multiversallogs | LIGHT THE MATCH

Entry tags:

LIGHT THE MATCH

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

"Here we go," it's a little struggle to hold all the books - the weight isn't a problem, just the awkwardness - so she carefully deposits them on the small table next to the chair, "I've read most of these ones, and they're either pretty accurate, or intresting in how they aren't."

What people don't say can tell just as much as what they do, Steph finds, and the glaring lack of any information on certain topics, such as the militia, says a lot.

When Charles begins staring, Mycroft continues to stare right back. Charles' reaction is an odd one, to be sure; most people, upon noticing they were being watched, would feel significant discomfort, but this young man shows none at all. Surprise at first, yes (almost as though someone tapped him on the shoulder), but then an intense interest—just as Mycroft studies him, Charles seems to study Mycroft in return.

Eventually he motions for Mycroft to join him. For once, the elder Holmes is stumped. He has no idea what Charles could have gotten out of that exchange, unless his mind operates on the same level as Mycroft and Sherlock's (and it very well could, for this world has exhibited much stranger things). Curiosity inevitably wins out over antisocial tendencies, and Mycroft comes forward, taking a seat in the suggested chair.

He crosses his legs neatly and rests one hand on the curved handle of his umbrella. Reflexively, he attempts to evaluate the probability of danger in this situation, but of course finds he has no data to draw upon. Calculations for escape methods based on Charles being a common human continue to scroll through the back of Mycroft's mind regardless.

Figuring that staring at each other for the better part of two minutes is enough of a greeting, Mycroft jumps right into it. "I believe we spoke over the Network a couple days ago, regarding some recommended reading."

The young man's newfound deference does something to soothe Mycroft's temper, but it hardly makes him want to figure out how to teach written English to an adult (or even search for the materials to do so). He's not sure anyone could inspire that willingness in him. It's also become apparent that this stranger is foolish as well as uneducated. Mycroft can't remember anyone having ever declared him 'trustworthy' on sight. He's known for being the best of secret-keepers, yes, but he can count on one hand the number of people who may rely on him in a time of need.

"I'm unharmed," he says cooly. "Regarding your... request, however, you must be aware that there are people actually employed by the library for the express purpose of helping visitors find what they are looking for. And that I am not one of those people."

"Oh, I don't mind! You clearly know how to navigate the resources here, and I require no specific qualifications in order to trust in your abilities to assist me."

Shrieky smiled, reassuringly, keeping his tone his tone empty of any inflection which might hint at him understanding that Mycroft didn't want to help him. He glanced towards the rows of books a little idly, before allowing his gaze to creep toward the other man again, "Have you been in Baedel long, by the way?"

Making this conversation polite enough would surely drive them towards a point of critical mass, where the awkwardness of extracting himself from the conversation would outweigh the other man's desire not to help Shrieky.

Mycroft stops himself from sighing. Things had been going so well. Why the man across from him suddenly feels the need to make small talk is a complete mystery. It's true that there are interesting details about him, things that Mycroft is sure would be a benefit to know (the spell research, the old-fashioned writing system, the robes), but there is time to learn, and Mycroft would rather choose that time himself.

"Neither," he says, eyes still on his reading. His tone isn't necessarily rude, but it makes it clear that he's not interested in elaborating.

Mycroft finds himself taking a seat as well, almost before he realizes he's chosen to do so. That bothers him—he's always very conscious of his decisions—but he figures it must be fatigue, as he's slept rather poorly since he's been in Baedal.

It's reassuring that the young lady only needs assistance with a small part of the book, since Mycroft had been concerned about spending too much of his time at this task. Her explanation is rational and she is polite. A far cry from the other youth who had pestered him earlier. This isn't something she could have asked of a librarian, after all.

He smoothes a few small creases out of his suit and leans his umbrella against the table, telling himself this is a perfectly rational and not-at-all hypocritical decision.

"Faeries," he says contemplatively, touching the book's cover with long, thin fingers. Mother used to tell him stories about faeries when he was very, very young. Once Sherlock was born, she was too distracted to tell stories anymore, so Mycroft told him. (Later tests done by the pair of them had seemed to conclusively prove that faeries were either make-believe or very good at hiding.)

Lucius raises his eyebrows minutely. He's still, after all this time, unused to being condescended to - especially by someone who is more likely a muggle than not. Still, he is trying to be an upright citizen (even if for his own ends).

"The system isn't terribly intuitive," he says, however, low and clipped. "If you're new." He really should let it go.

