RP Scene of interest. | Cardboard Town

[coinlocker]

“A skinny little rat,” A faraway voice snarled, punctuated by a foot kicked carelessly against the cowed shoulder of his body, hunched, forcing his useless form to slump to the side. “Someone will want the pretty bitch,” His mind was awake but clouded, the distant, constant sharp beat of pain that lingered at the edges eating away at the haze. “Sticking his fucking no...” And footsteps courted away, taking the voices with them. Mao tried to force his body to move as soon as he was seemingly alone, sit up, obey his command. A finger, his big toe, smaller still, his eyes, an eyelid; opening them both to pitch black and oppressive heat made worse simply by breathing. Weight grew against his flesh as he came to, drop by drop of sense; barbaric shackles and chains binding him from serious mobility, what they felt like at least. Damp, cold concrete under his shoulder. He grunted, trying to force something, his throat not working either, a bead of sweat rolling down his face.

He tried to remember the very last thing. Barely shod feet tracking across rubble, the most ruined side of Toxitown, following the far edges of the fence that kept the others out, or more kept his kind in. The 'sickness' in. Death and it's stink clawed at his nostrils as he followed the sound of voices. Formaldehyde and other chemicals. He'd peered his head around the corner, wide eyes narrowed, watching the scene played out before him. Then the sense of being swallowed, the sudden screaming burst of pain and then simply nothing.

Mao could taste blood on his lips, now on his tongue as he flickered the dry muscle across chapped lips. He drew his body to his knees, rested, prone with his forehead pressed to the floor for what seemed an eternity as his head swam and nausea rolled around his empty stomach, acid rising up into his throat only to be swallowed back down. He controlled his movement, a slow, sleek action to rise before it turned to force. A yank tightening over the fabric that barred him from sight, brought up straight; body and muscles barely yielding, a tightness growing around his neck. A scream ripped from his throat that seemed to echo over and over until a well placed foot cut the sound into a wheeze. Silenced. Though not leaving silence. The background hum appearing to be a cacophony of similar cries.

The oppressive heat was replaced by a biting cold as his vision was returned. White light burning his eyes and making halo's around demons, blurring the faces of figures around him. Mao turned his eyes to the floor, hissed; for a moment blindly fought against nothing. Chastised by fists into stillness. Demons left the room and Mao could finally make vague sense of his surroundings. A huge dank room, a cage with concrete floors and walls, drains stained some kind of red. One large viewing window fitted along the wall.

Other bodies lined up in the spaces beside him. Hooded and not, too dazed to count. No other screams had come from this room either.

“... the fuck..” he rasped, spitting a was of blooded spit on the ground in front of him (the smallest twitch of fear seeding in his stomach).

Ice cold water blasted his senses away once again, the pressured water scouring skin and remains of clothes of dirt and blood. His body, then the next in line.

Mao leant back against the wall, every breath an effort just to gain something back from the barrage of unexpected pain. Lidded, golden eyed gaze defiantly staring into the window. Daring anyone on the other side.


Aki glanced along the cages with disinterest and not a little bit of disgust. His interests lay far outside the boundaries of human enslavement, and being at a 'shop' was the last thing he had on his list for any day. The greasy shopkeeper at the door, his groveling guide, the bulky bodyguard his father had attached to him, disconcerting silence and numerous dead eyes -- it was all sickening and he wanted nothing to do with it. Why he was here in the first place... That was somewhat of a mystery still, how the conventions of those old days still hung around now, need for appearances and the need to impress.

"And this one," the guide was still talking, ugly mousy man with a wispy beard and a bulbous nose but a voice like someone had crushed his balls. "This one is a handreared one. From the outskirts of the city and not too far into Toxitown. Her parents sold her-"
"I'm not interested," he cut in, barely sparing a glance at the merchandise the man was referring to.

A woman, no doubt closer to girl than woman, with dull black eyes in a gaunt pale face, shaded by long stringy dirty blonde hair. Another mutation, malnutrition and likely ill with something or other. Edge or not, Toxitown was Toxitown, full of those who had no right to live so close to them, and in those terms, the outskirts were worse than those that knew their places and stayed away from the boundary. His gaze must have cooled, as the guide took one glance at Aki's visible eye and blanched further. What'shisname stammered some reply and led them further down the display line in vain hopes of pleasing Aki somehow. Unlikely.

Aki reached up with a gloved hand, running the leather over the shell of his ear, stroking the various piercings and studs. In this day and age, it was nothing new to have piercings, but his ranking was obvious by the clothes he wore -- well woven suit accented by a jeweled petal brooch, with a fine silk scarf around his neck and smooth leather gloves on his hands. He had forgone the usual eyepatch in favor of his bangs, hiding the evidence of his own disfiguration behind the section of white strands that stood out from the rest of his dark hair. It was something he would rather have forgotten about, and would have, had it not stared back at him every time he looked at a reflective surface.

