Kurt woke up earlier with a headache, and even now, sitting in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, it hasn't gone away.

After waking and, unable to stomach more, nibbling at toast for breakfast, Kurt had waited anxiously until the dealer had shown up and informed them it was time for inspections. They'd lined up, with Kurt following Adam at the tail of the line, unshackled, and followed him out.

There was definitely no way to escape on the way up. Kurt doesn't know his way around, and there were men visibly stationed around, eyes focused on them as they walked past down the hall and up a set of stairs. It fills him with disappointment and hopelessness, and he almost feels like he could start crying again any minute.

This isn't how his life was supposed to go. He shouldn't have been there, walking along like he was going willingly to his own execution, like he was a lemming just waiting for his turn to jump off the cliff. He's never been a follower--but here he is now, at the end of the line, cowed and made to obey and sitting down, waiting his turn. It's sickening.

They'd been ushered into a small room with chairs along two of the walls, and it's where Kurt sits now. It looks remarkably like a doctor's waiting room, with the single door opposite the one they enter through and a clipboard hanging on the wall next to it. The dealer grabs the clipboard, pushing a button on a speaker next to the door, which buzzes loudly.

"We're ready," he says. "Eight for you."

The feed crackles back, and a female voice says, "Send in the first two."

The dealer nods to the two nearest the door, the boys from the head of the line, and they rise, heading through the door when it buzzes and the dealer opens it for them, taking a paper from him when he holds it out, taken from the clipboard. It shuts behind them, and the dealer flips through the paperwork and shuffles them around before he turns to the next boys in line.

"Yours," he says shortly, handing out another set of papers. They take theirs, and then the next two, and then finally the dealer ends up before him and Adam. He hands a paper to Adam, and then smiles down at the one he has left, tossing the clipboard and its remaining papers on the chair next to Kurt.

"And yours," he says, staring down at Kurt and handing over the paper. Kurt reaches out to grab it, his fingers closing around the edge, but the dealer holds tight when he tries to take it. Kurt hangs on, waiting. "Look over the spaces on the form. Be prepared to have them filled out when you get inside."

Kurt nods, uncomfortable at the smirk the dealer gives his way before turning and heading to sit down near the entry door. The paper is finally in his hands only, and he turns and looks it over, grimacing at the questions.

How many sexual partners has the subject had? At what age did he/she/zie first experience sexual contact?

On average, how often does the subject masturbate? At what age did he/she/zie start?

Does the subject have any tattoos/piercings/markings that are unsafe to remove?

Has the subject ever contracted a contagious illness that could be passed on via sexual contact?

Are there any instances of sexual trauma or abuse in the subject's experience? Please describe in detail.

Does the subject have any scars or disfigurations that prevent sexual contact and/or arousal?

There are other questions, too--the kind he'd expect at any doctor's office, like his family history and any medications he's been on, surgeries, etc. But those, among others, make him squirm in his seat, the reality of his situation seeping further into his skin. It feels like an itch that's slowly burning into pain, and he's not sure what's worse--not knowing exactly what's waiting for him, or having it revealed to him like this--what else could they need that information for--

The first two boys return while he's looking over the questions, and the next pair leave and return by the time he's finished. When the third pair leaves, the last one before him and Adam, he starts feeling shaky, his leg bouncing and his hands fidgeting where they sit on his lap, the paper shaking in the hand that holds it.

"You'll be okay," Adam whispers. "They're just going to check you over. Just like a doctor, I imagine."

The words don't reassure Kurt much, but he doesn't have much time to think up a response anyway--the door opens, and he and Adam get a look from the dealer. It's their turn.

Adam leads, and Kurt stays close behind him, his skin crawling like everyone's eyes are on him as he goes in, but the door closing behind him does nothing to ease the feeling. Instead, he's faced with two women in white coats and scrubs, each standing by an exam table, separated by a curtain, both surrounded by various medical equipment, just like a doctor's office. Adam walks calmly over to one, and Kurt turns to the other, who reaches out for his paper as he approaches.

"Name."

"Kurt Hummel," he answers.

"I'm Chelsea Grej. I'll be your Inspector. I'm going to start by asking you several questions. Answer honestly and to the best of your ability--if any information is found to be false there will be consequences. Are you capable of communicating your answers to me in a coherent fashion?"

"Yes," Kurt sneers, a little offended at the question. Does he look like he can't speak proper English? Has he not indicated that he can simply by answering her original question?

She doesn't seem to notice or care that he has an issue with her attitude. She just starts rattling off questions, scribbling down his answers and barely giving him time between before she's on to the next one. She doesn't even look up at him, rattling her pen against the counter impatiently when he falters, hesitant to answer the uncomfortable, probing questions. By the time she finishes with the interview, Kurt is thoroughly ticked off, his temper almost out.

He's having a hard enough time. He's been stolen from his home and forced into slavery, and this bitch won't even look at him. She's treating him like he's an item in a factory, like she's just making sure he's up to code, and he doesn't matter at all. She probably doesn't look at anyone, but he hopes she can't sleep at night for all the poor people that come through here that she just checks off like tallies.

