theshatterdome | merpeople.

Chuck's uncle, Scott Hansen, is a piece of shit.

Actually, you know what - that's being a little bit too nice.

He's a worthless human being and if someone just put him out of his misery Chuck's pretty sure the rest of the world would be a whole lot happier for it.

Either that, or they wouldn’t notice. Scott had a tendency to be a slippery fucker – announcing his presence when he was obviously not wanted but then sliding past detection when certain people were looking for him.

Problem was, there wasn't anyone with enough fucking guts to off the asshole. Since Scott happened to be Chuck’s uncle, that meant he was Herc Hansen's brother and Herc’s so far up the food chain that there wasn't any going after family members without fear of serious repercussion - shit worse than death, Chuck's heard, and so that meant that Scott was sticking around for the long haul.

"Fuckin' great," he mumbles, stuffing his hands in his jeans pocket as a huge crate is carried into the unloading zone. "The fuck did he buy this time?"

Chuck's the 'receiver' for all deliveries and exports at Lucky Seven; he keeps track of what comes and goes, makes sure (at Herc's orders, because Scott had exactly zero scruples) that everything that comes into the casino and hotel is legal and everything that goes out is accounted for and well documented. Chuck knows that not just any idiot could keep track of shit like this and that's why he's stuck here, but he can't help but feel like he's been slighted somehow, like he's being punished by his old man by being sent to a metaphorical 'corner'.

"Sign here, Mr. Hansen," the delivery guy says, passing Chuck a clipboard that Chuck takes, but doesn't sign.

"What is it?" He wants to know, watching the crate marked FRAGILE - DO NOT DROP is carted past him. "I'm not signing for shit if I don't know what it is."

The man - Parker Jones, the embroidered name tag reads - sighs and lifts his shoulders, gesturing behind him.

"Kid, I don't know. I have a whole truck full of boxes that I'm not legally allowed to open. Whatever it is, is from Chau's Auction House. That's what the return address says."

Chuck scowls.

If there's anything he definitely doesn't want to deal with, it's shit that Uncle Scotty bought from fuckin' Chau. That meant it was more than likely illegal and it was more than likely going to end up a huge pain in Chuck’s ass to dispose of.

Chuck pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, and signs a name that isn’t his. Parker glances down, then back up at Chuck, but he doesn’t say anything. The goddamn thing is signed for, it’s not his fault if this brat forged the document.

"Great," Chuck tells the man sarcastically. "It's probably a goddamn dinosaur or some shit."

Parker's hands lift in a passive, don’t blame me gesture.

"I'm just the delivery guy, kid. You get to deal with whatever's in that box. I'm out. C'mon, boys."

Parker’s men hop back onto the delivery truck and the driver's side door slams shut. The truck rumbles out of sight, leaving Chuck with a massively heavy box and a whole lot of fucking questions.

"Wonderful," he mutters, scuffing the ground with his shoe and throwing the huge crate an accusing look. "This is just fucking wonderful."

* * *

It takes Chuck a few hours to get enough people to help him get the goddamn box inside -- whatever is in it is fucking heavy, and there just aren’t enough people that can lift it. He ends up having to get a fucking forklift to get it out of the docking bay and into the warehouse, and he's gotta wonder just how many of Parker's men had been Modded to lift heavy shit because his guys?

Can't pick this fucker up.

“Put it over here,” Chuck instructs the forklift driver, gesturing to a corner of the warehouse that’s dark and not well lit. He’s going to have to open the thing when no one else is around, just in case it’s something really bad and he has to dispose of it immediately.

He has a sinking feeling that he might need his pistol for this, and it’s with a heavy heart that he leaves the men to it and treks back inside and through the main lobby and up to his personal suite for a moment of respite, a shot (or two) of whiskey, and his gun.

This is the worst part of Chuck’s job – dealing with Scott’s fuckups. Half the time, the asshole buys a bunch of pointless shit that Chuck can just dump into the incinerator or dispose of easily – illegal drugs, weapons. Shit like that.

But recently, he’s been on this kick about buying modded people – and they don’t always come out right. Chuck’s not sure who is running quality assurance at Chau’s but if this one has two heads and is screeching inhumanly in pain and begging for death, Chuck’s going straight to the auction house and putting a bullet in Chau’s head himself. He is not on cleanup duty for Chau or Scott or anyone and if he has to put some poor modded sod out of its misery again—

“I’ll fuckin’ kill him myself,” Chuck snarls to the glass of whiskey – Old Number 7, he prefers Makers Mark but this’ll do in a pinch – before downing it, shoving the gun into his waistband and covering it with his shirt and heading out and back downstairs.

He meets Scott in the elevator. He’s drunk, smells like straight Scotch and he slings his arms around Chuck’s shoulders and he leers, gets too close to Chuck.

