sick. And then finally, he snaps out of horrified and remorseful, and descends into just plain furious. They have no right, goddammit. They have no right to be buying and selling other people. They're nobody's property. They don't belong to anyone. But even with that raw anger driving him, he can't break free of his bonds. He rubs his wrists raw, until sweat makes them sting; until he feels blood dripping down his fingers, his palms sticky with it. No matter what he tries, they won't budge. And he might have continued anyway, so determined to get out of here and personally choke the life out of every slaver in this goddamn outpost, if he hadn't finally attracted the attention of one of his captors.

Had he been marked as a labourer or a fighter, they probably would have let him continue. As it is, he's not. His value depends on his looks, and chafed, bloodied wrists are not attractive. He's damaging the goods. Someone comes over to stop him, and he kicks at them. Another comes in to hold his feet still, and he spits at them. All he gets is a blow to the stomach for his trouble, and while he's stunned he feels a slight pricking sensation in his neck, just above the collar. He's already falling asleep as the slavers bind his ankles and leave. It's apparently just another day for them, as they chat casually on the way out.

When he wakes up again, he's too groggy to do much except lie there. He tries to move, but his body is still heavy. He turns his head to the side, and his eyes fall on a familiar face. He grunts.]

...You too, huh.

[He's slurring a little at first, but slowly he starts to feel more awake. And though he's still angry, after thinking about it he comes to realise he can't do anything at the moment. He needs to wait for an opportunity. He doesn't know if he's been marked as missing from the Moira, or how long he's been here exactly, but someone could still come. If not, they'll have to figure something out themselves. Either way, those assholes are going to get what's coming to them. He'd rather die than be anyone else's property.]

How'd they get you?

Escape | Locked to Saitama:

[Boone has taken to sitting up and glaring hatefully at his captors since he woke up fully from the tranquilizers. Though he's figured out he can't escape without some outside help, that doesn't mean he's going to make things easy for the people selling them off. He knows what he's being sold for now, and as disgusted as it makes him feel it means he also knows that they can't rough him up too much. It must be why they used whatever was in that needle, instead of just slamming his head into the floor and saving themselves the trouble. That's probably a good thing, he needs a clear head. He needs to focus. He wants to remember their faces. He's going to make them regret this. He's going to get out of here, get his weapons back, and make them eat lead. Maybe that first part won't be all that easy to do, but he's sure as hell going to try.

He overhears part of a conversation, something about a guy with a lot of money heading their way. It pisses Boone off even more to hear them talk about it. A lot of money probably means a lot of slaves. What an asshole. He'll be sure to save a bullet for him, too.]

Revenge | Locked to Elle, Surely and Saitama:

[He's been "bought" by Saitama, so he isn't followed by anyone else as they make their way out. He's still quietly seething, absently rubbing dried blood off his freed hands with his thumbs. Right now, he only has one plan: get back to the Moira, grab his weapons, come back, and kick some ass. He doesn't know many people on the Moira well enough to assume they'd want to be a part of that, but he remembers Surely told him they cleared out Caesar's fort back home. He plans on asking Elle, too. He's kept his plans from Saitama for now, simply because he remembers he spared the Caducans. Coming back just to murder a good portion of the people here probably isn't something he'd consider doing. Or maybe it is, who the hell knows. He'll keep it to himself anyway, at least until he's talked to the others.]

[outpost (capture - open to other slaves and spectators)]

[No matter how confused he is to find himself here, Nick doesn't go asking anyone for help. He sets out on his own, looking for a familiar face, someone he knows from the Moira and has to be in the same boat that he's in. He doesn't realize that he's being stalked until it's too late. Nick looks like he's built for too many things, manual labor and fighting included.

But instead it's this, and Nick has a pretty good idea of exactly what this is soon enough. He's been to a few...adult establishments in his time, but this is something different. This is one-sided and ugly. He ignores the hands that are all over him as he's inspected and focuses on the ropes around his wrists instead. Nick pictures them in his mind, concentrating as he works at the knot, until he finally gets one hand free.

He holds it up and sends his potential new owner flying.]

So was it good for you?

[The sarcasm doesn't hide the fact that he's pissed. He's only been out of a cryo a couple of days, and he's seriously not in the mood. He moves more people away from him with his power as he fights to get free. Pissed and dangerous, in a way that he hasn't been for a long time, drawing the attention of slavers and fellow slaves alike.

When they put him back in a stall, the bindings around his wrists have been reinforced, and just outside he hears talk of the best ways to break him.]

Not if I break you sick bastards first. [He kicks at the wall. But he knows he's not alone in this, so he leans over to call into the next stall.] Hey, you okay over there?

[escape (open to other escapees and rescuers)]

[Nick's a lot more slippery than these slavers know. He knows how to stay one step ahead of people, he did it against Division his entire life. The only problem is that he can't just hop a plane and go to another country now.

He hates this place and the people who deal in other lives like they're nothing. He'd like to pull the whole place down on top of them, building by building.

But he's got priorities now. He's gotta look for Cassie and then he's back to where he started, looking for anyone he can trust and a way off this literal shitpost.]

Edited 2016-07-20 00:05 (UTC)

awaiting sale - ota
07.18 - 07.21

[The world is a groggy fog as Leia slowly comes to on the outpost. She wakes cuffed at her wrists, a chain threaded from them to her ankles, and from there to a slaver's stand. It takes time for her to understand their weight, and to realize what they mean. The brief, disorienting time spent free in a strange place. The blow to the back of her head. And now, the fact that she's trapped.

When it all clicks, she starts, eyes wild--and freezes nearly as quickly. Don't draw attention to yourself, she thinks, and then, covertly, glances around her.