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."

On a typical day, Martel wouldn't come to work at the library in tight trousers, a black dress shirt and riding boots; on a typical day he wouldn't be in such a hurry that he'd have to make do with the uniform he'd left after hurling himself out of the shower at the guild hall to ride hard to his other job (Kalten enjoys it a little more than his master does when he gets to vault things in the street) without stopping at home between.

Which is why when he glances up, in the process of rolling his sleeves to the elbows, his expression is unfairly sharp-- he has an office partly for the purpose of being easy to find if somebody needs him, and evidently somebody does. His irritation isn't at Mycroft, however, and despite initial appearances (and the way several of the library staff had suddenly found things to do in other areas when he came in like a hurricane) he's not inclined to take it out on someone merely because they're conveniently present; the way his expression tightens just before he smooths it into something more presentable is telling of a man who finds the mere passing urge to do so inherently irritating in and of itself. (What he was known for was always ironclad self-control; anything less than that is demeaning.)

"Of course," he says, and as he goes on his accent is strange; the most similar equivalent would be perhaps an upper-class Brit who's spent too much time in the south of France, but it's similar and not the same, "I'm going to assume it's not sorcery, leaving us with the most likely suspects of local politics or something to do with the cohort."

(Not his only qualifications or interests here in he library, but certainly what his coworkers think of his name first for.)

"Come in, then."

Edited 2012-02-10 03:33 (UTC)

Mycroft had noted the important details about Martel upon first looking in on the office, but he takes entering as an opportunity to observe the man fully.

The elder Holmes doesn't often find himself interested in the appearances of others, but his eyes are arrested by the play of skin and bone at Martel's wrist, the muscle in his forearms (just enough), the material of his shirt and trousers, the cut of his jaw and the color of his hair. All together, it's a fine image. He sees already that nothing will (or should) come of it, but it's a fine image nonetheless.

He nods politely, having kept his secondary evaluations as brief as possible (and not having been bothered by Martel's briefly sour expression). "I'm here regarding the studies on cohort statistics you're said to have done, though I have an interest in local politics as well. I assume there will be some overlap between the two, though exactly how much is one thing I mean to discover."

"Regrettably, our quaintly self-contained political sphere is one best understood through experience--" this is not a man who is fond of politics (or politicians), but given he's evidently also some manner of authority on the subject one can safely assume that he came by his distaste honestly and does not, in fact, let it get in the way of his ability to grasp its intricacies and finer points, "--but I can direct you to locally relevant political theory."

When he says 'relevant' he also means 'of any value'. There is plenty of Baedal political theory he's read that he would not, personally, describe as relevant to anyone beyond its presumably furiously masturbating authors.

Having turned away on discovering Mycroft's interests, as he speaks he's sifting through the filing cabinet behind his desk until-- yes, this folder, neatly organized. The language it's labelled in will be wholly unrecognizable to the other man (Elenic and English are virtually indistinguishable spoken aloud, but the written word of the former is not what you might call aesthetically pleasing), but Martel's own familiarity and several of the writings visible on his desk give it away as his own handwriting. He leans forward, his weight resting on one hand as he casts about with the other for a clean sheet of paper, another pen-- translating a list as he continues, "The overlap between cohort statistics and political theory here begins with the same problem of our dreadfully murky history. We are presented with an interesting pattern in arrivals and generational waves, but statistical data is-- limited, without satisfying detail."

There's only so far one can go with it...but Martel doesn't seem to be suggesting that it's not worth pursuing, for all that. He did, after all.

"My ancestry," she says, by way of explanation and accompanied by a fleeting smile best described as 'disarming'; he seems human (she can't be absolutely sure-- mutants and similar ilk defy her senses by not being magic, and they don't all have visual tells), which means there's a perceptible edge of anxiety to it, and maybe that's why she smiles just the way she does. Don't be alarmed, don't look at her like she's something wrong, just smile back and read the fucking book--

She doesn't want to be anybody's teaching moment about interspecies interaction. That moment of unease is something that hurts in ways she doesn't have the language to explain or argue against in any kind of nuanced way; it just makes her tired and angry and part of her is just afraid of finding that she doesn't have the energy to be angry any more.

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.

Mycroft watches as Martel translates, unsure whether the language he's speaking matches the written one seen on the documents all over his desk. It's possible, since Mycroft finds he can't place the other man's accent. What a strange coincidence that would be, for a language so like English to have evolved on another world (and for Mycroft to then encounter it).

