If asked, Reed Chandler would see absolutely nothing wrong with including oneself in one's own fictional universe.
This is, very possibly, all one really needs to know about Reed.
He is, currently, sipping a beer, watching the schmuck who just came in through the Door and making bets with himself as to how long it will take for the guy to realize where he is.
Chuck is a little too flustered to pay very much attention to the inflections of Reed's voice. If he's considering their names for whatever reasons, Chuck remains oblivious.
"Can you get fresh air at the end of the universe? I always thought a jog around the park was good enough."
"Oh, yes, you can go outside if you're into that sort of thing."
Reed eyes Chuck rather doubtfully. He doesn't look like the sort who's into that sort of thing. Writers, Reed's grasp of assorted stereotypes informs him, never are.
Reed himself exercises - he plays football at Harvard - but not here. Never here. Criminal waste of a perfectly good bar, that would be.
"There's an outside - wait, but what about the anti-gravity, nothing-but-space thing? How can there be space out there and an ... outside?"
Yeah. Reed would have that about right. Most of the time, Chuck stays home in his boxer shorts and a towel-robe, clicking away at his computer. Or, barring that, he'd have a thick set of papers and several BIC pens ready for editing.
"There's no point in asking about a lot of things here," Reed explains. "No one knows the answers."
Some people still seem curious, but honestly, how much fun can they possibly get out of endlessly discussing questions with no answers? Why even bother?
This is, very possibly, all one really needs to know about Reed.
He is, currently, sipping a beer, watching the schmuck who just came in through the Door and making bets with himself as to how long it will take for the guy to realize where he is.
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A manuscript flying everywhere is the kind of clue that's just a little too subtle for Reed.
"Well, they might not recognize you," he offers helpfully.
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But.
He doesn't want to go off sounding like an arrogant asshole.
So, instead, he says: "... yeah. I guess."
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He'll get to explaining the actual rules. Eventually. If it comes up.
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He pauses.
"I guess that's good to know."
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Reed doesn't start a lot of fights. It reflects badly on the family name at home, and being in lock-up isn't worth it here.
Not for fighting, anyway.
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He pauses.
"Sam and Dean would probably be prone to violence if -"
Another pause.
"What the hell am I saying? This is crazy. They're characters. They come from my head."
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(No, they're totally not.)
"Well, maybe Milliways just thought you needed some fresh air," he suggests.
Oh, he left the implied question unanswered, didn't he? Oops.
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Chuck is a little too flustered to pay very much attention to the inflections of Reed's voice. If he's considering their names for whatever reasons, Chuck remains oblivious.
"Can you get fresh air at the end of the universe? I always thought a jog around the park was good enough."
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Reed eyes Chuck rather doubtfully. He doesn't look like the sort who's into that sort of thing. Writers, Reed's grasp of assorted stereotypes informs him, never are.
Reed himself exercises - he plays football at Harvard - but not here. Never here. Criminal waste of a perfectly good bar, that would be.
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Yeah. Reed would have that about right. Most of the time, Chuck stays home in his boxer shorts and a towel-robe, clicking away at his computer. Or, barring that, he'd have a thick set of papers and several BIC pens ready for editing.
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"Don't know," he says. "There just is."
He'd wondered that initially himself, but the upside of not thinking about things very much is that you come to accept them very quickly.
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How else do those sentences get written? They don't write themselves, after all.
"There just ... is." He shakes his head. "Is this generally how people feel about this place? It's just here. Just because?"
If so, he'll really have to change his reactions.
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Some people still seem curious, but honestly, how much fun can they possibly get out of endlessly discussing questions with no answers? Why even bother?
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But it's also human nature.
"I find that hard to believe - that no one knows the answers. What about the guy who built this place? Didn't he leave a record?"
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He shrugs and sips his beer. The conversation is rapidly becoming boring. Philosophy is not Reed's strong point.
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