Title: Irae Dies (chapter 1)
Words: ~2500
Rating: R
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters here-in belong to Fox. They are not mine - only the unknown characters belong to me. Absolutely no profit of any kind is being made from the publication of this writing.
Warnings: Slavery, mentions of dub-con/non-con. Possible squicking with slight disfigurement. Oh, and some slash, too. :)

A/N: I don't know where this idea came to me from. It is very dark and may be very disturbing to some, so I warn you : tread lightly. This story concerns a society with a very aggressive way of treating slaves. If you would like more details before reading, please message me and I will be happy to start a dialogue with you. If you feel ready to read on, please enjoy!
A/N2: I have never really written and fanfic like this before, so I would absoutely adore getting some feedback from you guys. Thanks a ton!

When they first arrived at the compound, new slaves had their lips sewn shut with a tight criss-crossing pattern which made full use of the yard of thread that had been painstakingly measured and cut for them. The people who performed this difficult task were trained in every possible detail and aspect of the duty by the Alliance's chairman. At least this is what Blaine Anderson had heard from his friend, Wes.

But when he flipped half-heartedly through the catalogue, sitting in the abysmally dark waiting room of the compound, he saw all of the slaves had untouched lips. Well, at least they were unmarred by sewing needle and thread. The lights flickered from the ceiling, and although he was trying so very hard to be grateful, Blaine wondered to himself – for what must have been the twentieth time that day – why his parents had brought him and his younger sister to the compound. His fourteenth birthday was rolling around, and they had said something about a special gift, but he honestly would have preferred a video gaming station, or that new guitar he had asked for. Still, the saying did go "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," and he certainly didn't want to be rude. He dropped the catalogue on the table in front of him and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. How many people had sat in this very same spot before him? Biding their time until they could own the sickly piece of flesh of their choosing? How many people had held that same catalogue in their hands? Waiting with a desperate anguish to see if their lust would be provided with a worthy outlet? Blaine shook his head, trying to clear the tumultuous thoughts, and shifted again. The cushion of his seat was almost completely worn down, so it was no more than a thin sheet of fabric covering the seat of the chair.

Blaine glanced anxiously at his parents and his sister. They sat together on a couch that was perpendicular to his chair and were talking and laughing together. They portrayed the average family who came in to buy a slave. Well dressed, happy, excited and anxious to see and judge their purchase. Blaine was well dressed, too of course, but the anxiety that rushed through him was far more negative than that which his parents and sister were currently experiencing. Though he had been raised in a culture in which slavery was not only accepted, but a sign of massive wealth and societal clout, Blaine had his doubts about the entire Alliance. Nobody really knew where the slaves came from, or how they continued to be produced in such voluminous numbers. It surprised him, really, how many people could afford to parade their naked belongings on the sidewalk outside. He did, however, live in one of the wealthiest provinces of the Americas, and as such was privy to a much more upscale lifestyle than the average citizen.

His youth had been filled with the adventures of a rich, spoiled boy, raised in a family that not only accepted the life of an overflowing bank account, but embraced it. The Anderson family already owned four slaves, but they were different slaves. They had been purchased in the clean A Sector of the compound and were used for cleaning, cooking and other daily chores that Blaine's mother was too busy to perform. The slaves purchased from A-C sectors of the compound were healthy, young, smart, talented, and sold with clothing on. While it was not a requirement that they be allowed to stay clothed once they arrived at the owners' properties, they most often did. They served a much different purpose than the nude slaves of D Sector. The shabby state of D Sector made Blaine feel dirty, and ashamed of being there. Some of his school friends had received D slaves as gifts, and they talked about them with a rigorous and unflinching pride. Blaine didn't know if he would tell anyone about this. He didn't even know if he wanted to tell Wes about it – and they had been best friends for 10 years.

A woman stepped out from behind a large metal door, and Blaine could see a ring, jingling with at least fifty different keys, attached to chain, which hung from her hip. It was clipped to her wrist and so it made a clanking sound every time she took a step or lifted her arm. She was dressed in all black – leather pants and fitted cotton tank top, as well as a long black jacket. Her boots came to about mid-calf and were covered in silver buckles with straps. He wasn't sure about the necessity of a uniform like that, but he also knew that when one was in the Alliance's compound, one avoided asking unnecessary questions. She flipped her auburn curls away from her face and tugged a piece of paper out of her pocket. Reading it over, she quickly looked up at them, scrutinizing their dynamic. "Are you the Andersons?"

"Yes," Blaine's father replied, rising to stand. He put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "I'm Thomas Anderson, this is my wife Elaine, my daughter Jenine, and my son, Blaine."

"Blaine, you're the one choosing today." She voiced it as a statement, not a question. The fear and concern bubbled hotter in Blaine's stomach as he nodded at her. He knew he didn't like her, or her thick soled boots that pressed loudly into the floor as she walked towards him. When she reached out with her chained arm, he knew the proper response was to take her hand. Blaine's parents had gone over all of the rules and steps with him many times, night after night, so that he would behave perfectly. Having purchased four slaves already, they knew how to behave. But this was Blaine's first time. The woman had long, black fingernails that were filed sharp to a point at the end. Blaine swallowed at the lump in his throat when he saw her hand tense. He had kept her waiting for too long. His mother made to step forward, but before anyone else could move, Blaine's hand shot out (almost of its own accord) and grasped the woman's thin hand. He could feel her bones moving as she wrapped her fingers tightly around his small hand.

