Hero's Manual: Chapter 2
Sep. 13th, 2006 12:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sickle_storiesA/N:Quasi was originally based on Terry Pratchett’s long-suffering Igors, particullarly the one in Carpe Jugulum, who greatly dislikes his new master. He quickly became much too sane for the story, even more so than Gwen, and thus is my favorite (but still long-suffering) character.
Chapter 2: Enter Secondary Character (With a Grudge)
The silver sparkled. It gleamed. It shone gloriously in the sunlight. It was a work of art. It was the greatest creation to be spit-cleaned on the face of the planet. If it were any cleaner it would blind every one in the living room.
The butler was getting a bit carried away with the polishing.
Fortunately, only he was in the room, and therefore no accidental blindings could occur. His own eyes had acquired a strong resistance to bright light after years of polishing.
He straightened up, an unsettling pop erupting from between his vertebrae, and ran the polishing cloth across his forehead. This left an unsightly black smudge across just above his eyebrows, giving the disturbing suggestion of an extra pair of eyebrows. The butler had been so concentrated he’s forgotten to have breakfast. Or dinner, for that matter. He wondered idly if his master had ventured to eat the egg salad sandwich from last week that had turned a bright neon orange in the fridge.
Mind you, he’d tried everything to get rid of the bastard.
The young butler, quite a marvel in his old Academy, had a reputation that preceded him. That is, his father had gotten him this job, though the effort had nearly bankrupted the family. It is not that his son was a lousy butler, just that he tended to over-polish and over-steep. The one asset, unfortunately, did not forgive the injuries to tea that Butler Jr. did every evening. If, that is, he remembered to serve tea at all.
But perhaps we are being too harsh on our secondary character. The main point is that his master, Vicky, was content to have him, and did not often complain. (Well, there had been that first occasion, now whispered in hushed tones at the neighborhood bar The Dark Closet and referred to as The Incident. Or, if they were feeling brave, as the incident with the fork and that three-foot candlestick with the little grape detail on the end.)
One other point in favour of our new character is that he looked every inch a butler, and then some. He was the type of person strangers would go up to in a store, asking where they could find one just like this, deary, only bright orange, without this silly lace frock and in a size eighteen. Even at a young age people hadn’t needed to ask what he wanted to be when he grew up: he’d been destined to look like, and be, a Jeeves.
Someone was going to pay for that.
Suddenly he heard his master’s voice, coming from the garden in a strangled tone.
“Quasi!”
The young butler fumed, caressed the trophy candlestick, and turned smartly on his heel.
“Yes, Master Vic,” he said, walking smoothly towards his master. He stood by quietly, calming himself by counting how many candlesticks he had left for their triple polish.
Said master was kneeling in the mud, leaves sticking out of his collar and a bloody scratch down his nose, frantically digging in the ground with a broken spade.
“Quasi, why haven’t you made tea yet?” Vicky mumbled, not looking up. “I specifically told you today—”
“Yesterday,” interjected the butler apparently named Quasi.
“Today, yesterday and every day,” Vicky stood up stiffly and brushed dirt off his apron, “that I need my tea in the afternoon. Really, Quasi, I don’t understand why you can’t keep anything straight in your head.”
Quasi ground his teeth and began muttering the Butler Creed to himself.
Rule One: Do not question, do.
“It’s not tea-time, master,” he managed to say.
Rule 2: Honour the tea.
“Nonsense, look at the sun.” Vicky pointed at the faint sliver of light on the horizon.
Rule Three: Thou shalt not talk back.
Vicky stared at him pointedly.
Oh to hell with it.
“It’s rising, sir. You’ve been here all night.”
“Oh blast.” Vicky brushed the dirt even deeper into his pants. “Time flies when you’re evil, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vicky looked at him warily. “D’you suppose you can make a quick tea? For breakfast?”
Quasi drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at the man who paid his wages with his father’s, Butler Senior, bribe money.
“Sir never drinks tea in the morning, sir. The master always drinks his tea in the afternoon, if he so wishes.”
“But I forgot! I got carried away with—while I was—” Vicky’s voice trailed into nothingness in the face of Butler Resolve.
“It is very late, and sir has a full day ahead of him. Sir expressly asked me to carpet the entire mansion today, sir, but insisted on being present.” Quasi raised an eyebrow, hoping he wasn’t going to far.
“Yes, Quasi,” said Vicky, eying the polishing grease on his butler’s forehead with concern. He scuttled back inside. After The Incident he’d always tended to stay away from Quasi when he was polishing.
That should teach the old man, thought Quasi as he watched his master rush inside.
Quasi stooped slowly, picked up the broken spade and scuffed some wet dirt back into the small hole his master had apparently spent the entire night digging. A dog could dig deeper in five minutes!
