The Noble Eavesdropper

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((Siyanda Nagi continued from Generation Loss))

Sometimes Siyanda was at school, sometimes ze was at work, and sometimes ze did both at the same time because ze was that kind of overachiever. Zir resume wasn't going to pad itself, after all.

Or in other words: once or twice a week, Siyanda spent free period in the library shelving things, telling people to shut the fuck up minus saying the word "fuck" if there was a teacher present, and basically just being a glorified hall monitor so that the librarian could take her lunch break in peace. It was, in zir opinion, the only good faculty aide position, because it was the only one that didn't require following another student around for most of the day and making sure that they didn't fall into a black hole that spontaneously generated in the hallway or something. Siyanda respected the students who worked with the special ed classes, but ze had figured out at an early age that teaching wasn't for zem, and ze didn't intend to play student teacher (or babysitter) for free just because the school didn't want to hire more individual aides.

The downside was that interesting things rarely happened in the library aside from someone occasionally bringing a drink in against the rules and then spilling it on themselves in an act of divine justice. That was also the upside, though; the best part of the library was that it was quiet.

It was a very nerdy thing to admit, but Siyanda genuinely enjoyed just wandering the stacks as ze pulled the cart of returned books along and found the right places to re-shelve them. There was just something about being surrounded by books that was soothing. Peace and quiet with few pressing responsibilities was a rare and valuable commodity in Siyanda's life, and ze intended to squeeze every last drop of satisfaction that ze could from it. Insert joke about Type A personalities here.

It was a toss-up as to whether the fiction or non-fiction sections would be more people-free on most days. Today, fiction seemed to be the winner, so Siyanda was taking zir time there, flipping through the books before shelving them. Hunter High had a good selection, probably a means of showing off to whomever came by to compare it to the private schools. At the moment, Siyanda was rather contentedly leaning against the shelf next to the book cart and paging through The Picture of Dorian Gray, debating on whether it was worth checking out and if ze would even have the time to read it if ze did.

It was, of course, the kind of nice, quiet moment that just begged for an unwanted interruption.

[Fenris]

When Artem contemplated his mortality (which was possibly more often than was strictly necessary), one of his deepest regrets, if he labored under the assumption that either nothing lay after death or the great beyond was too different from human life to include the creature comforts he was used to, was the thousands of books that he would inevitably leave unread.

Whenever he strolled through a library, the reality of their number hit him like the rush of cold air from a store in summertime.

He struck that thought. Sloppy simile. He'd work on it.

>> ARTEM FYODOROV: START

He was here on a mission, at least, which would hopefully prevent him from getting too off-track here. Not that getting off-track wasn't a tempting proposition. He had a fair amount of time to kill, and getting lost in the library's shelves and taking a few non-literal bites out of an assorted few of its contents would while away the minutes easily. But he did have a class to get to eventually, and it would be for the best if he made his way to his destination and then stole his prize away to a less-than-comfortable seat next to the door of his history class.

See, he had a system. He kept a list of books he wanted to read, one that seemed to increase in size exponentially between every book he managed to read, in a notebook. When he finished a book, he picked a page from that notebook at random and pointed to a title with his eyes closed. It had worked out fairly well in the years he'd been using it, though his readerly stubbornness caused him some trouble when he insisted on finishing every book he picked, no matter how badly it ended up sucking. The tragic thing about a taste for vampire novels is that a lot, probably most, of them were absolute drivel. At least those were usually pretty short.

His target on this particular afternoon, though, was a classic, one that he was certain wouldn't disappoint him—The Picture of Dorian Gray. If there was any disappointment to be found it was in himself, for having taken this long to get on this particular wagon. He really ought to figure out some kind of priority system, but changing the one he already had seemed like a lot of work. He knew the library well enough to move easily to the stretch of shelving where he'd expect to find the book, and he would have headed toward it if he hadn't been distracted by another figure in the library.

He knew zir. On sight, anyway. Ze was the library aid, and he'd spotted zir at the few GSA meetings he'd managed to make it to. He couldn't dredge up a name, but he was never good at those. He'd like to ask, but he was never going to, so he only looked at zir for a period of time that couldn't be reasonably called "staring" before looking away and wandering back between the shelves.

And came up empty handed.

There was an extremely frustrating gap in the shelving where the novel he was seeking clearly belonged, but it was gone. He frowned at the spot, narrowing his eyes as though it would materialize if he was irritated enough. That failed, inevitably. His best recourse, he supposed, was to hope there was a copy in the book cart back up front, and that every copy hadn't been borrowed. Or he could speak to the librarian. Or rather, the librarian's assistant. But he probably wasn't eve going to do that either.