She'll be there, day and night, for three days, keeping a silent search for others from the Moira. When she's alone, she'll be doing her best to evade the appraising gazes of strangers and trying to think of a way to escape.]

in dreams - benben
07.22

[At first, she doesn't know she's dreaming. Her body aches as much as it did when she was awake, sitting in the same position for hours: head up, shoulders back, eyes sliding over every face that walks by in search of familiarity. She dozes off somehow, into a fitful half-sleep from which she'll wake exhausted.

The chains are heavy in her mind, cutting bare her wrists and ankles. A wind rises, hot and biting, and whips her braids out to one side. It's that wind that tells her this isn't real, as vivid as the scent of blood in her nostrils. It must be coming from somewhere, but she sees no source.

(The blood, at least, might be real. She's too tired to wake up and find out.)

In the distance, a figure looms, but from her vantage point, she can't do more than squint and wonder what it is.]

in the bedroom with the vase - open to the first person who wants it
07.23 - nb: this needs to be an unsuccessful escape attempt for plot purposes

[Perhaps your character has been sent by with a message or a package. Perhaps their owner brought them over for a night of debauchery. Or perhaps they aren't enslaved at all and just happen to be passing in the darkness of the outpost's night.

Regardless, a woman's shout comes from a nearby tent, along with a few dull thumps and the crash of something breaking. If a character enters, they'll find Leia wrenching herself out from under the bulk of a strange man, the pieces of a heavy crystal vase showered around them both. Her hair is loose, in disarray, and blood spots the scanty cuts of gauze masquerading as lingerie.]

What are you doing here?

the worst possible punishment - zam
07.24

[Unfortunately, escaping isn't a simple matter when a slave owner has friends. Powerful friends--who don't mind if he's dead, so long as they get his property.

This one doesn't trust Leia in his bed, and so much the better for her; she doesn't trust herself there, either. He warns her that the collar just this side of choking her will crush her throat if she runs. Further, he informs her that her new work will be serving another slave, one whose skill with a weapon threatens to make them--though he doesn't think to say them to her--a true contender in battles to the death.

She should have guessed she'd know the face upon being led to their quarters. As it is, she's silent and outwardly deferential until they're left alone, when her gaze lifts.]

Zam?

running back and forth - ota
07.24 - 07.28

[She graduates to small tasks, walking back and forth between various stalls, carrying short messages from slaver to slaver. They've decided that she's violent, but in a general way. Don't touch her, and she'll still work.

They aren't Force users, in other words, to go by their judgment.

Still, she needs more of a plan than beating the rest of them to death; it's messy and takes far too long. So she's keeping her head down for now and keeping a wary eye out for people she might be able to plan with. A word here, a nudge there, and maybe they can free themselves.]

dashing rescues - lando
07.29

I could have used you a week ago.

[It's not funny, and she doesn't laugh. But it's not accusatory, either--Lando Calrissian is the best thing she's seen in a long, long time. She could kiss him, if she had the wherewithal to touch him at the moment. Right now, all she wants is to leave and burn everything she's wearing.

Too bad there isn't much time for catching up. Leia wastes no time in dragging at her neck, feeling for some way to escape the collar around it. (There isn't one--as far as she can tell, they're controlled at a computer terminal--but the thought of standing still is intolerable.)]

Help me with this.

The Outpost: A

[Tarn has seen many shady outposts in his time. The are a beacon for degenerates and traitors regardless of the galaxy that they reside in.

He has been freshly repaired by Doc Yewll and was sporting a new T-cog courtesy of Riptide when he finds himself suddenly warped to the seedy outdoor market of the runoff.

Its not difficult to tell that his sudden appearance has garnered more than a little attention. A mech of his size is not easy to miss despite the various species milling about. He straightens his back and tries to appear authoritative as he glances around, making a bee line towards whoever appears familiar.]

In custody: B

[The restraints binding Tarn’s has behind his back are padded to avoid any unattractive scuffs or dents around his wrists. He’s fought fruitlessly, already weakened by the effects of the poison that has been systematically been fed to him over the coarse of the past month. It doesn’t stop him from lashing out with his feet, kicking at the reenforced bars of the holding cell that he’s been placed in.

Tarn doesn’t give up determined to bend the metal keeping him trapped. Unfortunately the noise attracts the attention of the slaver that has collected him and the other Cybertronians that ended up on this outpost. He earns an electric prod to his side for his efforts but remains stubbornly silent, glaring over his shoulder at the organic. Tarn hates him more than any Autobot in the cells neighboring his own. After the violation of being inspected and opened up, Tarn couldn’t possibly feel any differently.

It truly is a worst case scenario.

He kicks out again, ignoring the sting from the prod, and thrashing. Tarn tires easily but he isn’t giving up without one hell of a fight.]

Hangry: C

[Tarn hasn’t fueled in days. It’s incredible the lengths that he would go to get even the foul tasting fools energon that had been sentenced to are astounding. But he can’t bend to the will of the man keeping them here. Fuel for cooperation is what they have been offered, and very little cooperation has occurred. He isn’t even entirely sure what is expected of him, but he’s flat out refused regardless of whatever whim this organic seems to want them for.

More often than not Tarn is offline, sprawled on the floor of his cell in an attempt to conserve what little energy he has left. He needs to save it for when it will really matter. Besides, the less he is awake, the less he has to listen to the incessant chatter of his fellow slaves.

Currently, he is caught in a fleeting moment of consciousness, Watching and waiting for something—anything— to happen. Something to focus his attention on rebelling against.]

This is far surpassed the point of absurdity. What does he even want from us?

Closed to Rodimus

[He’s sick of seeing Rodimus’ face. Since they had been taken it seems to be all he sees. Kept in the cell next to his, Tarn can not escape the flashy red paint job and useless whinging.

However, despite everything— despite Rodimus being an Autobot— Tarn can’t help but feel a stab of something eerily close to camaraderie. The violation of having his chassis opened up and his internals prodded pales in comparison to whatever they did to Rodimus. He didn’t see the actual procedure but he seemed to be particularly upset by it. Organics have no right to be treating himself and his fellow Cybertronians in such a disrespectful manner. They can’t risk their technology or biological components falling into the wrong hands.