“Charlie-boy,” he slurs, smirking and hanging all over him. It takes everything he has to not punch him in the face.

“Y’get my delivery, kid? ‘S gonna be a good on, ‘m tellin’ ya—“

“You fuckin’ stink,” Chuck tells him, and he shoves Scott off, sends him stumbling across the elevator where he slams into the metal wall. “And yeah, I got your goddamn delivery. You order one more fuckin’ thing from Chau and I’m gonna end you.” It always ends badly.

“What’re you talkin’ about, Charlie-boy? Those bird people’re a fuckin’ hit.”

“They’re also slaves.”

Scott waves a hand, unconcerned.

“But you make ‘em happy, Chuckie, don’t ya?”

“You can’t make fucking slaves happy, Scott. They’re slaves.”

Goddamn moron.

“Whatever. They pretty the place up. Besides, modded slaves aren’t illegal. Y’know that.”

“It’s disgusting.”

People altering their bodies like that – or having it altered for them - then ending up sold for some kind of profit? It fucking churns Chuck’s stomach.

Part of the problem with Chau and Scott – Chuck’s pretty sure they have some kind of sick ass arrangement where Scott gets a cheap price on all the ones that are fucked up in some way, mentally, physically – whatever, and that means Scott can basically do whatever the hell he wants to with ‘em.

It all sends a chill through Chuck’s body and he has to force himself not to pull the gun on Scott right here in the elevator. Scott, to his credit, seems to sense the change in atmosphere and doesn’t say much else during the ride down.

Before Chuck can corner him and make him come along, Scott disappears and Chuck curses, then heads back out to the warehouse by himself, snarling at everyone to clear the fuck out, he’s got one of Scott’s messes to clean up.

The lights flicker and dim and Chuck stands there in front of the crate with a camping lantern and a crowbar, glaring at it as if it personally wronged him.

“Right,” he mutters, “time to get to work.”

He sets the lantern down, and goes about prying the crate open with the crowbar, jerking away heavy pieces of wood and working up a hell of a sweat before he’s finally got the goddamn thing open.

What’s revealed puzzles him. It looks like a fucking empty fishtank, and Chuck, curious, picks the lantern up and comes closer, shining it a little inside.

“Hello? Anyone in there?”

The fuck did Scott end up with?

Edited 2014-03-02 23:53 (UTC)

Raleigh Becket wasn't always a slave. He'd had a normal life, a normal family. A middle of the road average American. His mother passed from cancer and then his father left and then it was just them. The Becket Children. Alone and poor and struggling.

It had been an opportunity to swoop in and gather them up.

Shh, you're going to be alright. Come and work for us. We'll put you through school. We'll keep you together.

And what other choice did they have? So they agreed.

They signed their lives away to uncertain indentured servitude and the ink wasn't even dry when the loop holes were poked and Jaz was ripped away from them. The boys are old enough to be considered 'responsible for themselves' but she isn't and it's illegal for anyone under a contract of servitude to be responsible for a minor.

Raleigh hasn't seen her since. Sometimes he asks people if they've heard anything. If she's alive. He's never gotten any concrete answers but he likes to think she made it. She's a Becket. She's a fighter. She'll be fine.

He and his brother were, indeed, kept together. Blonde, attractive and well muscled. Athletes with a vicious attachment to each other. Sometimes it's harder to sell a duo but in the case of the Raleigh and Yancy Becket it isn't hard at all. They go to auction and sit still and terrified, hands clenched together with white knuckles as they listen to the bidding war escalate.

In the end it's a Saudi buyer. They fetch the total price of 380 million dollars and are moved to Dubai. Their buyer is a collector of beautiful things, and these two American jewels are to be Collared Doves - modded with large, fully functioning wings and a simple leather collar around the neck.

Dubai is beautiful. Their owner has a man made island shaped like a palm tree and a palace in the Burj Khalifa - the tallest building in the world. And everything is fine for a while.

They're sheltered in a carefully tended botanic paradise with high vaulted windows - a literal gilded cage. They're taken care of, admired, laden with gifts and affection. There is little privacy but they remind themselves that it could be so much worse. They are so lucky.

Lucky until they aren't, anymore.

They were never really told what happened but Raleigh remembers it like yesterday.

They were on a boat, lazily perched on the top deck of their master's yacht chatting about nothing in particular, foreign pop playing somewhere in the background as a party raged on around them. Their wings were clipped and an anklet tethered them to the deck but other than that? In cool white linen trousers and unbuttoned shirts, blonde hair shining, exorbitantly expensive designer aviators covering their eyes and a drink in their hand? Things weren't so bad.