Talking to people wasn't his forte. Talking to zir would be worse. For a number of reasons.

Artem realized, aiming toward that book cart, that it was very, very close to zir, but probably just far enough that he wouldn't have to say anything and it wouldn't be weird? Maybe? At least, that stayed true until he stole another glance and realized that there was a book in zir hands, and it just so happened to be the one he wanted. He couldn't have plotted it better. Or worse.

He checked the cart anyway, his gaze staying as far away from zir as he flipped through the collection of returned books, but unless he wanted to exchange his selection for Anne of Green Gables (and he did not) he was out of luck. He'd talk to zir, or he'd have to choose again. Social anxiety versus that aforementioned readerly stubbornness.

He frowned, glanced at zir, glanced away again. "Rock and a hard place" was the aphorism that came to mind.

[MethodicalSlacker]

A firm believer that, every so often, a true intellectual must find themselves "grubbing in the muck-heaps," so to speak, Max invited himself into the school library in search of a specific book that he had found recommended many times under the pretext of falling in line with a canon related to something that he very much disagreed with, and could not beat around the bus of much longer.

[Max Rudolph continued from Disc Rot.]

Because when one finds themselves clinging to a rock protruding from the sea, stranded in a hurricane of ideology and thought constructs, drastic measures are required. The point; his literature was growing tiresome. Max had realized that it was only possible to partake in so many of the works of Julius Evola before one realizes that perhaps the perspicuity of his arguments is not due to any deep profundity, but to the elementary and primal appeal of the point presented, that point being that modern society does nothing but corrupt. Ever the contrarian, Max disagreed on a few counts, but was willing to entertain the thought—for the aptitude to entertain a thought without accepting it as objective fact was, to his eyes, the mark of a man who was truly awakened in his mental capacity—enough to the point of being able to see its value as a dialectic study.

However, Max acknowledged that maybe his mental growth had been stunted, as of late. Since the incident in the public library, he had felt distaste with his collection of extremely objectionable literature. Mein Kampf was underwritten. Nietzsche was overwritten. Dugin had little awareness of his subject of discussion, Buchanan was fatalistic, and Shapiro and Coulter and all the rest were pedestrian at best. All writing filled him with ennui, at this point. He had dreaded this day for many years, and at last it had come to pass.

Thus, this was a move of desperation. Max considered the book he was about to read a total and complete waste of precious time. He had read excerpts and nearly vomited from the deep velvet prose, the sucrose inherent in each lavish description of Victorian society, the romanticized air that surrounded every character, to say nothing of the homo-eroticism.

But it was different.

And lo, he had done it. He dragged himself to the school library, that crucial inhibitor of cerebral growth, because he knew for certain that they would not be caught dead without a purported "classic" in their possession. As if the book could stack up to the works of Homer—a classic! If he were of the kind disposed to emotional outbursts, he would laugh, and be unable to cease laughing. Entering the library and sweeping the room for anyone who might know the location of the book, he saw who he presumed to be a library assistant shelving books, with their back turned to him. He approached. If they did not know the answer, then he would take it upon me to search.

"Excuse me," Max said in a hushed voice as he approached Siyanda, "would you be able to help me find a book, by any chance?"

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Some interruptions were more unwelcome than others. Or perhaps "less welcome" was the proper way to phrase that, but saying it that way implied that any interruption at all might be welcome, and this was not the case.

Regardless.

Siyanda wouldn't have particularly minded if Artem had been the one to approach and actually initiate conversation. Ze was, technically, just kind of dicking around on the clock by hiding out in between the shelves and skimming a book instead of putting things away. Ze didn't really know Artem but he was inoffensive, if a little odd at worst.

Rudolph was offensive, in multiple senses.

Siyanda was, in some ways, the type to judge a book by its cover. At least when the book was a person, to abuse a metaphor. Zir first impression of Rudolph, back whenever that had been, had not been good. Ze had gone through a phase, somewhere around the point when the school system had first started dividing the students up by reading levels and gifted classes, where ze thought that using big words, confusing other people, and generally making those others feel dumb made zem smarter. Rudolph had done much the same and had never grown out of it. Putting aside any other unsavory things Siyanda had witnessed or heard about over the years (and there were plenty of things, but frankly a lot of them weren't much worse than what ze had seen and heard from many of zir peers), Rudolph was just obnoxious and full of himself, and Siyanda hated dealing with people who thought that they were smarter than they were and couldn't keep their egos in check for five freaking minutes throughout the day.