"History belongs to those in power," he says reflectively. "It seems the goal of the powerful in this City is to have very little history at all. Clever, as long as no one notices."

Mycroft had been planning to tackle the more biased political accounts after looking over the neutral material. The fact that the librarian has—not anticipated his plans, but thought along the same lines—is quite keen of her, for a person of average intelligence. He goes over her again for any data he may have missed. A couple new possibilities align in his head. Nothing concrete, but the possibilities are there.

"This will do perfectly for now. Thank you for you assistance," he says, in a forgettably kind sort of way.

He'll ask after her name at the desk later on.

"You're welcome, good luck with your research." She smiles again, genuinely friendly rather than just politness, because that's how Steph is, and then she goes back to doing her actual job.

She noticed the way he looked at her like he was weighing her up, and it reminds her of how Bruce had looked at her the first few times they'd met. It makes her a little more curious about the man, she'll be keeping an eye out in case he shows up on their cohort's network.

Martel chuckles - low, deep, a sound reminiscent of good whiskey at the bottom of the glass - but whatever opinion he holds on that assessment he keeps to himself, for now. He's not kidding when he says learning how the political structure here functions is something that needs to be experienced; the situation is unique, similar-but-different to what many of them are accustomed to, and it's not the similarities that are most important.

“I consider myself retired,” he says, with the dry edge of some private gallows humour, “so I'm afraid I leave most of the present-day noticing to Princess Nuala and her attaches.” One day he might get to murder a lobbyist for Sir Integra, won't that be lovely. “Historically, though, cohorts have been getting fewer and further apart over the course of the past five centuries. It was quite a thing, ours--” an assumption, but an educated one, “--beginning last year.”

Edited (because i'm worth it) 2012-02-11 23:09 (UTC)

Mycroft knows he's being laughed at, but he's not given any ammunition with which to return fire. He assumes that, once again, it's amusement at how new he is to the city (something he's been encountering since he arrived, and a reaction which is quickly growing tiresome), but it would be a waste of time to address it. He's sure he'll adopt the bias himself if he's here long enough, so best not to make himself a hypocrite.

He raises his eyebrows when he hears that Martel works for the princess. Mycroft has read about her in the newspaper; she's quite the public figure. He may be able to get some real information out of this part-time librarian yet. He'll return to this subject later. For now, Mycroft pursues the line of inquiry he originally came here for.

"Meaning... this cohort arrived abnormally soon after the previous one, or even longer afterward than normal?"

The amusement is, at least, evidently neither unfriendly nor even quite mocking - Martel doesn't disagree with him, after all. It'd have been politer if he kept it to himself, given the way he demurs from entering conversation on the subject (a conversation that would be more interesting to have, he thinks, after Mycroft has been here longer), but if he were routinely courteous people would become concerned for his health.

“The latter,” he says, instead, holding his two lists up for comparison with a slight frown; it'd also be politer if he paid more attention to the person he's actually in a conversation with, but given that what's occupying him instead is intended to be useful to said other person, progress of the world will likely not grind to a halt over it. He's not uncivil, just inclined to treat manners like something useful when convenient and otherwise irrelevant to him.

(A clear aristocratic origin suggests altogether too many possible reasons for that for any one particular to present itself. At the library, he's sometimes referred to as his lordship; at Hellsing, he is invariably Sir Martel because he had a knighthood, once, and Sir Integra prefers it to 'my lord'. The difference doesn't appear to outwardly concern him, and he rarely objects to simply being addressed by name.)

“Statistical history is slightly out of the way,” he says, stepping out from behind the desk with clear intent to lead the way. “I've a list for you here of the resources you're best to start with, but I'll show you where you want to start looking for them.”

Mycroft isn't particularly insulted by Martel failing to be a perfect gentleman. The interaction echoes the way he's treated by the more no-nonsense politicians around 10 Downing (the ones who don't know what he does). He wouldn't call it 'a nice reminder of home,' but it makes it easy to fall into familiar patterns. Not having to think or care about interpersonal relations is one thing Mycroft often envies his little brother, and right now being able to navigate a conversation on autopilot is a small mercy.

He nods and follows Martel as the other man leaves the office, the now-familiar sight of the library's main lobby soon coming into view. He's led to a section of shelves that is around an area he'd been in earlier, but far enough in a seemingly unrelated direction that he hadn't noticed it before becoming distracted by other subjects. (It had been early in the day, and the organizational system had taken an hour or two to learn thoroughly.)