A loud bang came from nowhere and rocked the boat, throwing everyone to the ground and several off the side. There were screams and suddenly so much smoke. There was the sound of speedboat, maybe more than..maybe two or three and then gunshots.

Raleigh heard his name being called in slow motion, he heard his master yell and then Yancy from no so far away before he was on the ground under his brother's body.

There was so much smoke.

He couldn't see. He couldn't do anything and suddenly he was soaking wet. Trembling under Yancy until the noise stopped and the smoke finally cleared. An attempt on their master's life.

It was successful.

More than, actually. Half the people on board were murdered, Yancy included, mowed down by a spray of bullets. Raleigh didn't realize until it was long over that the wetness soaking him through and clogging his vision was his brother's blood.

It took three hours to be rescued. Three hours of sobbing over Yancy's body. And finally, when all the other passengers were safely retrieved it was another half an hour of begging to be taken with. He's property, he's living property, please don't leave him out here.

But there isn't room for pets on board. He'd have to wait until the police come to get the bodies.

Another five hours before the cord on his ankle is cut and he's brought back to their cage.

He refuses to let go of Yancy and snarls at anyone who comes too close.

Eventually, his brother is cremated. The ashes condensed and pressed into a diamond. Raleigh thinks it's awful and gaudy and disgusting, but it is a gift and he accepts it.

A gift in the place his freedom should have been.

Raleigh is returned to the auction house and his modifications stripped. It's painful and leaves a series of scars down his left arm and side but that is to be expected. Once he seems recovered enough it's right back to the auction block.

Or rather a brief phone call to an Australian who doesn't mind taking the shit no one else wants. And no wonder he's so cheap, he's used. But that doesn't matter to the fine entertainers at Lucky Seven. He's still got legs, right? He's still pretty? He'll be fine.

Scott and Chau arrange the sculpting and it's back under the knife.

And Raleigh has never been so furious in all his life. Robbed of his freedom and robbed of his family only to be shoved into another deal he has no control of.

To be shoved into a tank and told he's got to swim, That he can breathe under water as well as air. Stop gasping, just trust your lungs.

He doesn't and refuses to dive. Chau has to hold him under water until Raleigh's lungs feel like they're going to burst and he gives in. Fine, he thinks with venom. He's lost everything, he may as well lose his life.

But he doesn't drown.

And he's given a basic run down of what parts do what and how to use them. How long he can be out of the water for, what the PH balance needs to be. He's made to sign a confidentiality agreement that he'll never reveal he's been re-purposed. That he was never human at all. That he's an authentic specimen and willingly contracted to his new job.

"Hey, petal" Scott tells him over the phone. "I'll tell you what. You do me five years and I'll let'cha go, eh? Sign whatever you need to get you gone for good. No more contracts, ever."

It's a hell of a tempting offer and so he agrees and signs the papers.

And then he's stuffed into a cramped tank and boarded into a shipping container in complete and utter darkness.

It's terrifying to travel without being able to see where you're going. To hear muffled voices and know they're talking about you. To be jostled and moved and is that- is that a forklift??

And then it's a crowbar ripping the shipping container open and a lantern shining in at him and terror - pure straight terror that builds in Raleigh's chest so great that he springs at the glass and rocks against it. The light bounces off the tank in an odd way, highlighting only the closest objects and the up-lighting makes Raleigh seem terrifying to behold. It's a quick movement and his hands are pressed against the glass. Pale and blonde with wide blue eyes and a long, graceful tail in a cascade of blues.

Fish tank.

Man with a tail.

Scott bought a merman.

When you’re twenty-one and you’re thinking Jesus Christ I’m too old for this, there’s really a problem somewhere in your life. This is not the first time Chuck contemplates just fucking leaving, and he’s convinced that it wont be the last.

Problem is, he can’t just up and leave. He’s under contract himself, with his old man and with Scott. He’s stuck here five fucking years, paying off his university loans that he’d had to take out when he was fucking sixteen.

“Listen Charlie,” Scott had told him, shaking his head and leaning back in his high backed leather chair, an unlit cigar resting in the ashtray as he spoke to his kid.

“You’re a bright kid, yeah? Lookit you, goin’ into the Academy at sixteen. You’re the youngest student they’ve ever had! It’s an honor, a real blessing. You’ll be done in four years, have a bunch of degrees I can’t even pronounce!”

That’s because you’re a fuckin’ idiot, Chuck thinks nastily, but he keeps his face plastic, the smile beginning to hurt his face.

“Exactly why I’m taking out a bank loan, Uncle Scott,” he explains again, patience thinning.

