Apparently my first fic is to be slave AU. Who would have thought? Hope you enjoy!

Prompt: Loki buys Clint as a slave, rather than mind control junk. Can be porny. I'm fine with non-con or dub-con.

Clint stood behind the curtain of the shabby stage, biting his lip as he watched the proceedings. Auctions were normally held rarely, but a recent information leak had forced a mass sale of their slaves – or "helpers", as they said. Trading humans was forbidden, of course, but that hadn't stopped a strong black market from developing. Human talent was something desperately wanted and wonderfully elusive, but with such a large demand, well, who were they to suppress the supply? Despite the governments' official stance on the matter, Clint actually suspected that many of them were heavily involved, especially considering the growing need for skilled military personnel.

Decoy, aptly named for being well-known providers of security while secretly shipping slaves around the world, specialized in enlisting slaves from young ages – mostly ones with no other choice – then training them until they were bought. Clint himself had been "recruited" as a teenager; ten years later, he was as fit and skilled as most professionals. Though life as a slave-in-training hadn't been fun by any account, he could not deny that they had prepared him suitably for any owner he might go to. Daily physical exercises were mandatory, and the food was passable, full of nutrients that many would be lacking had they stayed on the streets. Hand-to-hand combat and basic fighting skills with weapons were heavily emphasized; the most talented slaves were taken to a different section of the compound. Clint remembered a red-haired girl with a fiery attitude around his own age he'd formed a temporary alliance with – until they discovered her aptitude for knives, guns, and, well, everything, really. He hadn't seen her since that day.

The first time Clint had seen someone taken away, he'd panicked and asked around. Apparently, if you were skilled enough, you would be trained until you were among the best in the world. Then you were sold to the highest bidder, whether it was to be a personal bodyguard or to be recruited for governmental affairs. No wonder their dealings were often overlooked.

Clint wasn't stupid; he knew that pretending to be useless was better than attracting unwelcome attention, so he'd hidden his own talents as much as he could. He missed targets when he could, but not too often – trainers weren't pleased with sub-par efforts, and he'd heard stories of punishments for slaves who slacked off. He could hit the centre of the target with every shot of his gun or with his knives, but he didn't. He was just thankful they didn't provide him with a bow and some arrows – he doubted he'd be able to force himself to miss with his favourite weapon.

A sharp jab to his arm caused Clint to flinch. Lost in his memories, he hadn't noticed that it was his turn up to the stage. He would have returned the jab with much more force if his hands weren't handcuffed together. Walking gingerly up the stairs, he stood in the middle of the stage, the dim lighting preventing him from making out the faces of the many potential-owners of his, though he did note several had security around them. High-ranking government officials, most likely.

"Here we have number seventy-three," a man behind him with a horrifyingly obnoxious voice announced. "A fine specimen! He's only in his mid-twenties, you know! Look at those arms! He'd be great for doing manual labour. He's got a great shot too …"

Clint's mind wandered as the MC exaggerated and bragged, shuffling minutely under the gazes of so many people.

"Make him turn around!" a voice interrupted. Clint grimaced but did so before he had to be asked again, presenting the room with a lovely view of his rear end. Somebody had the ingenious idea of presenting them naked at auctions with only a piece of cardboard with their number scrawled on it hanging on a string covering their privates. Something about letting them know exactly what they're getting, which Clint knew meant referred to those who wanted sex slaves. Nothing was ever outright stated, of course, but everyone knew that sex was implicitly included in whatever service they would go on to provide. Clint only hoped that his new owner wouldn't have too many weird fantasies.

The bidding started in earnest after a couple seconds with his back to the audience; Clint sighed quietly before turning back to face the crowd.

"Ten thousand – no, we have fifteen over here – is that a twenty I see in the back?" The MC repeated the prices excitedly over the increasing clamour of the audience.

"I'll have him for fifty thousand!" Clint glared down at the man near the front, fighting to hide his contempt. He'd heard the stories of him from the others – how he ran through sex slaves faster and faster with his age, treated them like dogs, and forced them to do whatever he wanted, not caring one bit for their safety. He returned Clint's glare with a leer, stroking his beard with one hand while carelessly patting his engorged stomach with the other. Clint looked away when the man started licking his lips with a tongue he prayed would never get near him.

The clamour softened to a murmur; fifty thousand wasn't unheard of, but was an exorbitant price nonetheless. Just when Clint had resigned himself to a horrible fate, another voice cut clearly through the dim.

"A hundred thousand."

A hush descended on them as Clint tried vainly to find the owner of that voice, as did the rest of the audience, while silently thanking the gods that he wouldn't have to spend the rest of his life with a disgusting lowlife like him.

"I've got a hundred thousand," the MC repeated, sounding impressed, if not a little confused. "Any other offers? No? Going once, then, and twice – sold!"

Still a little stunned, it took an extra second for Clint to find his surroundings and move off the stage. A hundred thousand? He didn't know whether to be thankful to his mysterious owner for saving him or to be frightened. After all, what would someone with that kind of money be doing at a place like this?

The other slaves all seemed to have the same question; they stared at him as he moved slowly, pushing towards the back, avoiding eye contact as best he would.