"I'm going to perform the physical examination, now," she says, checking something off on the paper. "Remove your shirt, pants, and socks."

"You want me naked," he says incredulously, raising an eyebrow at her. She looks calmly back, finally looking at his face.

"That's right," she replies calmly. "I need to make sure your muscles are developing properly, and that there are no therapies you need before your sale. I also need to check any surface imperfections."

"Can I have something to cover my...areas?" Kurt asks, waving his hands around his lap uncomfortably.

Chelsea eyes him for a moment before bending down and opening a drawer in the side of the exam table. She pulls out a thin sheet and drops it onto Kurt's lap.

"That sheet can stay on your lap while I check you, but it will need to be removed at various points in the examination. I'm going to go out and return with a handler. I hope that will ensure further cooperation. Take this opportunity to maintain whatever modesty you are under the impression you can still maintain."

With that, she spins and walks to the door, leaving him sitting there with his mouth hanging open and his brow furrowed. What a bitch.

He hops down and strips quickly, tossing his clothing aside carelessly--it's not actually his, and it's cheap anyway, so what does he care? When he hops back up, he drapes the sheet across his lap and hunches in on himself, uncomfortable with how bare it leaves him, even beyond the chill in the room. He just isn't comfortable sitting there bare-assed--and he's not going to be okay with that harpy putting her hands on him. Of course, he doesn't have much of a choice, especially as she walks back in with the lead dealer himself following, a look on his face in which Kurt can see both amusement and anger.

"I should've known you'd be the troublemaker," he says in greeting, stepping beside the table and crossing his arms, leaning against a bare patch of wall. "Let the Inspector do her damn job and we'll be out of here and I won't have to make our lives more difficult." He turns back to Chelsea. "Go ahead, Chel."

She gives him a little smile and then turns back to Kurt, face drawn back to neutral as she looks him over.

"Lay back," she orders, and Kurt obeys, awkwardly shuffling till he's back, arms over his torso protectively, the sheet slipping a little on his hips. His face flushes and he wriggles down, trying to cover, but she just pulls at the extension under his knees without a care, forcing him to lift his legs to accommodate it. The sheet slips further, almost falling off the edge, and he reaches down to pull it up quickly.

The Inspector steps to his side and lifts his right arm, instructing him to flex his hand, forearm, and upper arm in turn. She pushes against the flex and turns the limb all around, watching closely and feeling around. Then she grabs a tape measure and measures it, marking down whatever notes she has on her papers. She does the same to the other arm, and then his legs, and his chest and stomach. He does as he's told, wary of the dealer right next to him, watching him closely, but he grimaces the whole time, disgusted with her cold, bony hands all over him.

"I'm removing the sheet," she says, and he doesn't have a single second to prepare before the sheet is gone and he's exposed.

He fights the urge to curl up and wither away. She grabs him unabashedly, squeezing his balls and stretching his dick out and looking at it closely. She measures it and makes a note, and then turns to him.

"Are you currently capable of arousal?"

Kurt looks at her like she has three heads.

"No," he says firmly. She looks unimpressed.

"I need to measure you when you're fully erect," she says. "We'll put it aside for now, but prepare yourself to cooperate before the exam is over. If you need one of the other boys to help you out, that can be arranged. Now turn over."

Kurt swallows a flood of saliva in his mouth, tinged with the possibility of bile in his throat. He flips over and tries not to let tears of humiliation and frustration prick at his eyes, hoping that this will be over soon and trying to think of a way out of her touching him there again.

Maybe if he pretends none of this is real. Maybe if he pretends it's all just a nightmare, just a bad dream--

She checks his back and his limbs again before she tugs on his hair, turning his head back and forth and pressing her fingers into his skull.

"He's a decent specimen," she murmurs, earning a grunt from the dealer. "Proportionate. He'll grow well. The attitude needs work, but--"

"--there are ways," the dealer finishes. Kurt breathes deeply, evenly, it's just a nightmare, don't fight back...

"Let's see the goods," Chelsea says, sounding strangely delighted, and Kurt freezes as he thinks that she's already handled his junk, what could she possibly be doing--

Her cool palms land on his ass cheeks, parting them, and Kurt reacts.

He almost flips off the table when he turns, sheer chance keeping him from overbalancing as he lashes out, kicking and striking with his hands and feet. He hears a cry and a clatter, and then he's being restrained, strong arms holding tight around his chest and neck, keeping his arms partially pinned.

"Get off of me!" he screams, flailing and trying to get out of the dealer's grip. Instinct drives him now, survive, fight, protect, survive, and he struggles, trying to bite down on the dealer's arm as he continues to kick out at anything he can reach.

There's another rush of sound and then he's being held completely down, hands pressing down all over his body. His ankles, thighs, chest, arms, shoulders, and head are all grabbed and held, and no matter how hard he tries to thrash, he can't move now. He tenses and flinches as the dealer's face comes into view.

"If you don't stop right now you'll be sedated, and you don't want to know what happens when you're out."