Ze wondered if Bert had ever had the opportunity to tell Rudolph to go fuck himself. Sadly, it wasn't the time or place for zem to pass the message along in her stead.

The good news was, ze heard Rudolph coming before ze saw him, and that gave zem enough time to compose zir expression before turning. Polite indifference was one of zir best and most practiced faces. Ze tucked The Picture of Dorian Gray under zir arm and replied, "I can try. What are you looking for?"

Ze did spot Artem lingering a few feet away and raised zir eyebrows briefly at him. Ze might have invited him to interrupt the ongoing interruption, but that would probably mean dealing with Rudolph longer.

[MethodicalSlacker]

Max knew of SIyanda. Reputation proceeded. A member of the "Gay/Straight Alliance," or some organization along those lines. Max had to suppress his initial shudder of distaste, and he saw that Siyanda had to make a similar effort to maintain a neutral countenance. The effort was appreciated. Max did not understand why the general populace of the school thought that he was of the kind to pick unnecessary fights. When confronted with an incorrect fact, or suitable aggravation, or a request to debate, he would more than indulge himself and his opponent, but in his day to day life arguments were to be avoided. Especially in a place of learning, though he was not very capable at preventing those as of late.

Not an enthusiastic greeting, then. Max anticipated that. The book, tucked under arm. He had no chance to visually identify its title, contents, or author. Quite possibly it was Saul Alinsky's Rules for Radicals, which might make good re-read material at some point, but it was likely more pedestrian literature. What did people of Siyanda's ilk like to read? Did they read?

"A novel," Max said, "by the name of The Picture of Dorian Gray, if you have it."

Andalusia. He was not able to stop his eyebrow from twitching at the name of the book and the imagery it evoked in his mind. Silently he prayed it unnoticeable by the... figure before him. Judgement at this moment, as hypocritical as he begrudgingly accepted this opinion to be, was unwelcome.

[Fenris]

Oh no.

That was a trite turn of phrase, wasn't it? "Oh no." It meant so little. And yet, somehow, so much. At the very least it summed up his emotional reaction to the sudden appearance of someone else better than a paragraph of expository mental monologue possibly could. It wasn't a personal reaction, either, not really; Artem's personal interactions with the boy (man?) (he never did know how to best describe 18-year-olds, including himself) he recognized as Max Rudolph were fairly limited. Not that those limited interactions had been positive. The most cognizant memory he had of him was of a group project they'd worked on together in History as juniors, and Max had struck him as... well. To be charitable, he seemed very sure of himself. Artem felt too guilty to be uncharitable.

But anyone turning up at this moment in time would have thrown him off his guard, as he was having a hard enough time trying to work up the courage to approach Siyanda as it was. Now there were two people he needed to contend with. But it was fine! It was quite fine, because it did a wonderful job of making up his mind for him. He was going to admit defeat. He was going to shrink back into the shelves and maybe find something else from his list to read. As much as he hated circumventing his own system, sometimes it couldn't be helped. Rules must be broken for the greater good, etcetera.

But Siyanda looked at him, and he froze in amber headlights.

(Was that metaphor any good? He'd think about it later.)

He could still leave, technically. Nothing was actually, physically stopping him. But now that ze had acknowledged his presence suddenly the prospect lost most of its appeal. He probably would have continued to stare blankly for a good minute, though, if not for a familiar set of words coming from Max's mouth. (Lips? Did it sound weird if he said lips?)

The Picture of Dorian Gray.

He could still leave. But instead he took a tentative step into the conversation.

"S-sorry," he said quietly. Was he shaking? That would explain the tremor in his voice. He was just loud enough to be audible, but not a decibel louder. "I was... looking for the same book, actually. I checked... checked the shelves, first. I didn't see it there, so I... I thought I'd ask."

He only glanced at the book ze held under zir arm for a moment. He wouldn't protest if ze wanted to keep it. Ze found it first, after all.

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Of course it was. Religion and spirituality and all of that jazz (heh) were somewhat outside the sphere in which Siyanda moved day to day, but ze knew one thing: among the laws of the universe, Murphy's reigned supreme.

If Artem had come up alone, Siyanda might have given him the book without fuss. Might. Ze saw him around the library often enough to figure that he was a voracious reader and pretty reliable about handling things. It would have come down to zir mood, and how much the opening passages of the novel interested zem. Rudolph's presence complicated things slightly in that now it didn't really matter how willing Siyanda was to give the novel to Artem; if ze tried, Rudolph was likely to make a fuss about how he'd asked first. So unfortunately for Artem, he was probably taking third place in terms of who was most likely to actually end up with what they wanted if this was the only copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray floating around.

