velesdonnersen | Back on the Doghouse Again...

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Back on the Doghouse Again...

[The doghouse in the backyard of 1126 Taylor Road is turning into Tarvek's personal little corner. He sits on the roof, with just enough shade from a shade tree, and just enough sun, and the doghouse has a flat peak, so he can sit comfortably cross-legged. He's there, today, far more sober than he's been in awhile, in more senses than one.]

[The kids run back and forth, as usual. Tarvek's got Perry mowing the lawn again. Catherine's been on the swings, and then jumped rope for awhile, and then she sat on Tarvek's lap for a bit, and now she's kneeling on the patio drawing with sidewalk chalks, because "Daddy" is up on the doghouse roof drawing himself. He's working in a soft drawing pencils -- wide, flat-leaded ones, slim ones with well-sharpened points. He's drawn the children. He's got a good eye and hand: he trained as a draftsman, of course. Most sparks do. But he's also semi-canonically an actual artist, both sculpture and painting. His drawings of the kids seem to race across the pages of his notebook.]

[But the big picture he's drawing is of someone who is no longer there, and who no longer exists. She's a bland, gentle-faced, vacuous blonde with a pretty smile, a perky nose, a classic 50s wave perm, and a dress that's trim to her upper body, but floofy around the hips and legs: all petticoats and floral print. He's drawn her as though she's just beginning to turn to leave, raising one hand to wave as she goes.]

[Her name was Betty. She was his drone wife. He wasn't in love with her, but he found her gentle, silly, sweet, well-intentioned, and likable. Like all drones replaced by "real" people, she's disappeared without a trace. Not even her photos in the house remain. Her children don't remember her. There's no sign in all of Mayfield she ever lived. Tarvek and his quick little pencils are trying to remedy that.]

You are walking, flying, etc. You see Tarvek, sitting on his doghouse, drawing soberly. His kids bustle around the back yard. Inside you can hear someone new, singing beautifully. Tarvek looks up from his work, sees you, and waves, calling to you in friendship, whether you're a stranger or an associate.

What do you do?

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[He does hear her issue. He gets it. But... he comes at it with a slightly different priority stack.]

It's useful when they underestimate you, you know. Much easier to get away with things if they think you're stupid, weak, and inattentive.

[ She huffs, and turns the car towards the highway. ]

I can survive an city emergency room shift, I can re-wire a sub-woofer and I am a good enough shot to make the skeet team in my undergraduate days.

I am capable of being an independent adult.

It's hard to let go of that.

I'm still not used to thinking of this as a covert mission.

Ah.

Pride. I do understand. It's wonderful to be able to expect to be treated as a gentleman and a capable adult. But... it's a luxury. Sometimes if you want to survive it's actually best to accept the role of buffoon, idiot, simpleton. You learn more, fight less, and people underestimate you when they make their plans.

[Soft]

I lived for most of my life playing that role. Weak, pretentious, naive, misinformed. Unable to fight. I'd thought...

I'd thought I had found people who'd recognize the man of reason and ability under the role.

Unfortunately apparently my disguises have been too effective.

[Fierce reversion to chipper.]

Now, why don't we go where you can run around a bit. I can tell you won't let me behind the wheel here until you've gotten to play, some, first.

[ She chuckles. ]

I did want to test out something I heard about the highway looping back on itself.

Maybe test the high end handling as well.

Very good, m'Lady Ilsa.

Show me what this clanking monster can do!

This is also your chance to get used to the ground speed, you know.

[ At the end of the highway, she smoothly accelerates, leveling out at about 55 mph, scanning for a posted speed limit. ]

So, sometime in the next dozen miles or so, there's supposed to be an edit blip in the loop.

Edit blip?

[Giggle-snort.]

Ok. Edit blip. [smiles... while hanging onto dash and door frame with white fingers.]

It's not the speed, exactly. It was all the movement around us. Here -- it's almost like flying, or skating. Fast, but not terrifying.

I don't suggest you try higher speeds until you're comfortable with your control.

[ She hasn't seen a speed limit sign yet, but she has seen the white knuckles in passing.

[ When they get back to town, she pulls over. ]

So, the highway seems deserted enough. Care to give it a try?

[If only the man knew the right 50s car-songs. He'd be singing about "Oh, Maybelline," and "Hot Rod Lincoln," and "Baby Won't You Ride My Car." He's ready for a machine, oh, yeah, baby...]

