Chapter Text
"You realize that this isn't like buying a dog," Arthur said as he lengthened his step to keep up with Dom's intent stride. It was coming onto late afternoon, and the damp streets of London were filling up as people were let off work. Arthur almost shouldered into a pair of tourists who had stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk to point up at some fascinating building.
"That's right," Dom said, with a ghost of his old humor, "for one thing I won't have to take it for walks to go to the bathroom."
"It means more expenses: food, hotel, airline tickets..."
Dom didn't seem to hear him. He had that almost manic gleam in his eyes. The one Arthur used to associate with a crazy, but brilliant scheme being hatched, back when Mal was alive and his best friend wasn't internationally wanted for murder. Now, Arthur had learned the hard way to associate that gleam with trouble: some impulsive action which would only make Arthur's life harder, not easier.
"How often does a slave with these skills come on the market?" Dom asked.
"They don't," Arthur said, flatly. That was his point. "Not through these channels. It could be a serial runaway, or murdered its last owner. There's no way to tell without a thorough background check." Which, for obvious reasons, wasn't available on the black market.
"If we had a forger, we could have pulled off the Goldstein job."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Dom slowed to a stop and squinted at him. "Do you have a problem with my owning a slave? You never objected when Mal and I brought on Lucy to help with the children."
"No," Arthur said, honestly. His father had several slaves, who had worked for him in the family-owned machine shop. He remembered them fondly – like docile, silent work horses who'd always spared a smile for a curious little boy. When their years of service were finished, his father always granted them start-up money to get them on their feet as free men. Besides, world-wide humanitarian laws ensured that no one was actually born into slavery nowadays. In these more enlightened times, you had to earn your way there.
It was just...
"What are the chances of a skilled forger landing in our path, much less one you can afford? It's too good to be true." Arthur shook his head. "This is either a scam, the slave is defective, or at the end of its servitude sentence."
Dom hummed under his breath. "Forgers hire out at only a little less than the cost I'm looking at buying this slave. Even if it's only able to complete two or three jobs, it will still pay for itself."
"Dom," Arthur was not begging for him to see reason. He was not. "Listen to me. This isn't a good idea."
But Dom only smiled at him – the sad, pained half-grimace which seemed to be all he could conjure up since Mal had leapt to her death. "We'll go in and take a look, and if it wasn't I want, I'll back out. Okay?"
It was as good of a concession as he was likely going to get. Arthur nodded, and prepared himself to follow Dom on yet another half-thought-out scheme. At least, if the slave were female and pretty, it might help his friend get over the pain of losing Mal.
The slave was male.
He was shaved bald, like all were of their status, and stood impassively before Arthur and Dom after the shopkeeper led him from the back by a fine silver chain affixed to his gleaming Quietus Correction Collar.
He's huge, Arthur found himself thinking, dumbly.
The slave was barefoot and utterly naked save for a white loincloth tied about his hips. That showed off... just about everything. He was of a height with Arthur, maybe a half inch shorter, but solidly built – almost blocky with thick ropes of muscle across his back, arms, shoulders. His stomach was flat, more hard than chiseled, with more sloping muscle, and his thighs looked equally thick and powerful. There weren't many visible scars to speak of, although he did have a collection of tattoos looping around the cords in his arms. Evidence of a misspent youth before his enslavement, most likely. No one in their right mind would pay to have their slave tattooed.
He was... handsome, Arthur realized, after a stunned moment. For all that he was built like a living tank, he had a nice face. A well cut jawline, light grey eyes, and a straight and even nose. And those lips... people paid money to have lips as full as what came naturally to this man.
The slave didn't speak as they looked him over, didn't make any sound at all... but then again, that was the point of a Quietus collar.
"This is a fine specimen," the shopkeeper said, proudly. He had a leather riding crop in one hand, and tapped the slave's thigh with it in a signal to turn around. The slave did, slowly, to show off the goods. His face betrayed nothing and his eyes stared out somewhere into the middle distance. Utterly removed.
"Approximately thirty-four years of age," the shopkeeper went on. "His previous owner used him for manual labor, as you can see." The tip of the crop ran over the bar of smooth muscle across the slave's shoulders.
Dom stepped forward, hands on his hips as he examined the slave. He gestured for the slave to face them again. Arthur didn't know why he bothered. It wasn't as if they were buying for the body.
