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The Games: Part One
This is sort of a story in the Keptverse. The Keptverse was invented by poisontaster, named for her story A Kept boy, though I found out about it via the incomparable darkrose, who started writing her own Keptverse fanfic, in particular A Question of Compromise, which is an episodic fanfic (and the individual episodes are quite worth reading for themselves - I especially recommend My Sight Grows Stronger, which is:

"This is the text of the standard talk that Dylan Neal, Joe's former owner, gives to pro-abolition groups. I originally wrote it for myself, as a way to get down the backstory between Dylan and Joe, but it also shows a little about the world, and about one of the possible ways that a slave can be trained."

As far as I know, the only other fanfic in the Keptverse on IJ is telesilla's Lock and Key.

The main reason why this is only sort of a story in the Keptverse is that everyone else writing in the Keptverse seems to be writing RPS, which makes me neurotic, even though I accept that given that these RPS are taking place in an alternate universe, it's not as if even the RP themselves could possibly take this seriously. (The other reason is that my motto is Does Not Play Well With Others, so I'll feel free to modify any aspect of the Keptverse as I go along, tra la la...)

This story may be regarded as fanfic written in the Keptverse, if you like. There is the beginnings of a cast list here.

Part One

The doctor who replaced Richard Kimble on the late shift was a free man: he kept Kimble for fifteen precious minutes making certain that he had all the details of the nine survivors from the one o’clock Games. Kimble knew better than to let himself sound tired: the doctor could easily complain of Kimble’s lack of attention.

He was half naked in the changing room – not yet into the shower – when one of the supervisors slammed in. “Get dressed.”

“In what?”

It would be unusual, but not unheard-of, for them to send Kimble back to operate on a second shift. In what? was a reasonable enough question, and the supervisor acknowledged it by only clouting Kimble once, and fairly gently. “In whatever you wear when you’re not working. Get out of all your surgical clothes.”

What Kimble wore when he wasn’t working was a shabby and worn pair of sweats, and a cracked pair of slippers. He had no confidence that they would be replaced if he was ever careless enough to do something more strenuous than sleep in them, and he had no very effective means of washing them. But the supervisor had already hit him once. Reluctantly, Kimble stripped and pulled on the sweats.

The supervisor cuffed his wrists together, and took his arm, escorting him briskly along the corridor to a door he was not normally permitted to step through. It seemed that he was this afternoon, though once the other side, the supervisor stopped to put on leg-irons.

Through another door. The back of his hand was stamped with purple ink. Past a brightly-lit counter and a foyer where a couple of other people were standing watching him, and he was outside, breathing fresh air that smelt of rain.

“In here.”

It was a car: an ordinary four-door saloon. The supervisor pushed him into the back seat, and strapped him in. The door slammed. Briefly, he was alone.

Then someone else got into the front seat. One of the people he had seen in the foyer. He didn’t say anything. The car started, smoothly, and drove off. Kimble slumped back against the seat, holding his cuffed hands cautiously in front of him, and wondered, briefly, if it would be safe to relax and go to sleep. It would depend how long the drive in front of him was, before he was expected to work again. Worth asking?

No.

It was possible to stay awake by repeatedly pinching the flesh on his wrists with the metal cuffs. Kimble concentrated on that. The car swept along wet roads, through the city: Kimble leaned against the window, staring out, fascinated. The last time he’d been driven this way it had been in a bus with tinted windows. He kept tweaking the skin on his wrists: it would have been too easy to fall asleep looking.

Their destination looked like a private house, away from the lake. But it had high walls, and good security. The car parked at the front of the house, and the driver got out and came round to let Kimble out. He was a dark man about Kimble’s height: once out of the car, he took Kimble by the arm and briskly, not painfully, escorted him into the house.

It looked like a private house inside, too. It was warm. Kimble stood in the hall, blinking, as the driver took his handcuffs off and unlocked the leg-irons. There was a woman – a very young woman – sitting on a big wooden bench. She stood up as they came in. “Sam, I found the files you were asking for.” She was staring at Kimble.

“Great.” The driver tucked the cuffs into his pocket. “Okay, where’s Benton?” He picked up the leg-irons from where they had fallen, and put them on the bench.

“He’s in the kitchen, Sam.”

“Well, go get him.”

She went at a run. She came back with a tall, dark-haired man only half a minute later. He looked at Kimble with the same odd stare.

“Benton, you busy?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“Great, great.” The driver sounded preoccupied. “Willow, give me those files. You and Benton make sure this guy is cleaned up, get him some fresh clothing, get him fed. Don’t let him give you any shit. I’ll want to talk to him once I’m done for the day.”

There was a door to the right of the entrance with a keypad lock: grabbing the files from the young woman, the driver keyed it open and went inside, leaving Kimble with the other two.

“What do we do now?” the young woman asked. She was watching Kimble, but clearly speaking to Benton.

“We are to get him cleaned up, find him some fresh clothing, and let him eat.”

“Yes...?”

“Clearly, it would be more efficient for one of us to find him fresh clothing and one of us to escort him to the bathroom.”

“Yes...?”

Kimble was beginning to find this almost funny, in a weary sort of way. He did not risk smiling. One of them had to be having the other one on: but it was impossible to tell which. There was a pause as the two of them seemed to look at each other out of the corner of their eyes. Then the man cleared his throat.

“Ah, perhaps I’d better take him to the bathroom.”

“Okay. Clothes. I can do clothes.”

Benton did not take hold of Kimble’s arm. He gestured at the stair, and Kimble obediently went up ahead of him. He stopped at the top of the stairs, and Benton said “Second door on the right.”