And this most certainly qualifies as the wrong hands.]

Do you recall what the organic did to you?

Wildcard

when the dirty old dog starts sniffing around [18-21 july]

The streets of the slaver's outpost are familiar and alien at the same time. The way the deals go down, everyone trying to be the highest bidder--it's all reminiscent of Jakku. But not even Unkar Plutt, notorious for his dirty double-crosses with the scavengers, would take part in the slave trade. Mostly because he didn't need to; most of the population had no choice but to bring their scrap to him. But also because it wasn't as good a business model. Machines could be fixed when they broke. People couldn't. If a trader was sold a bad person as opposed to a bad part, well. That was more basis for complaint. And complaints were bad for business.

It's easy for Rey to move around for the first few days. She's good at keeping her head down, blending in. Her brown and tan attire only helps her be more inconspicuous as she moves between the stalls. She's quick with her hands, and figuring out how to unlock the chains is an easy task. She doesn't know who she saves, and she tells herself she doesn't care. It's wrong to try and own another person, plain and simple. There are species of aliens she's never seen before, and she doesn't understand their languages when they go free, but she does understand the same message: thank you. She doesn't respond, simply slips away between the tents and finds her next target.

i gotta keep it where the sun don't go [22-26 july]

Her head pounds from where she'd been hit, and she can still taste blood on her lip from where her new captor had split it. Rey can't believe she'd been so stupid--too busy helping someone else to watch her own back. It wasn't the first time that sort of thing had come back to bite her, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

At first, her jailer tried to get her to clean his house. Even after he'd tried to beat her into submission, she'd simply spit more blood on his floor and headbutted him. It would have been easier if he wasn't a foot and a half taller than her and his skin wasn't like jelly. But Rey is determined, if nothing else.

Eventually, the slaver discovers her talent with machines. Maybe it's because every time she's gone on some errand for him, something in his little abode had malfunctioned. He sends her to work on his transport, and Rey can't believe her luck. Carrying heavy equipment back and forth is nothing compared to her elation at basically improving the method of her own escape. Sure, she's up night and day working on the dinky little ship, but it keeps her mind sharp and gives her the opportunity to plot.

oh god i've done it now, please help this sinner out [27 july]

The opportunity had presented itself completely without warning.

Rey had been working on the ship for the third day in a row. Her mind had begun to muddle, her escape attempts thus far had been thwarted. It seemed as if her captor had realized her worth and had hired someone to watch her at all times. But the moment came when the thug had to leave and the boss himself had to take over guard duty. Except he wasn't a very good guard. One second, he had turned his back on her as she'd been removing a heavy pipe from a panel of his transport, and the next, said pipe had collided with the back of his gelatinous head.

He hits the floor with a squishy thump, and the pipe with a loud metal clang. For a moment, she thinks he's unconscious. But then he starts to struggle to his feet, turning to look at her. Suddenly, Rey's mind clears and she calms. She can feel the Force in a way she hasn't since she'd been on the Starkiller base.

"You will lie down and go to sleep."

Her assailant stares at her for a moment and then starts to yell something at her in his native tongue. Rey repeats herself, more firmly.

"You will lie down and go to sleep."

Time seems to slow. The bloblike man mutters something else and then lies down and promptly falls asleep.

Rey stands, frozen. And then the pipe is in her hands again, a fervor in her eyes that can only mean she's gotten a very, very bad idea in mind, one involving the pipe and the alien slaver's head.

[ooc; feel free to pm me or message me @

watchet if you want to do anything specific or outside these prompts!]

A. Here's the Goods

Of course.

Of course there was more for him to deal with, even after he’d been undergoing proper repairs to fix what was only minimally functional on his body.

Mettaton’s not the least bit pleased to have been jolted from the ship by the Ingress malfunctioning. Now more than ever, he could reflect on how stupid it was to throw living beings in there just to get rid of them. Everyone should have just killed any Caducans they came across, and then there wouldn’t be a problem! They wouldn’t be on this shady planet if everyone just committed gratuitous murder.

As soon as he thinks it , the damaged automaton shakes his head, putting a hand to his face. Gloved metal fingers click against his damaged eyesocket, hidden beneath his synthetic hair. No, murder wasn’t the answer. Murder had only begotten more murder. His death had stemmed from all of that negativity and anger because his friends had died, and Papyrus had died. He’d…only just admitted to himself how compromising that had all been to him.

He'd gained LOVE and now all he could do was stew in his guilt and remember the painful words left to him by Sans:

I’m already a disappointment. You didn’t have to be.

Lost in his own thoughts, Mettaton didn’t notice that he was wandering out of sight and earshot of most of the crowd. Or maybe he knew and didn’t care because he felt ashamed of himself. Regardless…it was a bad move.

The unnatural silence that seizes the air before something untoward is to pass doesn’t register with him. A shame; he didn’t even realize what was happening before his visuals blacked out and his power source was compromised.

When next he came to his senses, Mettaton found himself restrained by the limbs to a platform, put on display for any potential buyers.

…But anger didn’t come. He couldn’t muster it this time. He just scanned the crowd for familiar faces…anyone who could free him.

He’d never felt objectified in such a negative manner in his life.

B. Play Your Part (cw: sexual commentary)

Mettaton didn’t take too well to being pawned off like a piece of furniture, and initially, he wasn’t afraid to air his complaints. He’d had enough of this treatment, and if he was going to endure it, then by God, he was going to make his owner just as miserable as he was.

“Tch. So what exactly do you have planned for me then?” he asks coldly. Maybe it’s because he’s already battle-damaged, or because he’s starting to realize the value of life is paltry since he could come back ever-so-easily through the Captains’ powers…but he doesn’t feel like respecting his “owner.”

