LIGHT THE MATCH

[diogenesis]

Who: Mycroft Holmes and ~*you*~
What: An attempt to learn about the City in the most casual way possible.
Where: The Library of Blessed St. Brian
When: Veerdi, Kavadry 3rd
Notes: This is an open post! I have certain things I want to accomplish here, planting certain seeds and so forth, but anyone should feel free to come and poke the antisocial bear.
Warnings: Spoilers for Sherlock S2E3: The Reichenbach Fall.

It has been a long three days.

When Mycroft had first appeared in the small, tiled waiting room at the Inn, his first theory had been that he was dying. Perhaps I'm already dead, he'd thought.

Even now, having had hours of solitude to think it all over, he can't rule it out—there is no absolute way to disprove the existence of an afterlife—but his memories of the moments before he'd arrived here are so clear, and he feels certain he wasn't ill or in the process of being attacked. Surely, there would have been a moment just before unconsciousness, even the smallest moment, that would have allowed him to notice a twinge of pain, a blur of movement, the feeling of disorientation, the sound of a gun going off.

But all he knows is that he blinked, and he was elsewhere.

His chair from the Diogenes Club had taken the journey with him, making the fiasco even more mysterious. Mycroft hadn't even been near the club at the time; he'd been in 10 Downing Street. He can't deny the fact that having something familiar nearby has helped, in a small way, to soothe the burn of such a sudden transition, but in the end it is a single sandbag in the face of a hurricane. Not only has Mycroft been torn away from decades of work in a job only he could do, but his brother, Sherlock, is relying on him for resources and protection more than ever after being forced to fake his own death by the late James Moriarty. Mycroft's level of worry is unspeakable. None of his usual centering techniques have helped to focus his mind. He's beginning to fray at the edges.

This is why, despite the fact that it seems dangerous to go outside what with the City's residents capable of breaking the laws of physics and performing magic (not to mention the place being some version of a police state), Mycroft is at the University's library today. Three days trapped in his own mind was too long (felt the warning signs start to creep in, too much like Sherlock, can't afford that now, have to be alert now). The order of the day is fresh air and fresh knowledge. He needs to learn more about this place, whether it's all in his mind or not.

After all, if he is in a coma, he could be here for quite a long time.

Comments

[controlledvariable]

"Hi," Steph appears beside Mycroft with the suddeness of someone who occasionally forgets they don't have to sneak up on people, "Can I help you find anything?" She's dressed in plain grey slacks and a light mauve blouse - which is about as 'professional' as her attire gets - but it makes it clear she's a member of staff, rather than a student.

This is technically not in her job description. She's Martel's assistant, not an actual librarian, but it's a slow day and she likes making friends. Which still isn't an explanation for why she's talking to Mycroft, because he's kind of a bit old and uptight looking to be put in the potential friends category.

The real explanation is that he's a) a little older than the normal library patrons, considering it's a college library, and b) he seems to be trying very hard not to look overwhelmed. Steph suspects he's new, and while she's only been here for a month or so herself, she feels like she's adapted fairly well. So when she'd seen Mycroft, she'd decided he could probably use a litte help, and now here they are.

[diogenesis]

Mycroft manages to keep himself from obviously startling, but only just. He hadn't even heard the young lady coming up to him. Things must be even worse than he'd thought. If he can't re-calibrate himself soon—

What if a re-calibration doesn't make a difference?/If this is designed by my own mind, I will be overwhelmed regardless./Now is not the time for this; reality or not, public image is paramount.

He schools his face into his customary polite smile (which is perhaps a little more distracted than usual) and absently tries to smooth some of the more stubborn wrinkles out of his suit. "Ah, yes. I was hoping to learn a bit about the City—its history, perhaps, or its laws. I realize there is no such thing as an unbiased account, but if there is something that errs more toward the factual than the sensational, that would be most helpful."

[controlledvariable]

"There are a couple of decent authors," Steph did the same thing in her first few weeks, so she's managed to compile a mental list of books that were mostly factual, "Some of the Xenian authors tend to be less inclined towards... waxing poetic about Baedal."

