[Fic] "Cataloging" -- The Magnus Archives
Summary: "The thing about library work," Martin says to Jon's unmoving body on the hospital bed, "is that you think it's all about organizing stuff, right?" [525 words]
Note: Written 2/2/21 in response to the
fan_flashworks challenge: correct.
As per the community rules, this post will just be a link to the fic text on
fan_flashworks until the current challenge closes, at which point I will move the actual ficlet over here. But for now, a link: Cataloging
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Cataloging
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"The thing about library work," Martin says to Jon's unmoving body on the hospital bed -- no monitors hooked up but the EEG, because there's no point monitoring the heartbeat or blood oxygenation of a corpse that stubbornly refuses to decay -- "is that you think it's all about organizing stuff, right? Stick a label on a book and put it in the right place, all very neat and tidy. People just sort of assume -- or at least I know I assumed, before I got hired at the Institute -- that there is a right place."
He looks down at the thermos in his hands, turns the brushed steel around and taps on the screw-top lid. It's made to Jon's taste, not his. Silly, really; he knows by now that a familiar scent isn't enough to break through whatever supernatural bullshit is trapping Jon between life and death.
"But the thing is, all those places, all those categories? They're made up. People make them up. People argue about them all the time, and there are always edge cases where one book could be shelved equally logically in three separate places. Cataloging is serious business, and I've seen people get into screaming arguments over what fits where."
Martin smiles, an awkward lift of facial muscles that already feels unfamiliar. He used to smile often. Martin is sure of that, even if sometimes he can't imagine the emotions that are supposed to accompany a smile. His life doesn't seem like it should have produced much happiness.
Maybe it's for the best he's forgetting how.
"Anyway, library organization's not like maths, where two plus three equals five unless you're playing silly buggers with your basic assumptions. And even when you play silly buggers, imaginary numbers and base eight and those, um, radiant coordinate systems? That's not the right word, but you know what I mean, the circle things I could never figure out in calculus. The point is, there're still rules underneath the nonsense."
Was Jon good at calculus? He's no use at anything practical or technical, but numbers seem like the sort of thing he might enjoy for their own sake. Martin wishes he'd thought to ask about that, before.
It's far too late to get an answer now. Best put any lingering curiosity aside.
"Libraries aren't like that. Life's not like that, because people aren't like that. We're not organized and logical, no matter what some people try to pretend. We feel pain, we get scared, we get angry, we hope, we dream, we fall in--" Martin pauses. Swallows. "Anyway. We're messy. So any field that deals with people, anything that requires subjective judgment? You can sketch rules, you can build categories and shove your ideas and your feelings onto shelves, but ultimately the only person who decides what makes sense, what's the right thing to do? Is you. You have to do it on your own."
Martin sets the thermos on the windowsill beside Jon's funeral bed.
"I don't know if working with Peter Lukas is the right choice. I'm sure it's not a good choice. But it's my choice. Goodbye, Jon. I'm going to save the world."
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End of Ficlet
--------------------------------------------- If you want to comment on this post, you can do so over here on Dreamwidth, where there are currently (
comments)
Note: Written 2/2/21 in response to the
fan_flashworks challenge: correct.
As per the community rules, this post will just be a link to the fic text on
fan_flashworks until the current challenge closes, at which point I will move the actual ficlet over here. But for now, a link: Cataloging
---------------------------------------------
Cataloging
---------------------------------------------
"The thing about library work," Martin says to Jon's unmoving body on the hospital bed -- no monitors hooked up but the EEG, because there's no point monitoring the heartbeat or blood oxygenation of a corpse that stubbornly refuses to decay -- "is that you think it's all about organizing stuff, right? Stick a label on a book and put it in the right place, all very neat and tidy. People just sort of assume -- or at least I know I assumed, before I got hired at the Institute -- that there is a right place."
He looks down at the thermos in his hands, turns the brushed steel around and taps on the screw-top lid. It's made to Jon's taste, not his. Silly, really; he knows by now that a familiar scent isn't enough to break through whatever supernatural bullshit is trapping Jon between life and death.
"But the thing is, all those places, all those categories? They're made up. People make them up. People argue about them all the time, and there are always edge cases where one book could be shelved equally logically in three separate places. Cataloging is serious business, and I've seen people get into screaming arguments over what fits where."
Martin smiles, an awkward lift of facial muscles that already feels unfamiliar. He used to smile often. Martin is sure of that, even if sometimes he can't imagine the emotions that are supposed to accompany a smile. His life doesn't seem like it should have produced much happiness.
Maybe it's for the best he's forgetting how.
"Anyway, library organization's not like maths, where two plus three equals five unless you're playing silly buggers with your basic assumptions. And even when you play silly buggers, imaginary numbers and base eight and those, um, radiant coordinate systems? That's not the right word, but you know what I mean, the circle things I could never figure out in calculus. The point is, there're still rules underneath the nonsense."
Was Jon good at calculus? He's no use at anything practical or technical, but numbers seem like the sort of thing he might enjoy for their own sake. Martin wishes he'd thought to ask about that, before.
It's far too late to get an answer now. Best put any lingering curiosity aside.
"Libraries aren't like that. Life's not like that, because people aren't like that. We're not organized and logical, no matter what some people try to pretend. We feel pain, we get scared, we get angry, we hope, we dream, we fall in--" Martin pauses. Swallows. "Anyway. We're messy. So any field that deals with people, anything that requires subjective judgment? You can sketch rules, you can build categories and shove your ideas and your feelings onto shelves, but ultimately the only person who decides what makes sense, what's the right thing to do? Is you. You have to do it on your own."
Martin sets the thermos on the windowsill beside Jon's funeral bed.
"I don't know if working with Peter Lukas is the right choice. I'm sure it's not a good choice. But it's my choice. Goodbye, Jon. I'm going to save the world."
---------------------------------------------
End of Ficlet
--------------------------------------------- If you want to comment on this post, you can do so over here on Dreamwidth, where there are currently (
comments)