Something isn't right.

Kurt is only home on sufferance--Carole had all but shoved him out of his father's room when visiting hours had ended and told him to go home. Not that her motherly instincts are off; Kurt hasn't eaten more than an apple and half of a wilting salad from the hospital cafeteria since school lunch the day before, and he'd only eaten that because Mercedes had threatened to shove it down his throat. Nor has he slept more than absolutely necessary to remain on his feet, which is a surprisingly little amount. He's been surviving mostly on coffee, and Carole had obviously known that when she'd told him to leave.

"You need to eat and you need to sleep," she'd said, no room for argument. "You can't help your father if you end up in the bed next to him."

So he'd left. He'd come home to this empty house.

But it doesn't feel empty.

Kurt brushes it aside--exhaustion is just catching up with him, proving Carole right. He'd get something quick from the fridge, if there was anything that hadn't gone bad since he'd last gone shopping (when was that again?), and he'd go ahead and collapse into bed and sleep till he woke up naturally. It was the weekend, after all, and he'd done nothing but homework while waiting for Burt to awaken. He could afford to rest, just this once. He'd be right back to the hospital as soon as he could, and then no one would have a reason to say he couldn't say--

The house isn't empty.

He walks into the kitchen and flicks on the light. Immediately, he's met with the sight of a man.

Instinct has him grabbing for his phone and backing up.

"Who the hell are you?" he asks, his voice trembling. His fingers close around his phone in his pocket just as the man pulls a large knife from the block on the counter.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," the stranger says. "I've got backup in the living room and outside--I only have the say the word and they'll come running. And I'd really hate to lower your price by cutting up your pretty little body."

Kurt freezes, staring. The man is perfectly affable in his words, and it takes a moment for their meaning to sink in, a sliver of ice slowly penetrating his lungs.

Your price.

Slave dealers. Everyone learns early on that slavery is an integral part of their society, and that innocent citizens have nothing to fear from legitimate dealers, and rogue traders are dealt with by the law. But there are always stories, about kidnaps and abductions and disappearances, about men coming into homes at night and taking away people who can't fight back.

And it's happening. It's actually happening to Kurt. It's not a news story, it's not a statistic. It's actually happening to him.

Oh god, he thinks. I can't be remembered as a news story.

He panics, turning around with the intention of bolting, hoping to get away before anyone can catch him. But the man who'd been hiding in the living room is already right behind him, blocking his path.

Arms wrap around him from behind, pinning his arms to his body and lifting him up onto his toes. He rears back and kicks out, landing a heavy boot right in the center of the second man's chest and throwing the man holding him off balance. He wrenches himself out of his grip and darts forward, but the second man, knocked to the floor from Kurt's kick, grabs his ankle as he passes, sending him sprawling. He throws his arms out and catches himself before the floor does any damage and kicks out with his free foot, but the hand around his ankle holds tight. The first man is already recovered and moving forward, putting a large foot right in the middle of Kurt's back, pressing him down into the floor.

"Let's not make this difficult," he says, panting a little. "You aren't going to get away from us. Just come quietly and we won't have to hurt you."

"No," Kurt gasps instinctively, wriggling. The foot pushes down on his spine harder and he winces. It feels like his ribs are bending against the floor. He stills, struggling for breath.

The second man comes forward and brings Kurt's arms behind his back, tying them tightly together with some kind of soft cloth. The foot eases off him and the first man kneels down, pulling a long knife from his boot.

"Now," he says. "We can do this again, and you can behave yourself. You can walk to the van, and get in, and sit quietly with the other boys in the back. You can cooperate until we hand you off, and I'll have no reason to use this to leave little cuts all over that puckered little asshole of yours that will split open when your new master fucks you in. Got it?"

Kurt eyes the knife, images floating through his brain numbly. He nods, staring at his own eyes staring back at him from the thin plane of the polished metal. His pupils are pinpricks, and his eyes look weirdly large in his face. He almost doesn't recognize himself.

"Good," the dealer says. He pulls on the binds on Kurt's wrists, lifting him sharply. He stumbles to his feet and is immediately pushed to the door.

--

The back of the van--the armored kind that Kurt usually sees at banks--is dark. He'd only gotten a glimpse of several dark forms sitting on the floor of the large back compartment before he'd been shoved in, forced to pull his legs back awkwardly as the door slammed on him, bolting heavily and not moving in the slightest when he'd nudged it with his knee, slumping into the corner of the hard metal walls.

"Purchase?" he hears, a faint whisper from his right.

He looks instinctively toward the noise, even though it's almost pitch black and he can't see a thing. The voice is...weird, somehow. And Kurt barely grasps what the question means for a long moment before it clicks in his head.

