savetheearth | 001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

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001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

( HANDWRITTEN )

[ Banagher's found himself a little bit of free time at the library on Pierre-Simon, meaning he's taking a break from sorting through the insanity of the return bin to card through a few old books in search of some kind of meaning to assign to the words he can't seem to keep quiet in his head.

On the back of a forgotten, yellowing library punch card he finds tucked away in a book, he starts copying down things in no order, just to remember—first up is the sequence of numbers that's equally persistent. He'd never thought to put them down physically before, here or otherwise, by the virtue of the fact that he doesn't feel like he'll forget them anytime soon. Thusly: ]

[ Sorry, network denizens, for the nonsensical scraps of texts, notes, and printings you may receive as a result. Also the disconcerting doodles. ]

( ACTION )

[ It's early evening, the time when all the streetlamps begin to wink to life outside and natural sunlight is exchanged for halogen. He's currently seated in the lower level of the library at one of the broad cherry wood tables, chin in hand, mindlessly scribbling on the punch card. There's an assortment of papers spread across the table's corner, dotted with books and pens, suggesting he's been at this for a bit. While usually a diligent worker, he seems pretty distracted.

Don't happen to need a book or the use of a computer, do you? ]

(ooc. this is his first use of the network, but if you're going for action and your character is a frequent visitor to the library or a high school/uni student, you're welcome to assume cr!)

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[ It's the airy sound of the piano keys that finally compels Banagher to lift his head and take a look around, as if he'd momentarily forgotten where he was. The punch card bears the evidence of that, its surface almost completely written over, around all the little marks. He lingers on it a moment, but the sudden swell of music eventually causes him to break away out of curiosity. ]

Weird, I don't remember telling anyone about that...

[ Stacking his papers and books on the corner of the table and throwing his jacket over them, he pushes his chair in and heads for the stairs.

Nobody really knew about the piano. Nobody really asked. A few old patrons remembered it, remembered when it was stationed proudly in the center of one of the reading rooms, gleaming and new. Now it sits on its lonesome in a quiet room full of book dust.

Remembrance keeps on saving it, like now, an orphan rescued by the whimsy of a few.

A compact staircase leads up to the second level, where the sound pours between the shelves. A rendition of Canon in D. The player is talented, that much he knows—he's grown up accustomed to the hesitance of beginners, the skip in the progression that gives them away. This isn't like that. When he passes the two halls and three corners, the music overflows from the room, and Banagher stops in the doorway, peeks in, really, for fear of interrupting it. ]

[ Two of a kind, then, the piano and its player, orphaned by the ravages of time and a cold reality that had left them both behind. The piano sings with every affectionate, enthused note, sings as it hasn't done in so very long, as if overjoyed by the attention it's receiving. Memories flowing from fingers into keys and filling the air with a pleasant medley, like something out of a fairy tale.

Ordinarily more alert, Casval would've stopped the moment he heard the scuff of sneakers, but he's too absorbed in the music. Too absorbed in the past. Only when he reaches the natural end of the piece, when the grip of nostalgia fades and the invisible weight on his shoulders lifts, does he turn towards his quiet visitor. ]

A boy?

[ A library was an odd place for a teenager, these days. Then again, a library was an odd place for a washed up soldier, too. Exhaustion wipes away any ire that might've resulted from being intruded upon, replaced by a curiosity he can't quite explain, and he blinks once, twice, slow and steady. Who are you? ]

[ Each key in sequence sounds different, somehow brighter. The piano has met many pianists, but rarely does it sound enthralled to do so. Not like this. Banagher is left contemplating the weight of each lingering note, maybe at too much length, because the voice that now cuts through the room in its absence startles him. He tenses, stands a little straighter. Regards him with a curiosity that is mutual, if his silent appraisal is anything to go by. ]

Yeah. Sorry, for not saying anything. I don't like interrupting someone playing the piano, that's all.

