A sharp whack on his back almost made him lose his balance. He nearly dropped the book. The courier grinned her stupid grin, her greasy fingers too close to him and the book and him. Mostly him.
“Are you insane? Don't do that!” he said.
“We can't stay here,” she said, “Got a million things to do and not a lot of daylight to do it in. Are you alright? You look really pale.”
“Go. Do your things. I'll be right here. Forever.”
He tried to look her in the eye but he just kept drifting back to “when they at length unbound me.” Then what? What happened next? And why? Who was this person? The courier slapped his hand when he cracked the book open again.
“You sure you want to stay here? It's empty,” she said, “And gross.”
“Go away now. Books to read. Your talking hurts me.”
“But you don't have any food---”
“Don't need food. Will live off knowledge. Go now.”
He would. He had a snack cake left over from the last time the courier got him shot. He could make that last until he developed the ability to exist without eating. Or until Julie sent more Followers to investigate his disappearance and then they'd stay too and they wouldn't touch the pages with greasy fingertips or use the delicate paper to wipe their asses because they were too lazy to walk five feet to get more actual toilet paper.
This library, this perfectly preserved, perfectly hidden trove of secrets---wall-to-wall books, WALL-TO-WALL---was what Arcade was born to find. It was his purpose, his reason to be, his heaven on earth. How could he ever leave it? It just wasn't possible.
“We'll drop something off on our way back, I guess,” the courier said, her voice echoing too loud in the quiet of utopia.
He ignored her and buried his nose back in the book. At last, Arcade Gannon had come home.
Happiness is a book. 2/2
A sharp whack on his back almost made him lose his balance. He nearly dropped the book. The courier grinned her stupid grin, her greasy fingers too close to him and the book and him. Mostly him.
“Are you insane? Don't do that!” he said.
“We can't stay here,” she said, “Got a million things to do and not a lot of daylight to do it in. Are you alright? You look really pale.”
“Go. Do your things. I'll be right here. Forever.”
He tried to look her in the eye but he just kept drifting back to “when they at length unbound me.” Then what? What happened next? And why? Who was this person? The courier slapped his hand when he cracked the book open again.
“You sure you want to stay here? It's empty,” she said, “And gross.”
“Go away now. Books to read. Your talking hurts me.”
“But you don't have any food---”
“Don't need food. Will live off knowledge. Go now.”
He would. He had a snack cake left over from the last time the courier got him shot. He could make that last until he developed the ability to exist without eating. Or until Julie sent more Followers to investigate his disappearance and then they'd stay too and they wouldn't touch the pages with greasy fingertips or use the delicate paper to wipe their asses because they were too lazy to walk five feet to get more actual toilet paper.
This library, this perfectly preserved, perfectly hidden trove of secrets---wall-to-wall books, WALL-TO-WALL---was what Arcade was born to find. It was his purpose, his reason to be, his heaven on earth. How could he ever leave it? It just wasn't possible.
“We'll drop something off on our way back, I guess,” the courier said, her voice echoing too loud in the quiet of utopia.
He ignored her and buried his nose back in the book. At last, Arcade Gannon had come home.