exsiliumlogs | [Closed] Nerd alert

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[Closed] Nerd alert

Date & Time: Post-monster infestation, mid-day?
Location: The Initiative Library
Characters: Charlie Cutter and Henry Sturges
Summary: ~*~Kindred bookworm spirits~*~
Warnings: Likely more lit talk than anyone cares for. Smack talking Dickens.

Honestly? It's been a rough couple of weeks and he's ready for a break. If he can get through the next few days without any monsters, militant cultists or any attempts at genocide, Charlie's prepared to call that a win. But right now he's just happy to be out of the near-constant drizzle and somewhere far more homey than the sterile overly-modern apartment complex or the shanty town that operates as Exsilium's marketplace. Some alone time with a bunch of dusty books and the novel concept of 'peace and quiet' is just what the doctor ordered.

The Intiative's Library is expansive enough that it takes Charlie a few minutes to get his bearings. It probably doesn't help that he doesn't have any goal in mind, just the urge to get his hands on something familiar. Something other than 1984. Or anything at all to do with time travel. In fact, maybe just stay away from everything sci-fi to be safe. He might be getting sick of the genre, as impossible as it would seem.

So how he ends up in classical literature is beyond him, but somehow he does. Despite the dearth of unfamiliar authors, it isn't hard to find something he recognizes. He doesn't even really like Dickens - there's only so many times you can read about disenfranchised orphans before getting a little jaded -, but at least it's recognizable. It figures that it would be something wholly mediocre like Great Expectations to survive into the dystopian future.

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Henry hasn't paid the Hold's collection its due attention, what with his time usually fairly well spoken for between staving off starvation and running the Initiative's little errands. So when a quiet afternoon presents itself, he's there in the stacks.

It doesn't surprise him to find the place nearly empty, and for a while he browses and battles the dust without crossing paths with anybody. Even less surprising is that when he does at last encounter a living soul, it's among the classics.

"I'd put that one down if I were you," Henry says, sidling along the shelf until he's standing beside the man. "You'll be disappointed."

Having gone the entire visit without running into a single person, Charlie's a little surprised to find himself faced with conversation the second he stops long enough to actually pull down a book. Charlie raises his eyebrows at the other man and turns the novel in his hands.

"I appreciate the warning, but I've read it." He taps where the title's emblazoned on the dust jacket. "With a title like that I don't know how Dicken's didn't think that maybe he was setting people up for disappointment." But maybe that was the point? Oh, how meta.

This fellow doesn't have the look of your typical bibliophile, but Henry, more than most, is no stranger to the concept of deceptive appearances.

"I like to think it was in the plan, but that may be too optimistic of me. The irony's at least a little redeeming either way." Henry summons a polite smile, then he takes a hand from his pocket and offers it up. "Henry Sturges."

Well Bob's his uncle, someone with some sense in this hell hole. Charlie dusts off his hand on his jacket, then catches Henry's offered hand in a firm grip. "Charlie Cutter."

He slides the book back into its rightful place on the shelf. "Well if you're not recommending Dickens, what would you suggest?" Ah, the tried and true methodology for finding out what other people read. Not caring for Dickens was a point for Henry, but who knows. Maybe he's a big fan of Djuna Barnes. Which look, no one seriously recommends Djuna Barnes without outing themselves as a right ass.

Considering he predates the Western novel, Henry's had better opportunity in his spotty free hours than most men have in an entire lifetime of study to absorb and appreciate literature.

That said, he could default his answer to one of the more obscure titles he's seen rallied on these shelves, but it would be an awful waste of a chance to chat about what really tickles his fancy.

"Surely a play or two out of the Bard's book made it this far." If not, he'll have to bring some choice words to the Initiative about their priorities for these missions to the past.

Well it's certainly no Djuna Barnes. Shakespeare? He can do Shakespeare. Though he'd rather a good novel any day of the week, he can appreciate a solid play now and again.

Charlie taps his fingers across the spines of the books within reach and nods appreciatively. "I can't imagine they'd all be gone. Not like the man's repertoire was particularly thin." Not the most prolific writer of his time by a long shot, by the thirty-odd-seven plays he'd penned wasn't exactly a small number either. If Great Expectations managed to make it this far, surely at least a copy of King Lear or A Midsummer Night's Dream made it through.

"Personally I've always been keen on Henry IV, but I wouldn't get my hopes up for that one."

"More tragic still if the second half survived without the first." Nevermind the offense to continuity, Part One is the stronger half by far. Without its help, the second is as useful as a eulogy to a lost masterpiece.

Henry shuffles down the aisle a bit before the spine of an exceptionally dust-ridden Die Verwandlung catches his eye. He has to extract the volume with extreme care to avoid unsettling the cloud lurking there.

"How do you feel about Kafka?"

Charlie makes a pained noise at the thought of it. "Don't. My heart wouldn't take it."

He trails after Henry, fingers skimming one of the shelves and leaving tracks in the dust. "Favorably." Charlie leans over to peer at the selection there, and feels a momentary pang of regret. From a quick once over, it doesn't look like A Hunger Artist has survived - weirdly apt, that. But maybe it's hidden away, the victim of being poorly filed. One can hope.