That proved to be a bit of a mistake, especially when one is collared, leashed, and considered someone worth his weight in currency for being a robot with genocidal directives. That’s how it had been advertised—goodness knows how they had infiltrated his operating software that way, he didn’t want to think about it.

Either way, it earns him a sharp tug from the slaver, causing him to lurch forward.

“Your directive’s killin’. So that’s what you’ll do. And you’re gonna do it without a fuss!” the man barked. “Unless you prefer I trade ya for somethin’ more suited to yer looks.”

A smirk curls the slaver’s lips.

“If I dump some more cash into you, shine you up real nice, I bet there’s someone who’ll pay more’n I did for those fine legs and that nice ass. Got a big mouth too, so that’ll work in your favor—”

Mettaton snapped, gathering a burst of electrical magic in his bound hands and firing it off at the slaver. It’s enough to attract attention from any others nearby, including fellow slaves. Also quite the attention-grabber, especially to any fresh meat, is the way his collar glows, and Mettaton goes rigid. It doesn’t hurt. But he’s not in control of his movements anymore.

“You’re lucky I paid good money for you,” the slaver hissed, remotely controlling the robot through his collar—isn’t technology wonderful?

Mettaton’s spared any punishment this time. The humiliation of following like an obedient lapdog is punishment enough, it seems.

C. Auto-Pilot (cw: descriptive violence, murder)

It’s been a few days since his capture, and although Mettaton considers himself a rather resilient individual, when faced with the alternative of being controlled to murder others…he couldn’t bear it. It only took two remotely controlled murders before he gave in and started doing things himself.

Mettaton was made with the prime directives of slaughter and entertainment. He’d maintained a happy medium that didn’t involve killing his fellow monsters, and his only true attempt before the Caducans had mercifully failed, because Frisk was just that powerful and determined.

Here…faced with no alternative, Mettaton at least strove to make it interesting for himself. His fights were always wrought with creative moves, including using electricity to literally cook his opponents with the voltage, or else kick with such force that he would shatter their bones.

Currently, Mettaton stood across from an opponent—no one he knew, thankfully—and he waited. That was all, he waited for them to attack. It was inevitable.

The first move against him was poorly coordinated, of course, and to such a lithe, if damaged, robot…? It was child’s play to take hold of the fist coming at his face. He didn’t even look at the other fighter as he snapped his gloved hand clockwise, snapping the bones in their wrist. They didn’t even have a chance to scream before Mettaton pivoted onto his left leg, bringing the sharp heel of his boot to viciously kick upward, impaling below the other combatant’s chin.

The blood didn’t bother Mettaton. The cheers for his skill and utter flexibility didn’t matter. All of his moves were quick, with the intent to disable and kill quickly. His heel had precisely nicked an artery, and his opponent was left to gag on the taste of their own blood.

Quietly, without complaint, Mettaton retreated to the holds. He was done for the day, at least.

As he had done for quite a while, he simply ignored anyone near him in the holding area. He didn’t want to see anyone he knew, or own anything that he’d done in that ring. All he wanted to do was get back and plug himself in to charge, and tell himself somehow that this was fine. It was all okay.

Unfortunately, his natural optimism and ability to avoid all things was long spent...

D. Star-Crossed [Closed to Papyrus]

Mettaton had feared this moment ever since he’d begun fighting. Impassive though he behaved, and to be honest, he was starting to grow completely apathetic to what he was doing anyway, there were some people he knew he couldn’t kill.

Highest on that list was the skeleton thrust before him in the ring. For the first time in days, Mettaton’s expression is not flat and uncaring. His eye widens in barely-contained horror. Not because he wasn’t smart enough to pull his punches, of course not! He’s an excellent stage-fighter. What scares him is the fact that if he doesn’t strike to kill, the fight won’t end.

And if the fight doesn’t end, his boss will end it for him before they both lose the crowd.

Mettaton reaches up, brushing his collar. He doesn’t attempt to remove it; he already knows he can’t do it himself. On the same token, he can’t bring himself to say anything. He just stands there at first, hoping that if he waits long enough then Papyrus won’t be here anymore.

[[OOC: If you want a prompt tailored to your character, hit me up at

Grimmkitty so we can hash out details!!]]

Caught; closed to Billy
[Waking up in a strange place, after everything that's happened over the last year, isn't as unusual as perhaps it should be. Waking up wearing some slip of cloth around his waist, uniform gone, and hands bound together by some weird magnetic cuffs, yeah, that's not normal. He feels sick, his arm aches, and there's some strange mark there in black ink. Looks like a tattoo, but under the skin. Eggsy sits up carefully, quietly, glancing at the people around him, all dressed the same, marked the same, crowded into some small structure.

It comes back to him slowly, how he'd been on the ship and suddenly in the middle of this slaver's bay. Chased down and caught by some bloke who thought people were property. Branded and stripped down, and then he'd gotten mouthy so they'd knocked him out. Fuck.

There's movement beside him and he glances over. Billy. No. Eggsy scrambles across the dirt floor, flinging his body forward as if he covers Billy up, nobody will mess with him. Even though he doesn't have much control, he strokes his hands down Billy's arms, his back.]

You alright? Billy. Tell me you're okay.

[He makes a sound in the back of his throat, but he doesn't care.]

Snooping; closed to Loki
[After Bruce had purchased him, covered him up and tried to guide him back to a ship that would take him to the Moira, they'd come across Loki. Eggsy lets Bruce hand him off, but he can barely look at him, flinches when Loki touches him.]

Did you find him, Loki? Did you find Billy?

[He's shaking, vibrating under his skin. All kinds of anger and anxiety bubbling up in search of an outlet.]

I can't go back 'til I find him, yeah? Can't go back 'til I make them pay.

[Revenge has never been something on the forefront of Eggsy's mind, but this struck him deep, opened him up and left all his insecurities bare. He grips Loki's arm.]

Help me.

