aimed at willneversayyes, but can rerolldixietechMay 17 2013, 15:03:53 UTC
He doesn't know how long he's been there. Or who he really is.
He'd been found wandering the side of the road near a broken down old motel. No one went to the Elysian Fields, there were rumors the place was haunted. Cursed with the blood of old gods. And because he wasn't completely human, he was captured and sold to the nearest slave market.
They called him Bill after awhile. He needed a name beyond 'you'. So Bill kept his head down, moving from owner to owner, finally staying with one for a couple of years when the old man discovered he had gift with technology. The quiet slave could take apart and rebuild a computer from scratch in only a few hours.
So that was currently posted on his collar. Technically skilled. Computer aptitude. Docile.
(I had an idea for an AU where Mouse's parents, upon seeing her grades from college, buy a slave to keep her in line and make sure she goes to classes and what-not. Are you interested?)
When the delivery man arrived at Mouse's tiny apartment off-campus with a leashed slave in tow, she glared. Her parents had threatened to buy a slave just to babysit her, and now here he was, on her doorstep. The delivery man turned over the keys to his collar, and Mouse simply had to roll her eyes. "I'm not going to let you be a burden to me, no matter what my parents want you to do. Now, get in here, and let's talk."
He was getting to be an old hand at this. But keeping an eye on a college student? Bill was starting to wonder just how delusional some of these rich people were. He was a slave, not a miracle worker.
"Wasn't sent to be a burden," he offers in a quietly accented voice. "But what you want me to do is up to you." Because once the papers were signed, he belonged to her, and it was her decision now. Never his.
"You'll call me Mouse. I ever hear you call me Davida, I'll...probably get huffy about it. You'll sleep on the couch, unless you prefer the floor for whatever reason. Under no circumstances will you enter my bedroom, unless you suspect that I am in immediate danger." She crosses her arms, thinking. "Do you have a name you're attached to?"
mmediate danger? His eyebrows loft for only a brief moment before he schools his features into something a little more neutral. How much trouble could a college student really get into? The couch was at least something. Better than a pallet on the floor, which he’d been sleeping on for the most part since he’d been found.
“My last owner called me Tuck.” The papers said his name was Bill, a name he only vaguely remembered. But his last owner had been a kinder old man, and he’d grown to like the somewhat odd name.
Tuck keeps his eyes lowered, waiting for instruction. He’d been bought to keep her apartment in order, take care of things around the house so she could focus on her studies, apparently. The computer setup in the corner catches his attention and he can’t quite control the finger twitch at the sight. It was the one thing that really made sense. Tech. Things he could take apart and put back together.
It may not help that the computer in that corner (a friend's, not the elaborate set-up in her bedroom) is already currently apart, and Mouse is obviously mid-putting it back together. A simple project, really, installing extra RAM and cleaning the dust off the vents so it won't overheat so readily.
She looks Tuck over thoughtfully. "Tuck. Friar, Everlasting, or Tuckleberry Finn?"
Slaves weren’t supposed to have last names, they weren’t supposed to have identies beyond what their current owner wanted of them. Names were changed from owner to owner sometimes, and it was hard to hang on to what you had been. Cling too hard and you might wind up paying for it in brutal and unexpected ways. So Bill does what he always does. He lies. Gives the owner a half-truth in favor of what was real. His identity was his, the only thing he was ever able to keep.
“He never said. Just started calling me that one day and never stopped.”
His eyes flick back to the computer. “It needs a better heat sink. The vent is too small.”
It’s his job to help, right? So he may as well start somewhere.
The clear knowledge of how computers work startles her. It hadn't occurred to her that her parents would have gotten her a slave who knew anything about computers. Most weren't allowed to so much as touch them. "I'd been realizing that. I mean, when Hatter said he was literally putting a fan next to it, I thought he was being overcautious."
She bites her lower lip, thinking quickly before offering Tuck a broad smile. "Do...you want to help me with this? An extra set of eyes is never a bad thing. I mean, unless the trip here tired you out or something. I don't know."
The entire day had been draining. Taken from the slave quarters before dawn, run through the usual medical exams and blood tests before he’d been shoved in the back of a truck and driven halfway across the state to his new owner. They’d neglected to feed him and he’d only been able to doze a bit in the back of the truck. But the prospect of being allowed to work on computers again helped and Tuck nodded, the faintest smile flickering across his face before he drops his eyes again.
“My last owner ran a computer shop. I did the repairs in the back, wrote some code to fix programs too.”
He wants to take the entire thing apart, make sure nothing else is wrong, but Tuck knows better. He’ll let her take the lead and follow to the computer and offer what help he can while she works.
((So I’m thinking this could go one of two ways. Angstville, or Tuck is a little more reminiscent of a Roman house slave. He runs things at home, talks to Mouse, it’s almost friendship without threats or memories of his less than happy past. Thoughts?))
((I favor the latter. I need something fluffy in my life.))
"Huh. How good are you?" Mouse knows she's better with software, creating (often malicious little) programs, than with hardware. But people want their computer experts to be multifaceted. Perhaps with Tuck here, she can be.
((Whew. Good, me too. I like me the angst, but fluff is definitley the order of the day. And the tech stuff I’m pulling totally out of my hat..))
“I replaced hard drives, restored old memory, installed new motherboards, anything that needed to be taken apart.” The tension in his stance started to melt away as he bent close to examine the computer. Frowning, he tapped at the larger silver box towards the top of the tower. “If it’s running that hot, the power supply might be dodgy.” Absently he picked up one of the small screwdrivers, spinning it in his fingers as he looked the setup over.