Old Butler Senior will pay, he thought bitterly, for bribing Victorious with my own inheritance. A brief satisfying flash of his favorite grape-motif candlestick quickened his steps. Twisted way of making me work for it...
The silver sparkled. It gleamed. It shone gloriously in the sunlight. It was a work of art. It was the greatest creation to be spit-cleaned on the face of the planet. If it were any cleaner it would blind every one in the living room.
The butler was getting a bit carried away with the polishing.
Fortunately, only he was in the room, and therefore no accidental blindings could occur. His own eyes had acquired a strong resistance to bright light after years of polishing.
He straightened up, an unsettling pop erupting from between his vertebrae, and ran the polishing cloth across his forehead. This left an unsightly black smudge across just above his eyebrows, giving the disturbing suggestion of an extra pair of eyebrows. The butler had been so concentrated he’s forgotten to have breakfast. Or dinner, for that matter. He wondered idly if his master had ventured to eat the egg salad sandwich from last week that had turned a bright neon orange in the fridge.
Mind you, he’d tried everything to get rid of the bastard.
The young butler, quite a marvel in his old Academy, had a reputation that preceded him. That is, his father had gotten him this job, though the effort had nearly bankrupted the family. It is not that his son was a lousy butler, just that he tended to over-polish and over-steep. The one asset, unfortunately, did not forgive the injuries to tea that Butler Jr. did every evening. If, that is, he remembered to serve tea at all.
But perhaps we are being too harsh on our secondary character. The main point is that his master, Vicky, was content to have him, and did not often complain. (Well, there had been that first occasion, now whispered in hushed tones at the neighborhood bar The Dark Closet and referred to as The Incident. Or, if they were feeling brave, as the incident with the fork and that three-foot candlestick with the little grape detail on the end.)
One other point in favour of our new character is that he looked every inch a butler, and then some. He was the type of person strangers would go up to in a store, asking where they could find one just like this, deary, only bright orange, without this silly lace frock and in a size eighteen. Even at a young age people hadn’t needed to ask what he wanted to be when he grew up: he’d been destined to look like, and be, a Jeeves.
Someone was going to pay for that.
Suddenly he heard his master’s voice, coming from the garden in a strangled tone.
“Quasi!”
The young butler fumed, caressed the trophy candlestick, and turned smartly on his heel.
“Yes, Master Vic,” he said, walking smoothly towards his master. He stood by quietly, calming himself by counting how many candlesticks he had left for their triple polish.
Said master was kneeling in the mud, leaves sticking out of his collar and a bloody scratch down his nose, frantically digging in the ground with a broken spade.
“Quasi, why haven’t you made tea yet?” Vicky mumbled, not looking up. “I specifically told you today—”
“Yesterday,” interjected the butler apparently named Quasi.
“Today, yesterday and every day,” Vicky stood up stiffly and brushed dirt off his apron, “that I need my tea in the afternoon. Really, Quasi, I don’t understand why you can’t keep anything straight in your head.”
Quasi ground his teeth and began muttering the Butler Creed to himself.
Rule One: Do not question, do.
“It’s not tea-time, master,” he managed to say.
Rule 2: Honour the tea.
“Nonsense, look at the sun.” Vicky pointed at the faint sliver of light on the horizon.
Rule Three: Thou shalt not talk back.
Vicky stared at him pointedly.
Oh to hell with it.
“It’s rising, sir. You’ve been here all night.”
“Oh blast.” Vicky brushed the dirt even deeper into his pants. “Time flies when you’re evil, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vicky looked at him warily. “D’you suppose you can make a quick tea? For breakfast?”
Quasi drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at the man who paid his wages with his father’s, Butler Senior, bribe money.
“Sir never drinks tea in the morning, sir. The master always drinks his tea in the afternoon, if he so wishes.”
“But I forgot! I got carried away with—while I was—” Vicky’s voice trailed into nothingness in the face of Butler Resolve.
“It is very late, and sir has a full day ahead of him. Sir expressly asked me to carpet the entire mansion today, sir, but insisted on being present.” Quasi raised an eyebrow, hoping he wasn’t going to far.
“Yes, Quasi,” said Vicky, eying the polishing grease on his butler’s forehead with concern. He scuttled back inside. After The Incident he’d always tended to stay away from Quasi when he was polishing.
That should teach the old man, thought Quasi as he watched his master rush inside.
Quasi stooped slowly, picked up the broken spade and scuffed some wet dirt back into the small hole his master had apparently spent the entire night digging. A dog could dig deeper in five minutes!
Old Butler Senior will pay, he thought bitterly, for bribing Victorious with my own inheritance. A brief satisfying flash of his favorite grape-motif candlestick quickened his steps. Twisted way of making me work for it...
