Dumpster Shopping! As you do. [ Open ]

[the_admin]

WHO: Harold Finch & Bear and OPEN!
WHERE: In and around Maurtia Falls & De Chima
WHEN: The first week or so of his arrival
WHAT: Dumpster Diving and Tea!
WARNINGS: Shouldn't be any!
NOTE: Bear is a very protective Belgian Malinois military dog. He currently has titanium teeth/jaw and is bullet proof. He's very well trained and not a threat unless a character tries to lay hands on Harold without permission.

Also if you are trying to avoid spoilers for POI, please let me know!



A - De Chima: Dumpster diving behind some unnamed corporations.

For the last couple decades of his life, sourcing materials had not been a problem for Harold. Even the circumstances of the past few years, while significantly trimming his access to unlimited funds, hadn't pushed him to extreme measures.

But it hadn't always been like that.

However, back when he'd been a much younger man, living in a town so small that it had celebrated it's one public telephone booth, he'd had to cobble together bits and pieces in order to execute on his plans. So the concept was not entirely alien to him. It had just been ... quite a few decades and at least two bomb blasts in his past. Regardless, it hadn't taken him long to identify the city of De Chima as his best source of the type of junk he was after.

The darkness of night didn't bother him, not as it might have been expected for a man of his age and mousy demeanor. Part of his calm could be attributed to the fawn and black dog walking by his side. Bear was watchful, but otherwise relaxed and exhibited only curiosity about the world around them. Even when Harold had turned the dog down into a series of shadow filled alleys, Bear had remained calm.

Coming upon the group of industrial sized dumpsters that serviced the block of bland corporate office buildings, Harold carefully checked the area, before setting Bear up to guard.

"Bewaken," he said, releasing the clasp on the leash and giving his friend a brush across his head.

Stuffing the leash into the cloth bag he'd brought along for his shopping expedition, Harold began to investigate the offerings. A couple, the smell alone drove him back -obviously the food and genuine waste bins- but eventually he started to find the ones that housed a lot of the mechanical waste, the recycled parts. Finding one that appeared to be just what he wanted, Harold began the awkward process of climbing into it.

"This was a lot easier when I was fifteen," he grumbled, possibly speaking to Bear or just muttering aloud. It was incredibly awkward, getting himself in the dumpster and no doubt he would need more than a few aspirin after the fact, but where there is a will, there is a way and into the dumpster he went.

Reese, Shaw or Root would no doubt have executed this plan in complete silence. Harold ... not so much. He could be heard clattering about and remarking to himself.

"It really is amazing, what people will throw away."

B - Maurtia Falls: Tea!

Most of his week had been spent settling into his government sponsored job, trawling the network for any and all public records and ... dumpster diving.

He'd made a few forays into the dumpsters down in De Chima and a couple local shops here in Maurtia Falls, gathering all the bits and pieces he needed. Today he was enjoying some sunshine and a mug of tea at a local cafe that had patio seating and a proper respect for service dogs.

Alright, service dog may be stretching it a bit but Bear rested beneath the table, resplendent in his bright orange and yellow vest, muzzle on his paws as he watched people strolling past. Harold was seating at the table, sipping his tea and enjoying a scone as he worked on building blue prints. He used an old legal sized pad of paper and a pencil, sketching out detailed schematics and making notes that no one except Harold (Arthur or Nathan) would have understood.

He looked to be deeply engrossed in his work, but anyone watching closely might notice that bits of scone kept disappearing under the table, and someone close enough might even hear him murmur to the dog.

"If you ever mention this, I will deny it."

Bear didn't seem to care. He was getting scone!

Comments

[dendarii]

And there's the segue he needs to get into his "abandoned magical pet" lie. Not that he needs to lie really - he just enjoys the fiction, and besides, it's nice being able to spy on people. (Ambassador of the year right here.) He may yet disclose his identity, but ... For now, he'd like to see where this goes. And what kind of information he can find out. Apologies can come later, after he's made friends with this new person.