A nudge to his shoulder startled him. He looked up to the warm, brown eyes of Simon, one of the few slaves that he could call a "friend"; they somehow managed to be impressed and relieved all at once.

"Look at who's reeling in the money today," he joked, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously though, Clint, I'm glad you managed to avoid that slimeball. Why he hasn't been banned yet is a mystery."

Clint forced a choked laugh and a small smile, nearly managing them to look natural. He was good at this sort of thing, after all. They all were. "Thanks, I guess," he replied. "Can't say I envy the guy he eventually ends up with."

Simon nodded sagely. "From what I hear he's already got two from today. Looking to get a third, I think." He lip curled slightly in disgust, but he kept his voice low; Decoy didn't like them badmouthing customers, disgusting or not.

"Shut up back there!" someone else hissed. Both Clint and Simon acknowledged the legitimacy of the request and did so, Clint with smirk and Simon with an unimpressed eye-roll.

The night was nearly over. Clint could hazily make out people leaving the building; he wasn't nicknamed "Hawkeye" for nothing.

As the last of the slaves were sold and the audience began clearing out in earnest – best not to linger at the scene of the crime – Clint and the other waiting slaves were ushered into a small room. It was damp and crowded and smelled vaguely of feet; Clint tried not to grope anyone as he stumbled in. Once they were all inside, a woman with sleek blonde hair holding a clipboard motioned for them to be quiet and levelled them with a stern gaze.

"I don't think I need to say anything in particular right now," she said, her eyes flicking from one person to another. "You have all been trained and prepared for whatever may lie for you out there," she continued, waving her hand. "Suffice to say that you should treat your new owner, or master, or partner, or whatever-have-you with the same respect and obey them as you have here. Your behaviour reflects on us; do not make us regret choosing you. Above all, remember the three rules: Obey your master. Know your place." She paused slightly, eyes meeting Clint's in what he was pretty sure was a coincidence and not some sort of secret message. Probably.

"Most importantly, please, for the sake of us all, don't do anything stupid."

She began calling them up one by one, by their numbers. Clint knew how this part worked; every slave would have heard the instructions for this day numerous times. They would be called up and un-cuffed, have the cardboard number removed, and given to their new master. Then they would be taken away to who-knows-where, and would probably never see any member of Decoy again. Which Clint was not entirely unhappy about.

The room was quiet, for the most part. Many of the occupants stared listlessly into space or at walls; some mumbled to themselves; fewer conversed with others. Clint leaned against the back wall next to Simon, watching as his – friend? Acquaintances? Fellow slaves? – were led to their new lives.

"So, what do you think your master's going to be like?" Simon asked, watching the door just like him. "I hope mine is nice. Or, well, not a jerk, at least. I'm pretty sure he will be. His voice sounded kind."

Clint snorted. "His voice?"

"Well, yeah," Simon responded defensively. "I mean, what else am I supposed to go on? It's not like I've seen the guy or anything. I'm sure you'll be fine, though." Simon eyed him a little jealously. "Your master's sure to be loaded if he can blow a hundred grand on something like this."

Clint made a noise in response and emptied his mind as Simon went on about wanting to live in a mansion with horses and exquisite food and soft down beds. That was unlikely, though; Simon had been up near the beginning and had only fetched twenty or thirty thousand, if he recalled correctly.

"Thirteen," the woman at the front called. Simon stood up straighter and gave Clint one last grin.

"Well, this is where we part ways, I suppose," he said, sighing dramatically and prompting an unscripted laugh out of Clint. "Good luck with your new life, you'll be sure to succeed, you know, whatever."

"Yeah," Clint said listlessly, not really listening, expecting him to leave.

He did, but only took a few steps before returning and standing right in front of him. "Clint," he said quietly, but intensely. "You'll be fine, you know. You've always been great at whatever they threw at us during combat practice. You'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

Clint blinked, startled, but nevertheless took his time responding, weighing his words carefully. "Thanks," he murmured sincerely. "I … I really appreciate it." He closed his eyes briefly. "You too. You'll be fine. I'll be hoping for the best for you. Good luck."

He opened his eyes just in time to catch a flash of Simon's grin before he turned around and walked purposefully to the door. The cuffs came off, the string was cut – and a shirt and a pair of pants were offered.

Clint let out a breath he didn't know he was holding as Simon dressed and was promptly led away. He caught a glimpse of the man leading Simon as he walked past the door; he could see, even from the back of the room, that he had an open face and a kind air to him. He felt relieved, surprisingly so – it appeared that he wasn't as good as controlling his emotions as he liked to think.

He was quiet as the room slowly emptied. Some were given clothes or cloaks, but most were not. He watched with his sharp, sharp eyes as they left, noting the various characters that came to the door, all while knowing all this information was utterly useless and would not help him one bit.

He drifted off as the night continued; the noise in the room soon became a comforting lull as he closed his eyes once more. By the time he opened them again, there were only a couple people left in the room. When he caught the gaze of the blonde-haired woman, he knew that it was his turn, and he was ready. He hoped.

"Seventy-three."

Constructive criticism and comments are always welcomed, especially if you see spelling or grammatical errors. Don't hesitate to point them out!