Ferguston Memorial Library, Keaton U's very own university library, is open late. Very late. In fact, it barely ever closes, if simply because students love to be able to do their last minute work in a legitimate library. It helps them pretend they spent weeks on it. (The professors are not fooled.)

It's a maze of rooms and wings and floors and sub-basements and attics. Laminated maps are posted everywhere, but don't really seem to help people navigate much. Bookshelves crowd the space, making Ferguson seem even more like the labyrinth of legend. According to the librarians, there's no Minotaur. Some students aren't so sure.

Ferguson building, second floor, west wing. 2 A.M.

He's sitting back in the stacks, curled up on the floor with his shoulders wedged into a corner, hidden from sight by aisles and aisles of bookshelves-- protected because, back here, it's quiet and empty and small and nothing can creep up behind him. He's reading a book.

Standing up, he would be tall but no less skinny. He's a slim kid, naturally-- that much is evident from the first glance or two. His skin's medium pale; not as white as a sheet of paper but not red or dark or even particularly tanned. His clothing is faded, just jeans and a black T-Shirt that says 'Got Apathy?' on it in crumbling white letters. He's sitting on his winter coat.

His hair isn't long but it isn't short. It's just a medium length-- thin hair but lots of it, dark grey-brown like tired earth touched by frost. There's a snowdrift in it-- a streak of white above his left eye which, against all biological probability, is also white. The other one's brown. Both are concentrating on the book in front of him.

He and the shadows of books around him are still.

Then, the shadows move.

It's as if the dark spots cast by things blocking the light aren't just areas where there is no light. It's as if, instead, the dark spots where made by low-lying smoke coating the room-- smoke which is now deciding, for one reason or another, to move.

It swirls up in front of Andrei, forming into colourless, lifeless humanoid shapes-- mockeries of the characters in his novel. Their mouthes move as he reads the dialogue. They pass back into shadow and come out again as the scene changes in the book. They fill this little corner of library with darkness and swirling images.

Movement catches Andrei's eye, and he looks up to catch the shifting shapes in their pantomime. The contented expression he'd been wearing while absorbed in the book drops as the figures-- so wrong somehow, here in real life-- as the figures freeze.

"Fuck." Said softly as he stares. Fuck, he's doing it again.

And, then, "Fucking FREAK!" Yelled, mostly at himself. He pitches the novel through the illusion and it dissolves itno smoke, which begins to slowly seep back into the shadows around him.

Andrei Petrov pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his head on them, waiting for it to be gone. Waiting for it to stop.

He's shaking, just slighty.

Lesley Pinsk doesn't mind picking up the battle-weary textbooks students so heartlessly leave lying around. It doesn't matter to him that he must take the time to smooth the dog-eared pages and tape those a careless reader tore in their quest for knowledge. He restocks the abandoned tomes without even a scowl so many, many times a day, and is apathetic when someone spills coffee in the poor volumes; effortlessly plucking discarded literature from the armchairs and scattered coffee-tables.

Despite his charity, Lesley does mind when someone decides to scream bloody murder.

"Suppose that's my fault for taking the night shift, eh?" the lone librarian mutters rhetorically, stalking down aisle after aisle in search of the seemingly psychotic perpetrator.

The short, skinny twenty-five-year-old librarian felt his patience waning as he ran a hand through his wavy blonde hair, continually mumbling incoherently under his breath. His dull brown eyes were narrowed behind thick lenses, and occasionally he would push the glasses further onto the bridge of his narrow nose - a nervous habit for many a geek such as Pinsk.

"Why do the weirdoes come out at night?" the librarian asked the voiceless shelves of books, making a sharp turn at Civil War and leaving the American History section. Only the night-owls came in to cause trouble - maybe vampires and boogie men did exist. Why would the nutcases choose a library to make trouble? It made very little sense to the sensible Psychology major.

With only the west wing left to explore - as he had been at the ground-floor desk and no one, that he had noticed, had entered or left - the disgruntled university employee finished the last of the stairs and breathlessly halted, standing dead center of the wing. There were endless aisles and even more sub-levels and annexes, but Lesley had a feeling that the screamer must be near.

Maybe it was just wistful thinking - Ferg Memorial was massive and Pinsk didn't really care enough to search the entire establishment.

After (silently, this time) peering down several of the aisles, the librarian sauntered toward the final rows of shelves. Gazing forward into the darkness - apparently one of the fluorescent light strips had burnt out - and slightly nervous by now, Les took another step and accidentally nudged another one of the forgotten books. Reaching down to retrieve it, Les closed his bony fingers around the novel (he didn't recognize it) and suddenly froze.

Whether or not eyes were on him, he was positive that someone was either seated or standing at the end of the narrow corridor of shelves. Swallowing hard, and still kneeling, the timid librarian lifted his head and gazed forward, squinting in the dim light (or lack thereof) whilst trying to maintain his dignity.

"Hello?" he asked, feeling rather like the ignorant teenager in any B-horror film; the character that wanders up the darkened staircase without paying any attention to the slough of clues left by the killer. Trying to ignore his active imagination, Les simply knelt there, mindlessly wondering if the being at the end of the row was a Jack the Ripper or merely a harmless schizophrenic hobo.