Of course, Siyanda ranked zirself above Rudolph in zir own terms of who deserved what, and in this hypothetical debate about seniority of privilege, Siyanda had been here before either of them and currently had zir hands on the book, so ze won. So that settled the matter.

Zir expression remained neutral, and ze didn't roll zir eyes at the universe at large, but ze thought about it. "I think there's at least one copy, but it's being held right now." By Siyanda's armpit rather than the library system, technically, but still. "I can check on the computer to see if there are any others...?" Ze trailed off into an unspoken question.

[MethodicalSlacker]

The stammering mess that was Artem, quivering in the corner of Max's eyesight, provided an unforeseen obstacle. Clearly, this pallid figure had no claim on the book, for if he had really desired it, he would have asked posthaste. Instead, he had waited for someone else to make the opening move before making himself an interlocutor in the conversation. Needless complication, as typical of the kind of person that Artem was. And that kind of person was feeble in body and in mind.

In fact, if Max didn't know better, he'd have mistaken Artem for a girl. At least it was easy to tell what Siyanda wanted to be, even if that something was, for all that Max cared, not important or worth the trouble of recognizing. At least there was no ambiguity.

Nevertheless, Max was here for a book. Siyanda made mention of the possibility of a further check in the database, to which Max offered an assenting nod: "That would be appreciated," he intoned.

He had some passing curiosity in what book Siyanda was holding, but there was no reason to believe that Siyanda would do something so boorish as to willfully withhold information from Max for no good reason whatsoever other than greed and misuse of power as a library technician. Right? It was a wild guess.

As for Artem?

Currently, he was indifferent. But if he decided to pitch stones for the book, Max was more than ready to prove himself more important. Or, to walk away, if he could resist a good spar.

[Fenris]

"It's being held right now." What a clever turn of phrase. He almost wanted to write it down. Artem wasn't even sure ze was doing it on purpose, it wasn't like it wasn't an appropriate phrase in the less literal sense, but if it was accidental it was certainly serendipitous. ("Certainly serendipitous". He wanted to write that one down, too, the rhythm combined with the alliteration was striking, wasn't it?)

At any rate, it was clear that Max had no plans to give in. In the unlikely event that there actually was an extra copy to be found in the computer system, he would of course insist on it. And Artem would let him have it, because it absolutely wasn't worth the inevitable argument that would follow. And if he were perfectly honest, did he have an argument? All he had done was skulk and shuffle and stare (that one didn't quite work, he'd have to workshop on alliteration, it wasn't his strong suit) and wait hoping the thing he wanted would fall into his hand without a discussion becoming necessary.

He tapped his fingers together, a nervous habit, and nodded slightly. Ideally he'd prefer not to bother zir anymore, as he didn't expect anything to come from zir search, but there was no point in trying to disagree with Max. All he could manage was a quiet "thank you," followed by an equally quiet "apologies for the trouble." Which hopefully Max wouldn't take personally, but really, there was no saying with him.

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"This way, then." Siyanda considered dragging the cart along but decided against it. Ze was just going to head right back and resume shelving books once this was taken care of. Instead, ze wove around it and past Rudolph and Artem, rounding the corner of the shelf and heading for the library desk with the expectation they would follow.

Ze bent to relocate the book from zir arm to one of the shelves down behind the desk, out of sight. After a moment's pause to consider, ze also grabbed a pen and scribbled out a reminder onto a sticky note to actually check it out to zirself before leaving today, and stuck the note on the book's cover. With that done, ze took a seat and turned to the desktop computer, tapping zir fingers as ze waited for it to come out of sleep mode so ze could log into the database.

[MethodicalSlacker]

Max nodded his head and tailed Siyanda to the librarian's desk. The cart stayed behind, a detail that piqued Max's curiosity and gained Siyanda some favorable rapport. A serviceperson's willingness to put aside menial labor in order to provide personal support was the mark of exquisite work. It would have made Max smile, were there not other external factors keeping him from doing so. One of those, certainly, being the presence of Artem, and the other, in a roundabout manner, being the presence of Siyanda as well.

He monitored Siyanda's activity at the desk. Something about the book previously held was pertinent enough to warrant a post-it reminder. As Siyanda shifted over to the desktop computer, Max's line of sight lingered on the vacant deskspace where the book once was.