Kurt stills, fear returning to him as the adrenaline seeps through him steadily. He thrums, heaving for breath, but he lays back, giving in.

Oh, god, they're going to kill him--

"He's down," the dealer says. "Chel, you okay?"

"Damn whore got my cheek," she spits, and Kurt glances over to see her bleeding lightly across the left side of her face. He feels a sick little triumph at that--maybe it was worth it, just to see that nasty woman suffer--

"I've got him," the dealer calls out, and the rest of the men who'd run in leave without a word. The dealer looks down at Kurt where he lays still on the table, looming and leaning over him. He bends in too close, his breath washing over Kurt's face and smelling faintly of onions.

"The only reason you aren't flayed within an inch of your life right now is your price," the dealer says very calmly, his voice low. "I could retire on the commission I'm going to get from you, and I'm not going to risk that. So you can keep your precious little ass to yourself. We'll skip that part. But in return you're going to behave. Right now, I own you. And you're going to act like it. You're going to do everything I say and you're going to do it with a fucking smile. Do we have a deal?"

"Why should I?" Kurt asks bluntly. He wants to spit in the dealer's face, but he needs to know. "I'm going to be sold as a slave. I've lost everything. Do you really think that I care about your commission?"

"There are a few things you haven't lost yet," the dealer replies. "Now, like I said--I own you. I want my commission. But I'm at the end of my patience. If you cross me again, I'll let the commission go. I will even let the money I paid for you come out of my next paycheck. Call it a loss. But then I'll get to throw you to some of my men whose tastes run this way and watch as they take turns with you. And after that, I can kill you however I damn well please. And with the trouble you've given me so far, I'm thinking I can do it slow. And hell, maybe I'll forget that you've got a dangle between your legs and take a turn myself, and I'll bring my knife with me. Do you understand what that means?"

Kurt lies pinned to the table with nothing to hold him there but his terror. He knows exactly what the dealer means--more news reports run through his head, of bodies found and identified as slaves, and nothing is done to find their killers, their torturers, there are serial killers who only target slaves and they are never brought to justice, there are horror movies about it--

"Yes," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath.

"And are you going to cooperate?"

Kurt closes his eyes.

"Yes."

"Good," the dealer says, and he's out of Kurt's space again. "Finish up the exam, but leave his privates alone," he calls, probably to the Inspector. "Just write down your best guess."

"Fine," Chelsea replies. Kurt looks over and sees her affixing some bandages to her cheek and fixing her hair. "But I'm expecting you to pay for my surgery if this scars."

The dealer smiles.

"Deal."

--

Kurt is back in the armored van, sitting shackled and naked, only covered by a rough brown robe, the long, hooded kind he'd expect to see at a bad renaissance fair. He's alone, and it's dark, and he's been here for a long time, brought immediately after his exam had finished with minimal fuss, marched past the other boys, who'd stared and stared and stared as he's passed.

He'd been let out about half an hour before to eat and relieve himself against the wall of the parking garage, blushing and miserable as the dealer had watched, apparently happy in Kurt's discomfort. The food, at least, had been good and filling, but it hadn't made him feel any better. Neither had being shoved back into the van and left in the darkness for hours.

The sound of voices and clanging sounds, and gets louder as Kurt looks up uselessly, cocking his head and trying to make out what's going on. But before he figures it out, the door unbolts and opens, and the other seven boys, shackled and robed like he is, climb in and sit down quietly. Adam sits next to Kurt, like he had on the last trip, and raises his eyebrows at him just before the door shuts, cutting off their vision.

"You're not going to make any friends in this business, acting out like that," Adam advises, when the van rumbles and starts moving. "Though I admire your moxy."

"I'm not looking to make friends," Kurt snaps.

"Maybe you should," Adam retorts gently. "At some point, anyway. You can't live your life as a fortress, Kurt."

Kurt doesn't answer him. Just who is he going to be friends with, anyway? Adam's been nice, sure, but what are the chances of them getting sold together? Zero. And from what he's experienced so far, he's more likely to get someone like that awful Inspector or the dealer than someone who treats him like a person--

Kurt draws into himself, curling up, dragging the shackles along uncomfortably as he makes himself as small as possible in the corner of the van. He needs to stop thinking about all this. He still feels dirty, that woman had touched him, had grabbed his...his parts, looked him over like a prize bull or something, and she'd tried to get inside him, tried to open him up, and something in him had snapped. It was one thing to be handled on the parts of him that are on the outside but she had wanted to--

No. He doesn't want that, he doesn't want to let them in like that. He knows he'll have to let someone do it eventually, the person who buys him is probably going to want that, and he'd never even planned on letting his future husband have it, except maybe on birthdays or high holidays. It just scares him, that pain and that vulnerability and...it's too much--

Of course it's too much. Even just being someone's friend is too much, how is he supposed to let someone in far enough to let them touch his body? He's not sure he can redefine himself fast enough, he's going to be sold soon--

The van slows, rumbling loudly for a long stretch, and then stills.

He might be sold now.