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I was in Indigo earlier, killing time, and this dude totally tried to pick me up in the history section. He was like, "are you looking for anything in particular?" and I told him no, and he kind of stood there looking at me awkwardly, so I asked, "are you?" and he said, "no, just looking. I haven't really read much history, but I'm really into Napoleon." I said, "that's cool." So he asked, "what about you? you read much?" and I was like, "um. yeah. I'm a historian." Then he asked me to recommend him a book, so I told him to read The Great Cat Massacre, and then I kind of ran away.
THEN, I ended up buying Keith Thomas' Religion and the Decline of Magic, which is one of those seminal works of anthropological history on the rationalization of religion in the premodern era (trust me on this one), and the cashier looked at it, and asked me, "have you read this?" and gestured at the massive display of the new Dan Brown book. I told him no, and he told me that I should because IT'S ABOUT BASICALLY THE SAME THING AS THE BOOK I WAS BUYING, like, how the Catholic church controls the world's magical symbols of power. I was like WHAT. I mean, WHAT.
Then I went to see Jennifer's Body with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thissugarcane and her +1, thereby destroying my smart cred, and discovered that it was actually kind of awesome. I LEGIT LIKED IT, YOU GUYS.
THEN, I ended up buying Keith Thomas' Religion and the Decline of Magic, which is one of those seminal works of anthropological history on the rationalization of religion in the premodern era (trust me on this one), and the cashier looked at it, and asked me, "have you read this?" and gestured at the massive display of the new Dan Brown book. I told him no, and he told me that I should because IT'S ABOUT BASICALLY THE SAME THING AS THE BOOK I WAS BUYING, like, how the Catholic church controls the world's magical symbols of power. I was like WHAT. I mean, WHAT.
Then I went to see Jennifer's Body with
thissugarcane and her +1, thereby destroying my smart cred, and discovered that it was actually kind of awesome. I LEGIT LIKED IT, YOU GUYS.
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"wait, what about religion now?" Spencer asks, not a hundred percent sure he wants to know the answer.
Ryan's spinning around on the bar stool as fast as he could go - what the fuck, like that's going to end well - and surreptitiously not looking at Jon, drinking with a couple of buddies in the corner. They were paying the strip-club prices, and they were paying the automatic tip for the dancers, but why they're bothering when none of them are actually watching the stage--
"--so Pete said, and I don't know, it makes sense," Ryan's saying.
"wait, Pete? I would have figured--"
Ryan leans forward on the stool, eyes big. He looks like he hasn't aged since junior high school. Spencer's not a hundred percent sure he has, either. "Pete's actually, spiritual. maybe. not religious. He believes something though. He and Patrick always--"
Ryan clamps his mouth shut, looks away, looks back at Spencer with his mouth a thin, unhappy line. Spencer's only been working around this club for about a month, but the evidence goes something like: if Ryan's bored, not on stage, and Spencer's in the vicinity, typically Ryan will be murmuring on and on and on about everything and everyone, poetry and customers and this new flavour of juice he tried. He doesn't do it with most other people, but even when Spencer's tuning him out Ryan keeps going, a low, unchanging tone, babble in the background.
(when Spencer asked about it, Ryan shrugged uncomfortably but replied, "well, you already know basically how fucked up I am. you've seen my circuits, my pathways, and you're still here. Why would I worry about what shit comes out of my mouth?"
It made a strange sort of sense, and Spencer was irrationally grateful for the trust. He'd never really felt a best friend before.)
So, but anyway, Ryan never shut up, basically. So now, mouth closed and staring over in Jon's direction as if he's never going to say anything again, Spencer's moved to ask, "what the fuck?"
"What?"
"Dude," Spencer says, "You-- what?"
Ryan finally turns back. His face is all twisted up in a way that makes him kind of endearing and kind of gross-looking. Spencer makes a subtle notation on his data tablet to try and get Ryan to recreate it when they're testing next, just to see what the hell's going on in his cheek muscles to make that weird shit happen. Ryan finally says, "I can't-- I mean, it's. Pete would be mad. I shouldn't have talked about him."
"Him?" Spencer suddenly gets a shiver, a pang low in his belly.
Ryan glances around. "Yeah. I mean, I would, it's not-- it's just, Pete's." Ryan kind of waves his hand around, scrunches his face up even more. "He's kind of."
"Yeah, okay," Spencer finally says, and lets Ryan off the hook. Jesus, these dancers all have secret lives or some shit. Spencer grins. "You can't talk about it, I get it." A thought occurs, and he adds, "I shouldn't ask Pete about this, right?"
[...]
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Ryan shakes his head vehemently. "No, don't. I mean, he won't be mad, he'll just." Ryan lowers his voice even more, eyes wide, bites his lip. "It'll make him sad."
