maskormenacelogs | This means nothing to me

WHO: Crane and Various
WHERE: Nonah
WHEN: September 20th
WHAT: Mysterious packages
WARNINGS: None

Admissions Office, Nonah | Haru

When the door to the admissions office opens that morning and welcomes Crane inside, he steadfastly manages to refrain from commenting at the students annoying the breath out of him. He decides it best to push through and swipes his files, applicants to his Psych 101, but is too quick to swirl around when he collides with someone.

"Excuse me."

Psychiatrist's Office, Nonah | Boba

There was light shining through the door. The warm, muted radiance of a lamp from the hallway.

The house Boba visited appeared to be an old mansion in the earliest quarter of Nonah, gothic architecture running from its pointed rooves to the porch outside the front door. Besides the lamp, there wasn't much else visible in the hallway. There was nothing that was untoward about the building, it did seem like the sort of place where one could find people who appreciated the sort of delivery Boba was making, but the fact the occupants name was already known to the shadier elements of Maurtia Falls might give anyone room for pause.

A figure approaches down the hallway, coated in haze until keys jingle and he opens the door. A slender, aesthetic man who observed his guest from behind a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles. A gesture towards the hall and he's stepping back.

"Please. Come inside."

Before anyone sees you.

Birthday Reflection, Nonah | OTA

It surprised him how quickly his birthday seemed to roll around. The circumstances through the year had been extraordinarily stressful. Old enemies who had caused him no end of grief were gone. The loneliness had surprised him - but oh, had it been excruciating.

He reads his paper sternly, ignoring the doorbell. Surely people didn't believe he derived pleasure from being complimented? But there he is, coiling his fingers round his curtains and wondering just who is ringing his door at this hour?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For a long, wary moment, Boba doesn’t follow Crane out of the hall. He’s acting strangely, strangely enough to be setting off alarm bells. Boba’s already given him his delivery—why hasn’t he sent him away yet?

Boba glances back the way he’d came. The way to the front door is still clear. He could turn around and leave right now.

He thinks it over, reaches into his pocket for the reassuring weight of his knife, and then follows after Crane.

The sight that greets him in the next room is enough for him to freeze in the doorway, eyes wide. He’s never seen so many books in one place. Even the “library” on Kamino had been kept out of sight, reduced to a slot in a wall that dispensed only two books at a time. And are all of these as valuable as the one he’d delivered?

He moves carefully towards a book on the floor, eyes moving between it and Crane to gauge his reaction. “Are you some kind of collector?” he asks, trying to read the title on the cover.

Crane doesn't quite show a reaction. He picks up one of the other books in a pile and moves on over the room to restore it to a shelf. He seems to not want to get emotional at all. A shiver jolts his spine at the memory of why he possesses all this literature but he keeps his composure. His love for literature is in the air, with every book that's opened or in its place. The books speak for him, more than his emotions could.

He circles over the pile Boba's eying and hovers around, hawkishly. The one the boy was reading? The Creation of Psychopharmacology. Not quite so valuable but just as important.

"Only when it comes to personal interest," he replies. "It's a great escape after a hard day's work. Most people don't understand the material but," he shrugs to finish his sentence.

Boba lingers only long enough to read the title—before moving away at Crane’s approach. He makes it look respectful, as if he’s giving the man space, but Crane may notice that he’s staying light on his feet. Boba isn’t being caught off guard, not again. If that means reluctantly peeling his attention away from the books surrounding him, so be it.

“You said you had something important to share,” he says, suddenly all-business. “What is it?”

Crane carefully notices that movement but makes little noise of it. He has been watching Boba since he entered the house; analysing, learning, uncovering. His cautious behavior had obviously been a thing before him.

Interesting, really.

"Knowledge," he comments. "And power. But mostly knowledge."

Books. Knowledge is power. Even this boy can appreciate that.

Boba is growing tired of the man’s vague answers. Does he mean information? A book? He tries not to let his impatience show on his face, keeping his expression impassive.

“I'm listening.”

One of his eyebrows raise. Experienced in hiding his own feelings, he understands that the emotion on someone's face isn't necessarily what they're, well, feeling. He doesn't have some mystical means of identifying what that emotion is. And Boba isn't important enough to him for him to want to dig further.

"I thought you would appreciate this," he gestures at the library. "And decided to share it with you. That is all."

Surprise and confusion war on Boba’s face at Crane’s answer. For a moment, he looks at the immaculate shelves of books, tempted to step closer and see what else he might find now that he seemingly has permission to do so. But he still doesn’t budge, expression uncertain.

“You’re sharing these books with me?” he asks, as if he might’ve misunderstood the man. “Is there a price?”

"Oh, absolutely not; that is to say they're not for sale." He pauses briefly, considering his words. "I would be happy to loan one or two, mostly those I currently pass over myself. Aince you seem so fascinated and all."

He plucks a book off the shelf and switches to it ever so cordially: a smile on his face as he considers his own feelings.

Gradually, the situation is shifting more towards one Boba understands. He knows how libraries work—he’d regularly borrowed from the one in Tipoca City. Still, that library had been a public one, even if Boba doubts anyone besides himself and Zam used it. He’s never heard of anyone lending out books from their own home.

Still, if the offer is legitimate… For the first time since they’ve entered the room, Boba stops focusing on Crane and looks at the books lining the walls.

“How will I know which ones I can borrow?”

Crane hums to himself a little. One second later his right hand idly gestures to the shelf closest to the door. A case of political fiction, modern works and timeless classics. Most of them in jackets printed for mass consumption. Though he doesn't identify the shelf with words, he walks over and wraps it with the back of his hand.

Then he turns around.

"You may take a few," he says softly.

Boba walks over to the indicated shelf, eyes still occasionally darting to Crane as if half-expecting a trap. He can practically hear his father’s voice in his head—’Watch out for things that go too well.’ Boba is sure something like this would qualify. And yet, he still reaches out and takes the first title that jumps out at him, a dark blue hardback with the words The War of the Worlds emblazoned on the spine.

But he doesn’t stop to read it, not there. Instead, he looks back up at the man. “When do I have to return them?”

"About a month, I reckon."

His tone contains a measure of boredom to it; though it's aimed at himself more than anyone in particular. Having all of Boba's little glances and attention; he doesn't find it so thrilling anymore. The boy himself isn't the problem, he knows. It's himself.

"If you need a little longer, message me."

Boba nods. A month is longer than the library on Tipoca City had lent books, but he’s not about to contradict it. He does, however, pause before reaching for another title. His gaze on Crane grows sharp.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. “If you aren’t asking for a price.”

He could just be lending out books on a random whim. Wealthy people tend to have a lot of those and, judging by this house, Crane certainly fits into that category. But if there is a reason, Boba wants to know—if only to understand what seems to him like a completely senseless act of generosity.

Crane's fingertips slip away from the shelf and he grabs them with his other hand behind his back. He finds Boba a little nervous and untrusting and it raises questions about his past, but he knows not to pry enough these days. Better to let people open up about it.

"I want to share ideas. Plus I believe books are a good way of inspiring conversation. Would be a bad teacher if I didn't."

When had he last believed that? It's been a long time.

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