Afterpets; closed to Liz
[Getting back to the ship, he'd showered and changed his clothes. Checked on the animals in the vet's office. Gone back and showered again. He feels antsy, anxiety thrumming under his skin, all the anger that he'd thrown at Bruce, and Loki, and Harry, all of that anger turned to guilt. Eggsy hadn't meant any of the harsh words, hadn't meant to push them all away when they were just trying to help, but he couldn't help it.

Something was off now, and he didn't know what to do. So he walks. And walks.

Stumbles past Elizabeth's door, knocking on it before he even realizes what he's doing.]

Liz, it's Eggsy. You in?

[He knocks harder, desperate.]

Ah, fuck, Liz. Open up, yeah?

[ooc: Eggsy is available for any threading; he's a part of the sex trade, will be sneaking around after to try and help people, and then be taken back to the ship. Feel free to do a wildcard for anything there or in between or hit me up at

what_he_needs for plotting.]

outpost;

[For a moment, Billy is a bit too out of sorts to realize what's happened. It hits fast that he's suddenly... not at all on the ship, that he seems to be alone. He tries his MID to see if it's working, to see if he can tell just what happened or where he is. He tries to wander around a bit, too hesitant to try to use his magic to get back to the ship. He might be pretty good at location spells and teleporting, but he's not confident to try to take himself that far and end up somewhere entirely off mark if whatever happened earlier happens again.

But things go wrong real fast, unfortunately.

He's chased relentlessly, beaten, and despite his best efforts, he's drugged into submission eventually. Probably when the groups chasing him realize that he's not just running his mouth, he's casting spells.

Things go black after that.]

captured;
[For a bit, he's with Eggsy, and he's hit with the gut-wrenching realization he's not the only part of the crew to end up here, enslaved. He's barely clothed, just enough to give him the slightest bit of dignity, and his arm is red where they've branded him with black ink. He and Eggsy are separated eventually though, and he has no idea what happens to him.

He hopes he found a way to escape, honestly.

He doesn't get a chance to use his abilities really, beyond occasions where they kick in of their own accord. Electricity sparks menacingly all along his body at some of the people who try to touch him. It's almost like a reflex sometimes, when he's in danger and overwhelmed. Some of them, it gets to back off, some seem to not mind at all-- and those he does lash out at with everything he's got in him.

It doesn't mind if he's punished for it later. He's damn well not going to be a piece of meat to be enjoyed and tossed away after. The thought makes his stomach twist up in disgust.

He can't leave well enough alone either-- he tries to help others if he sees them. The idea of slavery is disgusting and he can't just let himself stand for it, not if he can help in even the slightest. Whatever he gets for disobedience is well worth it, in his opinion.]

aftermath;
[He's rescued-- and thank god he is. Whatever the slavers got in return is nothing less than what they deserve in his opinion. He won't let himself feel sorry for it, guilty. He's too tired to question what sort of person he is, to have a moral crisis. Maybe later, when his skin isn't crawling and he doesn't twitch away from unexpected touches. Maybe when he doesn't feel like he has to take multiple showers to feel like he's got at least some of the taint of that entire place off him.

Mostly though, he tries to carry on. He's still got a job around the ship and he focuses on it as much as he can. Other times, he can be seen wandering around the ship, distant and a little zoned out. There aren't really windowsills for him to mope on, but he can still be seen staring out at the stars sometimes.

He's got to keep it together though. He knows that. Not only is it vital for the ship, but he's got people here who care about him.

People who he'll be trying to check up on, keep an eye out for.]

for loki: small comforts;

[Billy isn't sure how many showers it will take to ever just feel clean again after that whole experience. It's the one thing that never happened to him back in the underworld, despite all its gruesome tortures. He'd never been stripped down, treated like an object for pleasure. He'd never seen it happen to anyone else before, not where he couldn't help. For an almighty deity in training, he'd felt so... powerless. The slavers learned real quick to not let him get too many words out of his mouth after all.

He hasn't felt like that since-- well, Teddy was nearly dissected in front of him or when he was impaled on a spike.

All he wants to do at the moment is hide away, stay curled up in the barracks. On the bed he shares with Loki, even if he's not entirely sure about it. Rationally, he knows he tried his best. He fought back as hard as he could, didn't crumble or give in... but it doesn't stop him from feeling like his skin is crawling or that Loki will see him just that much differently now. Not because he thinks badly of Loki, but because he can't quit help seeing himself differently. Kept practically naked and pawed at, branded with something he didn't deserve like the S on his wrist... powerless.

It really hurts his argument that he can take care of himself and that's what's driving him crazy most of all. Being a burden, losing confidence in his ability to protect others-- when it had been shaky for a bit already... it's not great. Being Wiccan, whether he's always liked it or not, has always been a part of his identity. If he doesn't have that, he's not entirely sure what to do. At least a darker part of Billy can take some twisted relief in knowing the slavers were dealt with, that people were helped regardless.

Still, those are all thoughts for another time because he can hear Loki's footsteps behind him. He hadn't realized one hand had been idly toying with the necklace around his neck, twisting at the chain nervously. He makes himself stop and look up.]

... Hey.

wildcard;
[If you want something specific, feel free to drop a comment here, PM this journal, or get a hold of me at

noassgardian

ＯＮＴＨＥＤＬ
[ Once he gets as much information as he can from the captains, there's no question about what he needs to do. Maybe he should actually discuss it with someone, gather some of his team, but the less noticeable this is, the better. Espionage isn't exactly what he's good at, though he's learned quite a lot from Natasha (and even Barton) in the last few years, so it's all about planning and coordinating what he thinks should be done. Steve doesn't have his stealth suit here, and that would probably defeat the purpose of the idea he actually has in mind—get inside the outpost undetected, let himself be taken in, recover as many people as possible and get him back to the transporter he's goinf to take out. It's a simple plan, if a little complicated given he doesn't know the layout or what the people there are capable of, but he has his objective.