The shadows recede further. Maybe the kid becomes visible, at the end of the aisle, stuffed into a corner and curled in on himself.

He lifts his and stares at Pinsk, surprised to have been disturbed-- embarrassed that he might have been heard-- frightened that perhaps this other saw the shapes and felt the fear the sprang from some unknown power.

"Fuck off." Low voice, still almost trembling.

"That's admirable of you, but I happen to work here and... Are you alright?"

Ah, nutcase, then. And he (?) seemed young. Addict, probably. There were so many of them at the university. Shooting up the bathroom, stumbling into the library at an ungodly hour to scrape together something which might, with any luck, resemble a report by morning. Les felt sorry for them.

Straightening after picking up the book and crossing his arms over it, the young man shifted and stood unwaveringly into the cul-de-sac. Too dark to see anything - the faint shape of what could possibly be a fellow student. Poor thing; it was enough to struggle through academics, so having something (whatever taint this guy had) added to that must be rough. Les couldn't complain about his lot in life for the time being but, like every other twenty-something, he was frustrated.

"Can - Do you need any h-help?"

Help finding an exit? Help that doesn't involve me having to touch you?

"I'm fine, now fuck off." The voice is a bit stronger, this time.

He runs his fingers up through his hair, allowing the action to pull his head back against the books. Staring at the dark ceiling, he sets his jaw and attempts to banish the unwanted emotions.

"No offense, but you really don't seem like it. If you'll just..", Les took a step forward, tense beyond description. The man suffered from a serious want of courage most of the time, but would throw caution to the wind in the most dire situations. This guy at the end of the row was obviously troubled, and whether or not he could easily have a box-cutter or a .45, the librarian would try to help. His palms feeling as if they were about to burst into flame, Pinsk attributed the general physical feeling of agonizing heat to extreme nervousness.

"I'm not going to get any closer, buddy, but I want you to come out. I could call someone if you need. Or, I.. could.. not call anyone. Just.. move, will you?"

"Fine."

Something unfolds in the darkness. He's tall, hovering somewhere over six feet. Tall but slim, not particularly wide in the shoulders or chest or hips.

He steps out into the semi-light, slouchin, scowling. his hands are shoved into his pockets and he squints at Pinsk with mismatched eyes-- one hazel, one white.

"And I'm not going to fucking mug you or something. It's a fucking library."

Jesus H. Christ. He's HUGE.

"Y-You'd be surprised..", Pinsk stammers, lifting his pointed chin to gaze upward, while shakily extending a hand to the pencil-thin giant. "Les Pinsk, principal librarian..", he added, puffing out his chest a bit, "N-night shift at the moment, but in charge in any event."

Why did an introduction seem right? Pinsk had always been a stickler for what was now old-fashioned etiquette, but there was something odd about this bloke. It sounded silly, Les thought, that Tall, Dark, and Scrawny had a regal air about him, but the librarian reasoned that it was probably the air of mystery (quite literally, almost) that made him feel slightly inferior. Or, it could've been the fact that T.D.&S. was basically twice his size. That.. that could easily be it.

The student blinks at him for a moment, and then his dark mood seems to break-- giving way to an only slightly less dark mood, but hey, that's still an improvement.

He stares at the librarian's hand as if he wouldn't know what to do with it even if he felt like touching it, and says, "Andrei Petrov, random student." Mimicking but not mocking the shorter man's introduction.

His frown twists, becoming something that isn't quite a smile but suggests that it might be one if he were in a better mood.

"Petrov, Petrov..", he said more easily now, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pressed khakis. "Would that make you Russian?" he asked, blinking earnestly at the oddly bat-like random student. Odd fellow, this one.

The half-smile was VERY relieving indeed, and Pinsk now began out of the aisle, not wanting to crowd Andrei. "You look like someone that would haunt the art studio. What's you major? My ex-girlfriend was an art major. Dressed sort of like you..", he said conversationally, chattering now, as he left the aisle.

Petrov follows, glancing back over his shoulder at the shadows, which seem content to obey the normal laws of physics.

"Yeah," he says. "My mom's Russian." He turns back around and slips his hands into his pockets. he doesn't watch Pinsk, but responds anyways.

"I'm taking a general BA." A Bachelor of Arts degree, which is actually all about the history, philosophy, languages, and english, and only a bit about the art you learn in a 'fine art' program.

"Crazy. I'm Polish, myself. And a bit of Cherokee. Polish-Cherokee sounds ridiculous, though. I'm just your run-of-the-mill white boyy..", he said absently, walking over to a nearby table to gather some textbooks there, leaving Andrei for a moment.

Quickly glancing at him, the librarian adjusted his glasses and furrowed his brow. "Bachelor of Arts, eh? That makes sense. You look artsy. You paint, draw? Or are you into philosophizin'? I used to be such a dweeb about the works of Confucius. Heh, I finally dropped all of that because my friends were beginning to hate me for it..", he said cheerily, inspecting the books.

