From the market
The full sized pickup truck was at least ten years old and stood alone in the center of a nearly empty parking lot. The passenger door was a slightly different shade of white than the rest of the vehicle, and there was a little dried splattering of mud behind the rear wheels. The cap on the bed was adorn with a ladder rack and opaque windows that matched the coloring of the rest of the vehicle. With the exception of the door the truck actually looked in good shape. "I had a bitch of a time," explained the man as he lead her towards the vehicle, "-trying to find a passenger door for one of these that had a child lock. I didn't want to install a tie-down point like most folks do because I want you to be able to crawl out if we get into an accident. They also don't make my color paint anymore, so..." He shrugged. "I hope soon you can help me put the other door back on." She wasn't sure what to make of the last sentence, but didn't dwell on it as they stopped and he fumbled with his car keys before opening the door. On the passenger seat a pair of large magnetic signs that said "Warmund Electric" in large red letters with a phone number under them. He slapped one on the door and tossed the other to the passenger seat. "Sorry," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I didn't want my business to be associated with a moral-less, despicable industry such as this." Her anger flared again. "Coward." "In deed. And you've only made me feel more the hypocrite for it." He held the door open for her, but she didn't move. She wasn't going to roll over. She wasn't going to play nice just for this towel. She needed to not start down that slippery slope she had set a foot on. She had let him get her out of that hell. Her part of the deal was done. He looked at her, and she glared defiantly back at him. The man reached for the towel and she clamped her elbows as hard as she could, knowing it was in vain. He stopped though, looked at her in thought, and then ducked into the cab of the truck. He quickly stood again, leash still in hand, but the part from her collar still ran straight into the cab. "Get in." He said. "Fuc-" He pulled on the leash. The collar crushed around her neck, sealing her off from air as her head felt like it was about to burst with pressure. Her vision narrowed like she was looking down a long pipe, and she began to feel like she would pass out. It pulled her towards the open door and she quickly followed, throwing herself onto the seat and pulling her feet in. The leash went slack. She gasped for air as the pressure drained from her head, her vision restoring to its full view. She was thankful the "trainers" didn't know about this collar. Holy shit. He leaned over her and fastened her seat belt. She was too busy trying to recover to care, and she wanted to die, not live maimed for life because of a wreck. It wasn't until he climbed in the other door that she looked over and noticed his simple solution to her defiance. Her leash had been looped through the steering wheel. "So," he said as they pulled out of the parking lot. He was relaxed, and said as if nothing had happened. "I've never had fur, so I don't know what you need to keep warm and what would be too hot. You're going to have to tell me what you need." She already knew what she needed. She remembered spending hours outside in the winter, enjoying the wind ruffling her thick fur and snow swirled around her. Her feet had enough fur between her toes that she rarely needed shoes unless it was wet. But telling him anything caused her throat to close. She had refused to give any information about herself for so long; to ask for anything in particular that it was difficult for her to voice what she had been so eager to receive earlier. "Just... I don't want to be naked." "Like a t-shirt and shorts?" She shook her head. They rubbed fur and she didn't need that much. Even that could be too warm, especially here. "Pants and a sweater?" Again, she shook her head no. That would be like walking around in an oven. "Underwear or a bikini?" She nodded. "Can do."
He stopped at a thrift store and locked her leash to the steering wheel before he went in. It was only a few minutes before he came out again with a clearly re-used paper bag. He drove them around back where he let her out and put them on her... from behind. She was both amazed and relieved, but she felt her foot slip a little further. The crack grow a little longer. Respect and captivity, in her mind, never went together. "I'm sorry it's not anything nicer," he said. She didn't care. After the past few... months? Weeks? Had it been a year? Regardless, anything felt like royalty. "-but I don't want to put anything good on you until you've been bathed. I know you have no control over it, but you're filthy and stink of fear and despair." She nodded. It reminded her all to well of how far she had fallen. Well, more like how far she'd been dragged.