"You've read his novels then, or do you prefer the short stories? I read The Trial when I should've been in secondary, but was too much of a jumped up shit to appreciate it. I keep meaning to get back to it."

"Either. Though I think having the palate for one or the other is certainly influenced by mood." A few dozen pages of Gregor Samsa's troubles is going to be a more refreshing afternoon read than the weightier Das Schloss he spots on the shelf beside it.

Upon closer inspection, the slim book in his hands appears to include both the original German and an English translation. Henry regards the survival of the former with some relief, since he has come across some truly horrific translations in his day.

"Good. That one's worth a second and third visit for sure."

"Fair enough." More than, really. Sometimes you sit down and want to eat a steak and not even the best alternative is going to cut it.

Charlie taps his fingers absently on the shelf above. The books there are unfamiliar, titles and authors he doesn't recognize and doesn't think he should. He's not sure if that's intimidating or encouraging. It's even more books he couldn't possibly have the time to read in his lifetime (not that he'll get the chance if he's lucky; he'd rather not stay here that long thanks).

"I’ve got to say, there's a whole load of oddities running about the place, but I honestly didn’t expect to find someone with an appreciation for Kafka of all things. Nice to know that not the whole bloody place is losing its grip.”

Henry laughs at that, shutting the book with a bit more force than he should and upsetting the inevitable dust demon within. He doesn't need to breathe the air, but that doesn't make the experience any more pleasant.

Coughing once, he waves the stuff on down the aisle and then ever so carefully slides the book back into place on the shelf.

"It's good to find a foothold in what's familiar every once in a while," he agrees as he looks back back to Cutter, taking a cue from the direction of the big man's gaze. "I like to consider myself well-read, but I haven't a clue what half of these titles are."

"Bit intimidating, isn't it?" Walking into a library always comes with that gentle reminder that there's not really enough time in the world to read everything. Not even enough time to read just 'the good stuff'. Give him a few more lifetimes and maybe he'd be able to put a dent in it, so long as people stopped writing and printing and binding books entirely.

He reaches up and pulls down a book at random. The author and title are both unfamiliar; flipping in to read the dust jacket summary just heightens the sense of alienation. Right kind of story - the protagonist sounds like something familiar enough -, entirely wrong sort of details. It's like reading a fantasy book abstract without the publisher giving any context. "I keep meaning to look up some history accounts between my time and this - get my bearings a bit, but honestly..." He shrugs, noncommittal. Part of him doesn't really care to know what exactly happened - especially since the missions they get sent on seem to be doing all they can to change anything he might possibly pick up.

"I suspect it's more than just time that's against us here," he says, peering around Cutter's shoulder as he flips open the book. "There are truths fundamentally different between this world and those of the people pulled into it. What's to say this is how our individual futures look at all? It's possible I've heard of titles you haven't, and vice versa, not because it's something we never had a chance to encounter at home, but because it didn't exist there."

If it's true, Henry has to wonder just how many of these alternate realities aren't plagued by his kind. Most, he hopes.

"See, this is exactly what I've been talking about." There's a pitch to his voice that's all thinly guised excitement. Because as ludicrous as this whole situation is, as completely mad as it is and how so much of it renders him (and every other Transport) so powerless to get back to where they belong-- Well. It's kind of a bit cool, isn't it? "Alternate realities, string theory, some fold in time and space-- what the Initiative's been doing is so far beyond time travel it doesn't even warrant the name anymore."

He slides the unfamiliar book back on the shelf and pauses to admire the long row of stacks stretching in either direction. It's impressive, is what it is. Centuries of culture in one building, in print or otherwise. For the first time since coming here, Charlie can't help but feel a strange kind of fondness for the damn place. Or for the potential of it anyway.

"It must have been something before it all turned to shit."

"Oh, yes. Though if this were a vacation, I'd be much more inclined to look kindly on our hosts. I'm not sure how I feel about the technology being out of their control." The chance to theorize hasn't gone unappreciated on his end either. Keeping this much science fiction bottled up inside can't be good for one's sanity.

"I think I'd give an arm at least to see first hand how the world came to be this way." But then...if it mirrors his own reality at all, there's a chance that one day he will.

That effectively sours the idea for him.

"Personally I'd rather go in for the pre-apocalypse utopia myself, but I do like a good disaster movie." It's a thoroughly poor joke, but one he apparently is pleased with - at least enough to shoot Henry a sidelong glance and an accompanying grin.

"Anyway, this wouldn't be the first time someone used something they didn't understand to win a bloody war. So long as this really is some kind of alternate dimension and mucking about in history isn't altering our own timelines-- well, either way I don't imagine we'll be around to see the consequences of it. Dead or gone by then." Though he has had some vague thought about how if they're changing history -- no matter how much the Initiative insists the changes are minor --, if that isn't slowing shifting this timeline farther away from wherever they've been pulled from. If this was a book, screwing with time to win a war would probably mean they'd end up trapped in Exsilium forever. Seems like the kind of dramatic irony a novelist would like.

Luckily he isn't one. Or a physicist -- so he's probably wrong all around.

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[Closed] Nerd alert

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