"No, it's all right. I know I'm unusually smart for a bird, and he can't help his instincts." A flutter of wings as he resettles on Harold's hand. "And - well, my master left a long time ago, unfortunately. There's none left who would claim me." No need to fake the soft pain in his voice; he misses his Emperor so fiercely it's nearly a physical wound, sometimes. All the rest of his friends have gone home too, for the most part, leaving him with very few who would know him even if Harold were to ask around about a talking bird.

[the_admin]

Ah Miles. At least you were saying hello? Albeit in a snoopish sort of manner.

Harold's lips pulled in a small expression that was like a sympathetic grin. He could relate. Even though so much of his life had been lived on his own, the past few years he'd gathered something of a makeshift family about himself. A family that was, for all intent purposes, gone now.

He reached up and, so long as Miles didn't seem offended, would go back to brushing a fingertip from feathery head, down along the small avian's back.

"I can offer to take you back with me, at least for the night, but I don't actually have that much to offer. I've only recently arrived in this world myself."

[dendarii]

On the contrary, he quite enjoys the gesture. He leans into Harold's finger, nudging against it with his tiny, feathery head.

"Maybe we can help each other then," he says with a bit of a chirp to his tone. "I can tell you quite a lot about this world, but I don't have a place to sleep tonight."

[the_admin]

Were Miles in his human form, Harold would find a way to politely decline and then make sure to triple check his routes in order to ensure he wasn't followed home. To be quite frank, were Miles in his human form the offer would never have been extended in the first place.

Unfortunately, Harold's natural reserve extended to people, not birds. Even Bear had managed to charm him in a matter of hours, despite having eaten one of his favorite first editions.

This was a blindspot the programmer was going to have to make allowances for in the future, after he learned the truth. At the moment, however, he didn't have the experiences to make him wary of talking birds. It also didn't hurt that Miles was leaning into the pets, which was almost as charming as Bear soliciting play with a ratty tennis ball.

"I don't actually live in this city. Would that be a problem?"

[dendarii]

Miles is an adorable little bird and he knows it. He has no shame whatsoever in playing up to the role that his small body inclines him to. And that includes skipping merrily past someone's defenses in an attempt to worm his way into their heart. It's just tactics, right? Wouldn't anyone do that?

Miles shakes his head at Harold's questions, sending a few feathers flying loose. "Not at all. I've gone through the Porters before. That's how I get lost, normally." Something also technically true. The first time he'd flown through one as a bird had been wildly disorienting for his poor bird brain.

[the_admin]

Miles is an adorable little bird of prey, which should be its own warning. Unfortunately even for a twitchy, paranoid little man like Harold, a bird plotting nefarious, covert recon missions was uncharted territory.

Even Bear's nose couldn't sniff out intent on a bird.

Giving the little avian that tight, half grin he nodded and began the laborious process of getting up to his feet. Hunkered down as he'd been, his hip had stiffened and he winced openly as he tried to straighten the joint back out. The number of aspirin in his future just kept growing.

"Alright, come on then." He'd gotten much of what he'd come for, or at least as much as he suspected he was going to source from these dumpsters.

"Volg Rechts," he commanded softly to Bear, the dog jumping up as if on springs and immediately coming to his side.

One hand full of small -cunning- bird, Harold leaned over to attach the leash to Bear and then hobbled to where he'd set down his bag of goodies. He set hung the back, crosswise over his chest, then picked up Bear's leash.

Dog in one hand, bird in the other, he began to make his slow way along the dark streets in the direction of the closest porter.

"How did you originally come to be in this world?"

[dendarii]

Miles' bright little eyes watch every movement of Harold's with a slight wince of sympathy. A very human gesture, probably, but he can't help it. He knows what that sort of pain looks like ... Given that, he can't help but ask a few questions. "Are you all right?" he says, his small voice full of concern. "You look like you're in pain."

He knows the man must be in pain. Alas that he can't really help; all he can do is shift a bit as Harold moves, trying not to inconvenience him too much as he walks. Staying perched steadily right where he is.

"Hatched, I'm sure," he says after a moment. "But the first thing I really remember is Gregor tapping me on the head. I think he did this."

The intelligence, he means.

[the_admin]

"I'm alright," Harold responded, gently setting aside the query. It was ingrained instinct to deflect. He never talked about his injuries, not even with his friends. They were part of his past and he guarded those identifying traits as closely as he guarded his name.