Sad, Spencer thinks. Okay. Sad. Well, he wouldn't want to make one of his bosses sad, especially -- he realizes with another twinge, this one of fear and shock, that sensation in the base of your neck when you realize that you should have known something earlier but didn't figure it out till now -- he realizes that he hasn't worked for anyone else since Ashlee called him in.
"Wow," Spencer says, "I haven't done any other jobs since I came here, you know that?"
Ryan smiles, a little one, just part of his mouth quirking up. "Well, we can be insistent. Ashlee's got you on a weekly stipend now at least, right? It's enough to pay for everything?"
"Yeah, it's--" Actually, it's not. It's almost enough, Spencer may just have to move into, either into a smaller space, or in with someone else. "Other than my place, I'm good. I might just have to move."
"aw, moving sucks," Ryan starts off with, and then the low hum of his chatter starts up again. Spencer lets it soothe him, the words totally irrelevant, just lets Ryan talk and occasionally puts in a "hmmmm" or "yeah" for good measure.
It's almost nine pm, now, and the club's starting to fill, the music's getting louder. Ryan's not on tonight until at least midnight, so he's not even bothering to go backstage, just sits beside Spencer and talks, once and a while saying hi to a regular. Spencer keeps working on the maint logs - Ashlee has him looking at Alex's knees (substandard parts, Spencer may have to replace them altogther, though he'd rather not since technically it's beyond his capabilities, and also, it'll be hella-expensive and even more painful, even if Alex said he could take it).
It's full enough that Spencer can barely make out Ryan's voice, the lighting flickering above them, the music loud and vibrating all through his parts. It's not a special night, so it's just music and dancers, though they do have a guest DJ - Spencer notices when she takes the booth, and wonders where Pete is. Spencer sees Pete, who's -- unusually for him -- sitting at a table in the corner, the one closest to backstage that's always marked 'reserved' for the staff.
It's not him sitting at the table that's unusual; it's the frown of concentration, the total transformation of his face when he's not smiling or pouting or making a face. Spencer doesn't know Pete that well, but he totally likes the guy a lot -- but he hasn't ever seen that particular, cold stare before.
Pete glances up, sees Spencer, and smiles at him. Spencer knows it's a real smile, too, soft and genuine. Spencer turns back to his data tablet, and doesn't watch as Pete goes back to his. Spencer doesn't wonder what Pete's doing. His biofeedback system calls bullshit by flashing a complex series of pheromonal path analyses at him, all for fight-or-flight responses.
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also I just edited our interview! WHOO GETTING THERE SLOWLY. TIME FOR SOME MORE GSRA. JUST HAVE TO FIND AN APPROPRIATE POST TO COMMENT ON. 2003, HERE I COME.
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ANYWAY. 8700 WORDS, you vixen, you. eta: 9300.
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Pete finds Spencer in the back room, working on Alex's knee as promised. Spencer's trying really really hard not to hurt him, because he likes Alex, as well as is expecting Alex to kick him in the balls if he twists a nerve ending wrong. (It had come pretty close already.) Spencer's just lasering the organic nerve to the steel reinforced joint - a difficult enough procedure even without the vibrations coming from the base playing fucking hell with his equipment.
Sometimes Spencer suspects that most of these dudes live at the club, the way they're never anywhere else. He knows that Ashlee and Pete do. He thinks that Ryan does.
Pete shuffles in, and it's with all the grace of a full organic, no mods to quiet his steps - and besides, Pete always figets. Spencer flicks the laser off, because as much as he wants to not prolong this pain for Alex (the wincing on his face is only a small measure of the agony he must be in), he also doesn't want to accidentally sever the main nerve in his leg if Pete makes him jump or some shit.
"Yeah?" Spencer says.
"So," and Pete crosses his arms. Spencer flicks his glasses off, looks up at Pete. Pete's face is guarded, serious; Spencer swallows. "So, yeah. Gabe's gonna come around about midnight? We'll be in my office."
Alex inhales, sharp -- Spencer has to glance down and make sure that the surprise didn't inadvertantly fuck up the work he'd been doing all night on the joint. No, still good. Spencer looks back at Pete. Pete's face doesn't change; he blinks, stands, waits, then when Spencer nods, casually wanders out.
"okay, let's try and finish," Spencer tells Alex. He curls his hand into a fist, the organic one. His biofeedback system is screaming at him, a shrill chemical alarm for fear and anticipation, a warning to get the fuck out. He can taste the adrenaline at the back of his throat.
"Dude," Alex starts to say. Spencer looks at him. "Dude," Alex repeats. "Are you-- it's." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, and then he says again, "Are you okay?"