The way Martel interacts with the space around him is more familiar than he has any right to be, really; he's been working at the library since shortly after his arrival (since the beginning of the cohort itself, one of their lot who've been here the longest), but that's still slightly less than a year and it's got more to do with the nature of the man himself.

('Conqueror' is hard to put on a resume.)

“You'll find most of what you're looking for here,” he says, briefly, tapping the side of one of the shelves. “Skip Trembleth's work unless you enjoy analyzing what drives the agenda of nostalgically rewritten history masquerading as a study.”

He considers Mycroft a moment longer (he doesn't know the man's name, it occurs to him, but only in passing; he is presently as interesting as his interests, and most of the people passing through the library will never speak to Martel outside of it), before settling on, “If there's anything else I can help you with?”

For all of his--himself-ness, the question lacks any kind of sardonic edge. This is his job, and some of the time, it's even a pleasure to do it. He teaches, elsewhere, and he wouldn't be any good at it if he were unable to tolerate the parts of his professions that involve other people.

Although there is nothing Mycroft would like so much as to return to the inn as expediently as possible with whatever further reading material he'll soon be collecting, his nature demands that he reap all possible benefits out of the current exchange before he misses his chance at them. Putting in a word at the correct moment can be enough to change the course of an entire lifetime. Mycroft should know. He's had a hand in changing the lives of many people.

"Yes, actually, just one thing further," he says, as though he's only now remembering it. "You mentioned working for the princess, obviously through Hellsing. Not in a political capacity, but rather a position that puts your military background to use. I admit I find myself interested, as Her Highness appears to be a very intelligent woman. How do you find her as an employer, if I may ask?"

The question doesn't seem to entirely surprise Martel - questions about Hellsing are common, and while the subject of Princess Nuala directly is slightly less so, Mycroft does strike him as having a particular set of interests - and the fact he takes a moment to consider his response is only because it's one that deserves that consideration.

“That position puts me more regularly under Sir Integra than her counterpart,” he admits, resting his hand against the shelf that he'd tapped a moment before as he eases back from the preparation to move away, relaxing almost like some great cat at rest, “but the conversations we've had about some of my lectures have been fascinating. She has a perspective worth hearing, on the subject.” A moment later, “Political theory,” wryly.

It's something it pays for their agents to have some kind of grasp of, and so is among the courses he offers in the training program - it's not a required attendance, but it is encouraged.

“I believe we're all very relieved to have her back in her office where she belongs.” Martel is not one of those employees privy to the knowledge that it wasn't an assassination attempt, and what he's permitted to believe on the subject offends and irritates him; he's terribly susceptible to maternal leadership. After a moment, considering, “Hellsing on the whole is a less fraught employment than the library, for those among our cohort. Given the leadership and collective political interests.”

This kind of how dare those uppity new arrivals horseshit he's about to field from the professors doesn't happen there, for instance.

Edited 2012-02-13 04:48 (UTC)

Mycroft stares at the appallingly obtuse interloper with a flat expression.

Whether or not this person is shamming at ignorance is hardly Mycroft's concern. What does concern him is the fact that he's still being pestered, and the pestering has increased in level from 'request for help' to 'attempt at small talk.' It's time to end this conversation.

Unfortunately, Mycroft gets the feeling that if he walks away, he'll only be followed; that if he simply stops talking, the man will continue the discussion one-sided. With those options out, the only choice left. He continues to stare, adding a force to it that has been honed over many years of intimidating politicians and subduing wily younger brothers.

"I am not at your disposal," he says, steely and quiet, "and I have business of my own to attend to. Kindly move on. I feel certain you can locate the front desk on your own."

Ah. This again.

Mycroft realizes it's instinctual to look down upon newcomers, but it does grow wearisome. Nothing to be done about it, though, but to wait it out (and isn't he growing more resigned by the minute). There's the question of how this man knows he's a newcomer to the City, though Mycroft would put it down to being largely guesswork and perhaps a bit of paranoia manifesting as nosiness. (Immediately, he hears Sherlock's voice in his head saying, "And you would know all about that, wouldn't you?") If it's something more intriguing, like a spell, Mycroft suspects he'll find out soon enough.

For now, though, it's all thoroughly boring.

"You don't say," he replies, having yet to look up as he turns another page.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 2 of 4

LIGHT THE MATCH

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject