doyousmellfudge_archive | In the Milliways Library

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In the Milliways Library

Artie's been in Milliways for a full month now and still has no solid lead on the damn vampire. It would help, he reflects, if the place had any semblance of organization. It was two weeks before he discovered the library, and he's still trying to make heads or tails out of the cataloging system or lack thereof. Some parts are well-organized; others are well-organized according to a completely different schema; but the majority of the books seem to be just thrown together willy-nilly. Not unlike the Warehouse, only more so.

(Speaking of which, Artie would give his left testicle to have this intact first-edition copy of the Spates Catalogue of Other-Worldely Denyzenns and Desygnationes back home. But given that the thing is an illuminated volume almost the size of the table it's sitting on, it'd be difficult to sneak out of the building.)

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And not unlike the Warehouse, it seems the weather here is somewhat variable.

Or it could be that someone's left one of the windows open again.

The cold night air drifts in, flowing down the long aisles between the stacks, carrying with it the dank miasma of the tomb. One by one the lights gutter and go out.

When he's this deep in his research, Artie tends not to notice his immediate surroundings. He doesn't become consciously aware of the draft until it ruffles the pages of the Catalogue, causing him to lose his place.

He looks up, warily, suddenly realizing how dark it's become.

A luminous green mist flows along the lush carpets, making it's way across the floor, tendrils rising up, as if to peer around the room.

Slowly the mists coalesce into the silhouette of a torso.

Oh, crap.

Oh, crap.

Oh, crap.

On the plus side, he's finally found that vampire. Probably. Unless there's more than one. Or this particular manifestation is something else altogether.

Edited 2010-02-04 04:28 (UTC)

The moments tick passed, and the figure steps into the darkest of the shadows.

He can hear footsteps, a measured pace, making a circuit of the room, extinguishing each light until the only pool of illumination is the lamp Artie was reading by.

"A beautiful night for a little -- light reading. Although that text hardly meets the requirement."

The voice comes from the darkness, a silken baritone, the accent thick with the Old World.

"Well, you know, some people's light reading is, ah, lighter than others," says Artie, fighting to keep his expression and tone casual.

That's not all he's doing, though. It's rare, but every now and again a Warehouse agent will stumble upon a case of telepathy. Usually, it's Artifact-induced; only a tiny handful can do it naturally. There's no reliable way to tell if your mind is being read, or to prevent it from happening in the first place. However, there are methods one can use to... discourage a potential telepath from focusing on one's thoughts.

They tend to involve making those thoughts very, very annoying.

So, as soon as he hears footsteps, Artie has a little ditty going through his head:
We're no strangers to love
You know the rules and so do I
A full commitment's what I'm thinking of
You wouldn't get this from any other guy...

Vlad Dracula, you've just been Rickrolled.

There are moments in life when cultural context is nine tenths of the impact, and while yes, Rick Astley is a bit out of the Prince's experience, there is something universally disconcerting about the drum machine.

I just want to tell you how I'm feeling,
Gotta make you understand.

This actually gives him pause. He raises one gloved hand, his brow furrowing. The air grows thick between them, heavy with the threat of a winter storm.

"Is that -- absolutely necessary, Mister Weisfelt?"

"Is what necessary?" says Artie, looking faintly puzzled.

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, ( he knows my name, is that telepathy or something else? )
Never gonna run around and desert you... ( not in his thrall, I'd have to have told him the name myself for that )

It should disturb him that someone knows about his mental talents, but it doesn't. He senses nothing about this man that presents as a threat. Certainly his experience is broad, and -- startlingly varied.

He takes a step out of the shadows, revealing himself only a few feet away.

He barely moves his hand, a subtle gesture, and the realisation washes over Artie, such a continuous mental banter is not only unnecessary, it's rude. This man presents absolutely no threat.

Clearly, he's overreacting.

Unfortunately for Vlad, Artie's paranoia runs deep and strong, and overreacting is what's kept him alive for the past forty years. The mental soundtrack continues, but it's rather half-hearted.

Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you...

( Huh, I figured he'd be taller. )

The Prince lifts his chin, peering over the tops of his glasses at the little man.

"That's enough."

His fingers curl inward and his hand falls. Around them the air pressure drops, and the air grows thin. In a span of heart beats, the temperature drops and an oppressive silence descends like a heavy cloak.

It's not just silence on the outside, either. Rick Astley's voice comes to an abrupt halt.

...that's not good.

He draws in a deep breath and lets it out again.

"There."

The air seems to relax around him, and the pressure around his thoughts lessens as well.

"Much better, don't you think?"

He still feels alarmed, but the feeling is distant and blurred. Artie is reminded, vaguely (everything in his head is vague, just now), of when he was a young man and had his wisdom teeth removed, jangling nerves dulled by nitrous and novacaine.

But that was silly, wasn't it? He was silly to be scared then, just as he is now...

Artie nods, dully.

"Good."

The Prince idly tugs his gloves off, one after the other, and folds them in his palm. He ambles closer, at ease in his skin. His eyes skim over the book before returning to Artie's face.

"Now, you're not going to do anything -- untoward, are you?"

Artie shakes his head. Of course not. Why would he?

"Excellent. I'm given to understand you've been researching me?"

"Nnnnot you specifically," Artie hedges. "I mean, how could I, I only just met you, I don't even know your name or where you come from or what kind of... entity... you are."

Although he can hazard a pretty damn good guess.

The vampire cocks an eyebrow, a bemused smirk twisting his lips.

"Speculate."

Artie swallows.

"The literature on the subject is pretty wide-ranging, and contradicts itself a lot," he says slowly, "but given the abilities you've displayed here, and the reported activity over the past month or so... I'd guess you're a European vampire."

The shadows in the room shift, and there is an exhalation, a gentle breath of air across Artie's face. The previously empty space at Artie's elbow is now occupied.

"Very good, Mister Weisfelt. Did they tell you my name?"

Artie just barely keeps from jumping out of his skin.

"What? They? They who? I don't--"

Be still.

The vampire rests a hand on Artie's shoulder, heavy and cold.

"Your -- hunters."

He's not sure who they are, but there are always hunters, wherever he goes.

"I haven't been in contact with them."

There's no point in lying about it. He'd know.

"Then I beg your forgiveness for my -- manners." He moves to face the little man, his hand rising to touch the brim of his hat.

"Vlad Tepesh."

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