"Kidnap," he blurts out, his voice shaking horribly. It's then that the van starts moving, and he realizes that it's been him trembling and dizzy since the door shut.

There's a hiss, and suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder. He flinches hard.

"Shh," comes the response. "I'm not going to hurt you. Are you still tied?"

"Yes," Kurt snaps irritably. As far as he's concerned that should've been obvious, whoever this is should've been able to see him getting shoved around and tossed in--

"I'll undo it if you just...let me," the voice says. It definitely belongs to a boy--probably young, around his age, maybe a little older. It's a little deeper than his--though that's not exactly difficult. And it's definitely not an American accent. Whoever it is, they sound British.

"Okay," Kurt says, shifting so that he's half on his side, his back to the voice, his wrists held out as far as he can. The hand runs down his arm and then another joins it at the cloth, untying the knot after a minute of fumbling in the dark. As soon as he arms are free and the hands retreat, Kurt sits back down, jolting with a bump in the road, rubbing his wrists.

"Thank you," he says. He leaves it at that--he's shaky and tired, and even though he's uncomfortable, the rocking of the van is soothing him. The voice says nothing more, and neither does anyone else.

Kurt wonders what's going to happen. In the darkness, it's easy to get lost in thought, and his imagination runs away with him--half-hearted plans of escape, visions of what he knows of slavery from television and movies, worries of what will become of him. He gets lost in a scene of himself working in a rich house, cleaning and cooking and serving, and it morphs again into the ways he could get away and back to his father, and before he knows it, he's drifting, half-awake in the rumbling monotony of the van.

--

After an indiscernible amount of time, the van shudders to a halt, rousing Kurt from his stupor. He jerks up and steadies himself against the floor of the van, breathing in sharply as he tries to figure something--anything--out about the situation.

"Easy," the voice from earlier says. "You all right there?"

Kurt blinks away the grittiness from his eyes and sighs.

"As all right as I can be," he says. "How long's it been?"

"Long time," the voice replies. When it doesn't go on, Kurt takes a deep breath. Maybe this person knows more. Maybe they can help.

"I'm Kurt," he offers hesitantly.

"Adam," the voice says. Then, after a tense minute, "Kurt, do you know what's happening here?"

"I'm guessing these guys are dealers," Kurt answers carefully, almost a question.

"Yes, but I mean...do you know where you're being taken? Who it is that...obtained you? And what for?"

"I don't know anything except that I got home tonight--last night--and expected to go to bed early, and instead I'm...here. Wherever this is."

"Adam, just tell him already," a voice says from the far side of the compartment.

There's a shuffle from beside him, and Adam's hand finds his shoulder again. Kurt finds that his eyes are adjusted to the dark, and he can just make out Adam's shape.

"Well, I've got something to tell you, Kurt, and it's bad news, I'm afraid," he says, his voice soft and kind.

"Worse than what's already happened?" Kurt asks.

"Yes," Adam says. "You're now the property of Sebastian Smythe. And every boy in here has been farm-trained to be a bed slave. Chances are, that's what you've been taken for."

The news sinks in, and Kurt suddenly feels like he can't get enough air. The dealer's threat comes back to him, ending with when your new master fucks you in.

Oh, god.

"If we've arrived, and I suspect we have, then we are currently in New York City. We're scheduled to be presented to Mr. Smythe for personal inspection. Generally speaking, that means he's looking for a new slave for himself. Most of the time slaves are sold directly from the farm to whoever comes in to make a purchase. So we've been selected to be presented to the man himself. Since we didn't go back to the farm, you're either going to be handed off to a slave depot when we're all sorted out, or you're going with us to see Mr. Smythe. I'll probably be able to tell you when we stop and we can get some light."

Kurt lets it wash over him, accompanied by a wave of nausea. It almost couldn't be real--it's every horror story he's heard, every nightmare of people walking home alone at night. And he didn't even have to walk to have it happen to him--he's just gone into his house, and there it was. Waiting for him.

He couldn't for the life of him imagine what would happen next. He's absolutely able to imagine what could happen--there are a million possibilities. But the reality is beyond his grasp, and he feels like he's completely helpless.

It's an awful feeling. No matter how hurt he's been in the past, no matter how bullies treated him, no matter how ignorant and careless his teachers were, no matter how many sneers he'd gotten from people everywhere he went, he'd always felt a measure of control. He could be himself, he could stand tall and let it all bounce off of him. But now, his armor is useless--he can't just stand up and ignore this.