That's more than enough to get him down into the cargo bay, dressed in clothes much too light to be tactical gear and his shield absent, and if anyone happens to run into him there, he'll just give a polite sort of nod before heading straight for one of the only transporters left in the dock. The less who know about this, the better. He doesn't want to get anyone involved unnecessarily, especially those who might not have the means to protect themselves from whatever is there, and he sets the autopilot for some location just beyond the outpost rather than directly to it. Staying on the Moira meant safety, but he couldn't let all those innocent people remain held against their will.

Steve frowns and steps back to take a seat. Even saving a few was better than none, and that's all he can think about. ]

ＣＡＵＧＨＴＩＮＴＨＥＡＣＴ
[ But someone catches him halfway through exploring the dirty streets and less open areas, though he only lets them to not bring too much attention to himself, and rather than fight them, rather than drop the weapons from their hands and knock them through a few tents, he goes passively. The smell is something he'd tried to get used to once he'd left the transporter, but there's something acrid about those that shove him along, looking him over and occasionally prodding at his arm, a thigh, his back. Steve's jaw is clenched tight, gently testing the shackles they slap around his wrists—they're strong. It's not the first time he's been restrained with something this magnetic, but he doesn't have the shield to break through it. He's going to have to rely on his own sense of self-preservation, which has never been particularly good since he'd been young, and when they kick him into a holding stall, he does his best to feign unbalance.

Yet, it doesn't stop there. They don't leave him for a while yet, shoving him to his knees and slipping something sharp beneath the material of his shirt to cut it open before tearing it down his shoulders. Steve's been mad since before he'd stepped foot on the outpost, but this boils his blood, aware of the others around him treated just as roughly, and when someone gets a hand in his hair, jerking his head back, he drives an elbow into their gut as if to prove he isn't entirely docile. He gets slapped for his trouble, oddly hard enough to cause his ears to ring, and then, there are more people holding him - his arms, his head back to to expose his throat - and the one standing over him drags a single finger right beneath his collarbone on his left, which leaves a soft blue mark. Like paint.

They say something he doesn't catch, something the MID doesn't want to translate, and when he opens his mouth to comment, Steve suddenly finds his tongue unwilling to move. He looks up at the next person they're bringing into the stall with him, the familiarity of their clothes and face registering before his vision abruptly blurs. His eyes roll a little, and he falls forward, limp and completely out of it. ]

ＷＩＬＤＣＡＲＤ
[ Feel free to run into Steve before he leaves the cargo bay or anywhere on the outpost. This is just a general holding place for slaves, so any of the crew members are welcome to be in there with him and/or see him. Pretty much open to anything else, but PM if there are any questions! ]

a. shoop

Again?

[riptide stumbles as he comes to his senses, though he's already complaining.]

Jeez this place looks gross. [unashamed.] Hey, anyone I know around here? I've been inconvenienced and I need someone to complain with!

[he can only assume there are other moirans around.]

b. woop (cw: for undoutable mentions of sex slavery)

[where did my life go so wrong? is something riptide finds himself asking a lot recently.

or, well. slightly less after niko told him about the concept of karma.

sinking down onto the ground near the side of the pen, he grumbles angrily in neocybex. he hasn't bothered to speak in the native language of the outpost, instead opting to scream obscenities at the slavers when he can.

one of the handlers approaches him and riptide bristles.]

[he says, tone clearly angry. the handler's response is to slide over some dull, sickly looking energon.]

[he flicks it away.]

Go bother someone else.

wildcard.

[yall know how this works.]

Edited 2016-07-20 21:12 (UTC)

OUTPOST : 18 - 20

[Clara wasn't a very willing slave. She was too headstrong and bossy to ever allow someone else to control her, and wasn't handling the situation she had found herself in very well. On the outside, she was calm and a little too quiet, eyes wide as she observed everything and seemed to be taking mental notes. Her first night at the outpost, she attempted to contact those she worked with back on the Moira to let them know her whereabouts. Shocked when she actually managed to get through, she gave what little information she could about her status as a slave that had been sold to murder for the entertainment of her master and begged them to figure out a way to find her as soon as possible. Not wanting to let anyone else from the ship see her feeling vulnerable and afraid, she kept as calm as possible as she made her way around the areas were she was allowed access to with her current lower status. It wasn't difficult for the slaves to mingle, and it almost seemed that those kept for sex and killing games were allowed a slight bit more downtime than those who were doing the hard physical labor. Wanting to be as unnoticed by the man who owned her as possible, she crept along the outpost within her allotted area, attempting to get the attention of anyone else that was from the ship. She needed to get their name and conditions back to those she worked with on the Moira. A list of the missing was likely already made, but she wanted to ensure that every possible person was as safe as could possibly be given the circumstances.

Approaching with a cautious smile on her face, she tried to project an air of certainty that the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed.]

OUTPOST: 21 - 23

[In the days that followed after her failed attempt at an escape, Clara wasn't seen all that often. She had been kept bound and had been beaten as punishment, though fortunately it was nothing that wouldn't heal in time. The worst of it physically was the blow to her pride at the bruises and cuts on her face were sore to the point she knew she looked a mess and nothing like her generally put together self. What little was seen of her, she would always be quietly looking down, small body trembling. Her fear caused by the hands of her captor was finally getting the best of her. She wasn't meek enough to not be formulating another escape attempt, but this time she knew the layout of the area and wouldn't mess up. Not wanting to draw attention to herself this time, she allowed her damaged pride and wounded body to seem as invisible and weak as possible. Her dirty and messy hair hung in her face, and every so often a hand pressed at her side where she had been repeatedly kicked as part of her punishment. She was a shell of who she typically was, but was biding her time until she could make her next move.