The next stop caused her heart to fall somewhere into her feet. The building wasn't very big, but the large sign out front was all it took to nearly crush her. "Slave Registration" stood illuminated in bright red lettering against the evening light. The horror of becoming permanently marked as a slave, forcibly tattooed and microchipped, had already been done upon capture, but that didn't make this much better. If it were anything like those offices in her home country it was where prisoners became permanent property. Where you could no longer live in denial about your new, permanent role in society. The red letters shone like a hot brand that was encroaching in on her last shred of individuality; to burn away the last piece of the proud person she had been before. The sister. The protector. The friend. The mentor. The leader. Now in chains. Terrified that her will was slowly succumbing to mere stupid acts of what a decent person should do without the slightest thought. About to be registered and fitted with that final, securing piece of her bondage; a stainless steel collar with her registration and owner's contact information. He put the truck into park and fished a tape measure out of the backpack which he pulled from behind the seat. She managed to not tremble as he wrapped it around her neck only by freezing in place; locking herself solid in an attempt to conceal the horror, fear, and despair that were approaching critical mass. Then he was gone, walking into the building with the papers Landfill had given him at her purchase, her leash locked to the steering wheel again. She consoled herself by rocking back and forth in her seat. She knew it was going to happen. She knew that... that thing was going to go around her neck, and condemn her to what she had sworn she would never succumb to. She knew she could try and resist, but being restrained as she was she could hardly put up a fight. She didn't know how long it was before he returned. She was still rocking, the turmoil and pain rising as each of his footsteps brought her closer to doom. He wasn't smiling. In fact he looked sad. It reminded her of a person who was about to do something they didn't want to, but knew it was the right thing to do. Like killing a suffering animal because it was dying and you had no way to help it. He opened his door and climbed in. He didn't look at her as he pawed through a folder full of paper. He stopped and pulled out an embossed page; like a certificate. He stared at it as he spoke. "This is the most fucked up thing I think our society has -both of ours. This piece of paper right here. It's a representation of a cruel mentality that is evil in every way, shape, and form: the notion that one person may own another as property and force them against their will." He turned the page towards her and she began shaking. It was the title to her. The deed to her life. He put the paper back in the folder, and then pulled out... pulled out that dooming device. He held the collar in his hand for a moment, looking at it. She couldn't take her eyes off it, horrified and wishing it would be over with already. He looked up at her, catching her gaze as emotional pain hit the critical point somewhere in her chest and rushed upwards. She attempted to clamp down, but tears began streaming down her face. "Please..." she pleaded. "I hate to do this," he said. "I really hope you understand that I have you restrained to protect myself, not keep you from running. And I hope you'll eventually know that I put this on you so that you don't fall into bad hands, not to keep you a prisoner. It's a disgrace to my race that the only way to keep you from becoming a slave to someone cruel is to keep you in bondage to myself." At that point she didn't care. She just didn't want that thing to be around her neck. A piece of paper was just paper. Her tattoo was hidden and her microchip even more so. There was no hiding that collar. And there was no removing it without tools a slave was never allowed to have. He reached forward with it, holding it out to her neck. "No.." she said, shaking her head. She didn't bother thrashing around. She couldn't. She didn't have the energy and she knew it was hopeless. He didn't say anything. She felt the metal encircle her neck. "Please!" She begged. "Don't!" It clicked closed. "I'm sorry," he said. He sounded sad. "I hope to take it off someday soon." Tears still flowed, but his last words ignited the pain into anger. She loved anger. Anger was energy. It was power to sustain her will, and she had learned to thrive off of it. He had suffocated it before, but now he had reignited it. She stewed as they drove away, letting the flames build as she went over the event again and again.