He continued along in the stiff manner but also in a way that suggested he was very used to compensating. There was no labored breathing, nor any additional winces. Just cautious movement and there was something in Bear's way of walking at his side that suggested the dog was used to this pattern as well. The leash was never drawn taut, though the dog could easily outpace his companion even at a normal walk, and there was no jerking to the side to chase scent; just a patient gait that occasionally paused to adjust their strides.

"Gregor? Was that his name, your ..." he doesn't want to say master, though the bird himself had used the term. " ... friend's name?"

[dendarii]

All right, he'll leave it at that for now. Given his own long medical history, Miles completely understands the sentiment of not wanting to explain every time, or at all. How many well-meaning questions had he shrugged off? And how many well-meaning people had he snapped at to just let him walk, dammit, and stop trying to help. A lot. A hell of a lot.

So he just nods, then, and continues to hold himself in a way that's as easy to deal with as possible. No sudden wing flutters. Just quietly watching the man walk, noting how natural it is for him. A chronic problem, then, or at least an old injury.

"Gregor, yes. I miss him terribly." More real pain softens his voice. "He had family too. And friends. Ten of them at least, all from his home. I was friends with them too before they left."

Miles' family and friends, in truth. And Gregor's, if more distantly.

[the_admin]

It was a little difficult for Harold to read the bird's tone of voice. Even if it wasn't altered slightly by the physical capabilities of the bird form, the older man had often missed obvious social cues. The human heart was such a mystery to him.

But it was almost impossible not to pick up the subtle notes of ... was it longing? He couldn't quite tell, though he felt a sympathetic pang in his own chest, as the words themselves made him think of recent losses.

"Left?" Harold inquired, stopping to make a crossing over a street. "Were they unable to take you with them?"

He had no way of understanding that the question was possibly more cruel than kind.

[dendarii]

Definitely longing. It infuses every word that comes out of his mouth about the subject; he can't help but let it bubble to the surface. God, he's so alone now. Nearly everyone he was close to has left, even the friends he'd made here that weren't from home originally. He can count the remainder on one hand.

He winces slightly at Harold's question. Repositioning his talons gently, bowing his head. "That's right. I'd have gone if I could."

If he could have gone back with Gregor, especially. God, he misses them.

[the_admin]

Something in the tone drew his attention and Harold paused to look down at the little bird in his hand. After a moment, he reached up and brushed a fingertip along the soft feathers of the head and back, trying to convey understanding without actually admitting to anything.

It went on for a couple of breaths, before he had to start moving again.

"Where do you usually nest?" Seemed a slightly safer topic as he turned a corner and pushed his way into the porter station.

There weren't many people there at this hour of night and Harold made his way into position without having to wait overly long. As he approached the guard, he looked directly at the man, as if having a dog at his side and a bird in his hand were the most natural thing in the world.

"Name?"

"Harold Whistler," he supplied.

There was some rustling of paper and typing on a computer, before the guard frowned.

"I don't see your name registered."

"I've only recently arrived," he replied in an innocent tone. "And there was some confusion with my name, it's been incredibly difficult." He offered that small whatareyougoingtodo kind of smile.

The guard eyed him suspiciously but Harold pretended to be oblivious as he glanced around, making a show of his stiff back. Poor injured 'bird' routine of his own. When he next spoke, it was in a slightly louder voice.

"Injuries like mine make it so challenging at times, the dog helps of course but I often find myself having to rely on the basic courtesy of strangers. Luckily, most people are decent sorts and of course, no one likes a negative scene, with someone so obviously at their mercy."

The words would have kept butter chilled, but the suggestion was laid out fairly clearly. The guard looked around at the people who were now watching the scene unfold, and ultimately decided that try to enforce a rule that was fairly nebulous to begin with, was not worth his time tonight. He waved, Harold, Bear and Miles on through to the porter.

Harold smiled and quickly set about his business before anyone could think to change their minds.

They would soon make the trip from De Chima to Maurtia Falls.

[dendarii]

No admissions, no, but Miles thinks he gets the message anyway. Here is a man who has known loss himself; one who had not would not be nearly as gentle.

