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Tweak says, "Put the candle back!"

The All-Judging Butterfly (

poisontaster) wrote in

whatwekeep,
@ 2009-01-03 11:25:00

Howdy do...
LJ-SEC: (ORIGINALLY POSTED BY

just_imriel)

Hey all. Just wanted to say what a kick I'm getting out of this 'verse, and thanks to all who've shared their fic. I've been inspired to actually use my moribund LJ membership to join the comm and (gasp) start a fic. It's below. Comments welcome, but be gentle with me - it's my first time.

Title: untitled 'Kept 'verse' prologue
Pairings/Characters: Gale Harold, Peter Wingfield
Author: just_imriel
Length: pretty short, actually
Rating: Adult
Summary: Gale explains it all for you...
Disclaimer: Don't drink the kool-aid. Fiction, fantasy, fabrication, fakery, you get the point.
Warnings: Inherent and explicit non-con

There are few places in the good old USNA less inspiring than Bayonne, N.J. In it's heyday it was probably a bastion of smug, middle class insularity. Single family homes filled with ordinary folks getting drunk on the weekend, hauling their hungover asses to church on Sunday, and heading off to their dreary fucking jobs at 8:00 AM sharp on Monday. Lather, rinse, repeat. Jesus.

These days those dreary jobs are harder to find and pay a lot less than they used to. Most of the houses have been carved up into little SRO hives full of worker bees who swarm across the Hudson every morning to jobs in New York, staying one step ahead of the IRS and Commerce. Every last one of them deluded enough to think that their big break is just around the corner: private office, apartment in the city, a slave of their own. Right. See you in Escrow, suckers.

Where was I?

Fucking Bayonne. Don't care for the place. I'm on my way to an Estate sale. My Master has a fondness for them, but since he dislikes both travel and unsolicited company, he sends an agent. Yours truly. My name is Gale.

I'll spare you the trouble of checking my provenance, it's just not that interesting. I was enslaved, rather, I was processed through Commerce, the week after my fourteenth birthday, having been delivered to their loving care by the Department of Corrections. The DOC had determined that I was a recidivist delinquent with no hope of meaningful rehabilitation. They were probably right, but the point is moot. Commerce must have had a boatload of body slaves in the system that day (or a blind fucking intake agent) because, pretty as I was, they decided I was too old for that course of training and sent me to General Indoctrination. I had caught my first break.

I'm not sure how long GI lasted, because the mindfuck was pretty intense. There's enough of you left to function, to understand and to hate what's happening, but not much more than that. By day I underwent a battery of aptitude tests and instructional sessions designed to help Commerce maximize my value at auction. At night, in the pens, I underwent 'tests' of an entirely different nature, designed to determine how many of my fellow slaves it took to pin me down and fuck me senseless. When I was called up for my final presale review, I performed like a trained seal. Anything, anything, to move on. It worked, and I was assigned to Extended Training and Assessment. I'd caught another break.

It wasn't long after this that I first came to my Master's attention. Short version - I left Escrow in the possession of Lord Peter Wingfield, and have been in his service ever since. Yes, there's a long-ass story there, and no, I'm not going to tell it. Not now. (That's what we call a teaser, folks!)

We're getting close to the address given for the sale, and I have some preparations to make.

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