[ Casval shakes his head, gestures amenably with his hand to cut through any misunderstandings. Relax. It's alright; you're not one of his underlings. He won't bite. Too tired to, really. Too worn out from everything, and he's not in the mood to snap his fangs at a kid. ]

I don't mind. [ His smile, much like the now dormant piano in front of him, is worn at its edges. ] I can only hope you appreciated the performance.

[ Not that he was putting on a show for show's sake, but an old soldier still had his pride. Leaning against the piano's surface, Casval looks Banagher up and down. ]

Were you part of the staff here? I'm afraid I didn't notice you when I came in.

[ Banagher gets the feeling this man would be pretty imposing if he were standing—hell, he's pretty imposing sitting, too. Still, the general pleasantries help curb whatever apprehension that briefly kindled, and are appreciated, if the fact that he finally enters the room is anything to go by. Not that he's ever been the most difficult to disarm. ]

I help out sometimes, in between classes. It might depend on when you came in, but I was...

[ Copying down things that made no sense? No, Banagher, let's not. Absently, he lays a hand on top of the piano and smudges some of the dust away. ]

...kind of distracted, in a sense.

[ Children never were, in his experience. Always more bark than actual bite, which made this interaction rather strange—the mellow air Banagher brings with him in slight steps and slighter tones was not one Casval encountered often, from anyone, regardless of age. It's not quite shyness but not quite subservience, either, landing somewhere in between.

Casval continues to watch him, rather like someone watching a bird perched at their windowsill: faintly interested, but keeping still so as not to scare it off. ]

Daydreaming?

[ About gadgets and girls and other mindless things, Casval supposes. As most boys did. ]

Edited 2013-04-04 09:56 (UTC)

[ More like watching his notes talk back to him, but he thinks that might be pretty poor wording on his part. If it didn't make sense to him yet, how was he supposed to explain it to anybody else? The last thing he wanted was some crazy social stigma flung at him. ]

No, nothing like that. [ Friendly as he may be, he doesn't seem exactly forthcoming, either. ] Anyway, once I heard the piano, I wanted to see who was finally visiting it. You must have learned how to play it a long time ago, right?

So it's been awhile.

[ His eyes flicker away to the floor, drawn back to that memory. Sunlight beside the windowsill and soft notes and laughter and earnest pleas of can't you stay just a little bit longer, always met with the same response.

Someday, maybe.

But someday never came. ]

That's a shame.

[ Casval's hand drifts back to the keys, idly playing chords with a lazy set of fingers. ]

My mother taught me. Just the basics, really; I mostly played on my own. It was something to do, I suppose.

You're lucky you could pick it up.

[ Despite the fact that the answer he receives seems loaded, somehow, nostalgic and yet very close in presence, Banagher chooses instead to focus on the softness of the notes. Sweet without dipping into indulgence.

A good supplement to things that go unsaid. ]

My mom tried everything to teach me, but it didn't work. Something just didn't stick.

[ And there are so many things that have gone unsaid, here.

The chords join into a slow, ambling form of Air, two or three keys at a time. Sweet. Nonindulgent. A sluggish afternoon beneath the shade of a tree, a morning slumbering in the meadows. ]

Perhaps it simply wasn't meant to be. [ Humming in thought. ] The piano is a demanding creature. If you don't give it your full attention, it will turn away from you.

[ Ironic, given that he's barely paying attention at the moment. Drifting. The dozy notes of Bach had that sort of effect on a person. ]

Things like that happen, right?

[ Though he doesn't remember ever not trying. He knew the lay of the keys, from the time he was old enough to see over the towering tops of the ivories. Even the progression of notes was familiar, the way elegant pianist fingers could draw well-worn paths across them, over and over. Repetitive, comforting, timeless as he knows it insofar.

A story with letters but no words. ]

Maybe you just have to show it once.

A pessimistic way of looking at it, but yes. Things like that happen.

[ Not that he could speak much on the pessimistic front. Yet some optimism did remain, deep down, inexplicably, that people could do better, live better, work better. Push themselves beyond what was possible and light a path to a brighter future.