Miles remains silent all through the Porter security. A bit surprised by the lack of being registered, but not by the security measures. He'd had to go through them plenty himself before he'd reregistered in order to run for his public office. Now, though ... He's a bit impressed at Harold's tactics here. If these are the cards they're dealt, then why not use them? Hell, Miles has leant on his own disabilities whenever it suited him to do so. May as well play every advantage one has. Too bad he can't talk about that out loud like this. Even if Harold's trick hadn't worked, Miles probably could have gotten them through with his title anyway. (But it sure is easier this way.)

He hops a little further up Harold's arm. Climbing carefully up to his shoulder and perching there. A bit more comfortable than the man's hand, he thinks. And waits until they're safely on the other side to speak up again.

"You're not registered?" A beat. Was that too smart for a talking bird? "I don't really understand it. But Gregor didn't like being registered. Probably because he was the Emperor where he came from."

[the_admin]

They were through the porter and to Maurtia Falls. It was still late, and dark and Maurtia Falls wasn't quite as polite society as De Chima. But Harold moved along without hesitation or concern. If anyone was more tense, it was Bear who adopted a stance that placed him just a hair in front of his companion, the dog's earlier happy smile replaced by a curled, warning lip.

As they walked along, he tilted his head towards the bird and if he was bemused at the question he didn't express that curiosity.

"Haven't gotten around to it," he answered in an airy manner, brushing it aside. "An Emperor? That is not a title I've heard used in a very long time. May I ask where he came from?"

[dendarii]

Miles, too, adjusts his perch on Harold's shoulder. it's too dark for him to really see what's around him - and what is he going to do anyway, hit the ground in front of someone? - but he could defend them in a pinch. Those talons are not just for show.

He considers that answer rather thoughtfully. Someone who doesn't want to register, eh. Miles doesn't blame him; if not for being Ambassador, he wouldn't be registered either. "A different planet, I think. He called it Barrayar. And he was the Emperor over all of it." He can't help but fluff up his feathers in real pride, even if the comment that follows after is sheer silliness. "That makes me an Imperial bird."

[the_admin]

To be completely forthcoming, Harold hadn't quite decided what he was going to do about registering. His instinct was HELL NO but he was also trying to weigh the pros and cons of the situation. Sometimes, if you couldn't disappear entirely, fighting to go unseen could bring more attention than working within the system and becoming beneath notice.

Such as how he had held a low level tech job at IFT rather than being either The Boss or the Weird Silent Partner.

He just needed to see what systems he could access and how he might cover his tracks, before he made a final determination. An program that allowed him to put Harold Whistler on any necessary clearance lists, then erase the name after the fact ... it wasn't impossible but he wasn't sure how it would integrate in the systems of this world.

As they continued along, he had his chin tilted down so he could listen to his smaller companion. He couldn't turn his head towards Miles, not at this angle but it was his way of showing he was paying attention.

"An Imperial bird?" He exclaimed. "I fear you are going to be sorely disappointed with the quarters I have to offer. About the only thing I can provide is a mouse or two for a late snack, if you wish to hunt them."

He'd been given an adequate enough apartment along with his stipend from the government and 'Harold Whistler' still maintained that apartment. But Harold had quickly secured himself a little hole in the wall that was not under his official name. It was a place to work and while it did not have roaches, he'd caught Bear chasing the odd mouse here and there.

"I've never heard of civilizations on other planets. Read about it, but that is the fiction of my world."

[dendarii]

Good enough for Miles, anyway. He gladly continues to talk as they go, his thin, reedy tones bright against the darkness blanketing them.

"I could hunt mice," he says, considering the idea. His bird brain would love it, of course; his human side knows that he'll be queasy after if he tries it. "Hamburger is very nice too. And I can kill any grasshoppers that may be outside." Also gross, but his bird brain likes them so much he's sort of developed a taste for them. Or he may just do without and wait until morning to go find a bakery. Eh, he's not concerned. One way or another he'll get himself fed.

As for that follow-up comment, well. He's happy to continue on that subject. "He said they left a long time ago. And that this place is about a thousand years before his. Which is a long time, I guess."

