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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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?"

[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.

[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!

[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.

[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.