Disgusting.

The blabber stopped and Aki gave the man an annoyed look at the interruption of his thoughts. They had stopped at a closed door, the last exhibition just behind them, bony fingers pressing against the window and the same dull eyes staring at the three men. Aki barely kept from tsking.

"What?"
The guide's fingers drummed together, eyes flitting from side to side. "Further down, we only have newer items..." He seemed hesitant, afraid of Aki's disapproval. The fact only made Aki dislike the man more. What was it he was so nervous about? Aki wasn't his father, not anywhere near him. "They're not as kept as the ones you just saw-"
"Show me."

The irritation was further evident, and the tone caused the guide to flinch, hurriedly reaching for the key to unlock the door and lead them into a darker hall. A scream, quickly cut off, stopped echoing as soon as they entered. Aki's eyebrow twitched at the sound, fingers curling in his pocket at the first exhibition. A girl, about twelve, still dressed in rags, hair messy and damp. Tearstains on her cheeks, silently crying.

"We've only had her for a few days..." The explanation was starting again. "...parents dead... ...better for manual labor or... ...personal..." Aki was distracted by her eyes, dark but sad, a spark of life in the form of depression and death, a hint of innocence. Who was the man trying to fool? She would never do as a regular manual slave. The most likely scenario for her was a bedslave, mistress for someone like his father until the day she got too ugly, too old, or too dead.
"Another one," he murmured, interrupting the man. "Show me another one." He had no interest in things that were created for the intention of breaking.

The guide looked nervous, either from Aki's presence (which had been an issue since Aki got there, he thought with amusement) or the lack of grooming in these 'newer items.' "As you wish," he whimpered, gaining a small twitch of Aki's lips, and led them to yet another cage.

"This one was found with the other one, the sister..."


Given a place to breed, fear coiled, tightened and spored into his insides; tender threads pointlessly telling him to back down. Head down, eyes down, remain unnoticed, don't get chosen. Better to end up dead by these hands than by rumours. (Better end up dead than remain in Toxitown~ said an uglier voice.) An 'owner'.. Masters. Slavery. Cruelty. Whispers had filtered through Toxitown for a long time by transient standards. People, his people, the people he knew. The children he knew. Going missing. Messages from the kinder outsiders, the dwindling number who spoke in obsolete meanings and kanji drawn in rubble and sand scattered with English, Chinese and dirty bayou French. His mind span and twisted. He'd never believed the moving whispers, the kind that changed depending on the speaker.

Raced, his mind raced. His skin heating up in anger and sickness. It couldn't be true.

He wasn't the type to give into fear. Head up. Eyes up. Be loud. Disobey. Disobey.

Mao couldn't help but believe now, unless his nightmares had gotten away from him again. But punches felt too real, the aches crowding his muscles and his skull and every inch alive with some kind of pain. All too real. Had comrades bared through the same kind of pain? He couldn't stand it either. Indignant. Hate. Something he hadn't felt this keenly for a long time, flooding and twisting. Always twisting, taut enough to break. Mao clenched his fists, all at once hating the vulnerable position too, arms locked behind his back. Snarling, “Curiosity killed the fucking cat,” under his breath. The sound of the hose died off finally. Leaving him again with the backdrop of screams, cries, his own heavy breathing.

He shuffled on his knees, nudged the bodies next to him, soft whispers next to hoods. Wake up. Please don't leave me here alone. Wake up. Knowing he was different. An accident, swept up with the rest of the trash. Beaten rather than drugged? Not enough to waste a dose on. Trying to remember his last moments more vividly.

Too many things all at once as he tried to make sense of it all. Weak, raw coughs wracked his body and he spat more blood to the wet floor. All that blood from a nicked tongue. Defy and fight back.

Mao started working his way to his feet. The slow protest of muscles, the fucking chains wrapped around his ankles hampering the process. Whatever bound him, digging, cutting into his skin. He leant back against the wall, working the last of his energy into his body, trying to move. One shuffled step forward, through sludge almost, the filth washed from these collected bodies, step by careful step over the smooth wet concrete to stand himself in front of the window that could see in, but couldn't see out. Just his reflection staring back at him. Tattered clothing, almost pointless, thin and worn, hanging off one bony shoulder, baring his own markings. A face, a body that defied age, even bruised and smeared with remnants of blood.

He gazed past himself, a slow smile worn on plush lips. Just waiting. Silently daring himself to make a racket.


The containers became smaller as they moved down the hall, one on either side. Nothing caught his eye. Broken things, younger ones dying even as they breathed, the older already dead, having realized what they were in for. Giving up without a fight. He was already disgusted by the characters, but the aura of death and hopelessness was exhausting. The guide must have noticed -- the movement of the man's fingers were becoming so rapid that the sound of bone hitting bone was beginning to echo louder than the man's high pitched voice. The trio then stopped at a large cage that stretched from where they stood to the wall at the far end. Large... Aki chuckled mentally at himself. It was barely larger than his bedroom, but compared to the three-by-three containers before, it was bigger. But the space was compensated for by the numerous bodies crammed into the space, some with their heads covered in hoods, others still asleep (or knocked out), others awake but staring blankly in front of them. It didn't appear that they could see any of the three men.