The damage that was going to be lasting was the fact she had been forced to kill in order to stay alive herself. The day after her escape and punishment she had been tossed into a fight, and if she hadn't finally snapped out of fear she would have been dead herself. As it was, the injuries obtained in the fight only mixed with those recently dealt to her and she didn't pay them much attention. She felt an odd sense of numbness at having being forced to kill again, one that wouldn't go away even as she waited to run once more. It was shock, she knew. She had been through so much in such a short amount of time. There was only so much the human body could handle, and she only hoped her spirit would be able to recover quickly. She had running to do, and wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind to be attempting it.]

[cw: Violence, possible mentions of past trauma/death, graphic violence. ]

Captured

[ It had happened quickly, no doubt shepherded along by the fact that he stood out like a sore thumb. Before Adrien had a chance to adapt to where he was, he’d made enough of an impression on someone that a sharp, bee like sting to his neck had dropped him before he could turn and face the threat.

The drug was potent. Even when he regained consciousness he felt disassociated with his body and his surroundings. He could hear voices, talking quickly and at first he couldn’t sort out what language they spoke but slow, as he became more and more alert, he realized that a trade was happening; himself for other slaves. If he heard right, he fetched a price of two sex slaves and three for labor. Huh, not a bad price, he had to suppose.

Which just reinforced the whole sense of disassociation, because he should have been outraged, should have been fighting. But somehow it all seemed like too much effort.

When he woke up next, his head felt a bit clearer and he was able to feel a greater sense of awareness of his surroundings. Not that it did him much good. He was hung up by his arms, toes just barely touching the floor, stripped naked and splayed in a position that artfully placed strain on the muscles of his arms, back and legs.

Time had very little meaning, except that it provided him an opportunity to reflect on the irony of his current circumstances. How much had he lived through? How much had he survived to date, only the end up in a predicament like this, while stationed on a ship like the Moira. He went through a brief period of panic, as he wondered if possibly HQ had reached across the veil of time, space and dimensions, to get their hands on him but he quickly dismissed that notion.

This was just incredibly shitty luck.

After what felt like an eternity, the door to his cell rattled and Adrien looked up in time to watch a small, quick creature come scurrying through the opened doorway. Standing about five foot tall, the upper body, torso and head were vaguely humanoid, while the lower body resembled a centipede, with multiple legs that shifted and moved in hypnotic sort of dance. The creature was dressed in what looked to be fine fabric, pristine white, impossible to keep clean but Adrien didn’t suspect this creature bothered doing his…her’s … its own laundry.

It said nothing as it scooted around him, jet black eyes peering invasively at every line of muscle and sinew on lewd display. Adrien counting himself lucky that the regard held no hint of lascivious intent, it was clinical and measured; he was strictly property.

After a few minutes of study, the creature came back around to face him. The oversized black eyes were odd in the thin, humanoid face. They were unblinking and gave nothing away in terms of emotion or thought process. The creature screeched the noise like nails on a chalkboard and Adrien winced, trying to draw back, only to be drawn up short by his bindings. After a pause the creature screeched again, this time the sound was pitched a bit higher, cutting through the doctor’s head like a spike. ]

I don’t speak bug! [ He snapped, rocking back and getting himself in a world of trouble as the restraints on his arms and legs seemed to attempt to yank him in four different directions at once.

The creature looked perturbed and scuttled to the door, screeching out into the hallway. After a brief pause, during which Adrien managed to get himself sorted out, a humanoid figure appeared in the doorway. Built like a baseline human, the figure had pale orange skin and gills at the side of her throat. She was dressed in simple brown fabric and the way she bowed her head to the screeching bug person, suggested she was also a slave of some sort.

Stepping into the room, she approached Adrien. ]

Our mistress wishes to know if you are more capable with a staff or a knife.

Wh … [ Adrien began, only to realize that it must have been some time since he’d last had water, as his throat was bone dry. Even though he fought to swallow a bit of spit, his voice still came out in a dry whisper. ] The fuck are you on about?

[ The slave showed no reaction to his language and merely repeated. ]

Our mistress wishes to know if you are more capable with a staff or a knife.

[ The doctor tried to muster up a glare but despite his extensive repertoires of glares, the creatures around him appeared immune. No doubt, they had seen plenty before. ]

I’m not interested in either.

[ The slave blinked and turned to relay this to the bug lady, who in turn regarded him with those unnerving black eyes. After a brief stare down (which bug lady was going to win, only because Adrien had to blink) the creature scurried off without further comment.

As for the slave who remained, she called out in a low voice and in response to her summons a very large, very unpleasant looking individual came through the door. ]

When you are prepared to answer our mistress’s question, we will talk again.

[ She said in a quiet tone, before turning and heading out herself, leaving Adrien with Mr. Large and Unpleasant.

The doctor exhaled a slow breath as he peered at the large individual who was now moving his direction. ]

Why do I have a feeling my attitude is about to get an adjustment. [ He muttered, bracing himself for what was to come. ]

Under the arena: Open to other (murdersport slaves)

[ It took more than a couple of days, before something resembling a mutually beneficial solution had been worked out.

Adrien had taken his systematic beatings with an ever growing stubbornness that would have probably seen him killed before he relented. Mr. Large and Unpleasant had proven quite skilled in inflicting maximum pain with minimal debilitating damage. After all, the point was to beat the slave into submission, not leave him so broken that he couldn’t then perform in the arena.

As such there were plenty of contusions, no small number of cracks and aches but no actual breaks. Of course there had been the withholding of food, water, deprivation of sleep (though Adrien did that last one to himself so often he was sort of immune) and one particularly skillful flogging until a truth had come out.

After the flogging, Adrien had been taken down out of the chains and tossed into a pool of ice cold water, before being scrubbed clean. As he’d been laid out on a pallet to air dry (seriously) another area slave had been brought in for treatment; specifically for a fractured femur.

