Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, the two black labs at MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.
Author's Notes: This is my first WaM fic, and the word ‘blood’ inspired some writing that is kinda different to my usual fare. Thanks to Wonky for the support and the beta, and thanks to Ruth for the beta and the encouragement, despite me wondering from the 3rd person path – I know I know, I’m a traitor to our cause Roof, forgive me!
PS: this fic is now in the process of a rewrite, but it's taking its sweet time. Thanks Yoof and Shanilka for your honest feedback, i'll finish it before you hit seventy i promise!

fresh blood

Ah, new blood. Fresh meat.

The greatest pleasure I find in my job as a slave-trader is that of breaking in new slaves. Some say I'm sadistic, and maybe they are right, but there is something so desirable about finding a really untouched, innocent soul, and making them all yours. Bending them to your will, creating something new, controlled and compliant that you know will sell. Children are the best kind of blank-slate, and they are often heart-breakingly willing to do your bidding. But even my apparently twisted psyche can see shame in manipulating that, and besides, they present no challenge.

This one - that my best hunter Ferla now drags in - is no innocent soul, no untouched man. He wears clothes of strange design, evidently made with efficiency and in co-ordination with the other equipment that he wears. This suggests organisation and the involvement of some group of people with a common purpose. Some kind of society, race or army and, therefore, training.
No, definitely not an innocent. Ferla drags him along the ground with contempt and anger. Pulling him by his booted feet and carelessly letting his head knock against pebbles and rocks - the man unaware, unconscious.
It is unlike Ferla to act so carelessly towards a potential slave, so this man must have done something impressive to have earned the rage of my right-hand man. Ferla sports a bloody cut across his temple, but I can see no equivalent wound on the captured man. His arms are trailing limply along the muddy ground and his left hand is entangled with a strap that in turn trails a black device. It too bounces unevenly as it is dragged after its owner.

His thick green shirt is bunched up under his arms with the movement, probably affording his shoulders some protection, but I am slightly concerned for his head. One thing that I know is sure to limit the selling capacity of a slave is permanent damage.
Damage certainly doesn't prevent business altogether - indeed when I first started trading it was of no concern at all. My business was encouraged and fanned by the Goa'uld, when they realised that I was of more use to them as a resource than as an actual host. I had people at my disposal - people that followed and trusted me, and the Goa'uld gave me a steady source of demand for slaves and hosts. In turn, I found that the Goa'uld provided me a way to travel the stars, reach out to new races and sources of business that brought wonderful and alien rewards for the service I offered. Damage still doesn't mark a slave useless - many of my sales are to parasitic races capable of healing their hosts, or races that do not require beings for function - merely food.
But this one looks strong and fresh, perhaps a little special compared to the usual scum I process, and I am eager to see if I can deal for his full worth.

Ferla nears me and I see some unfamiliar emotion on his face - perhaps a hint of desperation? Doubt? His pace increases as he draws closer to the centre of the compound, and I suddenly wonder where his team is. They often go out hunting with him and then split up, but rarely do they return in groups of less than three. I am anxious now to hear what has transpired and I move towards an open pen, standing by the heavy bamboo door as he drags his unconscious catch over to me. He walks past me into the empty cage and then lets go of the man's booted feet, letting them drop to the floor with a thump.

I take a closer look at my new slave's face, as Ferla moves round to grapple with the black device tangled with the man's arm and shirt. His hair is grey and mussed, filled with mud now and wetted from the rough journey. His face is tanned and lined and incredibly relaxed as he lies limp, oblivious to his predicament.

Ferla tugs the man's arm in frustration, unable to free the mess of straps and clips that adorn his clothing. Finally he seems to find something on the black outer vest and it falls away from the black t-shirt. Ferla gives a hefty tug and the man's body jerks bonelessly as his black equipment and green garment comes away, leaving him in his black t-shirt and green trousers. My hunter rises up to stand straight, clutching the bulky equipment with a small measure of triumph. He likes his toys.
'This one makes much noise,' he remarks, his jaw still tense as he motions to the black device at the end of the strap, 'and it kills quickly too.' I wonder who it has killed to make Ferla so affected. He rips his eyes away from his new acquisitions and looks to me with intense worry, 'they fight well - those that belong to this one,' he waves to the unconscious man at our feet, 'and they will come looking.'

