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Millitimed to after ooms

Preston Opened and closed the door to his bathroom-coming face to face with Milliways once again.
Good to feel like one belongs somewhere.

In an attempt to assuage the guilt of physically harming one of his now-closest friends he's got a book. It's "A christmas Carol" and he's looking for a few specific people to ask questions on about it, but he's open for conversation. Certain pages have been marked with yellow stickies.

He also has a few generic books, their titles so worn and faded that even he doesn't know what they are.

Mun is absolutely terrified that the scenes from "National Lampoons a Christmas Vacation" will repeat themselves directly across from her house so please oh please tag at will!

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Having gone out for a while, then returned, Ray is settled in at one of the tables with a decent view of the Observation Window. He's still working on a project from a little while ago- read a line of one book, write something in another, over and over down to the end of each page.

It's slow going, so every so often he sits back and shakes out his hands, and that's when he spots a familiar face and waves.

Ah yes! Ray! One of the people in fact that Preston was looking for.

He takes a few steps over, hurrying along, and sets the copy of "A Christmas Carol" down on the table. Visible.

"Hello Ray." Preston's barely containing a grin, "How're you?"

Ray can't help glancing at the book. Neither can he help the tiny temporary widening of his eyes- but he gets that under control and looks up with a smile. "Pretty good, I'd say, pretty good... yourself?"

There are questions to be asked, but Preston's not going to ask them.

"Jurgen gave me this as a gift."
He slid the book back to his side of the table, studying it, "I wanted to know if you knew about it. It was supposed to be very popular, Max called it a...Classic."

That and ghosts are your area of expertise.

"... yeah, actually," Ray says slowly. "We... we read that in school. Several different years, in fact. And my parents took me to a dramatic presentation of it a couple of times, too."

He rubs at the side of his nose with one finger.

"Dickens wrote it as a social commentary, actually, it's supposed to point out the terrible things that come of pulling into yourself and isolating yourself from your fellow men. Christmas was supposed to be a time for giving, and socialization, and generally treating other human beings the way you yourself would want to be treated under the best of circumstances..."

He wants to say something about how the most important line is probably Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?, or the display of the two horrifying children Ignorance and Want, but what's lodging in his craw is something else entirely-

"The spirits were real. My... colleague Dr. Spengler... he's encountered them himself."

Preston twitches. he can't help it.

"In your world. How can this book exist in my world if the ghosts themselves exist in yours?"

ah, the multiverse question. Feel free to avoid please, Preston's not really looking for an answer juding by the fact that his eyes are the size of dinner plates.

real ghosts written about...

Ray starts to open his mouth, and then sees the look on Preston's face. And because Ray is not nearly so dedicated to thumping people over the head with Shocking Realization as some folk are, he chickens out.

"The book exists in a lot of different worlds," he says instead. "I think if you ask just about anybody in the Bar who's here from America, or from a world where it's the twentieth century and their native language is English, they'll be able to tell you about it. But... yeah."

He taps the book.

"Dickens lived at a time when society was completely appalling. This story was his attempt to wake people up to the world they lived in and get them to change their ways- just as the ghosts' actions were their attempt to wake Scrooge up to the inevitable end of his life's path and get him to change his ways."

That seems safe enough.

It's more like an uppercut.

Preston suddenly looks sick, "...I suppose I had a relapse then..."
He's not making any sense to himself, "...I tried changing my ways and succeeded-even if I really didn't but-I want others to too."

he studies ray, "...I tried telling some people about this place and...grew angry and..."

he lets that hang. Let Dr. Stanz make of it what he will.

Ray pinches the bridge of his nose. "Oh, hell, John. They thought you were crazy, didn't they..."

"Yes."

Thank god he didn't go to the Tetragrammaton.

"People should know about this place from my world..."

He sounds just a little lost.

Ray lets out a long, long sigh.

"John, speaking as a professional parapsychologist I really gotta say that you missed the boat on this one. That's a figure of speech- what I'm saying is, extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof. If you're going to get people to know about this place you have to be able to prove that it is, not just tell them that it's real...."