She's learning to be more careful with how she talks openly about the politics of Baedal. And what she says is true, Baedal might be nicer than some worlds, but there's still discrimination and while the Xenians can't be exactly open about it, they don't share the same bias towards the government system that most humans do and as a result, their works often contain more truth.

"Would you like me to grab some good titles for you?"

[cerebral]

In an area of the library where it's actually possible to speak without withering looks, Charles comes to a slow near a seating area as he ties up a conversation on his CiD. "...no, these things happen, don't worry yourself. I can schedule you in for an emergency appointment on Newdi, will that do?"

He places three books on a nearby table in order to fetch a fountain pen and diary from his leather satchel, the CiD moved and balanced between his ear and shoulder. "Good. Aha, yes. And has he set fire to the bed again? Only once? Well, that's a huge improvement. Yes. Nine o'clock, then? All right. Goodbye."

A button is clicked, the CiD pocketed, before he takes off his woolen winter coat and hangs it on the back of a chair. He's dressed smartly, quite clearly a professional in his late twenties, an image which is only completed by his making notes and taking the time to organise himself. Although he looks tired, too, and at one point gives a small exhale that borders on a sigh. Thank goodness it's finally Veerdi.

But what few people are able to notice is what's going on in Charles' mind (which is, thankfully, incapable of breaking the laws of physics). He's not purposefully listening to or blocking out the forethoughts of the people around him; that would require effort. Instead they blur around him, like uninteresting background noise. Right now he has other matters to focus on.

[diogenesis]

Mycroft, who has moved on (for the moment) from studying Baedal itself and is now investigating the library's science department, stops in his search when he hears a man's voice close by. It's one he's heard before (acquired British accent, originally from North America), and he thinks it some coincidence that he'd run into one of the few individuals he'd spoken to on the Network during his first real outing.

There are a couple shelves between Mycroft and the speaker ("Charles"). Even though Mycroft can hear just fine from where he is now, he decides to wander closer out of curiosity. Admittedly, the opportunity to observe someone fresh from the 1960s is an intriguing one (but if it's all in my mind, it's not genuine anyway/wouldn't there be information to be had in seeing my own mind's subconscious interpretation of a young man from the 60s?).

Upon seeing Charles, the main thing impressed upon Mycroft is his normalcy. A battery of observations is noted and summarily discarded as uninteresting. It's apparent that the young man is making an attempt to feel more at home by choosing clothing and accessories that mimic those of his own time period, but none of his possessions are genuinely from that era. Perhaps his mannerisms will be more revealing.

[cerebral]

Normalcy is a fine art that Charles has perfected over the past twenty years. Of course, that's not quite the case and, in amongst all the thoughts that pass in and out of his mind, he hears his name and pauses writing mid-word. And then he hears himself being assessed (correctly, for the most part):

...age: 27-30 specifically. North American (East Coast, likely New York state); upper-class British English accent (possibly studied in England for a prolonged period). Doctor, part-time lecturer, economically comfortable (quality mens clothing). One volume xenian genetics, two on later 20th century social movements. CiD scratches (new, but here for a month-and-a-half, two maximum)...

And on it goes. Charles stiffens and turns to look right back at the man observing him through the bookcases with a piercing look before making his own investigation. Although the conclusion that he quickly reaches is this man's mind. It's unlike anything Charles has ever encountered: every minute detail around them is being endlessly processed, formed into hypothetical situations, making plans for the future, creating patterns from events that have gone before, fast, furious, constant. Like a machine --no. That does him a disservice.

Charles leans forward, one elbow on his knee, chin on hand to make himself comfortable before pushing past the mechanics to concentrate on the information, picking out what he deems necessary: new to the city, human, and not to be underestimated, certainly. Calculated. But no immediate threat. The rest speeds on and on--

Until he realises that he's been staring at a stranger for no apparent reason. Ah. He breaks his gaze, before looking back with a slight head-tilt, glancing at the empty chair next to him, then to Mycroft once more. The signal is clear; he's free to join him, should he wish.

