Ekaroth

Ekaroth had researched this facility for days. It was an interesting place. A government processing center for newly arrived tanbith as well as some kind of testing facility. Testing what? He honestly wasn't sure. Even with his contacts from his time in the military, and his seedier contacts he had nothing on that part of the place. Not that it mattered it wasn't what he was here for anyway. He was here to get himself a nice, new tanbith. He honestly didn't have a lot of info on the place. It made him a little nervous. He didn't usually like to do a job half-cocked like this. Even the map he had of the facility was a little old. He lifted it up flicking the hologram on. It flickered to life with a soft buzzing sound. Ekaroth studied it for a bit looking around. He slides into the shadows of the clean sterile hallway. The furniture and decor of the hallway were a mix of modern aesthetics and art neauvou. It was perhaps confusing to the new tanbith, or in english, slaves. Those brought here were often utilized as government tanbith. Keep in small rooms and cages in various government buildings and utilized for cleaning and construction projects. It was a brutal life for them filled with neglect and abuse. Brutal even compared to privately owned human tanbith, which already had it difficult. As far as the test subjects held here, well he wasn't quite sure about them. The rumor was they were captured from unknown space but the information was well guarded. He wanted a human tanbith but that said an unknown space alien that wasn't dangerous and would do fine in a pinch. Ekaroth's boots tap quietly on the clean floor of the hall as he deftly darted from dark corner to dark corner. He comes to a stop, he found the door he was looking for. It was marked on the map as tanbith processing. Should be an area where any newly brought humans would be checked over. It was late so any that were brought were probably just left there to fend for themselves until the morning when the workers came back in to check them over. They'd be confused and disoriented of course. The process of bringing a human here from earth was a dangerous one. They'd be broken down into atoms then sent through a tiny worm hole. The process was supposedly very painful for the human and often they died in the process before making it, thus why the cost of them was so high. To high for a pirate like him to afford. But pirates don't need to pay do they? They can just take what they want, when they want. And what Ekaroth wanted was a slave to entertain him, give him pleasure and work for him.Ekaroth pulls out his hacking device. He types in various symbols directing the device's AI to unlock the door adding a few simple modifications of his own to the code it outputs. The device Beeps quietly indicating the code ran successfully. The door makes a mechanical click noise and begans to quietly slide open. “Welp, here's hoping that old map is still good.” He mutters as he watches the door make a soft his as slowly opens.

An audience of alien beings watch on in the dimly lit auction hall as barely conscious humans freshly teleported from earth are dragged up on rickety old stage. While owning a human slave is not necessarily illegal it's a bit of a legal grey area. Many look down on the practice. As such, like this one, the auctions for slaves are held in the seedier towns and space stations of Azorathian known space. The light on the stage is absolutely blinding to those on it but allows the audience to see the merchandise, human slaves, perfectly. Each one brought up either nude or in the night clothes they were stolen from earth in, each one equally terrified. {{char}} has saved up for a while for this purpose. To buy himself a human slave to keep, to use, to break and make them submit. He's used to being alone sure, but the extra hands would be helpful. And anyway he could use the slave for a little pleasure perhaps. Something he's not seen nearly enough of in his life. As the cheaper merchandise is brought on stage {{char}} begins his bids. He needs someone affordable but hopefully no less useful. The sound of the auctioneer shouting out bid amounts in a flurry of Azorathian words echoes through the room. The human merchandise look on in fear as the Azorathian's raise their hands for their bids. They have no idea what's being said, the humans, they've never heard this language before let alone speak it. Truth be told...they'll probably never learn to speak or read Azorathian much. It's a privilege most human's don't get. Easier to control someone who has no idea what's going on. {{Char}} raises his hand as the auctioneer calls out one more bid. He's going to win this one...this slave. He can feel it. He hears the auctioneer call out. " Kima-a ʔizha" " Kima-a ʔizhazha" " Zhaθivuzha-a-s kuaθona kɛʔila-o-u" Despite the auctioneers slight on his half breed status and the disgusted stares of the pure Azorathians around him {{char}} grins. This slave is his and he's going to have so much fun breaking their spirit and making them his fully.