Spurred on by the screaming, Adrien had dragged himself together enough to get from point A to point B, where upon he had set his hands to the writhing slave’s limb and helped mend the bone back to factory settings. If asked, after the fact, he’d have insisted he just did it to stop the horrific noise the slave had been making, however, regardless of his motivations, once again his ‘gift’ would see the Fates’ playing silly buggers with his reality.

Dressed in a pair of roughhewn shorts, he had been hung back up to await more quality time with Mr. L&U. Only it was bug mistress who came scurrying through the door, with her orange tinged assistant at her many heels. The conversation had been to the point as she challenged him as a medical professional and he confirmed the title.

They went back and forth for over an hour before his cell was vacated and he was left to dangle and ponder what was coming next. He waited for over half a day, before a new man came in and Adrien was released, a tunic thrown at him. ]

You will keep the mistress’s top stock in fighting form or you will fight in the arena in their stead.

[ And so that was how Adrien came to be doing on this outpost, what he did back on the Moira. He was kept under one of the largest arenas, moving from case to case. His priority was for any fighters owned by his own mistress but, as she was a savvy business woman, his services were ‘sublet’ for a hefty fee to see to the injuries of other murdersport participants.

For the time being, Adrien was keeping his head down and simply moving where he was directed but it was all together possible that he’d find himself face to face with a crewmate. When this happened, he tried not to make too much of a production of knowing someone but, as soon as his ‘handler’ had fallen back a pace or two, he couldn’t keep from asking. ]

How are you holding up?

Rescue – Closed to the well-meaning trio for later in the event.

[ Unfortunately the value of his medical services did not quite offset the stubborn disobedience of his mouth.

Adrien couldn’t keep a civil tongue and it had come back to bite him in the ass. Or in this case, leave him strung back up in his cell, suspended from the ceiling by his arms, legs shackled to the floor so just his toes touched.

He got to keep his shorts, which was nice for his modesty but his tunic had been removed so he could fully experience yet another strapping at the hands of Mr. L&U.

Left to consider his ill-advised remarks, while enjoying the latest application of bruises the doctor let his head hang down between his aching arms. He was honestly starting to wonder if help was coming or if he was going to have to sort out his own resolution to this nightmare.]

Wildcard

[ I don't have any real 'no go' topics in this plot so I'm open for anything. Adrien could be 'loaned' to help slaves in other areas, as well as the mudersport group. If you want to plot something specific, feel free to PM this journal or poke me at

Laekhund. Otherwise, just toss it at me and lets do a thing. :D ]

Capture; 18-22; open to slaves

Peter would like to think he could out run anything, but he's learned quickly on his trip through space that only applies to things he can see coming. His arrival had him disoriented and the slaver had come from behind. He should have been able to run, but the hit had come straight at the same knee he'd injured in his last go with Rinzler. Peter wasn't proud to admit it, but he hadn't been much of a fight.

Now he's stuck in the holding area with others wearing the same shackles, some he recognizes and more that he doesn't. He's limping around the edge of the stall, looking for anyway to get out even though he's realized there's little point to it if he can't think of a way to contact the ship. Still, he can't give up after the fantastic failure of getting caught in the first place.

A buyer stops by the edge of his stall. Peter doesn't look at them, just bodily throws himself against the wall separating him from another slave until the material starts to creak and strain. He mutters to himself until they pass. Thus far he's managed to keep from getting sold with his erratic behavior but he knows sooner or later he'll end up pissing off the slavers for it. Peter leans against the wall he'd hit, sighing and waiting to see if the bulky men who'd taken him earlier will show up in protest.

"Sorry about that," he says loudly, hoping the person on the other side could hear.

Rescued; 24-on; OTA

He should have returned the ship after his sisters freed him. Logic said too many people here knew his face, that he was still recovering and wasn't useful until he was back to full speed. Peter didn't care.

He'd been useless while in captivity, letting himself get caught and needing someone else to save him. It didn't matter that he was hardly the only one, it was just another thing in a long list that felt like failure to the teenager. Coming back to the outpost, hat pulled low over his face and knees marginally better, gave him a chance to make up for it. A chance to help someone else.

He went straight for where he knew some slaves were being held, a knife held tight in his pocket and intent all over his face. Some guards marched a line of slaves by, Peter caught one of the captured's eyes and smiled. He slipped out the knife, nodded toward the guard and silently counted off on his fingers. One. Two. He tightened his grip on the handle, tensed and made ready to leap on the guard.

Three.

Searching; 21-on; OTA

She's wandering around the outpost with her head down, straining to hear every snatch of conversation she can catch. She'd been told about tracking the MIDs, but Kobra had always been the one good with technology. She'd just followed his lead with machines; her own knowledge didn't stretch very far. So the Girl is trying to find where to go from the locals, looking for any sign of her friend.

She's stopped beside a crowd looking at a small group of slaves, standing close to the first person she recognizes from the ship. She waits a few moments, eyeing each of the slaves in the group until she knows Kobra isn't there. "Ya know where else they're keepin' 'em?"

[Usually, Link doesn't spend a lot of time in his room. His roommates aren't mean, or anything, as far as Link knows, but ever since he's arrived on the Moira, he's only ever been there long enough to sleep. It doesn't help that he's developed a habit of catnapping at odd hours and in odd places, too, once he finally caved and accepted that the world wouldn't end while he was asleep.

But today? Today, he's in his room. And there's no doubt about what he's doing: he's gearing up. For once, instead of wearing one of his ship-provided uniforms, he's dressed in green clothes, including a large matching hat. He's sorting through the items in his pack, which definitely has to be bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, given the sheer amount of stuff scattered across his bed. A scattering of bizarre-looking masks, his Moira uniforms, a shield with a depiction of a screaming face on its mirror-like surface, a couple of potato-shaped instruments (blue and brown), snorkling gear, rocket boots...

At the immediate moment, Link is looking over his quiver of arrows, counting to make sure he has as many as it will hold. His frown is so severe that the three fairies given to him by the captains are keeping their distance.]

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