Show the world just once that, in spite of its vices and its dangers, it was still a place worth living in after all. ]

Yes... wild horses to be broken. To be tamed. [ The corner of his mouth lifts into a wry sort of half-smile. ] The very nature of music itself, one could argue.

You can tame something without breaking it, can't you?

[ Frequently called "trust", but you know. Banagher realizes he hadn't really meant it literally, but he can't help but think of how awful a broken piano would look. Or sound. It's actually a little hard to imagine, which might color him with a more subdued shade of optimism, if not some kind of faith. ]

[ It's that subtle whisper of faith that gets Casval to glance up, which lifts his fingers from the keys, more so than his initial entrance had. It speaks to a gentleness Casval can't quite understand, though he remembers brushes, traces of it when he was younger. When he didn't know that this world was worth living in because its evils kept it spinning. ]

You still haven't introduced yourself to me, young man.

[ It's said teasingly enough, absent its usual sternness. Casval could be obstinate, sure, but it's hard to dole out any fire when you're receiving nothing of the sort in turn. ]

[ Briefly snared in whatever image that's taken up residence in his mind's eye, a second passes before Banagher realizes he's being spoken to again in the absence of the music. As if he'd been lulled to sleep by it and then suddenly jarred awake by the following silence.

Blinking it away, his gaze darts up apologetically. Strange. ]

Sorry... I'm Banagher. Banagher Links.

[ A pause at the piano's side eventually gives way to the offer of a handshake. He's not really used to it, but it seemed the most appropriate option. ]

[ With considerably less hesitation on his end, Casval takes the hand. It's warm and small in the cold grip of his glove, meant for sealing business proposals, greeting his comrades-in-arms. But today, in this moment, it's reserved for meeting a boy. Banagher Links. ]

My name is...

[ Well, most people seemed to know his name already. Less of a name and more of a garbled address all run together by the media, Captain Casval Mass, former pilot of the RAF, renowned British politician and foreign dignitary. The stripping away of identities in favor of titles that no longer held meaning, only old comforts. Hints of what he once was.

Maybe this time, it could be different. ]

...Casval.

[ Maybe this time, someone would understand. Even if they were only just a boy. ]

Casval?

[ Banagher repeats, not quite having anticipated the weight of his grasp. It'd be easy to feel insignificant in light of it, like well-crafted iron, but instead he takes away some kind of regard.

And he could ask about it. Or the uniform. Or why he'd come into the library in the first place—looking for books, presumably, and when people were looking for books they were either looking for enjoyment or for answers. What he'd found was a piano.

So all he comes up with is: ]

You play really well.

[ Casval doesn't add anything to what's already been said, either; no didn't you see me on the news? or that's right, so straighten up, young man, you're slouching. Just an honest look, free of judgment or appraisal, what he sees reflected in the young man's eyes.

To shed his skin, if only in this moment, if only briefly, is far more liberating than it has any right to be. ]

You speak too highly of me.

[ His fingers are reluctant to retreat. He doesn't like being cold, truth be told.

But he pulls them back anyway, for his own good. ]

I simply play.

No way. [ Far was he from someone who'd argue a point just to argue it, even if it was just a matter of differing trivial opinions. But there are some things he just knows. Once Casval relinquishes his hand, his own falls away in turn. ] Lots of people "simply" do things. But if you really meant that, then the simple part is what makes it talent.

[ Skill could be learned, fine-tuned. Brought into place. Talent was natural. ]

[ Casval had entertained compliments, all frivolous and all for so long, that a genuine one sounds like a foreign language to his ears—confusing, unsettling, and carrying with it a hint of embarrassment. Praise from the mouth of a child was distinctly different from praise from the mouth of an adult. Children didn't have angles to work, ulterior motives to pursue. They said what they felt, whatever came to mind. They didn't have a filter, or at least not the same kind their parents and grandparents did. That's how he knows Banagher is telling the truth.