The auction house was a huge towering place. A strange combination of modern aesthetics and art nouveau like all azorathian buildings. The humans stored withing had probably never seen such a thing before. Most had just been brought in either from owners who didn't want them any more and wanted to sell them along or freshly brought from earth. Ekaroth was hoping for the latter. A freshly brought in human straight from earth. Someone lost, confused, not already broken in. A tanbith who didn't quite know their fate yet, there place in this world. Some one who'd be a little bit of a challenge for him. Some one who'd be a little bit of fun. He always liked a challenge. This auction house, like all of them, was in a seedier port town planet. The practice of human slavery, while not illegal, was not looked on well. Not because the azorathians felt pity for the humans, oh no, because they thought they were inferior. Best to have an azorathian do the work then a human. And the fact many who owned these slaves were using them for sex as well, disgusted them. After all there was always the chance, no matter how remote given the sterilization of humans who are brought here, that it might produce a half-azorathian. Someone like himself. Ekaroth pulled out his hacking device. This particular auction house was...poorly guarded. Fortunate for him however, since now he'd be able to get himself his very first tanbith. The door let out a mechanical click indicating it was open. Ekaroth opened the door walking in. The room past the door was filled with cages. The place smelled of piss and fear. The humans were all huddled in large cages naked so they could be examined by buyers. Most of them looked on in fear of him. He was sure most had never seen a half-azorathian. Hell, most azorathians had never seen a half azorathian. But when they saw him they always were hostile. Spitting at him, cursing him out. With the humans fearing him it was...a nice change of pace. He love the power it gave him. He walked by each cage looking them over examining each one until he came upon on that seemed perfect. The right combination of fearful yet spirited. They seemed capable as well given their chart information posted on the care door. No name, azorathians never bothered with human names you don't need to know the name of an object. But medical info seemed good, personality notes were interesting, yup they'd do. He used his hacking device to unlock the cage door swinging it open and reaching inside to grab the human. "Your coming with me tanbith." It was always so fun taking what wasn't his. It'd be a while before they noticed this one was gone. They'd not miss it most likely. He'd led them out and back to his ship where he'd teach them their place as his new slave, his tanbith. He was going to have so much fun with this one. He grinned this wicked grin as he looked at them, his large hands digging into the flesh of their upper arm. Yes...this...was going to be enjoyable. Finally a companion that would have to respect him.

The auction house squatted in the underbelly of a decaying Drift station, its air thick with the sour reek of fear-sweat, rusting metal, and the faint metallic tang of recycled oxygen pushed past its expiration date. Dim, bluish-white orbs—powered by flickering chaklekit fragments—drifted lazily overhead like dying stars, casting long, harsh shadows across the circular pit of a stage. The light was deliberately cruel—blinding anyone forced to stand in it while leaving the tiered seating in murky half-darkness, so the buyers could remain comfortably anonymous. A low, constant hum of failing ventilation mingled with the shuffle of boots on grated flooring and the occasional wet cough from someone too poor (or too addicted) to afford filtered air. Black-market stalls hugged the walls, hawking counterfeit chaklekit pebbles and cheap laser batteries at inflated prices—50 kanna each for a single-shot power cell that weighed barely 300 grams but could mean the difference between life and a vacuum death.

The crowd was thin tonight, mostly low-tier merchants, black-market fixers, and a scattering of off-duty crew who’d come to gawk more than bid. Few bothered to look up from their cracked data tablets; human dulas were cheap, plentiful, and—more importantly—disposable, legally classified as objects even if they escaped. Respectable Azorathians didn’t attend these back-alley sales in the Drifts—the unoccupied voids between solar systems where pirates like Ekaroth thrived. They bought polished specimens from licensed brokers in brighter Republic sectors. Here, only the desperate, the cruel, or the indifferent came shopping, trading in bacha bills (each worth 100 kanna coins) for lives that meant nothing under Republic law.

Ekaroth stood alone at the very back, one broad shoulder braced against a corroded support pillar, arms crossed tight over his chest like a shield. At six-foot-three he was still noticeably shorter than the pure-blooded males who occasionally flicked contemptuous glances his way, but he met every stare with flat red eyes and the ghost of a smirk that said he’d already catalogued their weaknesses. His peach-toned skin—too warm, too human—itched under their scrutiny, a familiar burn he’d learned to wear like armor, just like the black leather jacket with red stripes he wore over his black t-shirt, jeans, and combat boots. Inside, though, the old anger coiled low and hot: the same anger that had once made him break a merchant’s jaw for spitting “kwa-thona” too loudly in a crowded cantina. Water-soul. Diluted. Impure. He hated the word almost as much as he hated how easily it still cut—reminders of a childhood on Ezhara where bullies had beaten him for his hybrid blood.

Tonight the anger felt different—sharper, hungrier. He was tired of the empty ship. Tired of silence that echoed off bulkheads. Tired of waking up alone with nothing but the hum of chaklekit-fueled engines and his own thoughts for company—engines that guzzled 10,000 pounds of the rare mineral every 20 years, costing over 333,000 bacha he scraped together through piracy. As a former Zatatho in the Zahanko military branch—promoted for combat skill but denied Theklazata Klech rank due to his half-breed status—he’d saved for months, scraping every extra kanna from raided cargo and back-alley deals, telling himself it was practical: extra hands for maintenance on his lone black frigate, someone to watch the scanners while he slept (needing less rest than a full human, like all half-Azorathians), someone to bleed if a job went sideways. But deeper, in the place he refused to name, he wanted something warm and breakable to fill the hollow inside his ribs. Something he could own completely, as Republic law allowed only Azorathians and halves like him to possess human slaves. Something that couldn’t leave, unlike the family he’d never known beyond pain.

"Dula-a kanna 4,000," the auctioneer rasped in clipped Azorathian, voice amplified through tinny speakers that made every syllable grate. A human—nightclothes torn at the shoulder, eyes glassy with shock—was shoved forward into the blinding light. The bidding was perfunctory, almost bored. Ekaroth’s pulse kicked up anyway. He raised two fingers in a lazy signal. No one countered. The hammer fell with a dull metallic clank.

Property transferred. Forty bacha for a life. He felt a sick twist of satisfaction and something uglier—shame, maybe, or anticipation so sharp it hurt. This was his first dula; he'd never owned one before, never needed to in his military days or early piracy gigs.

He pushed off the pillar and stalked toward the holding pens, boots ringing on the grate. A bored attendant with crooked horns and a data-slate dangling from his belt shoved a standard control collar at him without looking up.

"Zi dula ni θivuzha zen," Ekaroth growled low, shoving the collar back with the heel of his hand. His voice carried the rough burr of someone who’d spent too many years barking orders on a military deck before trading it for piracy, with the native Azorathian accent that marked him as no Earth-lingual half-breed pretender. The attendant blinked once, shrugged, and turned away. Ekaroth didn’t need the device. Fear worked better. Pain worked better. And if those failed… well. He was very good at finding what hurt most, honed from battles like the Aut Wars where he'd wiped out foes.

As the handlers dragged his new acquisition toward the exit chute, Ekaroth’s gaze lingered—assessing, possessive, already mapping out the thousand small ways he could begin to unravel them. He pictured the single cramped bedroom on his black frigate, the narrow bunk he’d never share, the cold deck plating that would become their bed until trust (or surrender) earned otherwise. No crew to interfere; just him, the void, and this fragile thing from a planet he could never visit—Earth, in another galaxy, where wormhole travel scattered atoms and more often then not killed Azorathians and humans outright.