"How long has he been in bondage?" Dom asked, with a professional air.
The shopkeeper glanced down at a clipboard he held in his hand. The slave's registration papers. "Ten years this last month. Plenty of time left on the contract. You can check with the Royal Office for the exact dates for a small fee, but I always guarantee at least three years left of service. "
The slave twitched at that, though Dom and the shopkeeper were discussing vaccination records and didn't appear to notice. His eyes flashed with something that might have been anger, or despair, but the emotion was gone again before Arthur could identify it.
"... Which means he's well broken in, with the collar for insurance, of course," the shopkeeper continued. "He's strong as an ox, too. My physician cleared him of all major injuries. Beyond that, I have a two year warranty on dental and normal wear and tear that comes free with every purchase."
"I'm more interested in his other skills," Dom said, pointedly.
The shopkeeper smiled, and after checking the front door and turning the open sign around to closed, gestured for Arthur and Dom to follow him to the back.
The front of the shop had been simple and uncluttered, if a little dusty. Innocuous, was probably the right word. The back rooms of the shop, however, smelled like piss and despair.
Arthur tried not to wrinkle his nose as the shopkeeper led them past rows of heavily barred, steel cages – mostly empty, thank God – and wet, straw lined floors.
There was another room further beyond, which the shop keeper opened with a key. The air inside there was cleaner, and the room was furnished with a single leather couch and a PASIV set up upon a small stool.
Arthur stepped forward to check on the machine – it was only prudent when one was about to use an intravenous drip. He found it well maintained, with sterile needles still in their packages, and all the inspection stamps up to date. It was a small, two-port device, the type usually reserved for personal use.
"It's fine," he said, stepping back as Dom took his seat on the couch.
The shopkeeper jerked sharply upon the slaves chain with a growled, "Well, get on with it then."
The slave moved forward and knelt by Dom's side. He reached to the PASIV, took out one of the leads and affixed the cannula to the IV. His motions were smooth and economical, probably from long years of practice. Dom held out his arm and the slave found the vein on the first try.
"Very clean," Dom said, in approval. He looked at the shopkeeper. "An hour of dreamtime should be more than enough to find out what I need."
Arthur watched as the slave programmed the device, showing no trouble at all with the concept of numbers or the chemical to body-weight ratio, and fitted the second needle himself. He did not take the couch, but instead arranged himself neatly on floor, his back against the wall.
The shopkeeper depressed the plunger and both men's eyes fluttered shut.
Five minutes was an awkwardly long time to wait in complete silence, and Arthur caught the shopkeeper sneaking sidelong glances at him. Before the man could offer him something like a two for one special on slaves, he asked, "Why was this one sentenced to slavery?"
The shopkeeper's smile was utterly false. "Those records are sealed, sir."
Of course they are, Arthur thought, and contented himself with the knowledge that an hour of dreamtime was more than enough for Dom to root out if the slave were a murderer or a psychotic.
Dom and the slave awoke again, five minutes on the dot.
"Well?" Arthur asked, hoping Dom found something horrible enough to put him off.
Dom didn't reply at first. He looked thoughtful as the slave rose to his feet and helped to unhook him. "He's good," he said, at last.
Damnit, Arthur thought.
The slave made no indication that he'd heard. He didn't meet anyone's eye at all as he quick rewound the lead, disposed of the used needles, and then took himself unobtrusively to the corner.
There was no doubt he had been well trained, but Arthur didn't miss how Dom's eyes followed the other man – his expression oddly pensive. What had he seen down there?
Before he could ask, Dom looked to the shopkeeper. "Let's talk about that price," he said.
An hour later Dom handed over a thick roll of cash – it was nearly his entire savings, and if he wasn't careful he could easily fall into debt and be in danger of being made a slave himself – and the shopkeeper handed him the thin silver chain which led to the slave's collar. That was mostly a symbolic gesture. The real restraint was a remote controlled fob that was keyed in with Dom's fingerprint, and controlled the Quietus collar. The signal ran through wireless cell phone towers, making it difficult for an escaping slave to avoid its master's wrath.
"What's he called?" Dom asked, after the shopkeeper counted and recounted his money.
The shopkeeper looked again at his papers. "Eames."
Eames stared at a fixed point above their heads, blank and impassive as if it didn't matter to him that he had been sold at all.