"If I take that thing off you," he said, referring to the muzzle, "are you going to maul me?" Months later she would still wonder why she said that word. It wasn't honesty that drove her to it. She could have justified the other answer by deciding to inflict harm via her mouth in many other ways than a mauling. Like eating. Or biting his throat. Yet the word he needed to hear flowed out of her mouth instead, unintended by her rational mind. "Yes." She growled. "Thank you for your honesty." He stopped at a fast food joint and bought a sandwich and a drink. He ate as they drove, offering several times to poke the straw of his cup through her muzzle for a drink, which she refused. Hours wore on. Her bladder began to beg for mercy, and she was beginning to contemplate between asking permission to urinate, which was close to what they had tried to train her to do, and simply wetting the seat. Luckily he resolved the dilemma for her by pulling off at an exit and towing her into the bathroom with him. It felt so weird to be back in the real world again. It was almost bizarre after all that time in the slave camps, compounded by the fact that she was no longer experiencing it from the perspective of a free person. She had seen human slaves before, back home. She hadn't paid much attention to them then, but her experience now on the human side of the buffer parks, of people ignoring her other than occasional fleeting looks of disgust or pity, made her realize all to clearly that every one of those slaves was a person. He didn't release her wrists, choosing instead to stand in the stall with her and do the undressing, wiping, and redressing of her before using the toilet himself. It was humiliating, but he did it professionally; like a nurse helping the infirm. Then she went back into the cab while he bought fuel. In a blink they were back on the highway. Her repeated reviewing of the evening's events in her mind gradually started earlier and earlier. Soon she began recounting things from when the man had first walked in, and she was beginning to see things that made her pause. He had been angry when he was in the market. She didn't recall the anger being directed at any of the people in cages, but rather anger in general, possibly at Nutless Infection, but only some of it. The anger had vanished when they had walked out, and had been replaced with a calm patience. He had treated her as a person. As prisoner, true, but a person none the less. And he had acted like he wished for her to be at least a little comfortable in her bondage; something nobody else had ever cared about. And he obviously despised slavery. Either he was very good at putting on a show, or his distain for the thing reminded her of some of the extremist protestors that would hold signs in front of the market places back home. Why on earth, then, would he purchase a slave? Curiosity perked at this, but worry did too. Sinister things often started off as simply "strange". The muzzle had been steadily gripping her tighter and tighter. Despite it remaining only as constrictive as it used to be, it felt as if it were slowly closing her mouth more and more, threatening to seal it shut as the harness over her head welded it closer down her face with every second. She fought with the panic for over an hour before she swallowed her pride. "Can you please... take off the muzzle?" "Are you going to bite the fuck out of me?" "No." She had intended the word as a lie. A word to get the restraint off now and to go against later, but as it left her mouth she felt bound by the two letter word in its entirety. She cursed her parents for engraining honesty so deeply in their children. He pulled over. She felt him fiddle with the harness behind her head and a key before the straps suddenly came loose. He slide it off of her snout and set it on the seat between them. He didn't say anything, simply pulling back onto the highway. She opened her mouth all the way, surprised when it turned into a yawn. It was such a relief to feel her face free again. "Thank-you." She muttered. "And thank you," he replied. "I hate that fucking thing. I can't imagine how you feel about it." A silent, bitter laugh escaped on her breath. She hoped he hadn't heard it.
An hour later found them pulled into a rest area. He had thumped around in the back for a few minutes before returning and opening her door, leading her to the back. There was a sheet of plywood with a half-inch thick slab of foam on top laid out in the back. Two battered, dirty pillows lay closest to the cab, along with a couple of old blankets bunched up along one side. The whole area was illuminated by a dim light mounted to the top of the cap. Cool air swept by them as he motioned to the set-up. "Welcome to the Stig Five Star Hotel." She almost smiled. "Do you need help?" She moved her foot as high as her hobble with let her. It was far more than she had been able to since she had been free, but it wasn't enough. "Yes." She turned around and he gently seated her on the open tailgate. She scooted backwards on the foam using her elbows and knees as much as she could. She had a lot of practice. He climbed in after her, closing the tailgate and the cap door. He cracked open the windows slightly. She tried to move the pillow into place with her face when he took it and mushed it. She lifted her head as he set it under her. "Want a blanket?" "No," she said. "Are you sure? It's getting cool tonight." "I have fur." "Ok." He made himself comfortable, covering himself with a blanket before reaching up and turning out the light. "Are