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

[apostatised]

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."

[diogenesis]

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."

[apostatised]

"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.

[diogenesis]

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."

[apostatised]

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.”

[diogenesis]

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?"

[apostatised]

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.”

[diogenesis]

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.)

[apostatised]

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.

[diogenesis]

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?"

[apostatised]

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.

[diogenesis]

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?"

[apostatised]

“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.)