I am affected too, by his concern, 'and can we not fight them? Did you not take this one - their leader?'
Ferla nods, but I fear he believes we are in danger still. Perhaps we are. 'Ferla, take your new weapons and gather your men, set a defence for us and be on your guard for me. Organise yourself.' He nods again, more sharply this time, but his eyes are slightly unfocused. I hope that he was not injured so severely that his judgement was impaired, I hope he has not brought a foe too difficult to handle.

He is gone in a second and I know he will do his job well, despite his endurance at this slave's hands. I have many men at my disposal and with each holding a weapon I have an impressive army. I turn my attentions back to my newest slave, kneeling down by the man's side.
I give myself a moment to listen to his breathing, establishing that it is slow and steady and is void of pretence or trickery. Despite my confidence I draw my hunting knife from its sheath and grip it steadily in my left hand. Moving to kneel at his head, I grip his shoulders and heave him up into a sitting position, planting one knee into the small off his back to prevent him collapsing. His head rolls forward lifelessly and his arms dangle at his sides as I balance him in that position. I am dismayed to see his hair matted and sticky with blood at the back - most likely the cause of his unconsciousness, and most likely caused by Ferla.

Peering closely and pulling at the silvered hair, I succeed in finding a dark line that oozes blood. The surrounding bone stays firm when I push at it, so I am not concerned over a pulverised skull. The gash, however, is bleeding quite freely. I tut unconsciously and push the matted hair back over the damage, hoping it will stem the bleeding until I can provide some better aid. As my eye leaves his head it is caught by a scar sitting to the side of his neck, and my heart falls. A thick white line, raised and not a few years old yet - I know exactly what it is. I cannot sell a Goa'uld, they are impossible to shift and are almost always more trouble than they are worth. I lower the man gently down to the ground, frowning. Surely Ferla would have noticed if the man were a Goa'uld - he knows not to try and catch such prey. Not only are they a curse to capture, but they are ridiculously difficult to process.

No, perhaps this man's story is different. I know that symbiotes can leave their hosts if they choose to so it is not entirely impossible that this man has evaded his fate as a host. I nod to myself, happy to conclude this for the time being. Reaching out and gripping his bicep I squeeze and am pleased to feel adequate dense musculature there. Running a thumb around to the back of his upper arm I can feel a sufficiently raised deltoid muscle – indicating use and strength. Shifting lower and pushing down on his chest through the black fabric I can feel the outline of muscles there too, and I am hopeful for this one's abilities.

Turnover has been slow recently, and the hunting grounds have been vastly lessened as trouble continues to disrupt the Goa'uld power structure, and therefore disturbs my methods of travelling from planet to planet. Warriors and fighters have been virtually non-existent recently, and my business would benefit greatly from this kind of merchandise. I find myself wondering if the people that this one was with are as promising as he. If so, then Ferla will endure a challenge catching them - but the rewards would be great.
My eyes are drawn to the awkward position of his right leg, lifted slightly off the ground, and I see black straps wrapping around his thigh there. Moving closer I paw a clip and the straps fall away. With a sharp tug they pull free from below his unmoving leg and reveal another weapon of some kind, a twisting shaped device sitting in the straps.

Finding a small button, I push it down and the device uncurls in my hands with a mechanical whine. I jump at its sudden movement, and think myself lucky I did not injure myself. I decide to push no other buttons until I can ascertain exactly what they do. Wary now, I do another check of the man, patting his sides and front for more concealed weaponry. I find nothing, but suddenly I hear his breathing change and I rise to my feet swiftly. I may have experience with slaves and unwilling captives, but something tells me I don't want to be in the cage with this man when he awakens. I close and lock the slatted door behind me and stand outside the pen, facing inwards and watching through the bamboo bars.