"But how could I get that proof? take them here? take photos?" Naivety in the Cleric's case is sweet indeed and he leans close, "i think that if people saw how well you all interacted then it might go a long way to convincing them that Father's rule is wrong."

A beat, "And it would convince Jurgen to not kill fAther in the first place."

"Possibly bringing them here would work, yes, assuming you could actually do that," says Ray, who is not exactly known for his lack of naivete himself. "Or-"

Somewhere in the back of Ray's brain there is one (1) neuron that handles clerical duties for all the others. The three neurons that control what little common sense Ray has don't generally kick in without orders from the clerical neuron. They're lazy that way.

"you could bring somebody from here back to Libria with you, if only very temporarily."

The clerical neuron, for its part, has fallen asleep at the switch.

Preston shakes his head, "Impossible, all citizens are catalogued and recorded unless..."

Unless he got Jurgen to help, unless...

"Well, we're not exactly talking about someone who'd be making their presence known to the authorities, now are we?" Ray says. "I mean, you couldn't pay me enough to go on the dose, which is what I'd have to do in order to pass myself off as a real Librian. It'd have to be a sneak-in-sneak-out kind of a thing, without much time spared for anything to do with the authorities."

Actually, the clerical neuron has passed out on a massive tequila bender and the common sense neurons are off partying in Tahiti.

"A ghost?"

Preston knows of nothing else.

"If you could convince one of your spectres..."
A sigh and a shake of the head, then a hopeful look, "Could you?"

Preston's not lazy, he just genuinely wants to avoid killing again, especially someone like Father. Engrained work and the like.

"They don't respond well to convincing, although I might be able to get one in a box for you," Ray says. "But then it'd be released in your world-"

He pauses.

"Well, we could always ask Master Qui-Gon. He'd be a ghost if he ever left Milliways. I kind of wanted to take him to New York City first, but you never know..."

Preston stops, "...no. I cannot ask anyone from any world to visit Libria."

His face is red with embrassment.

"I shall...attempt to speak to Jurgen again." Jurgen was the one who he could potentially most easily sway.
the words are there.

i don't know if he'll speak to me again, but it's worth a try.

"I'd do it if you needed me to," Ray says, before the neurons can come back and demand to know WTF the brain stem thought it was doing operating the mouth on their behalf. "But if you'd rather not..."

"No."

Preston's voice is firm.

"You're my friend Ray. And to be perfectly honest, you stick out like a sore thumb." He tries a smile, attempting to soften the librian bluntness, "...I'm sorry-that came out terribly wrong-I didn't mean-"

he lowers his hands, "You remind me too much of Errol and I can't stand to see another innocent person get hurt."

The idea that Errol Partridge was hardly innocent and that it had been Preston who hurt him is pushed to the back of his head.

"No offense taken, John." Ray waves a hand dismissively. "I know I do. I'm a horrible actor. I've never been able to read people's faces and I can't hide what I'm feeling without putting a paper bag over my head- and sometimes not even then. I thought I'd offer, though. I mean, I've fought for my other friends before. I owe you that much, at least."

Preston looks down at his hands.

"Friendship feels good."
It's a comment more to himself then anything.

"...I...I can't let you do that." He looks at Ray, "I just-I just can't. If you've never killed anyone intentionally...taken a human life..."

he thinks about Mary, Partridge, the thousands of others, "It weighs on you, it digs into your skin."

He looks up at Ray, "I'm going to try to convince Jurgen to come here." He says firmly, "You and he should get along very well, he's an archivist and the leader of the movement. He's half-mad of course but at the same time if he can bring others..."

He doesn't mention his pet dream of bringing his son and daughter, having them see the green fields and lake, having them meet Ray...

"He'll know more." Preston said, "I can only govern my own actions but with Jurgen here, perhaps we can form a plan of attack."

He says we in the general tense.
"Do you know any military men? Your Master? would he..."
Talk to him and convince him that his plan of me killing father is lunacy?