[the_admin]

They walked a little further, before Harold paused and made a casually scan of the area, utilizing a store front. It was a discreet bit of counter surveillance, possibly more out of habit than necessity.

He seemed okay with the results and pushed on into the building. It had been split into two separate stores on the first level, with a staircase that lead up to apartments over top. He unhooked Bear's leash and with a soft command sent the dog on up ahead of him, then began the laborious process of climbing the steps himself.

"A thousand years? I suppose that could be counted as a long time." Harold agreed, inwardly he was thinking about the Machine, what he'd unleashed in his own world, his own time. It was true, even with matters settled currently, the genie was out of the bottle and changes would be coming to the human race.

"I don't have any hamburger, Bear is on a strict kibble diet. But I do have some sandwich meat?"

He actually took them up two flights of stairs, to the third floor a converted attic and not a particularly desirable location. Which meant, no neighbors. Bear stood outside one of the two doors, his tail thumping softly on the ground. Harold eyed the dog's posture and with a nod reached for the key in his pocket. If there was any reason for concern, Bear would already be alerting him to it.

Key in the lock, he pushed open the door to the small ... dump.

Single room, with a curtain to separate the bathroom from the rest of the living space, the walls were cracked and peeling. An old window AC unit was stuffed in one of the two windows, chugging it's heart out but only managing to offset the worst of the humidity; the place was still pretty warm.

The biggest piece of furniture was a table that ran along one wall, a small rolling stool set under it. A couch with a sheet thrown over it took the other wall. The 'kitchen' was a dorm style fridge and a two burner hot plate with a sink. It was all neat and tidy but ... not much beyond that.

"Make yourself at home," he offered his tiny companion. Bear was already heading for the sofa. "The sandwich meat, yes or no?"

[dendarii]

There's the best idea. Miles brightens instantly at the thought of having sandwich meat - a food both his bird brain and his human mind can agree on. "Yes please," he says as he looks around the frankly hideous place that this man has set up for himself. "That would be perfect."

As for the room, well ... He isn't sure whether to feel appalled or just sorry for this man. Even the room covered in cheeto dust hadn't been this bad, though Harold has clearly done what he can. (Could he somehow pass over an anonymous donation to get him better living quarters? Not without making the man suspicious, surely.) He peers around the cracked plaster, the curtain blocking off the bathroom, the ailing AC. "Goodness," he says at last. "Aren't new people supposed to get a decent place to live? It doesn't seem very pleasant in here."

[the_admin]

Nodding, Harold set down his bag of goodies on the table and hobbled over to the dorm fridge. Upon opening it it was obvious that despite it's disreputable outward appearance, the interior had undergone a thorough scrubbing and sanitizing before it had been pressed into service.

Digging out the two packets of meats, turkey and roast beef, Harold eyed the kestrel for a moment and then began to diving up kestrel sized portions. He carefully rolled them into small tubes that would be easy for sharp talons to grasp and a quick beak to pull apart.

"Oh no need for concern. Harold Whistler was set up with a nice studio apartment, courtesy of the government dime." He assured the bird, without giving away any further details about where this apartment might be.

Habits.

"This," Harold paused and searched for a good word. "Simple dwelling, suits its purpose."

Bites of sandwich meat on a clean plate, he carried over the offering and set it atop the table so that Miles could eat in peace. Though Bear was snuck a couple bites of roast beef, for being a good boy and staying on the couch.

"After all. Don't you have a few favorite trees or perches you like to visit regularly?"

[dendarii]

Clearly this man knows his birds. Miles flutters awkwardly to the table, careful of his missing wing this time, and dips his head to the plate. He gobbles up the first roll of meat in a few seconds flat, his tiny talons and beak tearing it apart with efficient grace. And then on he goes to the next one. Gobble, tear, repeat. He sure is hungry after having been out all day. And grasshoppers are nice and all, but nothing quite satisfies like a good scrap of meat. His kestrel brain is greatly soothed.

"Of course," he says, dipping his beak down to tear at the next morsel. "I have quite a few." A pause. "But what's the purpose of this one? Does it have a nice view?"

