The Weapon, ch 1/? Kept!verse
Matt Damon/Karl Urban, set in poisontaster's Kept!verse. Warnings for slavery and all the ugliness that goes along with that.
I'm posting here to see what people think and where it goes before posting it at the whatwekeep community.
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Matt stands at the observation window, the seller, “Mr. Black” at his side. The warehouse floor below is a maze of ceiling-less walls. In a circle of bright light in an open room in the center, a woman lounges on a velvet-upholstered chaise. She looks like a starlet out of 1930’s Hollywood, her blond hair shaped into elegant waves, her lush curves draped in an ivory evening gown. The prize. A delicate gold chain links her wrist to the leg of her seat.
Matt can see her for the bit of theatre she is. Can appreciate the seller putting a little bit of show into this demonstration, even if he knows that in the end he’s the one who’ll pick up the bill. Even if just getting into this room, getting to see this exhibition has cost him more than a year’s worth of his company’s profits.
Men move through the maze. Fifteen of them broken into smaller units of three to five. Coordinated, smooth, organized. Armed, they sweep and clear the maze.
Another figure moves. Smoother than the others, lightly armored, unarmed. He breaks into one of the small groups. Hits the center man and takes his weapon. Uses the soldier’s body as a shield as the pak pak of the other two’s return fire spatters red in the close corridor. He flings his victim at the soldier on his left and shoots the one on the right with the gun he’s liberated from the corpse. Before the last man can untangle himself from his ally, three rounds have been unloaded into his face and the single man is moving on, a weapon in each hand.
The man Matt’s come to see turns a corner, snaps off shots at another group of opponents and two go down. The rest muster up against him and another group turns towards the sound of conflict. In seconds he’ll be cornered. Matt tries not to get suckered in by the show, by the intensity of the action unfolding below. The show that’s just for him. His heart is pounding though.
Matt watches as the man turns and runs back towards the dead end. Runs and jumps and just feet from the end takes a step off the left wall, bounces off the right one, ricochets his momentum until he’s perched on the four-inch wide top of the god-damn wall.
Then he stands. Then he runs. Jumps the six-foot gaps over the corridors of the maze and rains death down onto his opponents. He only hits the ground again when he’s out of ammo, picking over the fallen and taking fresh weapons.
Only minutes after the “rescuer” hit the maze he’s in the room with the woman posing as his kidnapped mistress. Wary eyes looking for more defenders, for hidden traps.
In the observation booth, Mr. Black presses a button. Matt watches as a small box in the ceiling pops open and a heavy dark grenade drops down. Clatters onto the floor by the woman’s feet. There’s no fear on the man’s face as he drops his weapons. Toes pushing off the floor as he lunges. Sprints. Leaps. Covers the grenade with his body.
There’s no explosion, only a clear pop and red splatters the concrete under the man. He freezes a moment and then looks up. Looks at the woman and even from this distance Matt can tell he’s checking her for the paint-splatters of faux wounds.
There’s not a single drop on her ivory skin.
Dark eyes turn up to the observation window. Waiting for further instruction. Through the maze, the fallen rise. Most of them. Matt thinks it’s those that the subject actually struck as opposed to shooting that get up the slowest or not at all.
Matt looks down at the most illegal thing in America. A slave trained to kill.
Mr. Black pushes a different button on his panel. “Kirill,” he says and his voice echoes through the warehouse below. “Come on up, m’boy.”
Matt sort of expects a slave with Kirill’s skill-set to be plain. Utilitarian. As he strips off the paint-spattered vest and turns to stand at parade rest, nothing could be further from the truth. Matt’s seen less attractive body-slaves. Even out of combat, Kirill has intense hazel eyes. The slightest sheen of sweat glistens over full lips, high cheekbones. His hair is dark and cropped short but it’ll grow out. His beard is short enough to show his clean jaw-line. He’s angular but not sharp. The thin strip of leather of his collar just accents the graceful stretch of his throat. Matt feels a pang for his poor wallet, but this is the one. He’ll be worth every penny.
“Kirill here is a one-of-a-kind find,” Mr. Black begins as if he could read Matt’s mind. “Conditioned to total loyalty, total obedience. He’ll kill for you, die for you. Most important, he’ll think for you. Strategize your safety, organize your security detail. Perform autonomously if you are ever unable to give him commands. He speaks four languages, has been tested in surviving in urban wastelands and remote wilderness. He can use every sort of modern firearm there is, from a holdout pistol to a sniper-rifle. He can drive, he can fight, he can make sure that wherever you go, you’re the guy walking out alive. Whatever you need him to do, he can do it.”
Matt forces himself to take a slow breath. To not show how perfect Kirill is. How much he wants him. Needs him.
“Can he blend in? Can he not look like--that?”
Mr. Black shrugs. “He could pass as a body-slave of mediocre training, but his performance would suffer. In private? He will let you do what you want, but he hasn’t been trained for pleasure.” The man pauses. “He doesn’t have a provenance of his own, but we have the paperwork and chip of a slave who was never reported as deceased. A young male named Karl, conveniently enough. It should stand up to most security checks, should you decide to travel with him.”
This--Jesus. A “slave” who’s never been through Commerce isn’t a slave at all. “How much?” Matt asks, because he didn’t come this far to walk away without what he needs. Doesn’t have time to start over.
Mr. Black names a price. There are a lot of zeros in it.
