Carlisle 2136
"Where did you get the scars?" T'Pol asked Malcolm, setting down her book.
The books had started on the very first morning she'd been here. Malcolm had inquired what exactly she was supposed to do with herself all day. When she'd shrugged, Malcolm had pulled out a heavy book - an actual paper book, some sort of antique illustrated atlas- and handed it to her absently, seemingly completely unaware of the huge social taboo he'd just broken. Then he had handed her several packages of potato chips and made as if to leave.
"Aren't you going to cage me before you leave?" T'Pol had asked. He hadn't when he'd gone to get the take out, but that had only been for half an hour or so.
He'd frowned. "Would you feel safer that way?" he said after a moment, a response T'Pol had found so baffling that she could again only shrug in reply.
He shrugged also. "Well, the key is in the draw thingy over there, so suit yourself."
The weeks that had followed had been equally contrary to T'Pol's expectations. He tidied up after himself, actively resisting any effort she made to help, left her perpetually unrestrained such as she could have easily killed him at any moment, and only ever touched her accidentally. They ate together - and here he did impose on her- repeatedly forcing conversation with the air of one practicing it. In truth she barely minded, for she saw almost no one else, apart from the a laundry slave, who never lingered longer than moments. In fact, Malcolm generally even refused to change clothes in front of her, meaning that it took weeks - and his running very late to some dinner party or another - before she'd even caught a glimpse of the huge network of torso scars she was now asking about,
"What scars?"
T'Pol frowned. "You are being disingenuous to momentarily avoid answering my question. There is no logic to this, as I have no status to demand an answer from you."
Malcolm flinched, as he always did, when T'Pol made referencd to her slave status. All in all, it appeared that he'd rather pretend she was something between a roommate and a pet cobra.
"Yes, I suppose I am," he muttered. "The scars are from the 'pit camps. I'm sent every year."
"What are 'pit camps?"
"Hell," he replied grimly, but continued before she could point out that this response is unhelpful, "You go there in the summer, between school terms. In theory, you train and you spar, and you learn survival skills, self-defense skills and what not, to prepare you for life in one of the Imperial Forces. In practice, the larger kids beat the shit out of the smaller kids and you learn that larger kids beat the shit out of smaller kids. However, from what I gather, this ALSO prepares you for life in the Imperial Military Academy."
T'Pol nodded slowly. "I see."
"You WILL see. The academy at least. We'll be going there in a few years."
"Will I get to spar?"
He laughed. "Oh no! You'll be there to be seen. To make me look rich and urbane and destined for greatness. But don't worry. I'm perfectly aware that you can't work miracles."
She would have said more in reply, but his mood altered abruptly. He got up without another word, quickly readied himself for bed without giving her so much as a glance, and then pretended to fall asleep.
T'Pol picked up her book again, for even in the low light she could manage it, and continued reading, her attention half on the equations printed before her in the old physics textbook and partly on the sound of Malcolm's breathing and heart-rate, listening for the changes that would inform her that he was now actually asleep.
Then a knock at the door caught her attention. Malcolm must have heard it too because his heartbeat picked up dramatically. However, he did not abandon his pretense at sleep, and so T'Pol stood and moved quietly toward the door. Such an intrusion was unusual, but was likely only to be one of the household slaves requiring something or other.
She opened the door to discover the housemaster, the Vulcan who had introduced himself as Lloyd.
And 'Lloyd' was frowning. "I do hope, 'Rosalind', that you will excuse the intrusion. But I believe that the two of you are about to experience some serious inconvenience."