"... are very new... ...no training or..."

The guide was still going on but Aki wasn't paying attention. One of them had gotten up -- shackles, Aki could see, made it hard to move -- and was standing in front of him, staring but not like the others.

This one was alive.
"What is he doing?" he asked, not caring whether or not the guide was still speaking. The guide looked away from Aki and at the cage, jumping in shock at the close proximity of the merchandise.
"M-my apologies! They're not supposed to-" He gestured for someone to bring the boy down, the motion hurried. "What are you doing? Get him," the man hissed, and two henchmen entered the cage to grab at the boy.
"Wait."

Aki knocked on the glass and the men stopped. Somehow, this one was intriguing. And different... Golden eyes, a pleasant body, pale skin. Despite the blood at the corner of his lips and the heavy shackles, he was still fighting. The henchmen paused with their hands on the boy's upper arms, holding him still.

"Wh- what do you mean, sir?"

The guide was even stuttering now. The sound was grating on Aki's nerves -- the man should feel fortunate that Aki didn't work for the remaining government faction in merchandise regulation, or he would be out in Toxitown, just like the rest of the waste. These men, these women, and these children... They were all stuck. The only chances they had were to be bought by someone (like himself). Otherwise, they would die here and end up on the black markets in little pieces -- organ harvesting was also a large profit recently with all the sicknesses and diseases roaming among the people. Anything was better than Toxitown. A place in his household, it was something that any of these items only imagined in a rare pleasant dream. His eye met the golden ones on the boy's face.

"This one."
"Excuse me?"
"This one." His lips curved into a faint smile. "This one is the one I want."


Mao strained his hearing to catch the muffled speech beyond the window. Was someone out there? Two different voices? More? Did the murmurs come from the room he stood in? Too many questions, for the lack of answers he was likely to receive. Was he imagining it all? All he knew was Toxitown, none of the workings of this market or the higher castes; too young to know anything else. As much as he'd tried to learn. So very little of the outside world ever filtered on through to the wastelands, the occasional incomplete paper, censored, torn and those voices that whispered. Some of the elders knew more, saw the cause and effect and the slow crumble to rubble, but weren't able to speak of the mess. Already affected by the times. Malformed, cancerous. Diseased. Just the despair that came with thinking of it. Wounds still fresh. Still he stared, trying to pierce the glass.

He barely turned his head as the doors opened, two figures flanking either side, hulking almost, his imagination painting them in this light. One on either arm all too ready to toss him back into the pile and no doubt do all they could to keep him there, even if it wouldn't be for long. He wanted to be a thorn tearing their sides, the pin stuck in clothing too small to find. A pain in the ass, to put it crudely. The thumps on the window drew him indelicately from his spiteful reverie. His eyes returned squarely into his refection, if he looked hard enough he would be able to see the owner of warped words. Restlessly he held still in their bruising grips and ached from the awkward half lifted position he was held in, barely the balls of his toes remaining on the floor, slipping in the wells of blood that rolled down his feet. A scowl knitted across his face as he heard words drifting through the open doors, all nonsense to his ears until he only caught 'one I want.'

So easy?

Just like that and he was sold?

“No!” Raising his voice, wrenching his body against the grips holding him but never letting his eyes leave the glass. All his efforts only causing him more pain, his breath to leave his lips in thin pants, gasping for more of the foul scented air. “No!” He yelled again, another fist beating him into some kind of dazed silence as he was dragged from the room. Wet, dirty blonde bangs and disordered strands of hair cut out his vision of the owner of the voice outside the window, only seeing well shod feet, that had he been given half a chance he would have spat upon. High caste scum.

Mao was dragged to a small room, out of the way, almost clean in comparison. Forced from the bare remnants of clothes, cold water and soaps scouring his body, scrubbed of the filth of Toxitown, drowned in powders and perfume to mask whatever scent he bore from the wastelands. Kicking up a fuss, as much as a bound person could. He was dressed in clothes, scraps of his last outfit thrown into refuse. The few scant pieces of jewellery taken from him too, sentimental pieces he'd never considered trading, even in desperation. Turned into a blank canvas. “Give them back!” To no avail. Finally, his wrists and ankles unbound then bound again after a rough clean and bandage; wrists tied in mock prayer in front of him, hands to elbows locked to new binding around his neck.

Gagged, then thrown about. That sense of being swallowed once more into thick, choking darkness covering him.

How long had passed he didn't know, finding himself awakening somewhere new again on harder floors, groggy slurs making it as far as his throat; rolling onto his side. Coaxing himself back to conciousness.