you going to be able to sleep bound like that? I can change it-" "Yes. I have a lot of practice." She didn't want him touching her. There was a sigh. "I am very sorry to hear that." She paused. "Me too." She stared into the darkness waiting for fatigue, quickly settling in on her from the day's events, to take her to sleep. It was nice not listening to the others cry, cough, snore, and scream from nightmares. She was feeling drowsy when his voice broke the quiet of the fall night. "Still awake?" he whispered. "Yes." She muttered. "What is your name?" Anger flared in her. What did names mean anymore? And what right did he have to that part of her life. "I go by bitch or girl," she bit back. "But some call me by my number. I'm a slave. It's whatever you want it to be, motherfucker. Anything before training is gone. You know that." As before he was unfazed. "What is your real name?" "What right do you have to that part of my life?" She snapped. "You have my body, my present and my future. You will not take my past from me too." She waited for some comment about 'owning all of her' or the like, but it didn't come. "Your parents gave you that name for a reason," he said, "and they deserve for it to be honored. You do too." She was silent for a moment as his words soaked into her. "Gunda." She said. "Gunda what?" "Gunda Karel." "Very nice. A free warrior." "The world loves to mock." "Hardly," he said. "I seem to recall you being the only one unbroken in that pitiful group. You're free in the mind, which is the only place someone can't force you, and you don't stop fighting even when there is no hope. If that's not a free warrior then I don't know what is." She was silent for a few minutes. There in the dark, if it weren't for the restraints on her wrists and ankles she would feel like she were lying with an acquaintance rather than as slave and her owner. He spoke frank and level, completely unlike anything they had taught her to expect in 'training'. "What is your name?" She asked, narrowly omitting 'sir' from the end of it. "Sergent Stig Warmund," he replied. "Most people call me Serge. Feel free to as well." She racked her memory for a moment. "What does that mean?" "Sergent means one who serves, Stig is a wanderer, and Warmund is a loyal protector." She gave a short, mocking laugh. "Now THAT is ironic." There wasn't a bit of humor in his voice. "Indeed. Indeed it is." His seriousness reminded her of her own commitment to avoid the slippery slope. He was her owner, she reminded herself, and if she wasn't careful he would become her master too. She rolled away from him, onto her side. His breathing eventually deepened and she let sleep take her as well.
She awoke shivering. It was still dark outside, but she felt the cold air drifting in from the cracked window above her. She felt the draft on her nose, the rest of her body loosing heat while the fur prevented her from sensing the creeping air. It wasn't even that cold, so why was she freezing her tail off? It had always been hot in the crowded cages and pens in the slave buildings; air this cool should be comfortable, not freezing. She curled up, pinning her elbows to her ribs... Oh God! Her ribs! She could feel her boney chest, her thin elbows and her atrophied legs. Her fingers felt through the fur on her thighs, and she was horrified when she found how thin it had become. Malnourishment, stress, and the inability to move for months had take a severe toll on her. Her once powerful body, her once thick, protective coat both ruined. Wrecked from their once great form to the sickly mockery that she now was. Beyond a line you would never come back to your full self; had she crossed that mark? Her wrists and ankles were so chaffed and scared from shackles she doubted they would ever be the same. Could she recover the rest of her, or was she condemned to never see her former health again? Would Serge allow her what she needed to restore her body? What if he wanted her to remain weak? God, she hated being dependent on someone for her very necessities and health. Her shivering grew more violent. She wasn't going to give in to it though. Her intolerance to such insignificant cold was due at least in part to becoming acclimated to the hot climate of the slave facilities. She would punish her body back into the strength she had once possessed; exercise when she could, and whatever other hardship she needed to shed this weakness they had forced on her. Pain was how she overcame weakness in becoming who she was before her capture, and it would serve her again. If this was how she had to overcome her vulnerability to the cold then she was going to do it. If it killed her then so be it. She was a good person! If life was going to play a cruel game with her then she simply wouldn't play. Her teeth started chattering and she tried to curl tighter, clenching her jaw. If her body thought she was going to do anything about it, especially to beg it from- There was a rush of movement behind her. A sturdy arm wrapped around her middle and pulled her back into a warm body. The pillow was stuffed under her head again and a thick blanket was thrown over her. She heard Serge plop back down, his back feeling like a furnace to her own. "For fuck's sake," he grumbled, "don't kill yourself before I get a chance to put you back together. Ask. It's what I'm here for." Another crack shot through the dam, and she hoped her shivering disguised the shaking on her breath as she fought to keep the pillow dry. She never, in all her life, thought that kindness would feel like a sledgehammer.