He must value his privacy, Miles concludes inwardly. Why else would someone skip a government-provided apartment immediately? And he speaks like Harold Whistler is another person entirely ...

[the_admin]

Harold smiled as his tiny guest dug into the sandwich meat with gusto. It was true that he wasn't been as cautious as he would have been had Miles been in his human form. But for a moment, he simply basked in the pleasure of having tripped into being a good host.

At the question, Harold shook himself out of his thoughts and chuckled softly.

"Absolutely deplorable," he admitted. "But I don't spend a lot of time looking out the windows. No what this has is a landlord who appreciates being paid in cash and doesn't look too closely at faces or ... arm art." Harold muttered, extending the arm that now carried the forced tattoo.

"And despite it's decrepit cosmetics, it is actually up to code for electrical wiring. Which makes it suitable as a work place." As he spoke, he'd gotten out of his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. His vest and tie remained in place.

He now took a seat on the stool and reached over to turn on a work lamp that had been pushed off to the back. It was on a bendable arm that allowed Harold to pull it around as he required. For now, he just set it up so it cast as much of the table in light as possible.

Then he leaned over and began to unpack his treasures. Bits of broken circuit boards, wires, chips, tubes and other bits and bobs that made up the guts of just about any computer. They were all in various states of broken or busted but not completely destroyed and Harold set about sorting them all out across the table.

Miles was right on the money with his assessment. Harold was a man who was fanatical about his privacy, had spent most of his life under an alias, built himself cover after cover to change as often as he changed socks. Now those covers were gone, but that simply meant he had to start over.

"Did you get enough?" He asked, tone a little distracted as he held up a piece of a mother board and turned it to and fro, gauging it's suitability.

[dendarii]

Ah, yes. The imPort barcode that would be visible on his own arm if he were human. Fortunately, his little bird legs don't have any such markings on them. He scarfs down the last roll of roast beef, then flutters closer to Harold. Peering curiously at the array of ... well, junk on the table.

"Plenty, thank you." He preens himself briefly, making sure to clean the last vestiges of meat off his beak. Yes, his bird brain is very satisfied now. Time to do the same for his human curiosity. He hops closer, nudging at a bit of wiring with one talon. "What are you working on, then? And why work on it here?" In this clearly private dwelling that he pays for in cash. "Couldn't you do that at a company?"

[the_admin]

Watching the little avian out of the corner of one eye, Harold offered that quirky half smile again as his attention turned back to the junk on the table.

"I certainly could," he answered. It was the truth after all, though it didn't address why he was doing it here.

"Sometimes it doesn't hurt to take a little longer with something in the name of simple discretion." A sentence he would never have uttered to another person. A talking bird, however. "And I'm a private person when it comes to my personal projects."

He set down the mother board and reached down under the table, drawing out a box. The box had sets of broken tools, as well as very average, every day items like electrical tape. Harold drew out a soldering iron, that needed to be fixed and the materials to enact the fix.

There was definitely a pattern, to an observant man -er bird- like Miles. Items that could be purchased anywhere, such as the electrical tape, had been purchased. Items that were sold through any sort of unique store, like a hardware store, had been scavenged from trash to be fixed up, rather than purchased.

"Do you like opera?"

[dendarii]

Miles isn't as up on this era's technology as he should be. Being from the future as he is, it's hard to distinguish one level of tech from another, especially if there's only a minute difference in functionality. But ... The tape and generic supplies look new to him. It's the rest that are clearly junk. So - is it a matter of cost, perhaps? The tape would be relatively cheap, and perhaps difficult to use when thrown away. A minor investment. Or, perhaps, the man doesn't want to leave any sort of a purchase trail at all. No receipts, no security tape footage, nothing. (In the service of what, though? He really can't tell.)

He hops a bit closer. Not touching anything, no. Especially not when Harold begins to solder. Best to keep clear for his own safety. "I see. It seems very interesting. Though I'm not sure what I'm looking at." Not a lie, that; he gets that these are electronics, but not what Harold is making with it. Maybe he can watch long enough to find out.

At Harold's question, he bobs his head a bit. Puffing out his feathers in a pleased gesture. "Oh, yes," he says. "Gregor would listen to that sometimes."