The door unbolts and opens. Kurt shuts his eyes against the sudden blast of light, but adjust quickly--it's dim enough, as they appear to be in a parking garage. Four big men, including Kurt's two captors from the night before, stand outside. One of them holds a big pile of chains.

"One at a time," the leader says, the one that Kurt had seen first. "Come on."

The boy across from Kurt slides to the edge and hops down, standing with his arms forward. One dealer takes a set of chains from the pile and fixes his wrist into cuffs before adjusting the chain and locking his ankles in, too, hobbling him. When he's done, another boy jumps out, and when he's done that dealer pulls both boys aside and allows another to start chaining up the next boy. It continues until Kurt and Adam are the only ones left.

"Go ahead," Adam encourages. Now that Kurt can see him, he feels just a little better--Adam is good-looking, blonde and with a strong face. His smile is nice, though, and he offers it to Kurt as he slides to the door and jumps down.

"Hands out," the leader says, holding up chains for Kurt. He does as he's told, eyeing the boot that holds the knife from the night before. In a quick minute, he's chained up, his chains rattling with the quiver of fear constantly rolling down his body, making his limbs feels heavy and unwieldy in a way the chains can't even accomplish.

He's pushed just to the side as Adam jumps down and allows himself to be chained up as well, and then each dealer grabs the chains of the two boys in their charge and starts guiding them to a large service elevator in the wall nearby.

They go in silence, into the elevator, up a distance, and then out into the hallway of what seems to be a cheap hotel. The leader produces a keycard and opens a door at the end of the hall, confusing Kurt for only a moment when he also has to slide back a deadbolt as well. It opens, revealing a large room with a row of narrow beds along one wall, sharp white sheets covering each of them. They're the only furnishings--the tan walls are bare except for a door across from the beds, and the floor is bare wood. The boys are herded in, and then the leaders goes to each, unlocking them from the shackles, which another dealer picks up as they fall.

"You will stay in here for the rest of today and tonight," the leader announces. "You'll be fed. There's a shower in the bathroom--damn well use it. If anyone here is harmed or marked or if there's any inappropriate activity, we will be holding the rest of you responsible. Tomorrow morning, you'll be interviewed and inspected, and tomorrow night you'll be presented to Mr. Smythe. Behave yourselves, or you'll regret it. There will be a man on the door at all times."

With that, the men file out, the sound of the deadbolt sliding back lost to the noise the boys start making, chattering and complaining about the trip as they start moving through the room, removing their shoes and stretching out. Kurt shivers--it's cold in here, and he feels dirty and scared and lonely. He sits on the bed and starts removing his shoes, almost jumping away when Adam sits next to him and does the same.

"You should use the shower," Adam says. "Go on. The rest of us will wait until tonight--we were inspected before we got picked up. Wash up well--you'll be punished if you aren't clean. I'm sure they'll give us some food by the time you get out."

Kurt looks to the bathroom. The door is wide open, and one of the boys is using the toilet openly. He finishes and washes his hands as another boy goes in.

"Go ahead," Adam urges. "They won't bother you. Get a turn yourself--you probably need it. We all do."

It's true. Kurt's bladder is hurting with how badly he needs to relieve it, not having done so since he left the hospital. That's probably well over twelve hours ago. He gets in line and relieves himself, and then glances around nervously before stepping into the shower fully clothed, nervously taking off his clothes and folding them behind the curtain before slipping them outside onto the floor beneath the towel rack.

The water is warm, though, and Kurt lets it wash over him. The soap is good, unscented but great quality, and getting clean does help. His muscles relax, and he lets his body take over, his mind going mercifully blank as he goes through the motions.

When he's done, his clothes are missing, and a pair of plain black sweatpants, a black t-shirt, and plain white socks are in their place--the same thing the other boys were wearing. He dries and dresses, thankful that the door's been shut.

He looks in the mirror, studying his face. He's got a zit starting on one side of his chin. He looks pasty, his hair is limp. He's still got baby fat in his cheeks, though thankfully his jaw has recently begun to make itself known. He still isn't fond of his nose and he has to fight against developing pudge. And despite all this, a slave dealer decided he was going to be sold for sex. He knows not every slave is good enough for that--they're a select group. And he's one of them--apparently beautiful enough to be stolen from his home to become one.

He's always wanted to be better-looking. Little things--he's not unhappy with how he looks, but it's a process, and it requires work, accessories and outfits and creams and regimens and workouts. Now, it all just makes him feel faintly ill.

He turns away from the mirror and tries not to think about it. One step at a time.