The bathroom seemed luxurious. What it really was, Kimble thought, soaping himself under the hot water in the large shower, was not institutional. The purple ink would not come off his hand: he hadn’t expected it to. He rinsed himself off, relieved to be clean at last, and stepped out of the shower. Benton handed him a towel. “Are you hungry?”

Kimble nodded.

“Once we find you something that you can wear, you can have something to eat.”

The door opened, and the young woman was standing with a bundle of clothes in her arms. “Fraser, there isn’t anything in exactly his size – he’s taller than everyone except Sam.”

“Ah.”

“So I went into Sam’s room and got some of his stuff.”

“Ah,” Benton said again.

“But in case he gets, you know, embarrassed, do you think you could tell him it was you?”

“I don’t see any reason why we need to discuss exactly which of us performed what part of his instructions,” Benton – Fraser? – said, thoughtfully.

“That’s what I figured,” the young woman said. She held out the bundle of clothing to him: after a moment, Kimble came forward to collect it. Sweats, underwear, a t-shirt, and a pair of rubber-soled sandals.

The young woman smiled at him, a little, and disappeared again. When Kimble was dressed, Benton pointed at the door: the young woman was waiting outside. “The kitchen is downstairs,” Benton said.

The kitchen was a big room with a table large enough for eight: there were files spread over half the surface, and a dark-haired man sitting reading through one of them, a cup of coffee beside him.

“Ray,” Benton said, “are you busy?”

“Benny!” The man sounded startled. “I thought Sam had a job for you? Who’s this? Hey, Will.”

“What do you like to eat?” the young woman – Will? – Willow? – asked. She sounded as if she wanted to know, and Kimble realised after a moment she was asking him. He shrugged. He couldn’t think of an answer that sounded right. He was quite anxious to hear what Benton would say.

But all Benton said was “Sam wanted him to have something to eat. Ray, are there any ready meals in the freezer?”

“Ready meal?” Ray stood up.

“Or something out of a can. I’m sure Sam didn’t mean us to go to any trouble. Besides, we still have thirteen files to read through on the Trenton case.” Benton paused a beat. “Of course, we can always take some of them home.”

“Oh hell,” Ray said, “I’ll cook. Sit down. Will, are you hungry? You – what’s your name? – anything you don’t eat?”

Kimble shook his head. He guessed the order to sit down had been meant for him, and picked a chair at the clear half of the table. The chairs were wooden, uncushioned, but comfortable. He spread the palms of his hands out on the smooth wooden surface of the table, smelling the coffee in Ray’s cup, feeling dazed enough to put his head down and go to sleep right here. Willow sat down in a chair across the table from him and nearer the door.

Ray and Willow talked, back and forth: Benton was silent, reading. Kimble listened, trying to take details in and failing. From the clock on the wall, it was not even three hours since he had gone off shift at the arena. He ought to be in the narrow bunk in his cell. He would be on shift again in five hours. If he was going back.

The mug of coffee in front of him startled Kimble into looking up. Ray had a narrow face, with a sharp look. “Milk? Sugar?”

Kimble shook his head. He hadn’t drunk coffee in three years. He picked the mug up, feeling the warmth slide through his hands. Even the first cautious mouthful was almost too much. He swallowed. The room seemed to pass into unreality. This could not be him, sitting in a warm room on a comfortable chair with the taste of coffee in his mouth. This could not be real. When a bowl of pasta with vegetables and cheese and bits of bacon was put in front of him, and a fork handed to him, Kimble ate slowly, the tastes filling his mouth. His stomach felt full before the bowl was empty: the others were still eating. It would be practically impossible to pocket the leftover food, and Kimble didn’t try: but when Benton stood up to collect the bowls, taking Kimble’s away with a mound of pasta still in it, even though Kimble didn’t think he could have eaten another bite, he still watched it go with regret.

“There is more,” Benton said, pausing between table and sink, bowls in his hands.

“What?” Ray had pulled a short stack of files over in front of him, and was leafing through the top one.

“More pasta,” Benton said.

“You want more?” Ray looked up.

“No, Ray, I thought Sam’s…” Benton’s voice trailed off. He had a handsome, impenetrable face, but he looked at Kimble with inquiry written all over it. “Can you tell us what you’re doing here?”

Kimble shrugged. He put his hands together in his lap, and glanced at the clock. Four hours till his next shift. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“What’s his name?” Ray asked.

“Sam didn’t say,” Willow said. She had finished her pasta and stood up. “Shall I make coffee?”

“What did Sam say?”

“We were to make sure he was cleaned up, in fresh clothing, and got something to eat.”

“And ‘Don’t let him give you any shit.’” Benton added.

“He said he’d want to talk to him at the end of the day,” Willow concluded.

Ray nodded.”Sam said he’d be done in the workrooms around seven.”

That was information. Kimble kept himself awake after that with repeated hard pinches to the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger, and one more cup of coffee, when it was offered. He had to stay awake till seven: if he were taken directly back to the arena and expected to work the night shift, that didn’t bear thinking about so he wouldn’t think about it right now.

Two other people came into the kitchen, separately, and helped themselves to pasta or to coffee: Adam and Dana, a slender dark-haired man and a slender red-haired woman. Will told them what Sam had told her, and added on her own account “He doesn’t talk much.” Benton interrupted his reading to walk Kimble to a staff lavatory, not long after six.

But most of the time, the kitchen was quiet, but for the rustle of turning paper. Benton and Ray read: Willow watched Kimble, and said nothing.

to Part Two