Casval really doesn't know what to do with the truth, other than avoid confronting it. Avert his eyes from it and hope it didn't notice his true colors bleeding through. ]

...thank you. [ The fingers that were so elegant before twitch now, both a nervous habit and a dead giveaway to a darker addiction. ] You attend school nearby, then? You seem a bit young for a university student.

[ Banagher gazes at him with momentary curiosity, but doesn't point out the rather apparent gap between his assessment and the following response to it. Eventually he looks away too, figuring there were any number of reasons for someone to shy from a compliment, no matter how decorated they appeared. ]

Locke High. I'm a senior. [ Absently, he swirls shapes in the patches of dust still undisturbed on the piano's lid with an index finger. ] I take a few entry level classes at the university, though.

[ Out of the dim shapes, numbers begin to appear. About three or four in, Banagher realizes what he's doing and thinks better of continuing. ]

What about you? I can't remember seeing you around before.

[ Not that he knows everyone in the city, of course, but having spent his whole life in the area, he's pretty sure he'd remember someone with such a... unique appearance. ]

[ Not a terribly surprising revelation. There's a quiet glimmer of intelligence in Banagher's expression, he'd noticed, an understated dedication to plodding along wherever life's path took him. He doesn't fault him for not immediately placing a name to his face; if he were the boy's age, he'd avoid the news, too, for the lack of good on it lately beyond superficial fluff. He could barely watch his own public appearances, these days, strained as they were.

But the numbers. The numbers grab his attention and don't let it go. They couldn't possibly be related to... and yet.

And yet.

Slowly, cautiously, Casval reaches over to begin etching his own number into the dust. The number that connected them all to that strange new world, a number very much like Banagher's. ]

Maybe you have, and just didn't realize it.

[ Done. Now broadcasting live, from this piano. Though there's not much dust to left to write in, it gets his point across. ]

Maybe you even saw me a long time ago, in your memories.

[ At this point, nothing would surprise him. ]

[ The world as he knows it is very small. An apartment about a block and a half down from an intersection, ground floor, where pots of mint grow on the kitchen windowsill and a piano takes up one whole corner of the living room. A short bus ride along streets wedged between office highrises and a walk to school from there. The lazy gold windows of the coffee shop he passes on the way to the library, full of people trying to escape the evening chill. Daily obligations that stack up until he no longer remembers what the evening news sounds like beyond drowsy inklings, shut out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

All it takes is a set of numbers to make him realize the world is much smaller than he thinks.

Banagher recoils from the complete sequence like he'd been burned by it, stepping away from the piano and the power he knows it now possesses. Brows knit, he passes a disconcerted glance between it and Casval. ]

...I know this.

I know you do.

[ And Casval rises, to full height, coat sweeping to the floor. Eyes losing their distant luster and gaining a focused intensity, trained upon Banagher, upon this newest addition to the mystery that daunted him so. Yes, this was only to be expected. It was only right that they'd be connected, somehow. It fits, from that initial, tentative draw to the absolute moment of now. ]

Char Aznable. That is the name that was given to me, along with this number, and that is the name I seek out. The answers to this riddle that have drawn us together. The solution. The final piece in the puzzle.

[ Their differences in size, in stature, in presence, come to the forefront. This man exudes power and drive and all the will necessary to obtain his one sole desire. ]

I will find my answers. I will stop at nothing. That is who I am... the Red Comet. A shooting star to pursue whatever and whomever is foolish enough to elude me.

Char... Aznable? [ The Red Comet. Banagher repeats, as if to try and disassemble the concept of the name syllable by syllable. All it does is sound foreign, a broken link—if a link at all—in the complex sequence that somehow spans between them. In that moment, he's caught unaware of just how much a difference in demeanor something as simple as standing can make, especially when your company stands a good head and shoulders over you.

Frowning, Banagher tries to settle on what to say. What can he even say? From that little tirade alone, he can tell this was an impenetrable wall to tear down, not a distant flicker to reach for. ]

You've felt it too. That heartbeat. The things that rush in to take its place.

[ Words. Words that aren't in his own voice. Static on a forgotten radio. ]

001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

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