Yes!

[Slips out of his seat like a hot-wired weasel, scoots around to open her door, and as she slips out -- the Hand Is There, waiting for the keys like a bell-hop waiting for a tip. As soon as he can he eeeeaaaases his way into the driver's seat. As she gets into her seat...]

I checked the tires and the exterior as I walked around, and looked for rocks, toys, mimmoths, maxi-mimmoths, velociraptors, animated hay-stacks, clanks, mechanical squid, and anything else in the way.

[Carefully and contemplatively checks all mirrors, tests his leg-room (isn't it good they're both tall?), finds the pedals...]

[Cheerful snark....]

Yes. I see. Definitely.

So... tell me, madame-teacher, what does what? It's going to take more than turning the key, and turning the wheel, isn't it?

Right - the pedal on the right is the accelerator. The pedal on the left is the driving brake.

Way over on the far left there are some more controls you should know about from reading the owner's manual.

[ She gives him a cheeky smile.

Take it easy with both on this first run-through.

[ She settles in, exuding calm relaxation. ]

[Ooooh, she's put him on his mettle. A challenge, eh? Fortunately he has been reading his manual, and has further looked long and hard at all the widgets and levers and such. He sets his feet carefully, sets one foot on the brake for extra security, turns the ignition, and, as the engine revs, eases lightly on the gas.]

[He smiles at the rumbling response, and he plays for a second, seeing how the gas revs the engine, and slacks off as he releases pressure. He nods to himself. He releases the safety brake, checks in all directions, puts the car into drive, and, with a sly look from under his lashes, eases out onto the highway. He plays gingerly with the speed, wobbles the steering wheel to test response, pulls over, carefully pulls out again, this time turning to go the other way... and pulls to the side only as they're returning to Mayfield again.]

[Looks sidewise, and smiles.]

I do confess: that's the simple part. I need to practice more before I attempt traffic. But I didn't kill us yet.

Another reason to choose the sedan was the automatic transmission. The convertible is going to need a weekend or so to get used to it.

[ She hasn't made a move to exit the car.

So, late afternoon, light traffic, where do you want to drive?

Edited 2011-05-14 05:28 (UTC)

[Gneep. Ok. He's game. But he has no place he needs to go right now... and he's too Europan mannerly to just suggest he go to her house. He takes the manipulative route, and lets her choose...]

Nowhere in particular. I'll let you navigate, while I worry about the traffic.

[ She chuckles, ] Fair enough. Think you can make it to your office building from here?

[Fortunately Mayfield is not exactly a complex layout. He thinks he might even be able to manage it without her help... not that he's going to say so. He reviews all the little rules in the booklet he found in the library... one of the few useful bits of printed material he's found there. Takes a deep breath.]

Yes. I think I can manage.

[Starts the car, eases into his lane, and proceeds cautiously. He has a bit of trouble timing his stops -- he gets honked at once or twice, to his dismay. But he does well, and they end up at work.]

Would you like to come in? I've told them I have someone working part-time for me, as a light-labor secretary. I can introduce you, and then if you need to come in some time they'll know who you are.

It's a drone office. They're not much company, but they do insist on minding the rules.

Someone will be in the office this late?

Or is this the place you've been doing your printing?

That reminds me, I could do with another couple of maps. I've given away most of my blank ones.

I've been using the mimeograph here, yes. Once they showed me how.

It's ingenious -- and it gives me a headache when I try to figure out how it works. [Sigh]

People will be here. They... I hate to say they pretend to be slaving hard over intense cases, but the truth is I can find very little law actually being practiced in Mayfield. Most of what they are doing is the same work they did the day before, but they seem to have forgotten they did it.

[He does a full check of the car, including the hand brake, slips out, opens her door, and offers his arm.]

In any case, they always have a person or two "burning the midnight oil" as they say, "working on a major contract for a big client." [Shrugs.] The good part is I have the same client come in every day to see me about a will. The bad news is I'm getting more and more tempted to start saying insane things just to entertain myself.

Hmm...

[ Yes, it's an office. The equipment is antiquated by her standards. But it's easy enough to locate the supplies needed to make the copies. ]

I'm afraid you'll have to show me how to use one of these things, they were being phased out before I was born.

[ She continues in a quiet undertone ]

The maps are making getting the new residents settled easier. I haven't been putting all of the annotations on them, just most of the public locations and the offices. Well, and marking their home locations for them.