"Come with me." Her voice was flat, and betrayed no emotion. But Blaine knew that, had his parents not been present, his hesitation would have gotten him into a lot of trouble with this woman. He was loathe to follow her through the thick metal door alone, and when he heard the magnet click into place behind them, locking the door shut, his stomach began to turn summersaults. Regardless of his fear, he had to go on his own – only the owner would see and choose the slave. Only the owner had the right. The privilege. He knew that the woman wouldn't - couldn't – do anything to harm him. As a paying customer he was safe. Still, her icy grip was firmer than he might like on his hand and he was hoping she would let go soon. But for ten minutes they walked through dark and winding corridors, walls lined with dimmed one-way mirrors met them at every turn. Blaine was lost, and didn't understand how his guide knew where she was – everything looked exactly the same to him. But eventually she stopped, at one turn there was a break in all of the mirrors and there was another door, just like the first one through which he had followed her.

She grabbed at her keys and without looking picked out the correct one in seconds. She shoved it into the lock unceremoniously and dragged Blaine through the door. Across from him, as soon as he fell through the entrance, he saw a wall lined with bedraggled young men and women. Naked young men and women. Naked young men and women with their lips…sewn shut. Wes hadn't been lying. Blaine tried not to be sick to his stomach as the adolescents across from him looked up, meeting his gaze with pathetically empty eyes, sunken into gaunt faces. What kind of a birthday gift is this? The teens were all clearly about his age, in varying stages of puberty, and yet they stood boldly with their hands behind their backs. It wasn't until he swallowed down the bile in his throat, that Blaine realized they stood that way only because their hands were forced behind their backs by the stiff twine wrapped 'round their wrists.

"You need to choose." The woman's voice belied what Blaine was sure was only a modicum of the impatience she felt.

"I…this is…these are…" his stammered words made no sense to his own ears. He could not find the words to express his mingled confusion, revulsion and pity. He wanted to pick all of them, take them home, feed them and then set them free. But of course that would cost too much and ultimately get him arrested. Slaves were property of the Alliance and as such, could only be granted their freedom by the Alliance. Upon their owner's death, or if their owner grew weary of them, slaves were sent back to the Alliance to be sold to a new owner. They were nothing but a recyclable product.

"Not good enough for you?" Her hand moved to the door.

"I just…"

"It's okay." There was a slight tinge of a Russian accent in her voice. But her English was flawless. "We have one that just came in. It's still in its cell; I didn't have time to prep it for you. But you can look at it. Maybe you'll prefer that one."

Blaine nodded, not truly wanting to see anything else. If he had known how to get out there, he would have turned and run for the door. He would tell his parents he wanted something else for his birthday. But he had no clue how to escape, so he gave one last accidental glance to the people who were no longer people and followed the woman out the door. She led him a short way to one of the mirrors and pushed a small button on the wall. The mirror lit up and Blaine could see inside. There was a petite boy inside, who glanced up nervously from his spot on the floor when the light came on, but Blaine knew he couldn't see through his side of the glass. He had a thin frame, but he wasn't skeletal as the others had been. His skin was taut over lean muscle, almost porcelain in color. His lips had only recently been sewn shut and beads of dried blood rested on his mouth. His hands weren't tied behind his back, but instead wrapped protectively around his bents knees, which were hugged to his chest. Blaine could see that his tattoos were also fresh. His ankle, hip, wrist and neck all bore the same number, red and raw, glistening with the salve that had been rubbed on them. His identification number would help to alert the authorities if he ever went missing, and having it in four places made it far more difficult to cover up.

He glanced up at the mirror, his short hair falling back from his face. Most of the slaves were shaved upon arrival, but it appeared he hadn't been to the barber's yet. He had ice blue eyes, and even though Blaine knew that he couldn't see through the glass pane, he felt as though this newly indentured slave was staring right through him. Right into his soul. Blaine let one hand rest on the wall near the frame of the mirror and he breathed out heavily. "Yes," he said, unable to contain his sigh. "This will do."

"It's a fresh arrival from today," said the woman. She hadn't moved since turning on the light. Her hand rested on the button, waiting to turn off the light and sever the connection between Blaine and his future slave. Blaine listened to her but, and he knew it was rude, his eyes never left the boy. "We still have to collar and tag it. We can shave it, too if you want."

"Just collar and tag it. That will be sufficient. I'm rather fond of the hair." He didn't notice his breath making fog on the glass.

"As you wish," she said before turning off the light, immersing the boy in darkness. She pulled a small pad of paper from her coat and scribbled something on it. When she ripped the page out of the note pad and handed it to Blaine, he saw that the number matched those from the boy. "Take that with you, go back the way we came. Give it to Harold. He'll be waiting by the door to see you out."

"I don't –"

"Know how to get back?" She asked knowingly and then sighed at his emphatic nod. "Marcus!" Her scream was shrill, loud, and unexpected. It seemed, though, that Marcus had expected it for he appeared immediately from behind another door that Blaine had not noticed before. "Marcus," she loudly ordered the frail, old man, "Take Mr. Anderson back to the entrance. Ensure that he arrives there and no harm comes to him on his way. Do you understand me?"

Marcus nodded but Blaine was even more uncomfortable holding his hand than he was the woman. On the walk back to the entrance, he found himself almost wishing for her cold grip and long, fast stride. Marcus performed his task, and showed Blaine to Harold, who opened the door. Blaine's parents were waiting anxiously on the other side. "Did you pick one?" his mother asked him, reaching out to touch his cheek.

"Yes, mother. Thank you. This is such a wonderful gift."

"I knew you'd like it. I told you he'd like it," his father grinned widely. "Come, son," he said, "They'll just be writing up the paperwork and we'll be able to take it home within the hour. Wouldn't want to keep you waiting." Blaine followed, allowing his father to grip tightly at his shoulder. But he try as he might, the thirteen year old couldn't ignore the sick churning of his stomach.