“Chuck, look. You can take out a bank loan or you can take out a loan with me ‘n yer dad. It’ll be easier this way, yeah? You keep it in the family, and y’don’t have a fuckin’ yank chasin’ you down years later, demanding money, with interest. Why don’t we do this – you take the money from us, from Lucky Seven, and we won’t charge you interest while yer a student. Instead, when y’graduate, you just work for us a spell, ‘n that’ll be it. You won’t have to make payments or anything. How’s that sound?”

Too good to be true, Chuck thinks.

“What’s the catch?”

Scott lifts his hands and shakes his head.

“No catch. You just sign the papers, and we’re done. Look, Charlie, I’ve already got ‘em drawn up.”

The folder is slid across to Chuck and he glances through them. He’s a genius, smart as a whip and going to university at sixteen, but this is a lot of legal jargon for anyone to handle and his memory, while exceptional, isn’t eidetic and he’s not going to remember all of this.

“So you don’t charge me interest and when I’m done, I just work for you a little while?” He asks slowly, carefully flipping through the pages, looking for words that might jump out and scream NO THIS IS A VERY BAD IDEA DO NOT SIGN THIS PAPER at him.

Shockingly, he doesn’t see any. It all looks pretty legit, and on the last page, the Hansen family lawyer – Tamsin Sevier – has signed in her scrawling script.

It must be legit. Chuck knows her, she wouldn’t fuck him over. Right?

He chews at his lip, not sure.

Scott slides a pen over.

“What d’you say, Charlie?”

“I should’ve shot him then,” Chuck mutters, running his palm over his face and moves closer to the tank, his scowl deepening with every step.

A face appears in the lantern light, unearthly and utterly fucking beautiful, eyes bluer than the Pacific Ocean narrowed and angry and accusing and glaring right at Chuck.

It's terrifying.

The sudden appearance makes Chuck jump back with an undignified yelp that’ll embarrass him later.

“Holy fucking shit!”

Chuck had never claimed to be an eloquent man, and the way he stumbles over the crowbar and sprawls on his ass, lantern still clutched and somehow intact is further proof to his lack of grace. He stares at the tank with an open mouth and jaw furiously trying to work and force something out so he didn’t look like a complete jackass.

It doesn't work. He looks like an idiot, and he's scrambling to his feet and keeping a good distance between himself and the tank.

“Oi, you in there,” he calls out, “y’alright, mate?”

The fuck am I doing, he thinks to himself, mouth twisting into a grimace, that thing looked at me like it wanted to eat me for breakfast, lunch, AND dinner.

Raleigh doesn't answer right away, eyes narrowing ever more. He considers laughing at Chuck falling back the way he does but holds it in.

No. No he's not alright. He's not alright with anything right now. And it's just when he's about to mouth something vicious and throw a hand gesture that he remembers no-

-this is your life now-

-you can do this.

And so he stays perfect still. Eerily, even.

He has no idea how long he's been in transit but it's been way too long and his heart is in his throat, but initial fear over? Terror of being in the dark and then suddenly light shining in and bouncing around the glass over with, he lets his eyes adjust to the dim light. Until his expression drops from that of seething-anger-masking-terror to just neutral and unimpressed.

It's then that he realizes he can get at least a small view of the warehouse and Raleigh you are in a warehouse!

What was this job again?

He hadn't been told. Only that it was luxury entertainment.

That nagging part of him reminding him to behave or risk losing his freedom commands him to finally nod, shoulders dropping. He taps his right forefinger against the tank where a documents envelope had been attached with packing tape. All the documents.

Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of a luxury AUTHENTIC SPECIMEN.

Hi!

My name is Raleigh. I'm 26, a wild North Pacific Merman and so pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm friendly and speak but please be patient with me as I have been in transit, may be a little tired, and will need some time to adjust.

If you have any questions please don't hesitate to contact the Hannibal Chau Auctions and Acquisitions HR Department.

Edited 2014-03-03 02:32 (UTC)

The way that he's being looked at is more than a little bit terrifying and Chuck almost takes another step back but just barely refrains, and instead palms roughly at his face.

Godamn you to hell and back, Scott. You bought a fucking man with a fish tail, what in the actual fuck.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and reaches to snatch the envelop off the glass, ripping it open and pulling the papers out, eyes skimming over the paperwork by lantern light.

"Raleigh."

Chuck looks up sharply, cuts his eyes from papers to the fishman -- merman.

"It says your name is Raleigh. Is that right?"

Because Chuck's seen a shitload of things come through here, a shitload of busted up, modded people and sometimes they come with documents like this, papers claiming that they're legit when Chuck can plainly see that they aren't, and with names that aren't their own.

It's so goddamn demeaning - and if this guy is here to stay, Chuck wants to make sure he's addressed properly.

The guy takes the papers and reads through them and Raleigh sinks back a little bit.

But then his name is called and he's back a the glass with rapt attention.

Yes, he nods.

That's my name.

