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.

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Lucius is used to being on the giving, rather than the receiving end of condescension; he's been trying to behave, but Mycroft is inadvertently probing a point he has no way to know is sore. Lucius had simply meant "new to the library" - he was there enough he felt the guess was fair - but the bigger issue is that prior to Baedal (and his previous out of world stops), Lucius had simply never had to dealt with not being given automatic recognition and respect, or at least fear.

He knows he shouldn't care, but he can't quite help it.

"I do hope you'll deign to forgive the unasked-for interruption, then, as you're managing quite well." It's bone dry. "I'll let you read." And resist the urge to do something as petty as squeak the floorboard at random intervals. Because he is an adult.

The man obviously has a complex, Mycroft thinks to himself, and isn't overly-versed in the art of hiding it.

Like Mycroft, it seems arriving here has stripped this man of whatever status he may have had before. Unlike Mycroft, what matters to him is likely not the knowledge and control that comes with power, but the respect and fear of others. Respect and fear are the tools of the status quo and of instant gratification, of figureheads, of those who are afraid themselves. Knowledge and control, on the other hand, have no need for the public's opinion, and they exist where few can see them.

Mycroft ponders this in the space of a moment, then decreases the chain of thought's priority in favor of hopefully returning his focus to his book. His only reply to his disgruntled companion is a neutral, "Ta."

Mycroft notices the note directed at him, and raises an eyebrow at the nearby mug (which features a ceramic interpretation of the back-end of a gun as the handle). It has a bit of money in it, though not much. Unwilling to spend his limited funds on something he's not sure of, Mycroft instead decides to venture inside the room.

He hadn't noticed the girl looking back and seeing him. How had she known he was there? Some sort of power, then, like Charles has? With the possibilities so endless in this place, huge blanks have opened up in Mycroft's observations.

It's simultaneously horrifying and thrilling, like being blindfolded and feeling your other senses heighten in response. The fierce joy of learning something new at last has been burning in his mind ever since this morning; the presence of others in the library, of so many interruptions, has kept that burn low, but oh, it is there. This young lady and her diagram are just adding fuel, his pull toward them not so much an interruption as the opening of another book, the way his conversation with Charles had been.

"Which system is this?" he asks.

Mycroft recognizes this man's voice right away. He'd named him 'Heller' in his CiD. As the man responsible for the one brief moment of levity he's had since arriving, Mycroft can't help but feel slightly pleased at running into him. Not that he'd say so.

"I suppose gratuitous sex and violence appeals to the general public in every dimension," he replies deadpan, taking a seat nearby.

"Network relays. I'm trying to get a feel for the time and tides," she says as her marker squeaks out the last symbol in a series before she turns around to face Mycroft. Her expression is powerfully focused for a split second before she settles into her usual, sunny disposition. "I did some work as, like, a phone tech back home, but here it's magic and tech and I've gotta let that slide through my brain before I get to work."

There are a few books on the table as well, all on combining god-given magic and technology into a coherent systems, and her own notes can be seen spread out and rapidly progressing from a traditional, wholly math based notation into whatever the local jargon for programming is. "What do you do?"

Employment. There's something Mycroft needs to devote more thought toward (and oddly, he hadn't been thinking of it at all when asking after Princess Nuala). He's been considering investigating the university, but his experiences with academia in the past have been largely negative and the thought of returning to that environment has not enthused him. After reading about Hellsing both in the library and in the daily paper, he's gleaned that the guild has some ties to politics (mainly through the princess), but passed over giving it due consideration as a workplace after categorizing it primarily as a kind of militia or substitute police force with a specialization in subduing supernatural problems. Martel's position there only seemed to cement that fact.

If other members of the CeidaryBlue cohort are seeking jobs in politics there, however, it may be worth investigating. Mycroft hadn't been lying when he'd said the princess seemed interesting. Reading about the attempt on her life had certainly given Mycroft something to think about.

"If one were interested in finding out more about what types of positions were available there," he says to Martel, "who might one ask after?"

“The Princess's department is handled directly through her hands,” Martel says, considering him for only a moment; if the impression of Mycroft he has already is accurate, he expects Nuala will be able to find a use for him. Hellsing's position is a precarious, complex one within Baedal and their participation in the political sphere is primarily aimed at maintaining (bettering, if she can) the same-- it's the sort of thing he'd have a place in if he wanted it, he knows, but frankly the academic politics are preferable than wading into that bloodier mess again.

At least he's not lecturing at the university. Then he might actually murder someone.

