daredevilkink | Daredevil Prompt Post #8

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Daredevil Prompt Post #8

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HEAD OVER TO PROMPT POST #9.

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Marvel Comics | Jessica Jones

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Talking Trouble blinked, still on his knees on the carpet. He slowly lowered his hands submissively to the floor, palms up, fingers deliberately relaxed, and said, "I'm not sure what it is you want to know, master?"

Fuck. Frank decided to reorient himself as if this were a mission, and instead said, "Who enslaved you?"

A pause. Then, with the air of someone who very much did not want to talk about it, "Do you mean the intake officer at the government office, master, or the guardian who first signed me over?"

That raised way more questions. "Intake officer? Government office? The US government in your shithole universe runs the trafficking ring?"

Talking Trouble looked more confused than before. "I'm not aware of any trafficking rings running out of the United States Government, master, I apologize--"

Frank's eyebrows raised, and then a suspicion arose. "How did you get sold into slavery? The process, not just the people."

Talking Trouble's face goes briefly pained and then smooths out into complete calm, and he recites like he's practiced, "My guardian--Stick--took me to the government intake office and signed me into slavery. Then the intake officer started the initial examination, and upon finding my blindness transferred me to the defectives unit of the bureau's branch in New York--"

This sounded way, way more official and bigger than any trafficking ring. "The government is involved is this. You being enslaved is legal in your universe?"

"I--yes, of course, master, I'm not a captive or anything of that sort, I'm a slave, class M--"

"Explain what that means. Detailed."

Talking Trouble looks like he's swallowed a lemon when he says, "Class M slaves are unable to be freed in any capacity for any reason in any circumstance due to the potential threat to society they pose if freed. According to the Constitution--sorry, master, I don't recall the number of the amendment, please punish me as you see fit."

Frank shakes his head, forces himself to just go after the intel. "Keep going. It's fine."

"Thank you, master," and Talking Trouble bends further to the floor and tries to reach out more to kiss Frank's hand, and Frank goes still. Apparently recognizing the slow burning something in Frank's gut, he quickly goes on, "According to an amendment of the Constitution, put into practice immediately following the conclusion of the Civil War, slavery became legal only when a human is enslaved based on the punishment of a crime, the rights of guardians to surrender their children into slavery, the payment of a debt, or the dependency of the human being such that they could only survive in slavery," and here his voice sounds like even he can't quite believe the last point, "And while many other classes of slaves can be freed, depending on various legal processes and practical circumstances, class-M slaves are such that they have performed any single violent act as slaves and thus cannot be trusted with free will as free people."

Frank breathes in and out, something icy in his gut, growing. "What qualifies you as that?"

"The slaves which qualify as class-M are those with any work in butchery, slaughtering animals, executing runaway slaves, performing overseer duty and thus using physical violence to punish fellow slaves, bodyguarding and thus being able to use retaliatory or preventative physical violence, any contact sport such as mixed martial arts, any form of interrogation or killing work and/or experience in any military or private army, and any knowledge of any form of self-defense. I was immediately placed into class M when sold due to the fact that Stick attempted to teach me forms of martial arts as well as some bodyguarding work, master."

Frank zeroes in on that. "How old were you?"

Talking Trouble, eyes lowered, says "Eleven and eleven months, master."

Twelve. Frank feels a faint static in his muscles, an itch. He ignores it, gathers more intel.

"So let me see if I understand you correctly," he says. "Your world has legalized, socially acceptable slavery in the US, where parents can sell their kids, criminals can get sold, people can be seized to pay debts and sold, and people with disabilities or something can be sold. And if they have any 'experience' with basic things, if they butcher a single chicken, they can't be free. Ever."

"Yes, master," Talking Trouble says. Frank hears nothing but a very quiet scream for a minute, and then the sound of the shitty air conditioner and heating comes back, the hum of the minifridge, the way Talking Trouble's collar--and he's wearing a fucking leather collar, fuck--hangs around his throat, brushes just slightly against the too-big T-shirt.

Frank makes himself look at the T-shirt, and sees the logo 'PROPERTY OF AMEX AGENCIES' across the front. It's not a joke like those 'property of Harvard' shirts.

Something inside of him clicks into place like a safety, and he knows, he just knows that if he ever gets a chance, he's going to go into that world and kill every single slave-owner, everyone in the US government too, every 'intake officer', every parent that has ever sold one of their kids, starting with this Stick.

It doesn't even feel like rage, it feels like cold, something inexorable and unstoppable. It's a force inside of him, a wind whistling in his ears.

That's when the six mooks start shooting.

Frank's fucking pissed, first of all, that he managed to get so focused and distracted that he completely missed six assholes being right outside his door and carrying guns.

Second of all, he's calculating as fast he can how to help Talking Trouble, so he grabs him and in a flash he thinks they're both dragged behind the bed, except that he can't see Talking Trouble anywhere.

The first of the six walks in, sneering, saying something like Come out come out wherever you are and before Frank can fire through the bed at him, there's a blur of movement, a crash and then a scream as an arm shoots out and drags him into the bathroom.

Then what happens next is very, very strange--the second one gets thrown forward, Frank shoots him through the head as the third one also disappears in the bathroom, the fourth one runs in and Frank gets his legs and then his chest, Talking Trouble steps right behind the fifth one and slices his throat with something shiny, and the sixth one tries to run but Talking Trouble grabs him by the beltloops and in one smooth motion throws him into the room and shuts the door on them.