Should he be surprised they let him keep it? But he supposes it doesn't matter. He's lost his former life, perhaps it's one bittersweet kindness to let him keep his name. Maybe they don't care enough to give him a new identity so he can forget the old one.

Don't care enough to wipe his brain and let him start over.

Bastards.

Chuck can't really be so surprised, though, can he? There's a huge empty tank in the grand hall in the casino as well as several smaller ones in the more luxurious VIP sections. What else were they going to fill those with, glitter? Real fish? AS if. Not when they can have this. Something to really set them a part.

And Lucky 7 is all about fantasy. All about being that little bit larger than life.

In any case, he gives a nod and figures this isn't Scott in any capacity.

"Who are you?" Raleigh finally asks, voice low and muted through the glass. He hates talking under water, especially as it isn't so fresh at the moment. In fact, he hasn't felt like saying much of anything at all, lately. But speaking in water is weird and uncomfortable and to be honest he's still not exactly sure how this all works.

Which would be an apt general blanket statement for his entire life.

Chuck rubs his forehead with his wrist, papers clenched in his hand.

That fucking note -- Chuck could just set it on fire.

Sometimes he wanted to set this whole place on fire. When would enough be enough for Scott? Why didn't Herc control his fucking brother?

Why why why indeed.

Chuck doesn't know. He just knows that now that Raleigh's here, Chuck's going to end up being mostly in charge of him - like he is of all Scott's acquisitions.

Godammit.

He doesn't even know what to do with Raleigh right now - he can't move the bastard inside on his own and the casino is open literally 24/7, like most of them are. It's gonna be a bitch and a half to get him transported, and he's going to need separate holding tanks for when he's not on display and this is going to be a goddamn mess.

And expensive.

Jesus Christ.

He's staring heatedly at the papers, anger bubbling up in his gut, face starting to flush red when he realizes that Raleigh is talking to him.

He hadn't realized the man could talk.

"Chuck Hansen," he says slowly, inching closer and giving Raleigh a tired look that mirrors his own. "My old man owns the place."

Oh, he seems to silently say. That makes sense. Scott's son, then.

He has no opinion on the matter and so he simply nods. Okay. He understands.

It's almost like he didn't even speak from the look on his face, the stillness in the way he carries himself, staring at Chuck for some kind of..he isn't sure. This is a radically different situation from his previous contract. Direction? Unlike last time he is very much a captive of his environment. He has to be in the water. Not every second of every day but his skin will crack if it dries. It will be incredibly painful. He really doesn't want to find out just how bad..

Scott hadn't exactly planned on how they were going to take care of him. They gave the bird people a room in the hotel, he figured they would just do the same for Raleigh. Put him in the bathtub or pool or something, he doesn't know. He didn't consider the fish needing a private room. He's a fish he has a tank, it's pretty simple from where he's standing. And anyway that's Chuck's job to sort out.

Raleigh makes a gesture a bit like a sigh and raises an eyebrow.

So.

What now?

Herc’s boy.

Though at the moment, he’s more than tempted to claim no familial relations with the lot of these jackasses – Herc turns the other cheek and lets Scott do whatever he likes (like buy people) and Chuck has to clean up the mess that he inevitably makes.

Chuck is so sick of cleaning up Scott’s messes. He’s put a bullet in more than one fucked up mod in his life because he was begged to and every time he has to do it, Chuck feels like less of a man, like he’s lost a piece of himself the moment the trigger was pulled.

Raleigh isn’t begging for death, though – there’s no mod gone wrong here from what he can tell, he doesn’t seem to be in excruciating pain, he just seems kind of…indifferent.

Angry, too – Chuck can see it simmering just beneath the surface of that mask Raleigh’s put on. Those blue eyes are too open, to raw – too pissed off for Chuck to not notice.

Christ – but he’s gorgeous, though.

He looks back down at the papers clenched in his fist; Raleigh’s paperwork claims that he’s legit but Chuck is skeptical and doesn’t buy it – the shit that comes from Chau’s is never legit, and is only barely legal on a good day.

No, there’s more behind Raleigh’s story than what’s here on the paper but it’s not Chuck’s business at the moment, and so he crumbles up the stupid Hi I’m Raleigh! letter (seriously? Is he a puppy?) and crams it in his pocket, then folds the other documents a little more carefully, and slips them back into the envelope.

They’ll need those, legit or not – just in case.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, clearly not knowing how else to go about this except to be open, honest, and blunt, “That dumbfuck Scott doesn’t ever tell me what he orders and if there’s any kind of accompanying special need. I had no idea you were coming. I’ve got nothing set up for you except for a tank in the main lobby that he miraculously remembered to commission, but beyond that, all I’ve got for you is what you’re in.” Old water, a too small tank. Godammit, Scott.

