Frank wishes badly he wasn't in this fucking situation.
It's bad enough with Trouble, what with the lack of talking. This weird-ass alternate-universe-version of Trouble is actually worse.
He didn't think so at first because this version talks, but given that the first thing he had said after Frank's flat, wary, "You're not Trouble, are you?" was "I can assure you I'm not any trouble, sir," it's not any better at all.
And then the whole creepy fellating-one-of-Frank's-guns thing (what the fuck was that, why the fuck did he do that, what the fuck was he thinking), and the whole 'master' thing (which Frank can't even address, jesus god, he knows he'll blow up and scream if he actually lets himself say anything about it), and the whole 'trying to seduce Frank while eating' thing, and now the fact that apparently this version of Trouble is a fucking assassin as well as (former? probably not former, Frank knows better) sex slave and 50s housewife.
He pushes away the low building anger at the sex slave thing (god, he's going to find that scum and fucking kill them, even if he has to kill this poor bastard first), and holds the gun to the fucked up version of Trouble's head. "So you're telling me you'd kill anyone if I told you to," he says, voice empty.
"I will do anything my master asks of me," the poor bastard says, voice half-pleading. "I will follow every order, master."
So that's that then. Frank clicks the safety off, and sees the sudden widening of the eyes. "I'm sorry, kid," he says. "I can't in good conscience let you go out and murder people just because somebody told you. It's not right."
The poor bastard's whole face goes white and then his mouth opens and he babbles out, sounding panicked, "I--I killed an owner, my owner, once without any orders, nobody told me to but I killed him because he was cruel and awful, he was going to make me into a pet and he had a girl--Charlotte--beaten to death because she dropped a chicken and he had a baby slave's back whipped off for smiling, I killed him without orders, I'm not just--I didn't--I'm not a murderer, master, I promise."
Frank feels dumbfounded. "What."
The poor bastard sucks in a deep breath and says, "Master Robert was the worst owner I'd ever had, and he had this girl--Charlotte--she was ten, she shouldn't have been asked to carry an entire chicken by herself, but she was, and she dropped it--she was ten, I could have held it when I was ten but not her--and he had one of the overseers beat her to death for it, I was there, I tried everything to calm him down but he wouldn't--and a week earlier he'd had a baby slave's back whipped off, completely off, there was barely any skin left, all he had done was smile at the owner's sister, he was a child, children smile all the time, it wasn't his fault, he didn't deserve that. And he was going to strip away my mind, make me into just a pile of ass and mouth--wall me up inside my own body--I couldn't let him--he was old and sick and nobody would notice, so I injected him with air, over and over again, I think it was fifteen syringes until he died, and nobody ever suspected anything and we went to auction but that was better than him, and I'm sorry master, I'm so sorry, I will serve you until the end of my days but please, please, please don't kill me, master."
Then one hand came up and he clamped it over his own mouth, eyes wide and horrified at himself.
Frank blinked slowly, and put together the words, and then said, "Well, I guess Trouble's a fighter everywhere," and clicks the safety back on and holsters the gun, staring at the guy, who he's going to call Talking Trouble in his head, as much as that's inaccurate.
"You are not what I expected," he remarked.
"Thank you, master," whispered Talking Trouble, and leaned forward and unhesitatingly kissed Frank's hand, which felt bizarrely nice, those soft lips. Frank jerked his brain away from those thoughts, and took a few steps away.
Minifill, Why Frank didn't kill Opposite
It's bad enough with Trouble, what with the lack of talking. This weird-ass alternate-universe-version of Trouble is actually worse.
He didn't think so at first because this version talks, but given that the first thing he had said after Frank's flat, wary, "You're not Trouble, are you?" was "I can assure you I'm not any trouble, sir," it's not any better at all.
And then the whole creepy fellating-one-of-Frank's-guns thing (what the fuck was that, why the fuck did he do that, what the fuck was he thinking), and the whole 'master' thing (which Frank can't even address, jesus god, he knows he'll blow up and scream if he actually lets himself say anything about it), and the whole 'trying to seduce Frank while eating' thing, and now the fact that apparently this version of Trouble is a fucking assassin as well as (former? probably not former, Frank knows better) sex slave and 50s housewife.
He pushes away the low building anger at the sex slave thing (god, he's going to find that scum and fucking kill them, even if he has to kill this poor bastard first), and holds the gun to the fucked up version of Trouble's head. "So you're telling me you'd kill anyone if I told you to," he says, voice empty.
"I will do anything my master asks of me," the poor bastard says, voice half-pleading. "I will follow every order, master."
So that's that then. Frank clicks the safety off, and sees the sudden widening of the eyes. "I'm sorry, kid," he says. "I can't in good conscience let you go out and murder people just because somebody told you. It's not right."
The poor bastard's whole face goes white and then his mouth opens and he babbles out, sounding panicked, "I--I killed an owner, my owner, once without any orders, nobody told me to but I killed him because he was cruel and awful, he was going to make me into a pet and he had a girl--Charlotte--beaten to death because she dropped a chicken and he had a baby slave's back whipped off for smiling, I killed him without orders, I'm not just--I didn't--I'm not a murderer, master, I promise."
Frank feels dumbfounded. "What."
The poor bastard sucks in a deep breath and says, "Master Robert was the worst owner I'd ever had, and he had this girl--Charlotte--she was ten, she shouldn't have been asked to carry an entire chicken by herself, but she was, and she dropped it--she was ten, I could have held it when I was ten but not her--and he had one of the overseers beat her to death for it, I was there, I tried everything to calm him down but he wouldn't--and a week earlier he'd had a baby slave's back whipped off, completely off, there was barely any skin left, all he had done was smile at the owner's sister, he was a child, children smile all the time, it wasn't his fault, he didn't deserve that. And he was going to strip away my mind, make me into just a pile of ass and mouth--wall me up inside my own body--I couldn't let him--he was old and sick and nobody would notice, so I injected him with air, over and over again, I think it was fifteen syringes until he died, and nobody ever suspected anything and we went to auction but that was better than him, and I'm sorry master, I'm so sorry, I will serve you until the end of my days but please, please, please don't kill me, master."
Then one hand came up and he clamped it over his own mouth, eyes wide and horrified at himself.
Frank blinked slowly, and put together the words, and then said, "Well, I guess Trouble's a fighter everywhere," and clicks the safety back on and holsters the gun, staring at the guy, who he's going to call Talking Trouble in his head, as much as that's inaccurate.
"You are not what I expected," he remarked.
"Thank you, master," whispered Talking Trouble, and leaned forward and unhesitatingly kissed Frank's hand, which felt bizarrely nice, those soft lips. Frank jerked his brain away from those thoughts, and took a few steps away.
"So, uh," he said. "What's your world like?"