[wontturntofoam]

Shrieky has come to the conclusion, that he needs to be able to read in order to live a productive and happy life in the wondrous city. So far, his inability to read has hindered communicating over the network, his navigation of Baedel's many neighborhoods, and his attempts to find employment. Quite frankly, although he knows rationally that there's no specific reason why he should be able to read... it's getting a little embarrassing.

So, after packing his few worldly possessions and checking out of the Valhalla Inn, he decides that the next logical challenge to face, will be that of learning how to read. In order to face this challenge, he makes his way to the library, and upon arriving at the library... the obvious problem with his current strategy. In order to navigate the many, many books assembled on the shelves of this place, you do really need to start off with some rudimentary sign reading abilities.

He's wandering through the aisles, searching for familiar looking words, when he spots Mycroft, and takes a moment to weigh the man up. He's a little older, dressed in clothes which are unfamiliar, but seem formal. Shrieky gropes through his thoughts for an appropriate descriptor for him, and finally comes up with: Learned. He looks learned. Shrieky reaches out to smack his hand lightly against Mycroft's arm, in order to get his attention.

"I am attempting to find the resources necessary to teach myself how to read."

He doesn't bother to spell out the implication that Mycroft will assist him with this. Merely looks at him expectantly.

[diogenesis]

Mycroft hears someone's slightly unsteady gait as it comes nearer, but doesn't deign to look up from where he's skimming through titles related to theoretical physics until said stranger decides to strike him in order to get his attention.

Given, the strike is not a violent one, but to be touched by another without warning—especially in such an abrupt manner—is not something that Mycroft takes kindly to.

He turns his head to see who has so rudely intruded upon his person, cold glare firmly in place.

It's a young man, plainly dressed (remarkably so, in fact—nearly indecent for a place like a university library and inappropriate for the weather) but well-groomed. Short on sleep. Unsure footing (vestibular ataxia? other balance disorder?). Twin sets of noteworthy scars on either side of the neck (not injuries, reminiscent of gills—scarification? Xenian traits?). Unemployed. Obviously uneducated.

The only deduction that really matters is that he apparently thinks Mycroft looks like a library employee. Charming.

In the end, all the (former?) government employee does is raise a single scathing eyebrow in the man's direction.

[wontturntofoam]

Normally the reaction he gets to his unreasonable demands is either uncomfortable compliance, or a more direct form of hostility than the one contained in Mycroft's glare. Such situations tend to resolve with either Shrieky getting his way, or getting into a fight, and being faced with this; more restrained expression of disapproval, actually makes him feel relatively uncomfortable.

"I mention this..." He adds, a little more slowly, with some of the expectant arrogance draining from his tone, "...Because my initial impression of you is that you are learned and trustworthy, and because I would be extremely grateful if you would assist me, please."

He reaches one hand up to scratch the scars on the side of his neck a little uncomfortably, eyes sliding to the side, evading direct contact with Mycroft's as he considers what else he might be able to add to this, to improve his chances of getting his way.

"That didn't hurt, did it?" He eventually settles on, "Your arm, I mean. I didn't intend for it to hurt, I was just concerned about raising my voice."

Loudness and touching, the only way to attract someone's attention.

[byrightsinhell]

Lucius spends a great deal of his free time in libraries and bookshops, in Baedal. Partly because he finds the quiet comforting, and largely because he's still hoping to find some clue that will point a way home.

And, very occasionally, for work.

He's run into a tricky problem with a new sort of custom ward he's been developing, and pure trial and error is taking him too long. So, instead, he's working his way through a stack of books whose spines read things like "Minor Spellwork Modifications in Diverse Locales" and "Self-Sustaining Charms For The Common Man." He's making notes, on a scroll, with quill and ink.

From time to time, he spares a quick glance at his surroundings. Old habits are hard to break, and even if they weren't he still distrusts Baedal.