Chuck squints and comes closer, reaching up to run his fingers down the corner of the glass. He can swing by the local pet store, get him a better filtration system, at least. That’s a start.

Currently, he’s gotta get the guy out of this shitty – literally – water he’s floating in. He pulls out his cell phone and gets on the horn, speaks half in code and half in rapid Aussie slang, snarling at whoever is on the other end to shut the goddamn Casino down and no he doesn’t give a shit that it’s peak hours, just get the people out.

…Then get down here. Chuck needs help.

He ends the call and stuffs the phone back into his pocket and sighs in frustration.

Tomorrow’s paperwork is going to be a special kind of hell.

“There’s a block of land behind the hotel I can get Herc to purchase. We get you a few pools set up there. I’ll draw up some designs, and you can tell me if they’re alright. Or if you’ve got any ideas, I’m game. It’s gonna be Herc’s dime.” Chuck’s grin is too wide, a little too vicious. “So we might as well spend wisely, dontcha think? I’m thinkin’ underground grottos and shit – somethin’ that gives you privacy cause I hate to say it, mate – you’re not gonna get much when you’re in that lobby tank.”

Pools. Tanks. Like it’s goddamn Sea World. What had Scott been thinking?

Oh right. He hadn’t.

“Sorry we weren’t ready for you, mate. You salt or fresh?”

A beat.

“And what do you eat? You hungry?”

Scott had been thinking Fuck yeah, Mermaids, that's what.

Raleigh listens, having to come close to hear through the glass.

Oh... So he was a surprise. That's disappointing considering the amount of work he'd had done to be there but he doesn't really know Scott. Has no idea what kind of guy he is other than he's the kind who buys people and has them sculpted. But Raleigh's last master was pretty amazing so far as masters go and Scott had made him a pretty good deal so how bad could he be?

Maybe just a little forgetful.

Chuck doesn't seem to have a great opinion of him, though. Always a good sign.

He draws his brow as Chuck explains the situation and then even more as he's on the phone speaking something Raleigh is pretty sure isn't English.

Right. A lobby tank. That sounds...exposed.

But pools would be nice. Something outside and well filtered. Maybe with a bit of ramp he can lounge on. Until recently all of his hobbies have required being dry. He suspects reading will be much more challenging under water if he has to badger someone to hold a book up against the glass for him and turn the pages. Probably wouldn't be very entertaining for them.

But he has the feeling he isn't here to be admired in his own leisurely pursuits.

Something in his stomach sinks. He's here to be a show pony, isn't he.

God damn it.

When he'd been a dove he'd had to entertain, sure, but that wasn't his purpose. He was collected to be admired and his master had taken that very seriously.

His hand absently closes around the pendant necklace he wears around his neck. A thin gold chain with a diamond drop. Simple, elegant, and yet very very precious. Self soothing as anxiety builds up more inside him.

There are a lot of questions to answer and he's happy to, after all these are things that will affect his quality of life, but he doesn't want to speak through the water if he can avoid it.

Raleigh gives Chuck a good once over before gesturing towards the top of the tank. You gonna open this so they can talk or what?

Edited 2014-03-03 15:08 (UTC)

"...Oh, right."

Raleigh'd sounded muffled before, makes sense that he pull the top off so they can talk and Raleigh can actually hear him.

"One second, mate."

Chuck disappears into the darkness and leaves Raleigh the lantern before returning almost immediately with a stepladder that he sets up alongside the tank. Climbing up, he sort of fumbles with the latch before prying it open and shoving the lid off.

"Better?"

He shoots to the top the second it's open and breaches it with a gasp.

Fresh air.

Oh thank god.

The water is dank and he was starting to feel (and probably look) a little green around the gills. There's a little filter somewhere at the bottom but it was never designed to be good. Just a little cheap piece of shit Chau threw in there to keep the oxygen levels up. Can't have his wares dying in transit, after all. That'd be disappointing. Once they're received, though? Not his problem.

Raleigh grabs the side of the tank with one hand and stays there breathing deeply for a moment, pushing his hair out of his face before looking up at Chuck. There's a moment where he contemplates how easy it might be to launch himself out of the tank but then he realizes there's no reason to calculate that. He's not going to escape. He's contracted and even if he weren't he doesn't have legs.

Maybe it's just the basic need to get the fuck out of the tank.

"Thanks you." He finally says, voice deep with a natural lyrical roll. American accent. Well articulated but a little rough around the edges. Simply put, he's got a voice like sex and an air of danger about him.

Chuck nearly stumbles back off the ladder when Raleigh shoots up like that, and he does not miss that look that crosses over Raleigh’s features, like he’s contemplating escape or something and Chuck just sighs and waits, watches to see what he’ll do because this would not be the first time it’s happened and it damn sure won’t be the last.

