Title: Rainbow’s Freedom (Sanctuary Arc) (1/17)
Series Notes: In the 23rd century, Earth is a technologically-advanced society that
practices the ancient institution of slavery. The wealthy freeman Bruce Wayne acquires
a highly-prized bedslave whom he learns to cherish...but can he ever truly love a
slave? And will it all be moot as a weak abolitionist movement slowly gathers strength
while the Galactic Empire remains in a perpetual state of Cold War? The entire series
can be found here
Category: Drama, AU
Rating: (this chapter): PG-13
Summary: Bruce receives an invitation to a private showing of highly specialized goods.
Date Of Completion: January 30, 2007
Date Of Posting: March 15, 2007
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 1169
In Autumn’s gold,
He met his soul.
For the brave
And the bold.
The Freedom Chronicles
Bruce Wayne strode through the open-air market, enjoying the crispness of a glorious autumn day. He squinted up at
the sky, its deep, startling blue as lovely as any artist’s rendering.
He passed stalls that showcased crafts, artwork, and colorful clothing. His mouth watered at the smell of apples and
cinnamon and freshly-baked bread. His long, black coat flapped in the wind, his dark hair ruffled. He was wearing
complete black, his outfit the epitome of understated elegance.
He passed into the next section of stalls. Vendors recognized the look of Old Money and hawked their wares, trying to
entice him to look, ultimately to buy. His gaze flicked over a beautiful young woman, her dark eyes limned with kohl,
her long, black hair spilling over her naked breasts. Chains rattled as she was turned around to display other assets.
The next stall held a well-muscled man, his broad face bearded. Upon closer inspection, Bruce noted the plethora of
scars criss-crossing the massive chest and thighs. The vendor shouted out a low price. A laborer, then, with a bad
Bruce continued passing the stalls, his thoughts turning to dinner. Alfred had promised a favorite of his: beef
stroganoff and the last of the fresh garden vegetables, and, knowing Alfred, there would be an exquisite creation for
His hand slid into his coat pocket. The embossed invitation had to be shown at the door of the private chambers on the
upper floor of Braddock Hall, named after one of the wealthiest men in Gotham history. He was also one of its
founders, the family name plastered on as nearly as many buildings as the House of Wayne.
At the end of the market he ascended the marble steps leading into the hall. The heavy wooden doors were unlocked
on this busiest of days, and Bruce entered the lobby, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darker interior.
His footsteps echoed on the polished parquet floor as the doors closed, shutting out the market’s din. Marble columns
held up a vaulted frescoed ceiling, plush chairs and tables scattered discreetly around the lobby. The richness of the
furnishings and the understated quiet whispered of power and money, elements in which Bruce felt completely at
At the bank of elevators he pulled out the invitation. Choosing the elevator at the end of the row, he inserted the card
into a slot, the doors opening as if he was Ali Baba entering the den of the Forty Thieves.
His mouth quirked as he stepped inside, the doors closing with a soft whoosh! Slave dealers were not the most
reputable of businessmen, but the best strove hard to maintain a spotless reputation. The one who had issued the
invitation to him possessed a sterling reputation amongst men some regarded as little better than thieves.
The elevator thrummed quietly, then stopped at the third and top floor. The doors opened and Bruce walked around
the corner and down the hall.
A uniformed guard stood at the door located at the end. He nodded at Bruce, who produced his invitation. Despite
the honorific title of Prince of Gotham, he would not be allowed in without the gold-embossed card. The guard
checked it, then handed it back as he opened the carved wooden door.
“Welcome, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce stepped into tasteful opulence, handing his coat to a servant who materialized at his elbow. The furnishings were
dark cherrywood, expensive paintings set on pale-green walls, Greek statuary on polished endtables. His footsteps were
muffled by the thick, dark-blue carpet.
At the end of a short hall, Bruce knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a stocky, balding man with an unctuous
“Mr. Wayne! Please come in!”
This room was nearly cavernous, tall windows letting in light to accentuate comfortable couches and tables set in a
semi-circle several feet away from a stage at one end. A dark-blue curtain draped the back of the stage. Five men
were already seated, enjoying wine from ruby-red decanters and fresh fruit from golden bowls.
“Come this way, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce followed the man into a small anteroom. Silas Bracken closed the door behind them.
“Please have a seat.”
Bruce settled himself into a comfortable chair, curiosity burning in his eyes. “Why was I invited, Mr. Bracken? I’m
not in the habit of buying slaves. My associate Lucius Fox is in charge of acquiring such goods.”
“Ah, but this is a highly exotic piece of merchandise, sir.”
Bruce affected a bored look. ‘Exotic’ usually meant ‘sex slave’. He didn’t fancy bedslaves. His partners were always
willing freemen and freewomen.
“In what way?”
Bracken leaned forward, nervous sweat nearly masked by heavy cologne. Bruce restrained himself from leaning back.
“One of the finest Human bedslaves I ever seen.”
“I don’t think I’m…”
“I feel I have to be honest with you, sir.”
“Please do.” Bruce blinked. The man was good. He had headed off an objection with lightning speed.
Bracken took a deep breath. “In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that this slave has Wertham’s Disease.”
Bruce frowned. “Isn’t that like malaria, as in recurring?”
Bracken nodded. “He was off-world and contracted it. As you know, Wertham’s Disease is permanent. There is a
drug, quinium, that must be injected weekly. But the disease itself is not contagious and your slave could live a long
and healthy life. In his case, a slaver offered him to me who also said he had no memory due to a head injury.”
Bruce’s frown increased. “Sounds like damaged goods, Mr. Bracken.”
“You could say that, but his positives outweigh his negatives.” Bracken cocked his head. “Once you see him, I think
you will change your mind.” He waved a pudgy hand. “Mr. Wayne, I have told all your fellow bidders this in the
interest of doing honest business. They have all elected to stay. I request that you stay as well. Of course you do not
have to bid.”
Bruce considered. He never bought slaves at auction, leaving that to Lucius as he’d informed Bracken. Besides, his
parents had implemented a tradition of hiring freemen as landscapers, chauffeurs, and other household help on the
estate. The only slave Bruce had daily contact with was Alfred, who had been obtained by Thomas and Martha
Wayne in the belief that a butler knew all the family secrets and a slave would be more loyal than a freeman, or at
least keep his mouth shut. That had proven true as Alfred was loyal to the utmost.
Yet this auction intrigued him despite himself. He would bid to keep his credibility but he had no need of a bedslave.
As he rose he said, “I’ll stay, Mr. Bracken.”
Bracken beamed and scurried to open the door.
At the very least, Bruce thought, it should be an interesting auction.
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