milliways_bar | (no subject)

"Is that right? Perhaps then I shall attempt to read his work once I have finished these." With a gesture, he indicates the plethora of reading material.

"I cannot comprehend all that is told in these tales, yet they become fascinating to me in many ways. I wonder at these worlds so unlike my own."

Why wonder? Many of them are here.

*Tim ponders giving the Creature a copy of Frankenstein.*

"I cannot bring myself to venture interaction with any being in this bar... It is quite enough to me simply to exist and be allowed to do so, in the open."

He looks around. "Though I am assured otherwise, I cannot change the feeling that I am unwelcome and loathsome. To know my own image, contrasted against the fair people of this place, is to feel as alike as a stone in a field of flowers."

You should meet smeagol. He was as ugly as you when he came here.

*Tim shrugs*

People still talked with him. I bet you'd find a lot of people would actually think you're amazing, having already heard of you.

He brightens. "Smeagol! We have met- I count him among my friends. He plans to build a house outside soon- and, as I will help, one for me as well." He's absolutely beaming.

"It is odd to me, that so many might know me, though I have not yet made their acquaintance. Have I already made some reputation?"

*Tim pauses.*

There is a story of you, in our world. A book.

His head snaps up. "How can this be? Of all who knew me, none survived..." A thought crosses his mind. "But for the man in the ship. I know not how long my creator was with him, nor how much was spoken. Yet, for all that must have been told, I cannot see why any man would wish to be near me, having heard my creator's account of me. I am sure no matter how fiendish and monstrous I am in truth, his own words would render me moreso, an hundredfold."

*Tim shakes his head, holding up a hand.*

No one had to have been there. In fact, the writer was a woman, one Mary Shelly. Because this bar exsists, ideas sleet from one world to another, so that what happens in one world, is a story or book in another.

For several moments, the Creature is speechless, gaping and blinking.

"...I do not understand this, Tim. A woman with whom I have had no contact whatsoever could know my history, even from another world?"

*Tim nods, then reaches in his pocket. He slides a copy of "The Books of Magic" comic book across the table.*

I never met this neil gaiman guy, yet he knows my life.

He lifts the book, staring. "And, it seems, he has seen enough to paint you from life." He flips through the pages, eyes wide. "How is it that such a thing may happen? And yet... I am reminded of my creator's statement that he was inspired by some outside urge- unnatural and uncontrollable to him- to bring about my existence. Can such a thing be so in this case as well, where the hand of Fate or even Providence might compel a man to tell a story he knows not?"

*Tim nibbles on his lower lip*

Something like that?

He gazes into the middle distance in awe. "Wondrous strange... My short life has prepared me little for the true complexity and unknowable strangeness that is the universe."

Er... yeh?

*Tim always feels pretty stupid talking to the creature.*

Would.. would you like a copy of the story written of you?

He looks at the collection of books, thinking.

"I suppose," he hazards, "It might be an education to me. Perhaps there is some shred of evidence there, some information to be gleaned, that may help me understand my place."

If nothing else, it'd be from his time, so he'd have less trouble comprehending things like Vogons or hitchhiking.

*Tim pulls said book from his pocket, and hands it over.*

Thats the original.

"I thank you, my friend... it may be a very helpful thing to me, indeed." He takes it reverently, fingers tracing the design of the cover.

"...that my short and wretched life could be known to another..." he murmurs to himself.

There have been numerous other interpetations. From books, to movies to all sorts of things.

*Tim shakes hsi head.*

I reckon very few got it right.

He looks up again, worry written across his face.

"Then my existence has been recorded in some way by many, to be passed around among strangers? Am I merely suffered here as some curiosity? To be an unknown fiend seems more acceptable than to have all one's life readily apparent to any who may read."

Not all know. I'm a geek, and as bar security, I make it my business to check up on people. Many from Earth will know of you, or at least, of your creator. You are known as his monster in most writing, never having been given a name of your own.

*Tim pauses.*

You are no more a curiosity then Luke Skywalker, a man who anyone after 1980 knows his entire life story. Or then myself, a well known figure in these comic books. People know better then to ogle.

He gives this thought. "It is not an uncommon thing, then one may suppose? That, at least, may offer me some small comfort. Perhaps further judgement should be reserved until I may see what of my history can be found within these pages." He holds Frankenstein up, then inspects the outside from every angle.

*Tim nods.*

To be fair? You are nothign like the common image of the monster. You have brains, and can speak. The common image is much worse. But then, things often are, when misinterpeted.

*Tim vows never to show him Young Frankenstien*

"Am I then a mindless beast to any who have read this?" he asks, expression darkening. "By the title and what my own creator felt, I should have little surprise. My own brutish actions mated with his hatred of me could easily lead to such a portrait."

*he shakes his head.*

No, not from the book, from the movie.

"I fear I have never heard of such a thing," he says, looking to Tim for further explanation.