Chuck really, really hates his job.

But Raleigh doesn’t do it, he just looks up at Chuck and pushes that gorgeous mop of gold hair out of the way

“…Welcome,” he mutters, propping his arms on the side of the tank and lacing his fingers together. Raleigh’s fucking incredible; his voice threatens to unstitch Chuck and he shifts and looks away briefly before zeroing back in.

Do your job, Hansen.

“So – uh,” he continues, feeling a little silly and a lot like an asshole, “what kinda water you need? And – food? You hungry?”

"Fresh water." he answers and then considers his second answer.

"Just..normal food. I'm not allergic to anything." A pause then he ventures a small request. "I don't really like spicy things.."

It almost sounds as though he feels like he's pushing the envelope to ask, but if you don't ask you don't get. And he is used to being taken care of so, if he can help it, he'd like to stay that way.

And yes, he is hungry. The look in his eyes is enough.

Also he is really having a hard time grasping the idea that he's a surprise. Who orders someone like Raleigh and then forgets to mention it.

"Where am I?"

Right. He’s going to have to get some food brought down, and he digs around in his pocket to pull the phone back out, and sends a text to his kitchen staff.

Need food delivery ASAP to warehouse. Nothing spicy. Bring a variety.

And who orders someone as beautiful as Raleigh then doesn’t tell anyone what’s coming? Idiots like Scott Hansen.

Sorry Raleigh. Scott’s a douche and figured you only needed one tank, in the middle of a crowded Casino/hotel.

“Sydney, Australia.” He pauses, and glances up. “Right now you’re in the warehouse. I’m in charge of shipping and receiving. I oversee what comes in and what goes out, and I manage most of Lucky Seven’s assets.”

Like…fucking mermen. And bird people. And the other modded people that Scott’s been accumulating over the years.

"Lucky Seven." He remembers seeing that on the paperwork he signed and this just confirms that's the name of the business.

"In Sydney."

Well shit..no wonder he'd been in a box for so long. He'd literally been put on the slow boat from China.

But Chuck manages the assets which...Raleigh is assuming means him. Probably best to try and get along with him, then. Especially if he's also the boss' kid.

The boss' very attractive, smart-ass, hair trigger tempered kid.

"What kind of place is this? My contract is for luxury entertainment."

Literally the only information he has on the subject.

His hair trigger kid who is in a shitty mood, in a shitty job, and regretting a lot of his life choices overall.

If Mum were still alive, none of this would be happening.

“Yeah. In Sydney.”

He wonders if the long trip dulled Raleigh’s brain.

“It’s a casino,” he says, rather matter of factly. “And a hotel. The only one of its kind here in Sydney. Got the best shows, best entertainment, best gamblin’,” he rambles on, essentially reciting Lucky Seven’s brochure word for word.

Maybe a little. Sitting in the dark for a while gripped with anxiety and panic will dull you. Raleigh listens intently, drinking in the information like it's the first time he's heard any of this. Because, well, it is.

He listens and watches, eyes fixed on his new...care taker? Manager? Master? and slowly the pit in his stomach grows. He was right. He's a show pony.

This isn't going to be anything like his last contract. Not in the least.

He wishes Yancy were here with him. He would know how to handle this better. Hell, he'd probably love the attention.

Lucky Seven is a luxury fantasy palace and where somewhere else would just pay a diver to do carefully choreographed shows three times a day, they buy in someone who does it 24/7. He isn't their first and it sounds like he won't be their last.

"Oh." He finally says when Chuck finishes. That's about all he's got. Just, oh.

Chuck grinds his teeth and rakes a hand through his hair, essentially disheveling any sleekness he might’ve had about him.

“Fuck, mate. I’m sorry.”

It’s a lot of information to take in, Chuck knows that. He’s sort of surprised Raleigh isn’t throwing a fit and trying to jump out and kick Chuck’s ass and hell – Chuck would probably let him. It’s bullshit, he knows it and Raleigh knows it but there’s nothing Chuck can do without breaching his own contract.

“I’m not gonna make you—“

Chuck’s cut off by the arrival of a busboy with a cart rattling out into the warehouse and Chuck holds up an index finger to Raleigh - hang on - and he jumps down and meets him halfway. There’s a brief conversation and the kid keeps trying to crane his neck to get a look but Chuck kicks him out and tells him to go on about his business before he ends up in trouble.

Chuck pushes the cart back over himself then looks sort of uncertainly to Raleigh, to the cart, then back again.

How the fuck is he gonna eat this? It’s not like there’s a ledge he can set shit on. Chuck could hold it plate by plate, he supposed but he suspects neither of them wants to do that.

“So there’s food,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “but I dunno how you wanna do this.”