I see him stir gently, his body shifting imperceptibly. He moves in millimetres, testing for injuries and confinements, trying to ascertain his situation without alerting anyone else of his consciousness. Yes, definitely trained. I see him move his head slightly and then his face creases slowly, the pain registering in a furrowed forehead as he ceases the movement immediately. I wonder how bad it is - the fact that he is conscious is a good sign, but head injuries can be very debilitating and damaging, and I find myself eager for him to stand, or try to stand - so I can see how badly he is hurt. His hands shift straight to his chest, fumbling when they find none of the equipment that they expected, and then they go to his thigh, searching for the weapon that I removed moments before. Finally - given no other choice - he opens his eyes a crack. Rolling them around somewhat lazily he plants his hands palm down on the ground and lifts his head, heaving himself into a haphazard sitting position.

He closes his eyes and leans heavily on his arms, sitting for a moment listening. He is obviously feeling the effects of the damage to his head and he cautiously moves his right hand up to his scalp, probing and then hissing quietly as he finds the gash. His hand comes away slick with blood and he lets it slide between his fingers without opening his eyes – only to aware what it is and what it means. He may also be aware already that he is confined, I do not know, and I am not anxious to underestimate him. His eyes open again, and he turns his head slowly to face me, his gaze locking with mine finally. No, definitely not innocent. For a brief second my doubt is clear - that I could never train this one, never break this one to my will. But even if this is so I can sell him as a host and it would still be worth the risk taken. I hope it will be worth the men that Ferla so obviously lost.

His eyes are bloodshot as they stare at me, assessing and exploring, constantly searching. They are deep and they add eons to his face when they are open, they bring age, feeling, meaning to a face etched with worry-lines. Staring into such a colourful past makes for so much more interest than the peasants that I have been forced to trade recently. The man's eyes dart away for a second, his head turning carefully as he looks around, and then he looks back to me through the bamboo bars.

'So, who are you, the zookeeper?'

His flippant tone shocks me, not at all what I was expecting from such an expressive face, such a serious gaze. I mentally add more dimensions to his character even as I watch him lean forwards and struggle to get to his knees. He is finding it difficult, and his face is pale as he breathes hard, but he gets to his knees and from there he launches himself unsteadily to his feet. Swaying for a moment I fear he will tip over, but he stays upright and I feel a surge of pride - my new slave, fuelled by determination and power that I will soon sell as my own. He is tall when he is standing straight, and his strides are long as he covers the distance between where he stands and the cage bars. I step casually backwards are he comes up to the bamboo, so that I am safely out of reach.

'Now come on,' he continues, leaning in to the bars heavily - trying to appear as though he doesn't need their support, 'don't tell me you're the silent type, 'cos I get enough of that with junior. I can cope with monosyllabic if you're shy.'
He gives a strange quirk of his mouth when he says the word 'monosyllabic' as if it were strange or unexpected in some way. He looks around, squinting his eyes. His gaze rests on my other slaves that are in cages nearby, and I know he has intelligence enough to realise what kind of situation he is in.

‘Or,’ he continues with a sigh, ‘we could try one poke for yes, two pokes for no.’
I do not understand many of his terms, and decide to largely ignore his light-toned speech, instead offering him a deal that I am almost convinced he will not accept, 'if I let you talk to your people - will you tell them to surrender without fight?'
He snorts harshly, and then closes his eyes briefly, his bloodied hand moving unconsciously towards his head. He seems about to answer me, but anything he may have said was lost as a startling burst of noise assaults the air around us. A harsh tinny clapping noise blasts continuously somewhere very close and I hear a strange whistle zip past my ear. I duck automatically, falling to my haunches as I sense him do the same but in a slightly less controlled manner. I am distracted enough by the noise that I do not immediately see the man’s movement to my side – he reaches out quickly and grasps the end of one of the straps connected to the weapon I took from him. He yanks it hard and I am pulled unceremoniously to my side on the ground. Panicking I snap my wrist round and punch down hard on the weapons most obvious button. A loud whine accompanies a burst of blue light that streams from the device, reaching out and encircling my slave.

I stagger to my feet clutching the weapon as I watch him fall back, the light dancing over his frame as he collapses to the ground. I hope I have not further injured him as he writhes on the muddy floor, his limbs twitching and his face distorted with pain. I am so involved in watching his agony that I forget the attack for a moment, and merely stand stupidly, fascinated by the man as he calms slowly, lying jerking occasionally in the dirt. Apparently regaining some sense, he rolls onto his side with a groan – and I realise that lying on his back would put pressure on his damaged head. A nearby zipping noise makes me crouch down once again, and I stare at the weapon in my hand, trying to guess at what kind of sensation it creates. Looking at the man, with his creased eyes and tight jaw, I imagine it produces pain quite efficiently.