"What're you doing here so late, though? Most of the people I get in here are borderline introverts or jocks trying to bullshit their way through term-papers. You don't seem to fit into either category, but excuse me for using the labels..", he continued, taking the books in both arms and looking up at Petrov.

Andrei stares at Pinsk, his sullen expression leaking away into a mildly stunned one. the librarian talks so fast, it's hard to get a word in. he blinks as more words are poured onto him, and then speaks up.

"I couldn't sleep. Decided to go read a book." His words are short, seeming spartan in comparison to Pinsk's fountain of verbosity.

"Admirable..", he said amicably, smiling with a sort of vague amusement as he rounded the table and joined Petrov once again, gesturing the walk-and-talk-with-me flip of the hand as he started down the corridor again.

"And reasonable, too. So many kids come in here to sleep - you'd swear it was a fucking hotel instead of a library! Seriously, man. I stumbled upon two freshmen necking in the Crafts section. Making out against the Quilting shelf! Can you imagine that? I suppose they thought it crafty of themselves to pick such a desolate block of shelves to get friendly in. Kids these days!", the twenty-five year old with great enthusitic disdain.

"But you're amiable. And smart. And talkative for someone so quiet! Ladies like that Strong And Silent type. You got a girlfriend or anything? People are like rabbits nowadays, but I can always appreciate the guy who keeps a solid girlfriend and manages not to knock her up or marry her too early. My mom always said that you only marry a girl when you've got a steady job and a roof over your head. I've got a steady aptitude for picking nutcases, I'll tell you! The dorms do get awfully spacious if you haven't someone to keep you company, though. So, you taken?", he asked, good-naturedly ribbing Petrov.

Andrei follows along, letting the flood of words wash over him. It's surprising, but they seem to assuage his bad mood, ridding him-- at least momentarily-- of the nightmares.

He watches Pinsk talk, taking his cue from the occasionally silence that it's his turn to talk.

"No... no girlfriend," he says.

Silence.

((I love the word assuage. Seriously.))

| No kidding. XD |

"That's a shame. A nice guy like you?"

After a short pause, Les must've taken a bit breath and resumed his chatter.

"I was with April up until about four months ago. She was real sweet - brought me tofu here in tupperware a few times. Leggy brunette. Simply lovely. She listened to Joni Mitchell and seldom shaved her legs, but you gotta love those environmentalist-yuppy-hippy girls. So pure", he said happily, sighing.

"After that it was Cheryl. She was the art student. Found her right after April. She was one of those... What do they call them now? Emo kids? Anyway, she wore lots of black and little angora sweaters. Real Tim-Burton-I'm-Dark-But-Listen-To-Weezer type of chicks. Emo/goth is the better label, I'd say. Is that possible? Choppy hair and Buddy Holly glasses. I miss her..", he said.

His jovial manner was somewhat contradictory of the last remark, but he was always flippant and had been a Talker as long as anyone could remember.

"You ever been in love, Andrei?"

Andrei shakes his head.

"Fuck love," he says. This is basically a 'no.'

his expression's set somewhere between a scowl and an uninterested look-- not particularly offensive but not inviting, either.

((Assuaaaaaaage.))

Les laughs and gives Andrei a friendly pat on the back.

"There, there. You'll find her someday. Or, you know, him. Whatever you're into..", he says brightly, laughing again.

Well, one could never tell, could one?

"I'm just a ladies man, myself. That is, I'm more respectful of them than they are of me. Can't seem to keep one, so I might as well go with your mentality. You do like philosophy, don't you? That should go in a book. Fuck love!"

Les whistled a bit and looked around as they continued to roam the corridors.

"Pretty deserted - even for this time of night. I'm surprised we aren't hearing sirens or blaring rap music. Slow night..."

"Yeah."

I probably scared everyone off.

"You gotta work late often?" he asks, looking for another flood of words.

"Every damn night, man. Seriously..", he said with a slow exhale, running a hand through his unextraordinarily blonde hair.

"I'm really not in charge of hiring and firing, obviously, but the employees here come and go. Usually stick-in-the-mud sophomores join and slink away after their first or second paycheck. Not even a two-weeks notice. It's amazing how greedy some kids are. I'm really only here for lack of anything better to do..", he said half-heartedly, obviously pained by the non-commital librarians of the past.

"You seem to be literate enough, Andrei. Need a job?", he asked, half-joking; more fishing for conversation fodder'n anything else.

Andrei grimaces. "Iunno. I don't really want to work here," he says.

Nothing but paper for company on the job? That'd suck. At least they don't swear back, though. He sighs.

"Couldn't you find something better? I mean, can't be that hard," he says, half-mutter.

"I don't blame you. As for me, though I've never really tried anything else. I mean, I'm a senior. This is what I've done my entire academic career. The job sort of goes along with the schooling. I take morning classes, get a bite to eat, and come here..", he said casually, picking some lint from the breastpocket of his shirt.

"What is it that you do?", he asked, lifting a skinny blonde eyebrow as he looked over at his daunting friend.

"Do?" he asks. For a minute, his mind flashes back to the shadows that had animated his books. He can't mean that, you freak. Stop acting paranoid.

"Nothing, really. Go to class. Eat, sleep and smoke." Apt description.