(If only he were being facetious.)

A slight, ostensibly private, smile springs to Alan's lips at the comment, but he carries on with his reading, withstanding (for once) the temptation to call the man's attention to the fact that he's lumped himself in with the general public. (While he's yet to place the other man's voice, and while he may lack Mycroft's unsparing, unerring eye for detail, Alan simply cannot fathom the owner of that suit waiting in line to see The Forty-Year-Old Virgin.)

"I wonder," he says at length, lifting his eyes from the page he's just turned, "if you might indulge me."

Edited (RHYMES) 2012-02-20 18:34 (UTC)

Mycroft slowly raises one eyebrow at Heller's inquiry.

The man's voice is quiet and has a pleasant quality, its tone considered (with just a touch of amusement). It sounds at home in the library—unlike the voices of most of these other strangers, the ones Mycroft's ears are constantly telling him should not be here / silence I need silence / too much too many.

Heller's expression, too, draws Mycroft in, and combined with the curious text on the table and their previous interaction, he's moved to respond in favor of Heller's proposal. There's no need for things to be hurried, though, and there is always room for caution.

Mycroft's face remains in a pleasant mask, but wit and challenge wind their way into his words as he speaks. Their presence isn't overstated, but Heller will hear it if he listens.

"I should think that depends upon the indulgence."

"Ah," Mycroft says after a pause. For a moment, he does have a touch of the amazed about him, and something in his expression says his mind has gone elsewhere, but he comes back and clamps down on it quickly enough thanks to (what is now purely instinctual) etiquette.

"I apologize," he offers, after a second hesitation. His eyes wander down to the book again, studying its texture and color intently. "I was lost in the past for a moment."

Mycroft then looks back at the young woman in front of him, mask upon mask firmly back in place as he turns to the introduction. "Shall we press on, then, Miss...?"

The laser-like intent of her gaze is something Mycroft has seen before, but only on his brother or in a mirror. What he's never seen is the speed with which hers disintegrates and is replaced with something as unremarkable as a casual smile. Going from intense concentration to a manic grin—something fierce, triumphant—yes, he's witnessed that transformation many times in Sherlock. This is different.

The law of the conservation of energy states that energy cannot just disappear, yet that is what this woman seems to have accomplished. It's unnerving.

"As others have been so determined to remind me, I've only recently arrived, and so I'm afraid I don't do much of anything at the moment," Mycroft says, scanning her notes on the table with interest. If this is about the Network, he'll learn all he can before he leaves.

She hesitates - visibly, more visibly than she'd probably like if she were thinking about it, but it takes so much energy and she can only concentrate on so many parts of herself at once when she's so tired all the time, still - but it's...enough, she decides. It's all right. A hint of skittishness lingers, in understated contrast to the way she presented herself in arrival, but she supplies, “Ilde Decima,” obligingly and while 'Miss Decima' isn't really accurate, she's accustomed to the assumption and doesn't much mind it any more.

“And yes. Thank you for this.”

Authorial bias is relatively clear from the first, but it could be worse; while they seem a bit more fanciful than properly grounded in their subject, the tone is admiration and interest in the potential achievements of species in tandem.

(All things considered, it's a view-point Ilde could do with hearing, now and then.)

Once Mycroft finishes reading the introduction, he considers it for a moment. Personally, if he were researching his own heritage, he'd find this text a bit too subjective as a starting point, but he doesn't know what type of material Ilde has gone through before now, and she might be looking for this kind of writing specifically. He'll give her the benefit of the doubt.

"It's not quite neutral, but is this the kind of thing you're looking for?" he asks.

“Not really,” she says, studying the words - her gaze shifts, picking out the ones she knows the meaning of, going back over his translations in her head, trying to pick out the new, unfamiliar words from it. The grammar structure trips her up and her frown deepens, but it's barely there in the first place; she's still shaking herself out of the lull she had to try so hard not to slip into while he was reading to her.

Her split focus had been clear-- she'd been torn between watching his mouth for the words and looking back down at the page for the corresponding German text (but she can only look at one at a time and she'd nearly missed whole sentences letting herself try to flick back and forth), and the murmur of his voice, indistinct but having the soothing steadiness of recitation, had been a third distraction entirely, something that made her want to close her eyes and rest, a little. She hasn't been read to since she was a child.

She isn't a child any more, she reminds herself.

“Thank you, though,” after a beat, as if she's just now remembered that he's sitting beside her and deserves continued acknowledgement. It's not that she doesn't realize it's a bit awkward, the way she sometimes disappears in her own head, after all.

