whatwekeep | Fic: Controlled Violence, Ch. 12/30

Characters: (for this chapter) Nick Oliveri, mention of Liev Schreiber
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slavery
Word Count: 347

Previous Parts: Ch. 1: Liev's Provenance, Ch. 2: Liev v. Madsen, Ch. 3: Lord Bale's Gym, Ch. 4: The Charity Ward, Ch. 5: On Tour, Ch. 6: An Unwelcome Interruption, Ch. 7: Hunter's Provenance, Ch. 8: Home Sweet Home, Ch. 9: Training Begins, Ch. 10: A Fighter's Life, Ch. 11: Growing Up

Summary: In an age when slavery is mandated by law, a type of gladiator-style fighting has arisen. Liev is an aging fighter who brings extra income to Lord Bale's household by training other fighters. Hunter is the newest fighter in Lord Bale's stable.

Author's Notes: Character photos for Lord Bale's household can be found here. Thanks to

poisontaster for opening up this sandbox, to

devilc for introducing me to it, and to

fleurlb for some choice casting suggestions.

Lord Bale's House, Present Day
After he got his first tattoo on his arm of a lady in a martini glass, Nick figured anything else would be easy-peasy. But it never hurt less. Hell, sometimes it hurt more. But he was still addicted to it, the hum of the needle and the continuous stinging pain, and he constantly plotted out what he would get next. There was definitely a certain amount of freedom associated with being a fighter, and Nick took every inch he could get of it. It was like he had a reserve inside him, and as long as he could keep it topped up - with music, tattoos, women - he could be all right with being a slave. Not that he had a choice. All right or not, this was how it would be. But damn if he wasn't going to squeeze all he could out of this life, because it was the only one he was going to get.

He had a little radio in his room and only one plug. So it was the radio or the fan, but mostly it was the radio. He'd found it a few years back in the trash outside some crappy house when he was on a run with Liev. Liev had given him a hard time, but he ran five miles with that damn thing tucked up under his arm and chafing, hoping really hard it would actually work when he got it back to Lord Bale's house and plugged it in. He listened to every stupid thing on it, he didn't care. Voices, music. Voices that didn't even speak English half the time. On a clear night, he could get Russia on the AM. He'd listen, and he'd strum his guitar (another dumpster-diving miracle), and he'd pretend he was in a little house that was all his, with some sweet lady making him dinner in the kitchen.

Then morning would come, and he'd go beat the hell out of whatever or whoever it was Liev had decided he needed to hit today, biding time until his next tattoo.

Ch. 13: Liev Fights