[He's quiet and competent as he shows her where he's stored the master stencil of his drawing of the map. He takes it from its file folder, fits it in place on the mimeo drum, explaining as he goes how the stencil is cut with a stylus, how it's protected when not in use, how the mimeo machine forces ink through the tracings onto paper.]

It's quite ingenious, though I'm not sure why the ink is purple. That seems odd, to me. There's a very noticeable smell, too: it's comforting, like being in a laboratory back home.

[In a far more normal tone of voice than she used.]

It was a good idea deciding to make maps for the Welcome Wagon. So difficult for new neighbors to find their way around, otherwise. It was a clever, neighborly idea. No, no. There shouldn't be any trouble so long as I record the use and pay for it. The office is always glad to support the community, Mrs. Cho.

There. Let me introduce you to some people. Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones,and Mr. Doe are all here, tonight. Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Cho. She's been doing some typing for me, and she told me she was making maps for the Welcome Wagon, to help newcomers find their way around our little 'burg more easily. Should I just put fifty cents in the office petty cash box to cover the cost of the mimeos?

No, no, do let me. Honest is as honest does, after all! [Chipper, pleasant, beaming. Opens a drawer, opens an unlocked box, tosses in two quarters (he's learned that much currency, anyway), and then adds,]

If Mrs. Cho comes by someday with papers for me, and I'm not in, will you let her into my office? Thanks. She's been a great little worker bee, and I'm happy to know you'll take good care of her if she needs to leave something off.

Shall I drop you back home, ma'am?

Yes, thank you... sir.

[ She knows it's an act for the drones, but it still makes her uncomfortable. And it provides protective coloration. ]

[ She's quiet until they get back to the car. ]

Thanks for the cover story.

[ Still a bit subdued. Her eyes flick up to the office windows, and she seats herself in the passenger side. ]

You're welcome.

[Gingerly starts the car.]

Where next?

I'm... sorry the drones bother you so much. Or was it having to put up with being Nice Mrs. Cho, the typist?

I'm not sure... I think it was going undercover cold.

[ She's staring out the windshield, not giving any directions for him to follow. ]

It's been a long time since I had to improv, so I guess I'm just rusty.

I know, I know - you've had to do it all your life and what was all that I said about hiding things I did back home?

[ She sighs. ]

Back home it was easier to bury them in paperwork, sometimes.

[He's worried for her, now. Zoning out is seldom a sign of a happy little spark.]

[Quiet]

Paper's useful. I'm not at all unhappy when I can cover my tracks with red tape, bureaucratic mazes, and paperwork.

I'm sorry... I'm sorry it bothers you. But stepping into the role is second nature to me. I warned you. I'm...

You can trust me to do things like that. Without warning. You can trust me to turn into what I have to, to keep us safe.

But -- that means you can't trust me not to turn into Mr. Small Town Lawyer on a moment's notice, or pretend...

Or pretend...

[Very serious.]

If it's what it takes to keep us safe, I'll pretend to be an underhanded, boot-licking traitor-sycophant in a shaved-second. If it's what it takes I'll throw together an entire plan, and even factor in the fact that you have no idea what I am doing...

I may even factor in that you don't trust me, because you don't know what I'm doing and I'm acting like an underhanded, boot-licking traitor-sycophant. I've done it before. I'll do it again.

I'm sorry. But that's been trained in too deep for me to even pretend it's going to change. It would take a long time in a place a lot safer than Mayfield to let go of that habit.

[ She nods, then realizes he's supposed to be watching the road. ]

I know, I understand. I just have to get better at switching gears, here.

I've even played the ditzy decorative accessory before, and well enough that they never saw me switch the daggers! But... it's been a long time since I've run a scam.

[ She laughs, but it isn't a happy sound. ]

I'm getting too old for the ingenue roles, especially here.

You're the perfect age to start pretending to be "just a nice little good-wife." The people who trained me made a point of teaching the girl students the different stereotypes they could play to, and were cold as carbon dioxide ice about accepting the roles that weren't flattering.

Personally, I think you're... magnificent. The perfect age. The age everyone wishes they could be forever. But you're right. That's too old for ingenue. Agatha's the age for ingenue. For what it's worth, it's a weaker position. People fixate on the ingenue.

[grumbles]

Where do you want to go. I have to either have directions, or find a place to park. I've begun to overload.

Back on the Doghouse Again...

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