11 ɂ open spam

[mattersverymuch]

[It's been so many years since the marquis was young that he'd almost forgotten what it was like. He had been so small, ill-fed and underweight, and so easily broken. Which, really, explains a lot about what he's become - none of which he particularly wanted explained to the Barge as a whole.]

[To distract himself somewhat from this unfortunate reality, he has begun work on a compendium of stories, as he has nothing else to do with his time. Much of his work is done in the library, but much is also done in the CES, which becomes, variously, an abandoned city in a mishmash of styles, a thick, temperate, and foggy hardwood forest, and a riverside. He works mostly from memory and attempts comprehensiveness, though his writings as late veer toward tales of the trickster.]

Comments

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[mattersverymuch]

[De Carabas has never been a fan of Vonnegut. He considers it to be a pedestrian attempt at absurdity. So when he looks up and sees this young man with his face that's used to smirking at all times and his book, or his shield, or whatever it is, he's unimpressed. Then again, that's his default state.]

[He takes the time to wave his hand over the ink, allowing it to dry, for thirty or more seconds; then he glances up.]

Can I help you?

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[andyougoleft]

[It is exactly what he intended for the book to accomplish; no one actually wants to discuss Vonnegut. Some pretend they do, but no one really does. The book is a passport, a badge that says he belongs where he's standing, nothing spectacular to see here, move along.

He smiles at the question. It isn't a smirk, but it could play one on TV with the right lighting.]

I don't know. That depends on how you're capable of being helpful.

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[mattersverymuch]

[It's something sharp, anyway, and it makes the marquis sit up and take notice. Figuratively, anyway. He doesn't move at all, other than to twiddle his pen.]

In most ways.

Elaborate.

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[andyougoleft]

I didn't have anything in mind. Just whether or not you can help depends on how, quite literally, you can help.

[This is all casual, and he punctuates it by sitting down, bending his lanky frame somewhat awkwardly into the chair he'd been standing behind. The book goes on the table between them, forgotten under his hand.]

I suppose this is probably the part where I ask you something related to getting out. But seeing as how that seems particularly counter-productive or else no one would still be here, I'll go ahead and ask what you would say faced with the same order.

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[mattersverymuch]

Faced with the order to get out.

[He drums his fingers on the table, lets the silence stretch.]

What on earth makes you think I've thought about it?

[Of course he has. But there's a snag - he can survive here. Maybe he doesn't want to go home. Some days, he doesn't. Most days - well.]

[None of Slevin's business, really.]

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[andyougoleft]

[There's a moment where he's considering answering that question, smirking now, lighter and more casual than he really feels like it. It's a serene kind of smug, perpetual and irritating, balanced precariously between caring not at all and caring too much. About anything.

It's more true than a lot of people realize. He shakes his head, declining to answer. Instead:]

I meant if I told you to elaborate.