ryslig inbox

[coffeepots]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, CLINT BARTON. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 008.01.023.11 *** HAWKEYE has joined 008.01.023.11 <hawkeye> this is clint barton, please leave a message. <hawkeye> if you need something fixed in your apartment please just knock on my door or something, it's faster.

"Anonymous" username: < ronin >

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It's like a calling, you know. Sounds like this: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

[allroadsendwithreality]

Box closed dark box wooden slats black markings

Mister Certainly Someone is glad he hadn’t come in a box.

“They…” he pauses, which is out of character for him, he believes, even if he doesn’t remember why that is. Mister Somebody ideally always knows what he’s about to say. Today he doesn’t. Today is a day is a day is a day like any other. After a moment: “They call me Mister Treble.” It sounds confident enough—we ought to forgive that the slight ever happened. His is a calm, placid smile of not too many teeth.

“I was brought in,” clarifies Mister Might-Be-Treble, helpfully. “On the train… I remember these people from somewhere, before all this. They remember me, too. We think that I hit my head. So I’ve been reading. As to try and help myself.”

Why the nice man and the man who wants to kill him have him striked off the resident’s list is of little concern to Mister Potentially Treble. His eyes are eyes and they are on the Books, now.

“You don’t like overseeing the apartments, do you?”

[coffeepots]

"I guess it's nice that you weren't left to struggle on your own, then."

The observation startles him slightly. "Liking" his duties isn't really something that he actively thinks about. He likes helping people, and therefore, being a superintendent would be fulfilling. He wouldn't have signed up for it otherwise, right?

Still. He would rather be helping by actively taking up arms against the Fog, but that's not really feasible at the moment.

"Oh, it's fine. It gives me something to do, and it helps people who need the housing," he says, shrugging. "You know, there's a library a few blocks down, if you want more books. I'm sure they have a bigger selection than what I've brought, and...you know, you'll get to pick books that you're actually interested in."

ha ha

[allroadsendwithreality]

Of all that Mister Somebody echoes, “Libraries.”

Why libraries?

Naturally they contain Books. And Books are, in fact, what Mister ??? is searching far and wide for—on surface appearance, at least, it would seem that the shoe would fit. But it doesn’t, really. Because libraries simply put do not have the resolve to stock the Books Mister Probably Someone needs. It’s a shame. Book Book Book Book

He has a particular taste for Books.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Mister Treble says, in not hurting this gentleman’s feelings that his advice had been totally useless. “Is there anything else that you do? Beside keeping the apartments?”

After all a question is a question is a question and sometimes it’s just the sentiment behind it all that means something.

[coffeepots]

Clinton Francis Barton wouldn't know anything about actually consciously trying to select a book to read for fun--beyond comic books, that is. Back when Banner was alive, he tried to encourage Clint to at least skim the classics, but that was something that he simply didn't have time for. He could do better things with his time, like continuing to hone his archery, or lying on the couch for hours at a time binging the latest season of Dog Cops and feeling sorry for himself.

Mister Treble's question gives him a bit of pause. He considers his answers, laid out like a multiple choice question.

"Uh, not really," he offers. "I go eat pizza at the shop on the corner--which you should absolutely try, by the way. I'm not just trying to drum up business for them. Unless you mean, like, my hobbies? I do archery sometimes."

He tilts his head to the side.

"What kind of hobbies do you have? Besides--" He gestures to the books in Mister Treble's arms. "--you know."

???

[allroadsendwithreality]

Mister Treble considers the idea. Then he says:

"My hobby, I believe," and here he turns to lie the books to rest at the landing of the flat, "is asking questions, and getting their answers."

Really, he thinks, such is the core of Mister Treble much as a heart would be for a Human Being. Mister Treble is nothing without his questions or their answers, and without them he would surely cease to be. Here is someone whose entire life is predicated on the pursuit, attainment and storing of knowledge, perhaps the most noblest pursuit of them all.

And he can't remember his name name name, Mister Treble.

"On occasion..." His eyes twist with the trying, but ultimately comes up empty. "...no, that's about it. Well, I do cook, but I'm learning."

Beat.

"Would you like to come see? The good man suggested I give you a gift."

[coffeepots]

Clint's instinct is to tell Treble that asking questions isn't a hobby, but something tells him that he should hold his tongue.

"So, like, a scientist or researcher?"

Were he not in human form, Clint's ears would have perked up at the idea of cooking. Cooking implies food, which means Clint could possibly be able to sample said food. It's something he has to look out for, anyways, since he's never once been able to cook a full meal for himself without using the microwave. It's why he subsists off cereal and pizza and frozen food, for the most part.

(It's something Bobbi criticized him for when they were married, and it's something he still hasn't worked on after they divorced....)

"Yeah, sure. I don't have anything else on my plate today." He pauses. "Um, put not intended."

Surely, nothing bad could come of this.

"If you're looking for cooking tips, I can't really be of much help. The most I can maybe make is toast--and even then, I burn things most of the time."