Tag Archive | slaveschool

Fred, a vignette of Tir na Cali Slave School for the March Giraffe Call

For illfluff‘s Prompt. After this vignette (lj)

Fred woke up strapped down in a hospital bed, with a nurse on one side and Jenny on the other side. Both were frowning at him. As signs went, it wasn’t the best.

He tried the restraints, not with any real force. He didn’t want to spook anyone. He really didn’t want to spook Jenny.

He worked his jaw, a bit surprised he wasn’t gagged. Then again, it hadn’t been his mouth that had gotten them in trouble.

“Fred,” Jenny said. Sobbed. “Fred, why…?”

“I…” he glanced at the nurse; she nodded.

“Go ahead, you’re not standing on protocol with me.”

“Thank you.” He reached his closer hand towards Jenny. “I’m sorry. He just got me so mad. He’s always making those stupid comments, you know…”

“He makes them to everyone. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us because he fights it. But Fred! They’re going to punish you for this. You know they are.”

“I know. I really tried not to. But… he just hit one button too many.”

“Your fighting skills are admirable.” That was from the doorway: Mr. Thurston, their home ec teacher. “But your lack of control is not. Steve backed up your story, by the way, which will mitigate your punishment. Thank you, Jennifer, back to your room now.” He hesitated, and added kindly, “I promise, if we send Fred away, we’ll give you a chance to say goodbye first.”

She swallowed another sob and fled, leaving Fred alone in the room with the teacher.

“And now the question remains,” Mr. Thurston continued, sitting down in the chair Jenny had vacated, “whether we send you away or not.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/310355.html. You can comment here or there.

Donor Perk Story: Slave School – a Vignette without a name

Tir na Cali Slave School – needs a name.

The tall, lanky kid from Ohio had had it out from Steve from their first day in class. He didn’t know why… all right, he did know why, but it seemed kind of petty. So he’d made the guy move at lunch. He was taking up a whole big table by himself, and Steve wanted to sit with his friends. And, okay, he’d snickered at him once or twice – but the guy was such a suck-up, seeming to buy into the shit they wanted to force-feed them.

So he’d been a little shitty to – Fred, that was his name – the Ohio kid, and then it turned out that Fred had a temper that just had a really, really long fuse. And Steve had made one comment after Religion class – all right, one comment after comments pretty steadily over the last three weeks, but they weren’t big comments or anything. It was just that he couldn’t say anything to the teachers without getting hit, or, once, when he’d been really mouthy, gagged, and Fred seemed so much like everything the teachers wanted. So he mouthed off to Fred for selling out.

This time, they’d been studying the ways one could honor the Goddess, and the way service to a Mistress should echo one’s service to the Goddess. Sickening pagan shit. Steve had turned to Fred as they left class and muttered, too quiet for the proctors to hear, “you’re gonna love it, aren’t you? Praying to your goddess-mistress, down on your knees?”

He hadn’t seen the punch coming, at least the first one. The second one he saw, but not in time to do anything about it, and after that, it was a bit of a blur. Steve thought he was a pretty tough guy – but even soccer didn’t prepare him for the pummeling he was getting, and the kid was all fists and elbows, no way to get away from him. He thought he got in one good punch. Two, maybe. He was going for a third when the proctors showed up and pulled them apart.

It took, as far as Steve could see through vision gone blurry and a bit red, four people to pull Fred off of him, and a fifth to keep Steve from kicking the lanky kid back once he had room to breathe. They dragged them to the infirmary, where Steve found himself restrained to a cot.

The nurse worked over him patiently, her gloved hands cool but gentle, though the antiseptics stung. Steve closed his eyes and tried to think of anything else. He’d gotten his ass handed to him. That was pretty humiliating. But more than that, the kid – he hadn’t been going to stop. He had been trying to kill Steve. That… that was something else altogether.

“Frederick claims you provoked him.” The voice was not the nurse’s; he opened his eyes to see their Civics teacher sitting next to him.

Steve opened his mouth to say something snide, and then closed it again. Even though she wore a slave collar, Miss Svetlana had been harder on them than any of the other teachers. Why would she be any better after he’d started a fight?

She pursed her lips unhappily anyway. “Was Frederick correct, Steven?”

Was he? “I might have said a few things,” he admitted, hastily adding on, “Miss. Okay, I said a few things.”

“That will mitigate his punishment, then,” she nodded. “Would you mind telling me what sort of things?”