Hearing keystrokes, Max looked at the computer. He imagined, and hoped, that his gaze looked vacant.

[Fenris]

Then came one of those moments.

Artem was, naturally, inclined to believe that most scenes could be best portrayed through the medium of literature. That wasn't to say he wasn't a fan of other forms of media; to the contrary, he spent much of his time with video games or old horror movies. He had the utmost respect for the aspects of horror in particular—the tension, the suspense, the eventual payoff—that visual media was capable of, though even there he was equally fond of the creeping atmospheric dread that the written word allowed. But for most scenes, he would argue that the reader's capacity to fill in the details with their imagination, an ability most thoroughly exploited in novels, was integral and ideal. For most scenes the subtlety of language said more than the camera lens.

This was one of those moments where that axiom didn't hold true. These pauses, these long moments of silence, of held tension, where there was nothing much to describe except the hanging feeling of mild dread in the air. The dread might have just been from him, though. Max seemed rather less terrified at unknown human interaction. Siyanda mostly just seemed bored.

He couldn't imagine how he'd write the scene, but he could vaguely imagine it on film. The tension came from the knowledge that both he and Siyanda held that Max did not; that ze had the book already, and ze didn't plan on giving it up. More than likely, because this was real life and real life didn't need to ratchet up the stakes constantly, ze would say the book was out of stock, Max might be irritated or ask to be notified when it was back or something, and then it would be over. Then he would... reroll his book choice, most likely. He was hardly going to insist on taking a book from someone who seemed like they were enjoying it.

Maybe he'd ask zir how ze liked it. Maybe he could talk to zir? Maybe. That was still a theoretical, though.

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"Ah." It took just a few seconds longer than it might otherwise have to bring up the book; Siyanda couldn't exactly pull the copy ze'd squirreled away beneath the desk out to check the call number. The results earned that faint reaction of surprise, the kind you felt when something was unexpected but you didn't care much either way.

"There is another copy... but it's checked out too. To a teacher." Siyanda scrolled down a bit and snorted softly. "...It's overdue." Not checked out for a course, ze assumed. The Picture of Dorian Grey seemed a bit advanced for sophomore English. Most likely the teacher had taken it out for personal reading and then forgotten about it.

Ze glanced back up at Rudolph and noted with faint interest that Artem was still there too. Either he wanted the book really badly and was hoping there was a chance he could claim it after Rudolph had gone, or... well, some other motivation that Siyanda couldn't figure out. Ze didn't know him well enough to guess. They'd never really spoken, and Artem was just quiet and a bit odd in that inoffensive way.

To Rudolph, Siyanda said, "I can make a note for the librarian to send that teacher an email and have them turn it in, if you want?"

[MethodicalSlacker]

Max's gaze narrowed.

"Another copy," he repeated under his breath.

For some reason, that syntax, that unassuming verbiage, struck him as rather odd. He had been told earlier that the book was being held at the moment. That information had come very, very quickly. Unless Siyanda had checked out the novel to somebody else earlier in the afternoon—and what was the length of a session as a librarian, here, anyways?—then Siyanda having that information so readily available was of concern.

"Could you possibly tell me which teacher has the book?" Max requested, "I might know them."

"Else-wise, I'd appreciate that. The email-sending, I mean."

[Fenris]

Another copy. Spoken by Siyanda, muttered by Max, now running through his own head. Meaningful repetition. Artem hadn't seen anything wrong with Siyanda's words, but he supposed he was on the right side of the dramatic tension, and Max was the one left with the feeling he had a mystery to solve. Ideally that was a feeling he'd leave unsatisfied. The worst case scenario was that he would work out the truth, and try to harass Siyanda for zir copy, and then... and then? And then Artem would slide on out of that situation. Well, no, he wouldn't. He would very much want to. But he didn't want zir to have to deal with all of this alone.

They didn't know each other, not really. But Artem was here every day, and he couldn't not notice zir. He wondered if ze ever noticed him. He'd maybe put a little too much thought into that possibility.

Either way, even if that wasn't the case, he'd feel like a dick for skipping out on zir. Max seemed to be moving on, anyway. Hopefully, at least?

Artem nodded, only vaguely in response to what Max was saying. He certainly wasn't going to harass any teachers about their misuse of the library, and at this point he was basically third in line for the book, so he would have to wait for one of the other two regardless. Still, he wanted to let Siyanda know in the smallest way he could that he was grateful for zir time.

Hopefully he wasn't being too much of a bother.