Mycroft, having noticed Ilde's partial deafness from their first verbal exchange, had chosen to continue speaking verbally due to Ilde's proficiency at lip-reading and the assumption that she could hear him in some capacity (her study of music would seem to attest to that). Additionally, she wouldn't ask someone she didn't know to translate a book aloud if she wouldn't be able to understand them. However, it seems she's having more trouble than she anticipated, intent as she is upon trying to watch Mycroft's words and learn the German at the same time.

It's not a sure thing, but Mycroft may have a solution.

"Do you speak BSL?" he asks in British Sign Language. "Or ASL?" This in American.

"And in previous moments? Or are you unstuck in time?" The notes focus on patterns of information flow, peak usage periods, and how exactly magic and technology interface and allow for smooth transition between the two systems. There are also a few unspooling rolls of thermal paper with some sort of computer code print out on them.

There is something a little unusual about her body language - not quite enough to be immediately and obviously wrong, but somehow faintly unsettling.

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.

Almost in spite of herself, Ilde's unhappy little moue - she'd have liked not to have been wasting his time and hers, with that book - dissipates, replaced by something subtler and warmer and pleased. It is, admittedly, not that difficult to make this happen - though it's fainter than her displeasure was, like disappointment is just more familiar. Everything she does, regardless, comes with a sharp edge.

“ASL,” she confirms, with careful gestures; she's less confident with this than she is lip-reading, less practised, but evidently somebody's quick study. (Remy LeBeau, who has been so good to her.) “I know a little. I'm still learning.”

"Unfortunately, I am thoroughly entrenched in time."

Mycroft reads and memorizes each detail—every last graph, word, number, and punctuation mark. Basic information like this is invaluable, and there's no telling when he'll be able to access it again. Therein lies the joy of an eidetic memory.

He refocuses on the woman, though he's once again put off by something—what is it? It feels like an itch in his brain, under his skull—an itch behind his eyes, what is he looking at—

"As for previous moments," Mycroft forces himself to say as casually as possible, "I was mostly a family man."

Mycroft's expression warms slightly in return, satisfied to have taken a step in the right direction. He's still not sure why he finds himself feeling more invested in Ilde's mood than he does in those of most strangers (read: not at all). From where he's sitting, any physical familiarity she may have to someone Mycroft knows or knew can no longer be seen, and he can't place who he'd been about to connect her to earlier. Also odd, since things rarely slip his mind. It has truly been a long three days.

Her demeanor remains eerily familiar, though, and it's both unnerving and calming. Furthermore, the more he looks at her, the more he wants to look harder—her colors are so rich, her textures seem to leap out at him. Even the movement of her hair draws his eyes as though it means something. All the while Mycroft's been sitting here with her, he's grown tense continually reminding himself not to stare.

He endeavors to put that all aside for the moment.

“It's a very useful language for anyone to know, I think,” he signs, keeping his motions clear and slowing them down a bit (but not enough to make things patronizing). “I thought it might be easier this way if you could focus more on reading the German on the page while you watch the signs for the English in your peripheral vision, but if you are still learning ASL, this probably won't be ideal.”

"Time flies like an arrow and fruit flies like a banana," she says with the smooth, round tones of someone delivering some great, profound statement.

"And, when you say family man, do you mean, like going to parks and dealing with spit-ups or horse heads and sedan cars with roomy trunks?" Alter doesn't seem particularly put off by either option; although, she might be more interested in the later.

“A fair amount of both, actually..." Mycroft says, pointedly ignoring her first quip. "Then, on the other hand, neither at all."

"And on the gripping hand?" She's been holding an uncapped whiteboard marker the whole time they've been talking, so it's with some deliberation that she caps and tucks it behind one ear.

Congratulations Mycroft, you're interesting enough.

Though he's having an increasing amount of trouble looking at her, Mycroft has enough self-control to keep blinking normally instead of closing his eyes tightly and giving them a rest the way he'd like. His posture and expression are slowly becoming more tense, however, and if one is paying close enough attention, it's noticeable.

"On the gripping hand, madam, it seems that's all gone now."

Every park trip and sedan. Having this kind of reality brought up by someone else is not what Mycroft wants right now.

"I find it largely useless to linger on such things."

If she recognized his distress, Alter would neither address nor apologize for it, but she might, conceivably make an effort to reduce his discomfort.

"S'what I hear. Tell me what do you wanna do instead and maybe I'll be game?"

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LIGHT THE MATCH

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