“I’d kinda mind, yeah.” He squirmed against his bonds. “I mean, come on, I already got my ass handed to me, miss. I’d rather not get beaten on again just yet.”

She frowned faintly at him. “Is that your concern?” Seeing him pause, she gestured imperiously with one hand. “You may feel free to speak freely for the duration of this meeting, and will be punished for nothing you say here. Immunity.”

She really wanted him to talk? If she was going to open herself up for it, he was certainly going to let her have it. “Well, come on, every time I open my mouth around here,” he said, twitching again against his restraints as he tried to gesture, “I get hit or beat or, if someone’s feeling really generous, sent to go sit in the corner like a five-year-old. So yeah. I figure I’m going to get punished for this somehow.” He yanked hard on the cuffs. “Why else would I be tied down to a bed?” He might be the dumb one of the group, but Steve could think of some “why else’s,” and was trying hard to ignore those options. He hadn’t been that mouthy, had he?

“Aah.” Miss Svetlana’s frown deepened, and he began to think he really had gone too far. “And it wouldn’t occur to you that we were worried about your well-being?”

“Well, I guess you have to protect your investment. I’ve got to be worth a couple grand to you, don’t want me getting all banged up, right? But what’s that got to do with tying me to a bed?”

The teacher stood, pacing rapidly around the small room, her heels beating an angry staccato on the tile floor. When she turned to him, finally, she was glaring, and her voice was sharp and high.

“How could you think that was all you are to us? A number, a product? I know being captured has been hard on you, but do you really think I’m the sort of monster that cares only for the numbers?” She tugged roughly on her own collar. “Do you really think I’m that crass and inhuman?”

“You sure as hell act like you only care about obedience.” He wanted to shout it, but she was nearly crying, and it took the heat out of his anger. “Every time any of us fuck up, you come down like a ton of bricks.”
“And that’s half as hard as an owner would come down on you,” she snapped back, the tears flowing for real now. “Do you think we want to see you sold into service unprepared, whipped or beaten because you didn’t know how to behave?”

He gaped at her, not sure what to say. “Why not just tell us?” he asked sullenly, his whole body aching.

“We do!” She sat down on the edge of his narrow bed. “We tell you, over and over again, but some of you are so hung up on how it’s ‘wrong,’ how you’re better than born-slaves, that you won’t listen unless we pound it home. And some of you don’t listen even then.” She glared at him through tear filled eyes.

“What?” he sputtered, although, guiltily, he knew she had a point. “Aw, come on, I don’t think I’m better than you.” Crying was cheating, but she was sniffling on his bed, and he’d made her cry. “Come on, miss…” He patted awkwardly in her direction. “I don’t…”

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Slave School: Equal Rights? For lilfluff

From my call for gender prompts and [personal profile] lilfluff‘s commission comes a discussion at the Cali Slave School on the Rights of Man. Err, Males.

“Aren’t you going to hold the door for me?” Steve teased. Jill wrinkled her nose at him, and did not hold the door. Pointedly.

“You know very well that’s not what that was about. It’s not like everything just turned one-eighty from home.”

“Well, no,” Seth argued, pointedly holding the door for the rest of them. “I mean, back in the States, women and men have equal rights.”

“Under the law,” Jill couldn’t help but point out.

“Well, what other kind of rights are there?”

“Social rights,” Debbie offered. She flopped in her accustomed place in Jakub’s chair; normally he didn’t mind, but today he glared at her.

“Like having your own goddamned chair when you want it?”

“Woah.” She slipped out of the chair to the floor. “Sorry.” Her tone said she was anything but.

“Cut him some slack,” Jill advised gently. “They’ve just found out they’re 1890’s women.”

“Yeah,” Seth pointed out, “but it’s not the eighteen-hundreds anymore. Women don’t get treated like that back home.”

“Depends on the woman, and the man,” Debbie argued, trying to get comfortable on the floor. With a glance to be sure it was all right, Jill settled onto Seth’s bed, watching the guys process that.

“I never treated anyone like that,” Steve asserted angrily. “Second-class citizen.” He tugged on his collar roughly, the steel cutting into his bullish neck. “Fucking second-class second-class citizen.”

“Wouldn’t that make you a fourth-class citizen?” Carl, who had been quiet through the whole thing, offered this bit with a small smirk. Jill wondered what he thought of the whole mess; of all of them, he’d been the quietest all along.

“Not. Helping. Man.” Steve yanked hard on the collar again. “That’s shit. And not only is it shit, they have to explain it all, like it’s right or something.”

“‘A woman’s place is in the home,’” Debbie countered.

“Again,” Seth argued, “eighteen-ninety, not the two thousands.”

“Dude, my grandmother thought I should go into nursing. Or maybe teaching. Good, womanly jobs.” Debbie’s voice rose louder and louder. “So don’t tell me that shit ended in the eighteen hundreds.”

“Legally, though, women got the right to vote at the beginning of the twentieth century in the ‘States,” Seth soothed.

“Well,” Jill interjected, before this could get further out of hand, “neither of us have that now. As far as rights go, Debbie and I have about one more right than you guys, and I hope to God we don’t have to use it anytime soon.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/105682.html. You can comment here or there.

Slave School: First Day, for lilfluff

[profile] lilifluff‘s response to my giraffe sale: more of the slave school!

The first two entries of the slave school are:
Frying Pan, Fire (LJ Link), from [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt regarding a slave school.
Final Exams (LJ Link), from wyld_dandelyon‘s prompt of the same name.

“Room 1, right there. Choose the seat with your name on it and sit down.” The proctor reminded Debbie of the guards at their first prison, except that, instead of a uniform, he wore a shirt and tie. She had no doubt he could be just as rough, though, so she found the seat with her name on it – just Debbie, like everything else here, like she’d left her last name at home with her freedom. She wondered what they’d have done if they had more than one Debbie.

She didn’t ask, though. She sat, instead, tugged her uniform skirt down, and looked at the notebook on her desk. It had her name on it, too, as did the pen sitting at a precise line parallel to the top, just above it.

So they were back in school. She ought to be upset, she supposed, but it was the first thing since she’d gotten kidnapped that made sense. Classroom, notebook, uniform, pen. Nun?

The woman that stepped in to the classroom was almost certainly not a nun, at least not of any faith Debbie had ever encountered (“The Faith” was on her schedule as her third hour class, however, so she imagined she’d be encountering at least one new religion pretty soon). She looked more like something out of a Sexy Teacher video: tight skirt, tight blouse, steel collar.

The proctor hadn’t seemed to be wearing a collar, although his shirt and tie could have covered it; the matron who’d greeted them yesterday certainly wasn’t. All of her fellow students were – identical bands of metal gleaming under their uniform shirts. Was it a good sign or a bad one that the teacher was, too? She’d be more patient with them, right? More forgiving? She turned to find Jill, sitting catty-corner behind and to her left. “Maybe this won’t be all bad,” she murmured.

The ruler came down hard on her hand before she even noticed the teacher had moved. “There is no speaking in class unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”

Debbie gaped, staring at the woman, and the ruler cracked down again. “Do. You. Understand?”

Tossing out any hopes of another slave going easy on them, Debbie nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Miss,” she corrected. “But you’ll learn terms of address in the next hour.”

By the end of that hour, Debbie felt as if ‘terms of address’ were leaking out of her ears. She had filled three pages with complicated diagrams of who was above whom and who the should acknowledge first – with the oft-repeated, “but remember, with whoever you are dealing with, you are beneath them. You are beneath everyone.”

That had made Steve complain. More than complain; he’d shouted. “Fuck that shit, lady. I’m as good as the next guy.”

Debbie had bitten her tongue on anything except a warning “Steve…” but it had been enough to get her another smack across the hand. He, on the other hand…

The teacher had grabbed the proctor from the hall. Steve wasn’t a small guy, wiry and athletic – all six of them were the sporty sort, actually – but the proctor was slabs of muscle, and had a food of height on Steve. He’d bent him, struggling the whole time, over his desk, and pulled down his pants so the teacher could lay the rule down, hard enough leave welts, eight times across his ass.

“If anyone in this class makes such an outburst again, you will not only be caned, you will be gagged. This is your only warning.”

Shaking, Debbie had kept her eyes forward and her attention firmly on the teacher for the rest of class. Steve, miracle of miracles, had been quiet, but when they escaped the classroom at the hour bell, he was muttering curses under his breath.

“it’s not right, not fucking right,” he told her. “We’re not beneath anyone.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “But they’re bigger and stronger. It might behoove us to play along for a while.”

“You play along,” he grumbled. “I’m not going to let them indoctrinate me.”

She was pretty sure that indocrination was more or less the point of the school, but Steve would either learn or he wouldn’t. Right now, there wasn’t much she could do to help him.

She went through her classes, soaking up their lessons, writing down everything, trying not to catch the teachers’ attention, not to be bad. It was hard, sitting quietly through every class when her friends were right there, but it took only two more welts before she got the knack of it. Instead, she wrote down in the margins everything she wanted to say, notes for later discussion.

That night, in her dorm with Jill and Indira, a pretty girl who barely talked, she stared at her first marginalia.

Acculturation. They’re training us to be them.

It wasn’t a comforting thought.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/80567.html. You can comment here or there.

Final Exams – Tír na Cali – from Wyld_Dandelyon’s prompt

From Wyld_Dandelyon‘s prompt: “Final Exams.”

This comes after Frying Pan, Fire (LJ Link).

Despite rather constant warning from their teachers: “Don’t bond. Don’t get to close. You will be sold when school is over, and it is exceedingly unlikely you will be sold to the same household,” they had gotten close.

They had been picked up on the same run, Steve, Carl, Debbie, Jill, Jakub, and Seth, and before they’d come to the school, they’d already spent several days together in a cell just big enough for the six of them. By the time their final exams rolled around, they were close enough to know what the others were thinking.

Not that it was hard, right now; they were all thinking variations on the same thing: What happens next? What happens if I don’t do well? What happens if I do do well? Is this really happening to me?

They knew, in theory, what came next: either they passed their exams, or they were sent to work camps. They’d even had a field trip to the fields, to see what it would be like. To scare them into obedience, Seth assumed; the work camps were pretty much exactly what American propaganda said being a slave in California was like: hard, constant, dehumanizing labor.

If they did well, they had been assured they would be placed well in high-ranking households. It rankled, or at least it bugged Seth – they never talked about this part, as it sounded too much like sedition, and sedition had, they’d learned fast, painful consequences – to be working hard to get a position licking someone’s boots. But better licking boots than picking grapes.

“I’m worried about the titles and terms of address in Civics,” he admitted. They were crowded into the dorm room he shared with Carl and Jakub, trying to cram for exams.

“Sommelier and barrista testing,” Steve muttered. “I can never tell the reds apart, and that whipped cream trick…”

“Law,” Jill murmured. “The little nitty gritty laws that change with every Barony.”

“We’ll done fine.” That was Carl, who had nothing to worry about. “Chin up, and just try to sleep tonight. We’ll all do fine.”

“And then what?” Steve muttered. For that, Carl didn’t have an answer. None of them did.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/75980.html. You can comment here or there.

Frying Pan, Fire – Tir na Cali – Lilfluff’s Prompt1

I am taking prompts tonight; this is from [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt regarding new Tir na Cali captives

Tir na Cali, and seems to be an intro.

They got pants, at least. And shirts. Well, the girls got skirts, but the idea was there: after what was probably over a week with no clothes, nothing to their names but the ugly plastic collars their captors had locked around their throats, they had pants, shirts, and underwear.

And ugly plastic collars, but Seth, at least, had learned not to complain. Since they had been stolen into California (while, irony of ironies, celebrating their freedom from school), the six of them had been stripped, collared, processed, beaten, starved, and half-drowned – but they’d also been trained. Maybe their training had been harsh enough to make the basic training he and Jakub were (had been) heading to look like a week at the beach, but the lessons had been straight-forward and clear. Lesson one was: don’t complain.

Lesson two was don’t mouth off, of course. Which was why he was keeping his mouth shut as their handler – the third such, the tallest, the oldest, and the sternest so far, passed them each stacks of clothing. Steve hadn’t quite gotten that, yet, but, then again, only Seth and Jakub had been planning on heading somewhere where they barked orders at you all day anyway.

“This looks like a uniform, ma’am.” Jill commented, quietly, politely. Jill had learned how to ask questions without getting hit; she’d been the quickest of them all, at that.

“It is,” the matron agreed. “You will not be the only ones at this training facility. There will be approximately twenty-five other slaves here training with you.”

“Training?” That was Steve. “Like what? Ow!”

The ow was, of course, another thwap with the crop. Steve got a lot of those.

“You know nothing about our world, or our culture. You will be going to school here to learn how to fit in, how to be proper slaves. You will take eight classes a day, and have time in the evenings to complete your homework?”

“Homework!” Seth was mortified to realize that that had been him this time. He quickly added on a “ma’am,” and was grateful when Debbie picked up his slack by filling in with another question.

“Like school, ma’am? Like high school?” She didn’t have to say all over again; they were all thinking that.

“Exactly like a school,” the matron nodded. She seemed to understand; she didn’t thwap them at all for the collective groan.

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