"Up," barked a Canyon Crazy.
Needle arose slowly, wrists and neck chafed from weeks in irons. The smell of shit and piss filled the air. Thick metal bars separated him from the rest of the kennel, where other slaves were held in much the same way. There was scarcely enough room for him to move a step. He was lucky, though, because the Crazies were training him for a purpose, and that meant they had to keep him alive. The others were mostly expendable, if they got unmanageable.
The kennel was mostly without light. Why waste the electricity? So, the Crazy sent to retrieve him was brandishing a flashlight. He never learned the names of any of his captors, with the exception of Lady Smythe, who often oversaw his training. There was a certain power someone held when others could not name them. There was even more power when your name has been assigned to you by captors. He was Needle because doctors use needles. It was better than the laborers, who were simply referred to as drones.
She unlocked the cell door and looked over the doctor-slave. He was thin, but not starved, and the rags hung lightly over his skin, irritating it with their coarseness. His hair was mangy and unmanaged, but his face had been shaved as soon as thin hairs began to appear on it. While he was a blond, he spent so much time in the dirty that he looked nearly brunet, and in fact could not recall the last time he had been hosed down. Thin as he was, his chin was sharp and his eyes were narrow, and this made him reasonably attractive. So much so that several Crazies had, quietly and only on occasion, treated him like a bed slave. They would have gotten in a great deal of trouble for using the merchandise without permission, but he never told anyone, because he would much rather be a bed slave to beautiful women than a doctor. But he was designated a physician and that's what he became.
He could not remember if this was one of the women that used him, and he did not particularly care. Beneath the dirt and armor and occasional war paint, highwaywomen all looked the same. He could say the same for highwaymen, but had far less experience with them due simply to the circumstances in which he lived.
"You've been bought." She led him down the winding cavern corridors toward the main village. The other slaves watched him as he was dragged off, jealous or mournful of their now lost brother.
Needle didn't say a word. He learned long ago that sarcastic comments earn beatings. The flog had stripped those sardonic remarks out of his very being, replaced by an intimate knowledge of bullet-removal and stitching techniques.
It would be easy for him to hate life. After all, he had been taken from his family and crafted into something else by women who loved to inflict pain on him. Instead, he found happiness in the small things. One of his favorite things was getting to walk through the village. Most of the roads, which were just the dirt pathways between barracks and mess halls, were filled with slaves and the Crazies transporting them from one area to the other. Some were going off to be disciplined or trained or branded, all in different areas of the vast complex. Needle had not seen them all, but he had heard other slaves share whispers about them.
He was taken to the edge of the village, along the craggy walls by the entrance. He hadn't seen the tunnel that leads to the mouth of the cave since he was brought in, but he knew there was a secret exit for when the carmada had to operate. It was not often that the Canyon Crazies went off to retrieve slaves themselves, but it did happen when trade was floundering.
A hulk of a man, shaved head and square jaw, looked Needle up and down. Suddenly, the poor slave felt very self-conscious, and there was a wringing in his gut. He felt nervous, which was strange because he didn't recall himself feeling much of anything lately. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was going to be taken far away from the familiarity of the canyon. Maybe it was the fact that this brutish man was judging him, and may find him unworthy. Perhaps it was the rippling muscles, or the knowledge that a man twice his age held the key to his collar and shackles.
The strange fear stirred in his chest, coiled in his stomach, and forced some movement in the rags that passed for pants. He didn't seem to notice.
"Got a name, boy?" the man asked. His voice was like a crashing boulder.
"Needle," he said, not fumbling over his words for even a moment. The new owner was so tall that he had to look up just to meet his face.
"Name's Snake, of Overdog Enterprises. You'll be calling me 'sir'. Your handlers say you're a physician, trained and true. That right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good, because I don't like wasting company assets. And if I've found that you are a waste, you'll be liquidated property. That clear?"
Needles eyes widened and he gulped nervously. "Yes, sir."
Snake looked over the rest of the slaves. The laborers were only distinguishable from the breeders by one trait: sex. Nine times out of ten, the men were forced to work in the fields while the women were forced to work in the beds. As such, the men were hard and calloused, and even somewhat muscular. The women were soft and sweet smelling. The workers had lost fingers and toes and even teeth, often as punishments or in accidents. The breeders had to look acceptable, however, so their punishments came in the form of isolation and starving. They were all broken down, in their own ways, by the Canyon Crazies.
