17 years ago, 2005
Azrael stood silently beside Master Lynch, fighting against his urge to undo the top button of his starched dress shirt that was squeezing his neck like a noose. The tips of the scales along his throat bent at an awkward angle with every inhale. Despite that, his hands remained folded behind his back, as he had been taught, though the tips of his claws punctured the soft flesh of his palms in frustration. In a movement he hoped he wouldn't be reprimanded for; he twitched his wings slightly to combat the stiff feeling surging through them from the unending time he was playing a statue. It was a slow form of torture when he was on guard duty.
Hours had passed since they'd arrived at this clandestine auction, and nothing of notice had happened yet. His employer was seated on the balcony of the private theatre, overlooking all of the lesser-standing attendees crowding the mezzanine and orchestra seating. The auctioneer was calling out varying products for people to bid on. Smuggled weaponry, contracts with mercenaries, trafficking routes in varying countries and costly, stolen merchandise; the standard affairs one could expect from the underbelly of society. However, from the murmurings of the men and women of the room and the fragmented conversation Azrael had heard while feigning sleep in the plush bed of his master's hotel suite, this would be the first auction he had attended that sell something truly valuable – people.
The buyers didn't like to call them that though, preferring 'products' or, more often, 'cattle'. The title of 'person' was reserved for the members of the audience, for the wealthy, for the powerful. For the free. Azrael was not a person, just a useful body, but he knew that he was still higher on the food chain than those dubbed 'cattle'.
Perhaps it was to stop themselves from feeling regret for whatever poor soul that was about to find themselves on that stage, but it took no time for him to doubt that. Azrael couldn't find himself able to believe that a single person in this room had ever experienced a moment of genuine empathy or guilt in their shallow hedonistic lives.
Not that I can claim to be any better.
As if his thoughts had been heard by the auction's organisers, the man bellowing out product names fell silents and the bidding stopped. Juxtaposing the high-octane, powerful voice that had been echoing through the theatre moments before, the auctioneer spoke in a much a softer tone through his microphone now.
"Esteemed quests, I am sure many of you here were waiting eagerly for this moment. So, I am thrilled to announce the main event of this evening has arrive. Prepare your bids for our hand-selected cattle." His voice dripped with malicious ego as the man boasted about the people he had chosen to be thrust into whatever life of torturous servitude their new owners decided for them.
Azrael could feel himself struggling to bite back his disgust, hiding the way his lips tried to curve into a snarl baring his fangs, as he thought about what these animals were willing to do. His stomach churned as he remembered the many days that Master Lynch had said how lucky he was that he had taken him in because he was a decent man. Constantly touting the reality that he could have been on that stage, bought by who-knows and forced to partake in despicable acts.
Those words had only ever been an irritant, nothing of substance. Azrael known since he was little that he wasn't some helpless case that the master had brought under his care as an act of charity; he had been sold as collateral for debt he had nothing to do with, according to Master Lynch. His life was a punishment for the sins of his parents. Azreal was appreciative when he had stopped spewing those lies just under a decade ago because his claims of saving him from acts of depravity had long since been proven false. He was nothing more than a pawn in the master's power struggle against the other gang heads, used for his body and his easily manipulated aggression. He was not a person.
Azrael was a thing. A commodity.
Not one person in this room had any ounce of good left in them, young or old. Everyone was stained with the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike.
Yanked out of his thoughts once more, he watched in revulsion as the first victim was led onto stage like a dog. A collar and chain hung around her neck, like she really was nothing but an animal. In horror, but not surprise, Azrael realised there was no chance that she was older than 7 years old. Just a child, a baby, her voice quivering in terror.
The auctioneer prodded and poked at her, pointing out all of the traits that made her a desirable purchase. She was a common animal-humanoid, a feline, though certainly nothing more than a mongrel so she barely scraped more than a few grand. The highest, winning bid was slightly more than £100k – ridiculously low, for another's life. Azrael strained his eyes in the darkness, frustrated by the fact he had been forced to used contact lenses by Master Lynch – they never functioned as well as his glasses and only left him struggling to see finer details.
She was herded off stage and the auction continued. Not one of the people brought onto the stage was human, always at least a half-breed of sorts. Horned, tailed, winged, it didn't matter – they were chained and paraded as pets. None of them were older than Azrael, not one of them more than around 14. All of them were dressed in plain white vests and just a pair of underwear, allowing them barely an inch of privacy.
He could barely hold back the bile rising in his throat as this continued on, though Azrael felt some strange relief in the fact that his master never once raised that bidding paddle. Perhaps it was gratitude that he didn't have to manhandle a child into the car or be forced to help train that poor child into being whatever autonomous doll that the master needed them to be. A job would be taken from Azrael and given to them, that made sense. He was glad it was only him that had to suffer under the master's wrath. Staring on with his blank face, he hoped it would be over soon, that he could go home to the empty, gloom-shrouded room that was all he could call his.