The noise increases and I feel my panic rising as I whip round to try and spot Ferla. I see the compound in chaos as my men run in every direction, vaulting the surrounding walls in efforts to escape. I see no bodies and am confused as to why they flee, my men are no cowards. I work my way towards the noise, my blood pounding and my ears echoing with the harsh clapping that fills the air. Glancing around a stockade, I see what I know must be my new slave's people - dressed similarly and wielding their weapons with a comfort borne of familiarity. I see a lone few figures lying prone on the floor, my men, and I see now that we were too bold to try and go up against these ones. Ferla is nowhere to be seen, and I ascertain that he is probably wise to make himself scarce. I observe with some relief that the strangers are using their strange twisted weapons on my men – the one that I used on my slave. I can see the blue light encompass a few remaining figures as they fall to the ground, twitching. They are merely using their black devices for noise and I am suddenly struck by a thought – Ferla came back as if his men were killed, but I am now wondering whether they were simply stunned by these blue weapons. I hope this is the case, and I wish I could inform Ferla. I hope that in his rage he does not do something regretful.

I find that I am not dismayed to find that we are losing a slave, perhaps a whole batch of slaves, because to encounter these people has been an experience. I do not find it in myself to become bitter. I do not honestly think that I could have broken the man anyhow - I would have failed, and he would have ended up another body in a sea of nameless hosts.

Perhaps the fault was Ferla's, but I do not find it in myself to blame him either. I skip hastily to the side and climb the slanting slope that forms one defence wall to our compound. I observe that these people are not hurting any of my men without good reason, so I feel safe to crouch down among the bushes in a position where I can watch their progress through my slave compound.
My men have soon dissolved into the countryside and the three green-clad figures are given a clear path to the cage where I have locked their friend. He is on his knees now, a bar in each hand and his head pushed forward between the bamboo for support. He is watching them carefully - but without panic, he trusts them completely I see.

My ears still ringing from the noisy weaponry, I cannot hear their words as they meet at the cage. But my freed slave appears calm and he makes no effort to move as they fire a few times into the door of the pen. It swings open and the woman of the group moves in to help him. I watch him pull himself to his feet and shrug off her hands as she moves to his head in concern. Her disgruntled annoyance looks practised, and I am momentarily jealous of the camaraderie that this group obviously harbours. I feel that I am observing something precious, something that perhaps I wish I had. I have my men, and I have my trusted hunters, but in truth I have no-one but employees and employers. And my slaves. Those that I create and stamp and then sell on.

The man leaves the cage on shaky legs and I cannot help but smile slightly at the way his people shadow his every step - cautious that he doesn't trip or fall. When his knee buckles beneath him there are strong arms nearby to encircle his waist and prevent him hitting the ground. The smaller man of the group offers him his shoulders and they walk together, arms locked in support and feet stepping in time.

I watch them make their way from the compound, as they open what cages I own and release what slaves I currently have, leading the scared figures away to the edges of my land. I don't know where Ferla is, and a part of me severely hopes he is somewhere far away, not able to work that strange noisy weapon that he took from the man he captured. I look down to the twisted piece of equipment in my hands, taken from the man that was almost my most challenging slave. I have no desire to use it, I have no desire to recapture the man. He was similar to the Goa'uld in only one way - more trouble than he was worth.

The small group moves closer and closer to the horizon, their recovered leader being supported amongst them. I climb stiffly down from the slope, surveying my empty compound. I may have gained two new weapons out of this – the one I now grip and the black device that Ferla somewhere holds. They are useful acquisitions, and the like of which the Goa’uld would never provide us. But I have lost a full month’s batch of slaves, and I do not know how many of my men were fatally injured, or simply will not return.

I let a sigh escape my lips and shrug my shoulders in an attempt to calm my beating heart, maybe that particular blood was a little too fresh.