Spencer thinks about it: no. Not really. But he triggers a loop to suppress the reaction, because much as he'd like to freak the fuck out about later, he still has to stitch up Alex's knee. "I'm good," Spencer replies. "Let's close this fucker man, you must be in agony, you're hardcore."
"So are you, man," Alex replies. he laughs, wry. "Shit, Pete just-- and you didn't even-- shit," he says. "Shit."
"yeah," Spencer says, because he has no idea what Pete just but figures -- he checks the clock system in his phone implant: it's 9:48PM -- in just over 2 hours he'll be finding out.
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He thinks about going to Brendon's private room, but Spencer isn't sure what would be waiting for him if he did; and besides, he's got more than enough work to do to keep him occupied for the rest of the night, especially if he starts digging into Ryan's logic process like he was--
Ryan himself hops up on the stool beside Spencer, tilts his head. Spencer can barely hear him as he talks; Ryan has to lean in close, shout in his ear. "Brendon was looking for you," he shouts. "He wanted you to go find him."
"Did he," Spencer says in his normal voice, because Ryan has some kind of thing, programming or whatever, that helps him filter noises out from the crowd.
"Yep," Ryan tells him serenely. "So I said I'd come and find you. He said," Ryan adds, speaking directly into Spencer's ear (and isn't that a bad call; all it would take is one bad move and Ryan'll end up face-first on the floor); "he said that you might listen to me," and Ryan grins. "I knew better, but I said I'd deliver your message."
"that's kind of a lame message," Spencer tells Ryan. He slumps a bit.
Ryan stands, and gently takes Spencer's artificial hand in one of his own. He tugs Spencer so they're nose-to-nose, and Ryan murmurs, "it was important to him, you know?"--
--and then Spencer, through his input port, gets a blast of a memory. It isn't Ryan's, he knows that immediately, because it feels like he knows Ryan's own memories and emotions as well as he knows his own. No, this is Brendon's memory of, of.
This is Brendon's memory of the first time he met Pete Wentz.
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"Hi," Brendon replies. "Want a dance?"
"What?" Spencer paces the little room. "No. Why'd you show me that? Shouldn't you be more careful?"
Brendon shrugs. "Calculated risk. You came to find me, didn't you?"
"But--" but Spencer has to admit, that's true. His internal phone reminds him it's quarter to midnight, and he has to get up to Ashlee's office. He tries again. "But, what if I. It could have. Brendon. You have to be more careful."
Spencer's staring at Brendon, so casually sitting down in jeans and nothing else just after Spencer had seen, smelled, felt, tasted, heard, whatever, him and Pete nearly kill an Authority before cracking a transit tube and hopping a freighter. He can still smell the metal in the air, the crackling static buzz of the cargo hold as the two of them hid among the freight destined for a faraway city. He can feel the slippery blood on Brendon's hands, feel the tears as Brendon cried about it, hear Pete's nonsense murmurs of 'it'll be ok'. It's maybe a ten second memory, maybe twenty, watching the lock door clang shut, and Brendon crying over what they'd done.
"Did-- Pete. He. Should I."
Brendon stood and put his hands on Spencer's shoulders. "Pete doesn't kill, Spencer. I promise you." He holds out his synthetic hand, palm out, offering Spencer another chance to see the whole thing, adds, "we called someone to get the guy some help even after he tried to tear me apart. I mean, I don't know if they found him in time, but he doesn't just-- Spencer. Come on."
Spencer feels strange; in an odd way, he feels like he's somehow taken on the burden of Brendon's loss, his guilt, but all his loops had nothing to say on the matter. He doesn't take Brendon's hand. He says, "what if I'd shown someone else? Brendon, you-- you shouldn't show people stuff like that."
Brendon drops his hand, grabs Spencer's organic one instead to squeeze. It helps the knot in Spencer's chest unfurl a little bit. Brendon replies, "I had to. Because I want you to say yes to Pete."
"What?"
Brendon squeezes Spencer's hand again; says low and careful, "I want you to say yes to Pete. Maybe it's selfish, but-- fuck, whatever. Okay. I-- you have to go find out what's behind the curtain now, Spence. Be good."
Brendon walks out. It's five to midnight. Spencer feels his palm tingle, feels Brendon's hand and someone else's blood on it like ghosts.
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:DD
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Ugh, there is so much wrong with that that I'm actually become irate. They can't hock Canadian authors instead? And this, while people point to the megabookstore experience as supplanting the role of libraries? With that kind of reader's advisory service, he may as well have tried to trepan your brain out of your skull. ADSFADF. WHAT IS THIS KID'S NAME. I'M GOING AFTER HIM.
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