"I'm just a soldier Ray, but if I can convince the commander to come here..."

Ray nods after a while. "You're right. The demons were one thing, but ... I've seen a man killed in front of me, and I threw up until there was nothing left but bright orange. So... yeah. If you can get Jurgen here, I'll be more than happy to talk to him. I can do that much, at least."

Preston puts a hand on Ray's shoulder, but the gesture's uncomfortable for Preston, and sudden. It's a motion Jurgen has used many times.

"Thank you Ray."

And it's the most heartfelt most sincere thank you ever heard by the ears of man.

Ray smiles, a little. He knows this can't be easy for the poor guy.

"You're welcome, John. It's what I'm here for."

Max is eyeing Preston, the books, and the stickies curiously. "Hey. How goes the reading experience?"

Preston slams the book down with a note of finality, "Elegant, filled with prose...but meaningless. Or maybe I'm missing the meaning."

he shakes his head, "It's confusing. sometimes I think I get it, then it turns out that I don't." He's not going to mention his troubles currenlty, "I see both Father and the Resistence's points on literature but-"

Ramble preston ramble. he catches himself however and lowers his eyes at Max, ashamed somewhat, pushing the book across the table and picking up another one.

Max laughs quietly. Not mocking, just...laughter. "I understand what you mean. But the meaning of literature depends on the person, on what you take away from it." She looks down at the book he'd just set down. "That one does have a commonly agreed upon moral, but in the end...I figure the point of a book of fiction is the artistry with which it's written."

"The man's prose is beautiful." Preston says softly, "It's odd but I've never had the occasion to call such a thing beautiful-like this for instance-"

He drops the first book and picks up another.

"what do you like to Read?"

Harmless enough.

"A lot of things, actually." She grins slightly. "I'm a bit of a literature fiend, to be honest. I didn't get a chance to read much when I was a child, and it's something to do when everyone else is sleeping."

A pause. "Have you read any Shakespeare yet?"

"...some of Hamlet." Preston says, "I enjoyed it, the battles were executed flawlessly."

"And that's the point of literature." The grin widens. "To be enjoyed."

Well here's a new face.

There's a man in a green bathrobe (worn over suitable winter clothing, mind you - he's a bit odd that way) eying Preston curiously from a nearby booth.

Feel free to ask why he's got a towel around his neck.

Preston's a bit more concerned with the bathrobe. And the towel.

"Sir? Does this place have a public shower?"
It's the only thing he can think of saying.

"Hmm? Oh, no, I just like wearing this. Doesn't make much sense, I know."

He shrugs.

"Though at least the towel's useful when the weather's wet outside."

"But wouldn't the towel get wet too?"

Preston's staring at it, "It looks a bit threadbare...why do you carry it?"

"... It does, actually."

It's possible he's never actually considered that.

"And that's a long story. I suppose you could say it has sentimental value."

"Senti...mental value." Preston turns the word slowly in his mouth, "What is that's signifigance?"

"You've never kept something just because it reminds you of something good that's happened in the past?"

He shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, I haven't even introduced myself yet. Arthur Dent."

Preston smiles, "John Preston."

No titles yet.

"...I have things that I was told to keep." He doesn't consider his state's wedding gift something sentimental-but it's all he has of his wife, "The sword I was given upon graduation of course but...never anything that I chose."

A frown.

"That's a shame."

The towel's the only thing Arthur has left of his home planet. Or at least it was, some time ago.

"If you don't mind my asking, where are you from?"

Preston hesitates.

Such a loaded question!

"...Earth." He says, "...2145."

That was the year last time he checked right?

[ooc: Might have to slowtime or fade soon. I am le tired.]

"Must be a different universe," he remarks conversationally. "That's about 150 years after my time."

Yes Preston.

"You're a Pre-Librian."
Like Ray.

Preston's smile warms more, then he looks at him, "Mr. Dent right?"

He nods, with a smile of his own.

"No one's called me that for years now. Call me Arthur."

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