One wire transfer later and it’s over. Matt owns his assassin.
I'm posting here to see what people think and where it goes before posting it at the whatwekeep community.
-------------------------------------------------
Matt stands at the observation window, the seller, “Mr. Black” at his side. The warehouse floor below is a maze of ceiling-less walls. In a circle of bright light in an open room in the center, a woman lounges on a velvet-upholstered chaise. She looks like a starlet out of 1930’s Hollywood, her blond hair shaped into elegant waves, her lush curves draped in an ivory evening gown. The prize. A delicate gold chain links her wrist to the leg of her seat.
Matt can see her for the bit of theatre she is. Can appreciate the seller putting a little bit of show into this demonstration, even if he knows that in the end he’s the one who’ll pick up the bill. Even if just getting into this room, getting to see this exhibition has cost him more than a year’s worth of his company’s profits.
Men move through the maze. Fifteen of them broken into smaller units of three to five. Coordinated, smooth, organized. Armed, they sweep and clear the maze.
Another figure moves. Smoother than the others, lightly armored, unarmed. He breaks into one of the small groups. Hits the center man and takes his weapon. Uses the soldier’s body as a shield as the pak pak of the other two’s return fire spatters red in the close corridor. He flings his victim at the soldier on his left and shoots the one on the right with the gun he’s liberated from the corpse. Before the last man can untangle himself from his ally, three rounds have been unloaded into his face and the single man is moving on, a weapon in each hand.
The man Matt’s come to see turns a corner, snaps off shots at another group of opponents and two go down. The rest muster up against him and another group turns towards the sound of conflict. In seconds he’ll be cornered. Matt tries not to get suckered in by the show, by the intensity of the action unfolding below. The show that’s just for him. His heart is pounding though.
Matt watches as the man turns and runs back towards the dead end. Runs and jumps and just feet from the end takes a step off the left wall, bounces off the right one, ricochets his momentum until he’s perched on the four-inch wide top of the god-damn wall.
Then he stands. Then he runs. Jumps the six-foot gaps over the corridors of the maze and rains death down onto his opponents. He only hits the ground again when he’s out of ammo, picking over the fallen and taking fresh weapons.
Only minutes after the “rescuer” hit the maze he’s in the room with the woman posing as his kidnapped mistress. Wary eyes looking for more defenders, for hidden traps.
In the observation booth, Mr. Black presses a button. Matt watches as a small box in the ceiling pops open and a heavy dark grenade drops down. Clatters onto the floor by the woman’s feet. There’s no fear on the man’s face as he drops his weapons. Toes pushing off the floor as he lunges. Sprints. Leaps. Covers the grenade with his body.
There’s no explosion, only a clear pop and red splatters the concrete under the man. He freezes a moment and then looks up. Looks at the woman and even from this distance Matt can tell he’s checking her for the paint-splatters of faux wounds.
There’s not a single drop on her ivory skin.
Dark eyes turn up to the observation window. Waiting for further instruction. Through the maze, the fallen rise. Most of them. Matt thinks it’s those that the subject actually struck as opposed to shooting that get up the slowest or not at all.
Matt looks down at the most illegal thing in America. A slave trained to kill.
Mr. Black pushes a different button on his panel. “Kirill,” he says and his voice echoes through the warehouse below. “Come on up, m’boy.”
Matt sort of expects a slave with Kirill’s skill-set to be plain. Utilitarian. As he strips off the paint-spattered vest and turns to stand at parade rest, nothing could be further from the truth. Matt’s seen less attractive body-slaves. Even out of combat, Kirill has intense hazel eyes. The slightest sheen of sweat glistens over full lips, high cheekbones. His hair is dark and cropped short but it’ll grow out. His beard is short enough to show his clean jaw-line. He’s angular but not sharp. The thin strip of leather of his collar just accents the graceful stretch of his throat. Matt feels a pang for his poor wallet, but this is the one. He’ll be worth every penny.
“Kirill here is a one-of-a-kind find,” Mr. Black begins as if he could read Matt’s mind. “Conditioned to total loyalty, total obedience. He’ll kill for you, die for you. Most important, he’ll think for you. Strategize your safety, organize your security detail. Perform autonomously if you are ever unable to give him commands. He speaks four languages, has been tested in surviving in urban wastelands and remote wilderness. He can use every sort of modern firearm there is, from a holdout pistol to a sniper-rifle. He can drive, he can fight, he can make sure that wherever you go, you’re the guy walking out alive. Whatever you need him to do, he can do it.”
Matt forces himself to take a slow breath. To not show how perfect Kirill is. How much he wants him. Needs him.
“Can he blend in? Can he not look like--that?”
Mr. Black shrugs. “He could pass as a body-slave of mediocre training, but his performance would suffer. In private? He will let you do what you want, but he hasn’t been trained for pleasure.” The man pauses. “He doesn’t have a provenance of his own, but we have the paperwork and chip of a slave who was never reported as deceased. A young male named Karl, conveniently enough. It should stand up to most security checks, should you decide to travel with him.”
This--Jesus. A “slave” who’s never been through Commerce isn’t a slave at all. “How much?” Matt asks, because he didn’t come this far to walk away without what he needs. Doesn’t have time to start over.
Mr. Black names a price. There are a lot of zeros in it.
One wire transfer later and it’s over. Matt owns his assassin.