“I did code work too, testing things that refused to compile, or just going over the lines until I found why something was segfaulting out.” His eyes flicked up to hers, a silent request for permission before he really dug into the guts of the computer.
She nods slowly. "And while you're doing that, I'll order us a pizza." As in, to share. Because how does one even begin to fix computers without pizza, right? Perhaps it's terribly obvious that she's naive and he's her first slave. "Are you allergic to anything?" His preferences, she's not asking. Slaves eat anything, everyone knows that. But she'd rather not make him sick.
At the slow nod, Tuck immediately sets to work, getting the case apart and laying the rest of the system bare. Computers were easier, they had rules, they made sense. Being a slave? That was trickier to deal with, especially being an older slave. If you weren’t useful, you didn’t last nearly as long.
The mention of food draws a relieved look that he’s quick to hide by ducking his head. “Anchovies. Any kind of fish, really.” Slaves couldn’t afford to be picky when they were being fed. You ate what you were given and you ate all of it because there was no telling when there might be more.
While she made the call, he scratched beneath his collar and peered a little closer at the computer. This, he could do. This he was good at.
She orders a large deep-dish with sausage and onions, and a side of breadsticks, before moving to sit beside Tuck and watch him work. It's not so much critical as hoping to learn from him--he is older, so it stands to reason that he'd have much more experience and a few tricks to pass on.
There's something so innocent in how she trusts him not to just stab her with the screwdriver.
"I'll try to remember about your seafood allergy. If I forget, you're welcome to remind me. I don't want to harm you, okay? Likewise, if I'm pulling an all-nighter, or I'm marathon-repairing something, and I forget to eat, you can remind me you haven't been fed."
He'd been found wandering the side of the road near a broken down old motel. No one went to the Elysian Fields, there were rumors the place was haunted. Cursed with the blood of old gods. And because he wasn't completely human, he was captured and sold to the nearest slave market.
They called him Bill after awhile. He needed a name beyond 'you'. So Bill kept his head down, moving from owner to owner, finally staying with one for a couple of years when the old man discovered he had gift with technology. The quiet slave could take apart and rebuild a computer from scratch in only a few hours.
So that was currently posted on his collar. Technically skilled. Computer aptitude. Docile.
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When the delivery man arrived at Mouse's tiny apartment off-campus with a leashed slave in tow, she glared. Her parents had threatened to buy a slave just to babysit her, and now here he was, on her doorstep. The delivery man turned over the keys to his collar, and Mouse simply had to roll her eyes. "I'm not going to let you be a burden to me, no matter what my parents want you to do. Now, get in here, and let's talk."
Reply
"Wasn't sent to be a burden," he offers in a quietly accented voice. "But what you want me to do is up to you." Because once the papers were signed, he belonged to her, and it was her decision now. Never his.
Reply
Reply
“My last owner called me Tuck.” The papers said his name was Bill, a name he only vaguely remembered. But his last owner had been a kinder old man, and he’d grown to like the somewhat odd name.
Tuck keeps his eyes lowered, waiting for instruction. He’d been bought to keep her apartment in order, take care of things around the house so she could focus on her studies, apparently. The computer setup in the corner catches his attention and he can’t quite control the finger twitch at the sight. It was the one thing that really made sense. Tech. Things he could take apart and put back together.
Reply
She looks Tuck over thoughtfully. "Tuck. Friar, Everlasting, or Tuckleberry Finn?"
Reply
“He never said. Just started calling me that one day and never stopped.”
His eyes flick back to the computer. “It needs a better heat sink. The vent is too small.”
It’s his job to help, right? So he may as well start somewhere.
Reply
She bites her lower lip, thinking quickly before offering Tuck a broad smile. "Do...you want to help me with this? An extra set of eyes is never a bad thing. I mean, unless the trip here tired you out or something. I don't know."
Reply
“My last owner ran a computer shop. I did the repairs in the back, wrote some code to fix programs too.”
He wants to take the entire thing apart, make sure nothing else is wrong, but Tuck knows better. He’ll let her take the lead and follow to the computer and offer what help he can while she works.
((So I’m thinking this could go one of two ways. Angstville, or Tuck is a little more reminiscent of a Roman house slave. He runs things at home, talks to Mouse, it’s almost friendship without threats or memories of his less than happy past. Thoughts?))
Reply
"Huh. How good are you?" Mouse knows she's better with software, creating (often malicious little) programs, than with hardware. But people want their computer experts to be multifaceted. Perhaps with Tuck here, she can be.
Reply
“I replaced hard drives, restored old memory, installed new motherboards, anything that needed to be taken apart.” The tension in his stance started to melt away as he bent close to examine the computer. Frowning, he tapped at the larger silver box towards the top of the tower. “If it’s running that hot, the power supply might be dodgy.” Absently he picked up one of the small screwdrivers, spinning it in his fingers as he looked the setup over.
“I did code work too, testing things that refused to compile, or just going over the lines until I found why something was segfaulting out.” His eyes flicked up to hers, a silent request for permission before he really dug into the guts of the computer.
Reply
Reply
The mention of food draws a relieved look that he’s quick to hide by ducking his head. “Anchovies. Any kind of fish, really.” Slaves couldn’t afford to be picky when they were being fed. You ate what you were given and you ate all of it because there was no telling when there might be more.
While she made the call, he scratched beneath his collar and peered a little closer at the computer. This, he could do. This he was good at.
Reply
There's something so innocent in how she trusts him not to just stab her with the screwdriver.
"I'll try to remember about your seafood allergy. If I forget, you're welcome to remind me. I don't want to harm you, okay? Likewise, if I'm pulling an all-nighter, or I'm marathon-repairing something, and I forget to eat, you can remind me you haven't been fed."
Reply
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