Back in the room, The boys are eating from plastic trays. Nothing special--some kind of sandwich, probably turkey, with some lettuce and tomato on plain bread. There's a cup of some vegetable soup on the side, and bottled water. That's it, but Kurt's famished and he sees an untouched tray on that first bed, beside where Adam sits, taking a bite of his own food.

"Feel better?" he asks. Kurt nods, and sits, grabbing the tray and eating. His stomach stops protesting and the food tastes good. Adam continues his own meal beside him, and the silence is only a little awkward.

When the food is done, Kurt stacks his tray where the other boys left theirs by the door. He returns to the bed with a yawn--he'd only dozed in the van, and it had been a long trip.

"Tired?" Adam asks. Kurt shrugs, and Adam half-smiles. "It's tough, I'm sure, being here when you aren't used to it. But it's not that bad."

Kurt wants to snap at him--how can it not be bad? But at that moment, the boys start pushing the beds, shoving them against each other, all side by side. The frames are out of the way enough for the mattresses to touch, and it basically makes one long bed.

"You can keep yours separate if you want," Adam says, jumping up to help, helping shove all but the last bed into the line. "But it's warmer to sleep near someone else. These shits are about as useful as paper for keeping in the heat. Be better to set them on fire."

"So you're all just going to...pile up?" Kurt asks incredulously. In his experience, normal, probably-straight guys don't just cuddle.

Adam laughs lightly.

"Not really," he says. "We're just closer together. I'm sure some of us will press up, but either way. Nice to be close to someone sometimes."

Kurt bites his lip and considers. Adam lays casually on the bed next to his, and if Kurt pushes his bed in, he'll be next to someone who's at least spoken to him and been kind. He's not sure he's ready to snuggle up to him, no matter how cold it is, but...body heat. It makes sense. And if he's going to have to adjust to--

No. Don't think about it. Thinking about it won't help. One step at a time.

It will help. Body heat. That's it.

He moves to the edge of his bed and nudges it over with his legs. It's light enough to go easily, and in a second it's pressed against Adam's. Adam smiles at him, patting it.

"It's comfortable enough," he says. Kurt lays down gingerly, slipping under his covers and laying back. It is comfortable, sure enough, and he feels drained. He really could use some sleep.

But he's not sure he can, with everything on his mind, and he doesn't want to succumb to the press of his situation. He can't start thinking yet--he's not ready to let it all happen in his head. He turns to Adam, who's slipping underneath his own covers.

"How come you have a British accent?" Kurt ends up asking, blurting out the first that came to mind. He blushes at how stupid it sounds to his own ears, but Adam just looks over and smiles again.

"I wasn't born on the Lima farm," he explains. "I wasn't born on a farm at all, actually. I was born in Wales. Poor family, lots of siblings. My father lost his job, so he called up a dealer. One day a man came and took me and two of my sisters, and when my mother tried to stop him he took her, too. We were taken to a farm overnight, and the dealer, who was American, put us on the plane with him and a couple other slaves, and off we went. I was picked as a bed slave at the Lima farm, and sent to training. My mother worked as a breeder, and...not sure about my sisters. I didn't have contact once training started."

"How old were you when you were sold?" Kurt asks.

"Six," Adam answers. "Not that unusual where I was from--people got sold all the time. Quick money. One man from my town kept bringing back new wives from the city every few years. He'd get a girl pregnant, marry her, and then when she had the baby he'd sell them both. Made quite a bit of money like that, till one day one of his wives sold him."

Kurt can't help but laugh, and Adam seems pleased at it. The kindness, and the fact that Adam was obviously trying to cheer Kurt up and make light of something so horrifying...it hits Kurt very hard in that moment. Suddenly, his face crumples, his eyes burning as tears begin to leak from his eyes.

"Oh, Kurt," Adam says, laying his hand on one of Kurt's.

That simple gesture does it. Kurt starts sobbing, hiding his face behind his free hand, letting Adam hold the other one as he breaks down. His life is over--he can't go back to school, he won't go to college, he won't go to Broadway, he won't have his own fashion line, he won't meet the man of his dreams, he won't see his family ever again, he'll never even know if his father is alive or not--

"It'll be okay," Adam says, patting his hand. Kurt can't handle that lie--he rolls away, pulling his hand from Adam's and pulling the cover over his head. He can't stop crying, the grief washing over him. He can't face it now--but he can hide, and Adam's words can't let him do that. They only serve to remind him where he is. So he turns away.

Adam lets him, not saying a word once Kurt pulls away. Kurt's grateful for it, and he's grateful when, after a long while, the lights shut off in the main room, only the light from the bathroom shining out. He cries himself to sleep, scared and alone, only a little bit warmer for the body behind him.