[diogenesis]

Until now, things have been rather pleasant in the library for Mycroft. Other patrons have been adequately quiet, employees have been helpful, and private reading spaces have been easy enough to find. But apparently, midday is quite a busy time for the university, and the sudden influx of both students and citizens off the street has resulted in a frustrating situation. Mycroft had gotten up from the seat he had found in a quiet, isolated corner of the library in order to exchange the book he'd been reading for another, and by the time he'd returned, a couple had claimed two of the other chairs in the small area. Their behavior wasn't rude, but their presence made things uncomfortable, and Mycroft had left in search of solitude.

Unfortunately, the library has become so crowded that solitude seems impossible to find. Perhaps, if he were more familiar with the building, he'd be able to locate a hard-to-find nook somewhere and secure a bit of privacy, but such is not the case today. Eventually Mycroft tires of wandering aimlessly and goes with the least offensive option: a table in an area somewhat removed from others, with only one other man seated at it. The man seems intent upon his work; perhaps he won't bother Mycroft much.

He takes a seat at the other end of the table, setting down the books he's found on world and regional history (each one seemingly from a different reality) and choosing one entitled Ivalice: Peace, War, and the Influence of Nethicite.

[byrightsinhell]

Lucius glances up as Mycroft sits, but doesn't comment; it's crowded, and this isn't his library. (Sometimes frustratingly.)

It's some time before he comes to the end of the useful section in his current text that he does more than simply glance at the man. Lucius generally assumes people are muggles, but one can't be sure in Baedal; Solmon wore suits, not robes. Given that they aren't in a completely silent part of the library, he says quietly when Mycroft glances up, "Looking for something specific, or just trying to pass the time?"

[rhinemaid]

The thing about research is that there's always more of it to do-- Remy helps her, but mostly they work on sign language and a safe place to test the things she knows she can do, he doesn't know any more about her species than she does and she has to go further afield. The titles that Severus had initially given her were a place to start, but she's still reading and searching and cross-referencing; there's so much to wade through, and it's hard to tell at first what's going to be of any value and what's some human idiot expounding on a topic he knows nothing about.

Which is the problem she strikes now, sifting through some of the titles that she'd made a note of during her last lunch with the professor - there'd been a little bit of overlap in his work, just enough to point her in a new direction if not be of any particular help. The specific problem is that, unsurprisingly, most of what she really needs is written in German and an English-to-German dictionary and occasional queries posed in Erik's direction just don't always cut it. She doesn't mind slogging through painstaking efforts to translate a language she barely speaks, it's just that it's irritating to go to all that time and trouble and discover, a week later, that none of it is any good.

She couldn't be a Russian faery or an Italian one, oh no. It would be far too fucking easy for her heritage to come detailed in a language that she can actually read.

There's another person in this area of the library, and it seems reasonable to assume that he might have more familiarity with the languages supplied than she does. Ilde thinks about it, briefly, but it's easier to ask for help when it doesn't involve irritating things like 'feelings' and she's never suffered from anything like shyness - reserve is different - so she leaves her coat draped across her seat to save it and steps over to his table, carrying her current frustration under her arm.

"Excuse me," very polite, very neat; received pronunciation, mostly, no regional markers barring a faint hint of Italy underneath that well-trained manner of speech. "Do you read German at all?"

[diogenesis]

At this point in the day, Mycroft is taking a break from a more focused method of fact-finding and is wandering around the library on his own, observing the way the place is organized and the type of material that is kept here. Much of what he's found has turned out to be somewhat familiar, but there's also plenty that is completely foreign.

There are books in the non-fiction section that a week ago he'd have thought must surely be misplaced, books written on subjects he's never heard of (and that almost seems more improbable), and languages he doesn't recognize. Some things are printed using materials he can't identify. Some of the books do things like levitate (he nonchalantly tries to catch one, but it keeps floating away). Oddly enough, the strangeness in here doesn't bother Mycroft as much as it does outside—he's been able to relax as the day has gone on. In the library, it feels like he finally has something new to learn, instead of like all his old knowledge is being rendered useless.

The general malaise still lingers, but it's not quite as thick in the air.