Finally the auctioneer announced the last product of the evening, the most exquisite item he had chosen for tonight's sale and the one that would undoubtedly go for the most money. Most of the purchases have in the low hundreds of thousands, thought a couple had strayed into the higher side, closer to millions for the older, developed teenagers. This one, the auctioneer claimed, was different, better than all that came before.
"You will be astounded by this product we will be bringing out in just a moment. The perfect specimen to add to a collection that any of you, my wonderful guests, may have." The man grinned sickeningly as he stretched out his arm with a flourish to signal for the last person to be brought onto the stage, to be showcased inthe blinding, boiling spotlight at the centre of it.
After a few seconds that stretched on for an eternity, the heavy footfalls of the man in charge of the children sounded out, stomping onto the stage followed by a small person on a short chain. They seemed no different from the rest – small, skinny, and terrified – but the opinion of the room seemed to change once the light shone down upon them.
The child that stood on the stage couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 years old, but they way they held themselves aged them by several years. Their stance was one of a person who had seen far too much for someone so young. But that was not the reason for the change in the room, the sudden ripple of interest. A collective inhale of fascination.
Thigh-length, perfectly golden hair, though undoubtedly unbrushed and oily from who knows how many days of confinement, glinted in the light. It almost entirely distracted someone from seeing the same-coloured rabbit ears that they had pressed so flatly to their skull that Azrael could only register them when they shot up, swivelling about. The pure colour of the pre-teen before everyone seemed to be the reason that the auctioneer was so excited.
"This here is a rare occurrence – a bonafide, pure-blooded Oryctolagus sapien. Now, yes, that species is nothing to write home about, but one that isn't mixed with a pure human? Or another non-human species? You never see that in the wild, do you?" The man flung his arms wide as he exclaimed this, excited in the most revolting way. "Not only that, but that unique gold you on the top of this one's head, on those ears, is consistent across every furred part of the body. The rabbit even comes pre-trained. The perfect specimen to end this event with, don't you say? Now, bidding starts at £1 million."
Staring at the stage, even though Azrael could hardly make out any of the details of the child's face, he was transfixed by their peculiarly confident, defiant stance. How do they remain so steadfast in the face of all this?
As the bidding raged on, the price rising and rising to astronomical heights, amounts that made Azrael sick to his stomach, he could only stare at the rabbit child on stage. He knew he would not see them again and, even if he did, he probably wouldn't recognise them anyway because of his blurred vision – Azrael couldn't even tell if the kid on stage was a boy or a girl. Perhaps that gold would clue him in, though he was sure their colour would fade in time when they were fed to the hungry wolf who bought them. Regardless, something intrigued Azrael deeply about that pre-teen.
Yet, as fast as they appeared, the bidding ended and they were swept off of the stage in the blink of an eye. Azrael heard himself sigh as he was filled with an odd feeling of disappointment at the fact he couldn't speak to them before they left. Abruptly, there was an aggressive grasp clamping around his arm and, startled, he looked down to see that Mater Lynch was looking up at him, thinly veiled rage behind his eyes. Those unpleasant flecks of grey in his dark brown eyes shone with an unnatural, wrathful fire.
Shit, he heard that. Azrael kept himself still, blinking his eyes mechanically as he realised that his sigh must have been far more audible than he had thought. When on duty, he was not allowed to speak or make any noise unless spoken to first by his employer, lest he face dire consequences. As Azrael filled with dread, he watched Master Lynch stand up, slipping on his jacket before flicking his hand to indicate that he was to follow him out of the establishment and back to the car and chauffeur. The only job that Azrael hadn't had thrust upon his shoulders.
Silently, they walked as his mind reeled in terrified anticipation for what was to come. Despite all of that overwhelming fear, Azrael couldn't help but feel his heart sink as his thoughts drifted aimlessly back to the rabbit standing on that stage. His stomach flipped at the idea of the fate awaiting them, the fact they probably wouldn't make it to 15, let alone to adulthood.
As he climbed into the back of the car, seated next to Master Lynch, Azrael's mind just thought about that kid. Even as the master wrapped his presumptuous, disgusting hand far too up on his tense thigh, indicating what was expected of him for his poor conduct, Azrael just found himself trying to wrap his head around why he felt so attached to a stranger. One he had seen for only a few brief moments. Tiny snippets of life that would drift into obscurity come tomorrow.
Little did I know that that rabbit's fate and mine were far more interlinked than I could have ever guessed.