Chapter Text
A sharp pain flared in Tony’s side when he collided hard with the floor. His head began to throb again - being thrown down on a cold stone floor didn't really help with all the injuries he still had, seeing as some of them were inflicted upon him mere hours ago - and the cage door behind him was closed with an audible click.
Tony didn't bother trying to get up. The first time, yes, then he still tried to appear like a human, snapped at his captors, hurled threats in their uncaring faces.
Now, seven owners later, he just didn't bother anymore. The plain fact that he was here again - and he knew for a fact that the guards did remember him; the boot on his bare foot was a good indicator that they still hadn't forgiven him for ramming his knee in the groin of one of their colleagues - and that only three weeks after he was sold the last time was as good a reminder that he still wasn't completely broken.
Though sometimes he wasn't sure anymore why he still fought. He wasn't sure how much time exactly had passed by since that evening in the alley, where he had let himself - drunk after watching Pepper move her things out of their ... his? ... tower - get captured, but there was no doubt in his mind that, when SHIELD and the Avengers couldn't find him until now - and it had to have been at least five months - that there wouldn't be a rescue. He would, as one of the guards had so nicely pointed out on his first visit, remain a slave for the rest of his natural life.
Which could be much shorter than he ever anticipated, bad liver and hero stuff and all. At least he didn't have to worry about liver failure anymore, he thought with a bitter smile. Since they had taken him he had had nothing stronger than water - his owners liked to make him watch them drink good scotch and fine whiskey, and then send him away to his water bowl.
He was torn about their attitude. On one hand, they all seemed to thrive on the fact that they had Tony Stark, superhero, playboy, billionaire, giant pain in everyone’s ass, on his knees before them. On the other hand ... when they punished him, when they in the end understood that he was unwilling to let himself be broken to their wishes, they still did know that he was much more worth as Tony Stark than as some nameless guy, and so they never beat him up so much that he was unrecognizable. Not that that didn't mean they couldn't put him in enough pain to wish for it to stop. For him to .... sometimes ... consider giving up, giving in, doing anything to make it stop.
But he never did, never would. He was Tony Stark, even if his pride was all that remained from that.
?¿
It took some minutes before he rolled on his back, pushed himself in a sitting position. Nothing had changed since his last visit: six cages on this side of the room, six on the other. There were several rooms in the cellar, then the auction hall in the floor above it, and then three floors above that. He had only ever been allowed in the upper levels once, and he had encouraged the Mistress to never consider taking him again.
The thought made him wince. All to well he now knew how this game played out: someone would come in, or there would be the auction they held every month, and then someone would buy him, believing he could be broken. Then days of humiliations would follow, forced to crawl on his knees, drink water and eat dishes he wouldn't even give his dog had he ever owned one. Then, when he still hadn't given in - or sometimes even before that; some of his owners seemed to delude themselves that being a playboy meant forced sex could be counted as a reward - the rape would follow. Around that time he usually snapped out, didn't bother anymore what they did to his body, until the real torture began.
In his mind he found himself thanking Natasha again and again for forcing him through lessons about being kidnapped. He had always thought he would rather die than let that happen to himself again - had sworn on it! - but now he knew that dying would be giving up even more than obeying their wishes, and he never would grant them that kind of victory.
He was Tony Stark, and losing was not on his agenda.
A low hiss drew his attention to his cell neighbor.
A woman, he recognized. And a beautiful one at that - long blond hair, high cheekbones, big blue eyes - exactly the kind he used to pick up at parties. She had a long red slash across her cheek, but he could see in her eyes that it was probably not inflicted in anger, or at least not earned due to misbehavior. She was a broken girl, had submitted to her destiny a long time ago, and found the fragile peace that could bring her mind.
Seeing that she had his attention she smiled warily. "Kat.", she said and Tony wondered which name she truly bore that got butchered to this pet-name.
"Anthony.", he answered, the once hated name now a proud reminder of what he truly was, for none of his owners had ever used it.
Confusion clouded her features, then she ducked against the other side of the cage. There was shuffling in the other cages as well, and he couldn't blame them. He knew all to well how easy it was to catch the attention of a guard who was punishing another slave. And a slave calling himself such a proud name was always trouble.
Snorting a little bit he carefully straightened his limbs. He was still sore after the beating he had received earlier the day - a parting gift after throwing her breakfast at the party-princess that dared to try own him. Her security chief had been thorough, and in the end it didn't matter if there were some bruises more or less on his body. The owner of this fine establishment already knew him - had expected him back, Tony suspected - and she knew what she had to do to keep him relatively healthy and quiet both.
As did Tony. The next days would be a brief time to heal, then the whole thing would begin again.
Laying down carefully on the wall side of his prison - as much in the middle as he could manage so as not to appear as if he was close to one of the slaves in the cages beside his - he cursed under his breath about the lack of sheets. It wasn't cold, but he would never get used to sleeping naked in an unfriendly environment. But he would manage, and he would survive and hold his eyes open for any opportunity to flee.
It was no comforting thought, but it brought a grim smile to his lips and in the end he did sleep, thinking about the revenge he would inflict upon the people which thought to own him.
?¿
It was some days later when the door to the room was pushed open and the stranger stepped in.
Inside the building there weren't many ways to notice what time had passed by, but then they weren't kept in all day. At least the mistress - no-one seemed to know her name, not even the customers - knew that they were important goods and kept them in good shape: two meals a day which, while being cooked to a ugly looking paste, contained vegetables and grain, sometimes even eggs and milk. Also they were allowed half an hours walk in the enclosed yard - six slaves at a time, so there couldn't be more then maybe twelve rooms all in all - to prevent the muscles from complete degeneration. And not to forget the cold shower they were subjected to every time they returned into the building.
So Tony was relatively sure that he hadn't been here for more than six days - and the state his now yellow and purple bruises were in confirmed that - when his live changed again. Not that he would have known from the arrival of the man; there had been several strangers over the last days and the girl from beside him and a young man from across the room were taken, just to be replaced by two tired looking women in their late thirties.
As it was common they didn't speak. It wasn't that Tony had ever heard one of the guards forbid speaking under the slaves, which just made him suspicious of methods to listen in on them - not that that would be really surprising; they were just slaves for the guards after all - but there was seldom more than a little whispering under the prisoners, as if they had forgotten how to speak.
In the days, that is. Nights were a whole other matter; they did still not speak to each other but there weren't much who didn't suffer from nightmares, and his very first nights in the Mistress' house he had problems to sleep at all. Now he was just used to it, woke mostly from his own screams to heavy sobbing from the man on his right and his own sore throat.
Sleepily he blinked at the guy that came in flanked by one of the guards and the older man which seemed to be in charge of them when the mistress wasn't around. Not that she often bothered to come down to their level, he thought snorting. She much rather stayed above in her golden little palace, build on the sweat and blood and tears of the slaves she kept here.
The noise, as little as it was, echoed in the now absolutely still room and drew the attention of the stranger. He looked young, twenty, maybe twenty five - much to young to be caught in this filthiness on his own, so he must have been born into it. His green and black colored clothes were expensive - material and cut both - and fitting, complimenting his slender shape and height. Black hair curled over his shoulders, framed a pale, aristocratic looking face. The most interesting about him was the absence of gold and other obvious signs of wealth - that is, until he caught sight of him and asked, in a uncertain, lightly shocked voice: "Stark ...?", like he knew him.
Tony was sure he had never seen this guy in his whole life.