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Mister Somebody is waiting in the hallway.

Not far from Apartment 209--out in front, in fact, because he isn't about to make a habit of wandering, as he's sure the good man responsible for Apartment 209, and not the one that's getting the Books, wouldn't like it if he did. So he hasn't. Mister Somebody appreciably doesn't stray.

He is smiling, though.

"Thanks ," he says, voice betraying no unusual intonation at all. "Which ones are these ?"

Orange orange orange

Clint Barton blinks, looking towards the orange-clad individual that he had somehow overlooked before. A vague question forms on how his eyes had just completely slid over a humanoid representation of 70's carpet.

Of course, as his eyes actually observe Mister Treble, a thought comes to mind. This person is an Ordinary man, in every sense of the word. But people are hardly Ordinary. You can usually figure out someone's deal from their appearance, mannerisms, voice, whatever. With this person, Clint knows something's weird, but he can't pinpoint what. An emptiness, a lack. Hard to identify what's missing if you never knew what was missing to begin with.

It's ridiculous. Why should he be so unsettled by Ordinary? He shakes off his observations and proceeds with the conversation as normal.

"Oh, uh," he starts, shifting the stack of books in his arms and extending them for Mister Treble to take. "Y'know, just...things I found in the welcoming packages. You can return them when you're done. Or don't. I don't care."

Something tells him he won't be getting the books back.

"You must be new, then."

“Yes,” agrees Mister Somebody, who for his part reaches his arms which are really just arms and takes the stack—it’s been quickly done over with what looks like twine for support—into them. He’s smiling, but slightly.

“Newness is a common factor,” he says, “when the train arrives, is that right?”

Less so question, and more so observation. Even for someone who hasn’t left the building since coming on the train which had been rip-roaring and spontaneous into existence much in the way that Mister Somebody is spontaneous into existence, it’s become devastatingly obvious that Ryslig is not in the business of getting newcomers in the fashion of fliers and tourism guides. That’s just how it is. That’s just how it does. That’s how it is. That’s just fine.

Mister Somebody is watching him.

“And you ? You’re the owner of this place…?”

"Well, owner is kind of a stretch, but yeah, I oversee the apartment," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "The--The arrivals don't always come via train. It kind of, uh, changes based on the month. When I came, I woke up in a box."

And he got shot in the shoulder, which prevented him from practicing for a good few weeks. Annoying.

Clint feels...uncomfortable with the stranger watching him, like there's something that should be happening. This is...Morgenstern and Rhodes' apartment, right? So what's this person doing here?

He should be a good superintendent and get to know his neighbors.

"What's your name? I don't think I remember welcoming you." He gestures towards the apartment door. "The neighbors invited you in?"

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?”

Edited 2020-12-19 11:07 (UTC)

"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."

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.

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."

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."

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."

ryslig inbox

you?

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

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ha ha

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???

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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.