Frank walks over to the sixth one, gun aimed, as Talking Trouble comes over as well, head cocked. Frank sees the bathroom out of the corner of his eye and stomps on the sixth one's wrists, breaking them, and then Talking Trouble crouches down and holds a knife--taken off one of the mooks, no doubt--to the sixth one's throat.

"Keep it there. He moves, cut it," Frank says before he can consciously decide to. Talking Trouble seems competent enough.

He goes to look at the bathroom, and sees that Talking Trouble must have smashed the second one's head into the mirror, then cut his throat on a mirror shard. The third one's neck is broken cleanly, and the esophagus looks crushed too.

He looks down at the dead bodies, and then Frank looks at Talking Trouble, crouching obediently still, knife to the sixth guy's throat. Not a single hair is out of place. He's not got a drop of blood on him.

Goddamn, Talking Trouble is good. Frank ignores how much he likes that--it's difficult, he keeps having to punish idiots who don't understand how to fight--and walks over to the sixth one.

He stares at the asshole, stone-faced.

"Look," the mook starts begging. "I only came here to collect. I don't have no beef with you. We just want the bitch. That's all. I work for anyone, they told me, we got a pretty bitch that's gone and gotten stolen, come and get it back. I got my boys together. We didn't know it was gonna be with you, I swear to god. Maybe we can work something out? I pretend the bitch is dead, you cut off some of its fingers, I take em back?"

Frank doesn't bother to talk to the soon-to-be-dead man. Instead he asks Talking Trouble, "Would you like me to cut off your fingers so this little coward can go back and get paid?"

Talking Trouble, whose face had been relaxed during the whole babbling, says softly, "No, master, I like my fingers where they are."

"Wrapped around a knife?"

"That too, master," he murmurs.

"Hrm," Frank says, turning to the mook, then raises his gun and tells Talking Trouble, "Move backwards out of the way of blood splatter, don't get any HIV infections."

Who knows how alternate universes' diseases are different.

Talking Trouble gracefully gets behind Frank and sidesteps the dead bodies, like Trouble compensated for his blindness too. One toe sounds wrong.

Frank focuses more on the mook, and starts to interrogate him. It's quick and easy and the guy only tries to lie once, during which point Talking Trouble murmurs, "Master, he's lying, I can hear his heartbeat," which, holy fuck is useful.

Frank then shoots the guy when he's done with him, double-taps him and all the other corpses, grabs his go-bag, leaves behind the cooling and blood-splattered food, and they hightail it out of there.

"Kid, let's get some food," he says, and Talking Trouble doesn't perk up quite as much but does smile a small amount.

They get five blocks from the motel and start taking semi-random turns until they get that one place with fried chicken everything, where Frank gets them both three sandwiches, each a thing of fries, and a large coke for him, icewater for Talking Trouble. If he's anything like regular Trouble, he gets sugar-high, and Frank doesn't want to deal with that with this poor crazy bastard.

Frank thinks over what to do next as he gets to a safehouse, changing routes frequently. He can't leave Talking Trouble with the Avengers. God only knew what they would do with someone like him. Probably throw him in jail for defending himself against those guys in the motel, and Frank knew that people as conditioned to be submissive as Talking Trouble ended up dead in jail fast.

He sighed to himself, got to the safehouse, and got them both inside fast. Then he put the food on the kitchen table, sat down, and ate quickly.

Talking Trouble hadn't touched the food and was sitting up on his knees next to the table, looking expectant.

Frank resisted the urge to scream, and said instead, "Why don't you eat up, kid, you look hungry."

Talking Trouble smiled and fluidly reached over for the food Frank had piled at his place, said, "Thank you, master," and started to eat in some strange way; Frank stared at him, trying to decode it. He took very small bites and chewed with his mouth shut, eating almost silently, and licking his fingers ostentatiously after every six bites.

Frank realized he was trying to be seductive and almost recoiled in horror. He absolutely would never fuck somebody as completely and utterly brainwashed as Talking Trouble, someone who could never, ever do anything but perform whatever he thought Frank wanted. The idea made him lose his appetite.

Instead he started cleaning his gun and the knife, and after Talking Trouble had eaten (which was surprisingly quick for such a performative, deliberate eater) and drunk everything, looking annoyed at the grease, he said, "Is there anything I can help you with, master?"

Frank took ahold of his temper again and said, "Tell me about this Stick guy more, I need to see if he exists in this world too, and how to find him if he ever comes to New York. And then later we'll get some surveillance done on those assholes who sent someone after T--the other version of you in this world."

Talking Trouble nodded, and gave him a very detailed description. Not a whole lot of what Stick looked like, but that was kind of to be expected, with a blind guy.

Then after that they went out again--Frank wasn't leaving behind Talking Trouble at a potentially compromised safehouse now that he knew Szarek's sending guys after him.

And that's when the Avengers show up.

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Daredevil Prompt Post #8

Minifill, Why Frank didn't kill Opposite, pt 2

Minifill, Why Frank didn't kill Opposite, pt 3

Minifill, Why Frank didn't kill Opposite, pt 4/4