Mycroft is eyeing a shelf of what seems to be non-fiction literature on supernatural beings when a young woman tries for his attention. She's small (approx. 160 cm), and slight as well. Her hair is dark, her eyes are blue. Age: 18-20. European origin (Italy likely); upper-class British English accent (possibly achieved through tutoring). Accomplished musician (string instruments: cello, harp, violin). Economically comfortable (expensive, clean boutique clothing). A glance up and over to a nearby table shows an instrument case (cello confirmed; a quality piece) and a table full of books from the section they're standing in (some of which are in German), as well as what is obviously the young woman's purse and coat.

She obviously needs a translator. Mycroft takes a moment to consider it.

She looks somehow more real than anything I've ever seen./The topics of the books may be intriguing./Do I really want to spend time reading aloud to an adolescent?/Ah... from that angle... she almost looks like—

"I'm fluent, in fact," he says smoothly, raising one eyebrow just slightly in question.

[rhinemaid]

Ilde brightens, sliding down into the seat beside him (she tucks her feet together, ankles crossed, behind one leg of it) and setting the book down in front of them both - dark green, leatherbound, with an embossed title that references a study of human and fae interaction in central Europe.

"I only really need you to help me with the introduction, so I can get an idea of the content," she disclaims, to start off-- "I've been trying to translate on my own mostly so I get better at it," because she's exactly enough of a nerd to think that sounds like as important and good a use of her time as actually getting the information that she needs, "but I don't want to waste it on a book I'm not going to have any use for when I'm done."

It seems eminently sensible to her when she says it out loud (which is comforting; things don't always, and it's frustrating), and she feels obliged to assure him that she has no intention of monopolizing his entire library experience with painstakingly going through this entire text for her.

[alan_shore]

Here--having opted for a table rather than the seclusion of a study carrel--sits a patron of no particular distinction save for the tastefulness of his attire. In his suit (black, its costliness evident in the cut of the cloth, the effortless way it molds to his movements) and with his head bowed over a book, Alan looks at home. Whatever he's reading, he's consumed by it, trailing a finger beneath certain lines and making the occasional consultation with the dictionary to his left.

Should one, by chance or design, peep over his shoulder, the text would at first glance look to be in one's native tongue. Should one consider the words overmuch, however, they'll become increasingly abstracted, the letters themselves seeming almost to shift and warp until one finds oneself staring at a page of nonsense.

[diogenesis]

A second patron of similarly-limited-but-couture-related distinction happens to pass behind the first besuited gentleman as he studies. Being prone to constant observation as he is, Mycroft Holmes does glance (by design) over said gentleman's shoulder and thus notices the nature of the strange text. He's seen many odd things in the library throughout the day, but as a scholar of language, he finds this particularly intriguing.

The second book on the table seems to be a translating dictionary, English to the odd changing words (the fact that the man is an English speaker runs through Mycroft's mind along with a handful of other deductions). It's hard to see enough of the original text from where Mycroft is standing to begin his own translation, and he's not proactive enough to enquire about the topic aloud, so he continues to watch the characters shift their forms from a few feet back. He'll move on in a moment.

[alan_shore]

So immersed is Alan in his reading, the ever-pleasurable struggle with words and the meanings to be teased from them, that it is in fact several moments (he certainly can't bear to do it until he's reached the end of a sentence) before, in deference to some buried animal instinct, he looks up. His gaze, when it falls on Mycroft, is sleepy, perhaps deceptively so.

"If you'll stick around for the end of the chapter," he says, returning to his books, "my literary instincts tell me this is building toward a thrilling car chase." A pause, during which he cocks his head thoughtfully. "Or perhaps an abortive attempt at a wedding."

It is probably safe to say this is not the case.

[phreak]

In one of the convenient glass-walled and soundproofed studyrooms, Alter is clearly rocking out to something on her headphones and writing out an increasingly large and complex networking diagram on one of the whiteboards. Taped to the window so anyone walking by can see it is a handwritten sign that reads:

Suggestions welcome. Useful suggestions get ~DELICIOUS CANDY~. Entertaining facts welcomed!