Edited 2014-03-03 16:39 (UTC)

He hates this. Give him his wings back, any day because this aquatic business? Is far too much trouble. Why anyone would elect to be essentially handicapped he has no idea. There's nothing poetic about stagnant water. It's not romantic to have no idea how you're going to get out of a tank to eat and then what? Have to get back in? No one is writing romance novels about poorly sanitized habitats and losing the ability to stand.

He needs a bath. He needs to get the slime off him and decompress.

Interesting, though, that Chuck doesn't let the porter see him. He wonders if it's shame or something else, and sinks down to peer over the rim of the tank until the bellboy leaves.

Huh. Okay. How are they going to do this?

He scans the warehouse but it's hard to make much out in the dim light.

"Is there a piece of wood or something?" He asks and gestures. "We could lay it over the ledge." Like a table, he thinks. Save them a lot of hassle.

Part of it is shame. He’s ashamed of himself, ashamed of his job, ashamed that he has to deal with these people - because yes, they’re fucking people Chuck doesn’t care how you look at it, that’s what they are – that are here against their will and under his care.

The other part is that he doesn’t want a huge commotion right now – Raleigh is going to draw people in and it’s going to be a nightmare and he doesn’t want to have to deal with it any sooner than he needs to.

“…There’s the planks that were around your tank,” Chuck says slowly, glancing around and dragging one back over.

It’s heavy and awkward but he manages to get it up and settled on the top of the tank, leaving it to Raleigh to adjust it how he likes.

From there he’ll carry everything up one by one, and set it out to just let Raleigh have his choice.

After this, he doesn’t know what to do with him. While Raleigh eats, Chuck’s gonna puzzle that out.

He can take him to a room and let him prepare himself mentally, but none of the rooms have a fish tank. Maybe the Empress suite; there’s actually a hot tub in there and no one is staying in it at the moment. He could fill it up with normal temperature water, let Raleigh chill for a couple hours while his men work on clearing the casino out so he can transport Raleigh to the tank there.

A pretty perfect plan all around. He noses at the food for a moment before digging in, culture and refinement, all his training falling to the wayside because he is just so hungry.

When he was a bird he and Yancy would just pick and nibble all day. They'd make a game of it, working to crack open almonds and seductively grab strawberries out of their master's outstretched hand. They'd practice to see how carefully they could open and consume a ripe pomegranate until one of them gave up and crammed a whole handful of the sweet little morsels in their mouth.

He'd never gone hungry as a dove.

As a fish he's been nothing but.

The hot tub, though, That's perfect. Really he'd settle for a garden hose at this point if it meant getting out of the mud.

"Hey.." He breaks the silence when he's finished and peers over the edge of his tank.

"Sorry, what am I supposed to call you? Mr. Hansen?"

Chuck gives him space and doesn't watch him eat. If Raleigh wants to eat everything in front of him, Chuck isn't going to stop him. Chuck's busy trying to make arrangements anyway - getting in touch with his on call people, sending messages about the empress suite and booking it as a comp under Chuck's name, a text to housekeeping to fill the hot tub up with normal water, no don't make it hot just turn the goddamn faucet on, messages about filtration systems, what regulations he's gonna need to meet, how much space he needs, how much that guy wants for the property, and how he's going to get Raleigh upstairs without a ton of fuss.

What a mess.

He looks up when he's addressed, and meets Raleigh's eyes.

"Chuck is fine. That's what everyone calls me."

Literally no one calls him Mr. Hansen - that's reserved for Herc, not that chuck actually shows any modicum of respect to the man, or his brother.

"You good with Raleigh?"

Chuck. Okay. He can do that. A far cry from the manners he'd all but grown up in, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't exactly feel like being ultra polite right now, anyway.

Not that Chuck has done anything to personally offend him, it's more just the whole situation. His brother, his 'reassignment'. He should be a free man right now.

"Yes."

A pause.

"Can I make a suggestion?" He'd been listening to Chuck's side of the arrangement making.

"Have a porter bring a wet towel and a wheelchair. I don't need to be submerged to travel. If you don't want anyone to see me but can't close the hotel then just cover my tail. No one will know."

"The problem is if people see you, the place is gonna turn into a madhouse. Like...a fuckin' ton of people just crushing in."

And Chuck is claustrophobic. No thanks. This warehouse is bad enough.

He rubs at his chin, brow furrowing in thought.

"Right, that's a good idea."

Wheelchair, wet towel.

Those are brought pretty quickly, and the same thing happens as before - Chuck shoos the porter away before he can get too close.

Though he's gonna call someone to clean up the tank Raleigh was in later.

"Right. Now how do we get you in this..."

Because it looks like Chuck is gonna have to lift him out himself.

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