[Noah St Cloud]

The public library was bigger than it looked from the outside, spacious yet effortlessly cosy in the way libraries often were. The air was warm and dry, steeped with the scent of books (leather and paper, both new and old), and there were a few small tables and armchairs strewn throughout the shelves, mostly by the windows which climbed all the way to the high arched ceiling.

In one corner of the library were some larger tables too, lined with hard wooden chairs that ensured whoever was working at them wouldn’t doze off in the comfortable ambience. Noah occupied one, eyes glued to papers lain across his deskspace while he blew the steam off his freshly acquired coffee. Three other people had been situated around his table when he'd arrived and now there was only one, a person who was sat directly across from him and seemed as content to ignore him as he was to ignore them. A low hum of chatter came from a group a few tables away; it was an area of the building where visitors were not asked to be silent, and as such students tended to gather there for group projects when the university's libraries were too busy for them to sit together.

Noah himself could have easily been mistaken for a student, even if he were a few years older than the average S.C. attendee. He was reading through his pile of documents with the focus of someone who had a paper due the next day and had only begun to prepare for it.

In reality, he was searching for gifts.

Gifts were not always hereditary but genetics appeared to increase the odds. Noah’s own family were a prime example: every man and woman who’d shared his blood had been born with the ability to control the weather. And with this theory in mind it made sense to him to look through the town records for freak accidents, for instances where it seemed possible that previous generations of gifted could have been involved. If names were mentioned, he could trace their bloodlines. Track down their living descendants and see if they had the powers he presumed their predecessors possessed. It was that simple. His plan was either a stroke of genius or a colossal waste of time.

Unfortunately, many of the archives did not have digital copies (part of him couldn’t help but suspect The Sector were behind it – weren’t they always involved in making his life more difficult?) so, being unable to use a computer's keyword search to narrow down his hunt, he was faced with the task of scanning through hundreds of physical newspapers by himself. He would have preferred to take them all home, to look through them at whatever pace he wished – and he almost had! Smooth talking the librarian who’d procured them for him had nearly, nearly worked. He’d been one suggestive shoulder touch away from getting a phone number and permission to run out the building with his arms full of broadsheets, but then her senior colleague came along and made it clear in no uncertain terms that Noah would be chased down if even one page went missing from their collection.

So, he was resigned to sitting inside. It wasn’t the worst place to be stuck in. He'd worked in far more hectic environments when he'd studied for his degree. But he was aware of the sun crawling across the sky; when the library closed for the day he’d have to give the records back.

Luckily he'd brought a notebook, and within an hour of arriving one page had been covered in the slanted cursive of his handwriting, detailing names, dates, and their connecting accident – no need to make his intentions even more obvious to anyone who happened to glimpse it by jotting down which ability he suspected each individual of having. Though his time with the papers was running out for that day, he could go home and start looking up people. 

Currently, he was reading about a mud slide that happened deep in Los Eurosia National Forest in the eighties. His gaze alighted on the words ‘only survivor’, and in his haste to trade his drink for his pen the cup clattered against the tabletop and a splash of coffee hit his hand. He hissed quietly, snatching it away and lifting it for inspection. No third-degree burns; it merely stung. And as he blew on the skin to cool it down, he caught the eyes of the person sat across from him.

His exasperated grimace transformed into his usual smile – the one that was meant to endear and disarm. “Hey, do you have a tissue?” he whispered to them. “Or anything I can mop this up with before the librarians kick my ass?” The mess wasn’t too bad, there was only a ring around his coffee cup and a dash on the wood beside it. None of the liquid had touched the articles but (bearing in mind he’d been specifically told not to drink or eat anything near the records) he didn’t think the employees would be any less disapproving of him.


OOC: This thread is open to anyone! Your character can be Noah’s table bud or they could wander over from somewhere else in the library – it's up to you~

[Deleted]

Her peers having long-since tired of Osh’s unique study style, she was left alone at the library. Well, at least as alone as anyone ever really was here; the seats vacated by her classmates had been swiftly re-occupied. They’d asked how she got such good grades but then acted like her methods made no sense. Osh shrugged internally; maybe they just weren’t visual learners. She was the exact opposite, afterall. The textbooks assigned for the courses? Way too many words, she could get lost in their so-called “explanations”. As far as the young woman was concerned, flipping rapidly through various volumes of everything from cell structure diagrams to microscope slide photos; this was where the real knowledge was found. Once she could actually see things, concepts like mitochondria and nuclei stopped being hollow odd terms and started making just as much sense as any component of an engine block her dad had ever showed her.