[diogenesis]

Despite his (admittedly halfhearted) efforts to convince himself to move past the spectacle, Mycroft has become intensely interested in the diagrams the girl inside the room is busy drawing up. It appears to be a communication relay system of some sort—from the scale of it, perhaps Citywide. The library seems an odd place for such an activity, particularly when the government here seems not to take kindly to being undermined, but perhaps there's a piece of information he's missing. He doubts very much that the young lady works for the government. He also doubts that the work in front of him is being done to help the City-state on a freelance basis.

Still unsure of where, exactly, things stand politically in his new surroundings, Mycroft simply watches.

[phreak]

Still rocking out with her headphones on, one of the nodes Alter is making notes on now contains the following phrase: 'Please deposit a tip in the jar if you've enjoyed the zoo!'

Which is a very roundabout way of saying 'hello' to Mycroft.

[apostatised]

Occasionally, between the library and his constantly shifting schedule with Hellsing, Martel finds himself cutting it a bit finer than he'd like; now is one of those times.

His boots announce his stride - impatiently purposeful, there's a message waiting for him in his office and he should prep for a scheduled meeting this evening with several of the professors who're complaining about the frequency with which the new cohort makes use of a library they 'aren't entitled to as students or faculty', which he's inclined to make as much of a headache for them as he anticipates it being for himself and his colleagues - and he himself is not far behind that initial impression, turning sharply around a corner. His hair (white, prematurely) is wet and tied back at the base of his skull, but that had been all he'd had time to do before leaving the guild hall and he's shedding pieces of his Hellsing uniform as he moves, tugging his red tie loose from his shirt and folding his jacket over his arm, the badge disapearing into an inside pocket.

It would be a safe assumption that whatever he came from doing, it was intensely physical.

[diogenesis]

Earlier in the day, when Mycroft's research had been of a more focused nature, he'd asked at the desk whether there were any compilations of statistics regarding cohort populations over the years. Instead of any specific reading material, he'd been given the name of one of the library's employees (Martel) and told when he'd be coming in.

This meeting is the central reason why Mycroft has spent the entire day at the library, and although he has significant interest in the information he's been waiting for, he also has significant interest in heading back to the inn and attempting to get some rest. He's done much more socializing today than he anticipated, and it's exhausted him. In the back of his mind, Mycroft can hear Sherlock mocking him for being fatigued simply by human interaction.

While Mycroft's thoughts are with his brother, a man sweeps past him and into a nearby office. The time is about right, and the office is definitely right: this must be Martel.

He follows after waiting just long enough to keep from seeming overly eager, and knocks on the doorframe before taking a step inside. The room is tidy, orderly, managed with an obvious military touch, and underlining the latter observation is the partly-removed uniform on the librarian himself. Interesting.

"Pardon," Mycroft says, face and tone neutral. "I was told you'd be coming in around this time, and that I should talk to your regarding a certain area of interest."

[selfmadman]

A man emerges from a back hallway, an area of a piece with the rest of the library but lined with offices and lit with less forgiving lights. He wears a heavy coat over a grey suit, a navy blue tie narrow as an alley. His shoes are polished, his hair slicked back.

He hesitates a moment, taking one sharp look around the room before skirting a group of students clustered at a table. He moves briskly despite the typewriter case in his right hand, comes to a stop just inside the entrance, at a board tacked with flyers.

[diogenesis]

Mycroft's day has been productive, but it has also been long. While there is nothing he'd love more dearly than to return to his real home (with its thick walls and fireplaces and serene quiet and everything just so), he knows this is not currently possible, and the inn will have to do. It is, as they say, better than nothing.

He's on his way out of the building when he sees the man with what should be a typewriter (or something very much like one) standing by the notice board. Most of the flyers on it are related to university activities, but Mycroft can see the observer isn't a student. Quite the opposite, really—he seems tense and out of place here. Additionally, there's something about him that is vaguely reminiscent of Charles, but even for Mycroft it's difficult to put a finger on.

As much as he wants to leave, his mind is stubborn when in search of an answer. He slows a few feet past the stranger and lingers, leaning on his umbrella and pretending to go over the flyers himself as he evaluates Mister Typewriter[?] Salesman further out of the corner of his eye.