The sound of porcelain against laminated wood, cacophonous in the library ambiane even in the study section, jarred Osh from her focus with a start as her gaze snapped across the table just in time to see the man there’s expression go from viscerally taught to affected friendly. Still, she shrugged acquiescence at his request and began to root around in her backpack.

”Um…” Not ideal, Osh mentally acknowledged as she came up with a white tank top balled into one hand. But it already had everything from grease and blood stains to dirt, sweat, and grass so she at least really didn’t mind.

”Here,” He might not want to touch it though… it was admittedly kinda gross. She should probably throw it away. In fact… after quickly standing and leaning over the table to mop up the realistically-pretty-minor mess the stranger had made, Osh reeled back and lobbed the now-wet garment over the line of tables to sink neatly into the trashcan at the end.

”She shoots, she scores, crowd goes wild,” Osh stage-whispered with a smirk. She wasn’t as into basketball as her dad, but she watched sometimes.

”So,” Osh had had a chance to glance at the papers in front of her companion while stretched across their shared table and, as she sat back down opposite him, made a few educated guesses;

”Journalism major, grad student, or conspiracy nut?”

Given she’d said it that way, the pre-med student suddenly realized it would really be best if he wasn’t the last one. Potential oof Osh, smooth.

Noah St Cloud

[Noah St Cloud]

The person across from him was a short, pretty young woman with braids and brown eyes. A part of him inwardly bemoaned the fact that he was somehow, once again, interacting with a child. Yet she started rifling through her backpack, kind enough to help him, and he supposed he shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her. Besides, it would be much more accurate to call her a young adult – albeit one who had been a teenager relatively recently in comparison to Noah.

He expected a tissue or perhaps one of those makeup wipes some girls carried around. Instead, she held out a balled-up top. He blinked at it, finding it hard not to notice the grass stains, the streaks of dirt and – was that blood? Not enough to find worrying in any case. Probably from a scrape or deep paper cut. But before he could take it from her, she seemed to assume he’d be unwilling to use it and stood to clean his spill herself. He chuckled.

“Thank youuu,” he drawled pleasantly, resisting the urge to tack ‘sweetie’ on the end. People her age tended to find his pet names condescending… Probably because (most of the time) they were.

Without warning the girl launched the garment across the room. It sailed through the air. Fell perfectly into a trashcan.

“Oh my God!” he exclaimed in a rush, throwing his hands up as he beamed. A few other library-goers glanced over at the commotion, one going so far as to shush him. He sent them an apologetic look and lowered his voice, leaning towards his table-mate as she sat down. His elbows splayed on the surface and he rested his chin on his clasped hands while he spoke. “That was really good, I enjoyed that,” he told her earnestly, then cocked his head. “Bit of a waste though. Have you ever heard of a washing machine?” Widening his eyes, he adopted a look of faux wonder as his voice dropped to a whisper. “I hear they fix up clothes so you can wear them more than once. Crazy, I know.” She’d probably been wanting to get rid of it anyway, but he couldn’t help but find it funny how nonchalant she’d been about using it as a mop and subsequently discarding it.

He winked to show he was only teasing and settled back, practically lounging in his seat. She wouldn’t be his usual choice of a conversation partner; perhaps a tad too young for him to feel completely comfortable (kids and teens really did piss him off for no single discernible reason). But his eyes were a little tired from scouring page after page after page. Sentences were starting to blur together and he had enough notes jotted down to keep him occupied once he got home. It also helped that, within their brief interaction, every choice she’d made had been entertaining. Even her words – blunt, questioning whether he was a conspiracy nut – made him have to fight amusement from his face.

“I thought leaving the tinfoil hat at home would make it less obvious,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He abruptly dropped the pouty act, smiling again. “I’m a grad student.” His grin widened. “Genealogy.” He thought it was a rather clever lie. He was trying to trace bloodlines, after all.

“I’d ask if you’re some kind of sports major, but that looks pretty science-y.” He gestured to her desk space. The textbook laid open in front of her was impossible to read from his position, but it seemed like advanced stuff – even if it were full of pictures and diagrams rather than blocks of text. “Am I speaking to a future Nobel Prize winner? Or are you on some sort of athletics scholarship?” Her size was throwing him off, making it difficult to pinpoint what sport she played. Her throw had been ridiculously good; she’d do well on a football field if running and tackling weren’t such core aspects. Too short to be a basketball player. Maybe she was a pitcher in a baseball team? But pitchers still ran, didn't they? And he couldn’t imagine her short stature carrying her very fast.


@osha