stilljustandrew | [pfsb] silence in the library

"Wait, got it! They flee from domestick cats," Andrew reads aloud, "iron bells, and the sound of the cock-crow."

He looks up, satisfaction slowly melting into dismay on his face.

"Which ... we don't have any of those things."

"Nnnno," Matt admits, casting a glance back to the shelf in case any bells, roosters, or cooperative cats have decided to show up.

He pats down his bag, then his pockets, and--

Hey.

"Although we do have phones."

"..."

Andrew blinks at him, waiting for the part where that helps.

Matt fishes his phone from his pocket and starts fumbling for a search engine.

"I don't know about yours, but mine could-- maybe--"

(Okay, and let's not forget to keep this shield strong while we're having revelations.)

"Play a cock-crow sound."

"-- wait, really?"

Oh man YOUR PHONE MAY BE ABOUT TO SAVE OUR LIVES, Matt.

"I don't think mine can, but --"

Matt nods, and realizes quickly that the strain on his attention is a) not ideal and b) not necessary.

"Uh," he says, and holds his phone out to Andrew, "actually, could you do the search? It's not physical keys, you just swipe."

"Sure," he says, "absolutely --"

-- and realizes, on taking the phone, that (a) it's a hell of a lot more advanced than his own smartphone, and (b) his assumptions about how the swiping and selecting should work are entirely wrong.

"What's your phone's OS?"

"Uhhh," Matt says, watching the apparently-piskies continue their assault, "it's a Merc*?"

*Research informs the mun that this is the actual brand name Jo and Merc gave Matt's laptop, so ...

A blank pause.

"Sometime when we're not in danger of getting torn apart by piskies," he says, "I should ask you more about your world's tech...."

In the meantime, he's managing to figure out the scrolling, at least.

"I'm still in favor of this alcohol and ice cream plan," Matt notes. "You're on."

The shield is still holding up okay, but at this point it's a relief to have someone else running the search. The sharp scraping noises of metal blades against bright are starting to give him a psychic headache.

"Okay okay I think -- " He squints at the screen. "This one called cockadoodledoo, is it what it sounds like?"

"Odds seem high," Matt says, in a tone that may be slightly delirious with hope.

He hopes that's hope, anyway.

The interface can't be that different, right?

Andrew stabs one finger at the filename, and hopes.

The phone emits the unmistakable sound of a rooster crowing -- and all the little winged creatures freeze, staring at it in horror.

As the file keeps playing, a different noise starts up: the creatures' chittering, this time low ad aggrieved.

To Matt's ears, the rooster is still louder. And it sounds louder still as the cloud of piskies abruptly dissipates, the creatures scattering like cockroaches in a room whose lights have just been flipped on. Matt's pretty sure he sees one actually fly into a book to get away.

As soon as he can blink (it feels like), he and Andrew Wells are standing in a perfectly empty row of bookshelves.

"Oh thank frith," Andrew mumbles, sagging against the nearest bookshelf.

"-- You okay?"

Matt feels a little like someone who's just done a strenuous workout they knew was excessive at the time, but it's only now they're realizing exactly how much their calves will be aching for the next week. But overwhelming everything else is the feeling of sweet, sweet relief that comes from no longer being hunted by flying things with knives.

"You got 'em," he murmurs.

God, he could kiss you, Andrew Wells.

--Er. That is.

You know what, yeah, we'll go with that.

Unaware of that particular bit of inner monologue, Andrew wipes his forehead with one hand and proffers Matt's phone back with the other.

"You might want to keep that sound available, though," he says, "in case they're just, like, hiding around the next corner."

Matt sobers as he takes his phone.

"I'll keep it pulled up, yeah," he agrees. "Should we try to go, like, back the way we came ...?"

Yes and no: As it turns out, they can't get exactly back the way they came, because a few turns into their retread and the library spits them out in the main bar. Matt is baffled, but he's not exactly complaining. Danger's been averted! He gets to sit down! He finally gets booze-infused ice cream. (His is a maple-bacon-bourbon milkshake.) And, although the buzz is hitting him expectedly quickly, he manages to give Andrew a brief tutorial on phones of the future-- his phone of the future, anyway.

"It's supposed to be the most intuitive model yet," he concludes wryly. "But I'm now pretty sure that's contingent on users having been around and buying phones for the past five years or so."

(Andrew's booze-infused ice cream is a milkshake too, involving creme de menthe, chocolate, and Kahlua.)

"I still can't believe we never compared decades," he says, half complainingly, looking at the phone. "I mean, we said early twenty-first century, but that's still ..."

"I kind of figured you might be a little earlier on than me," Matt apologizes. "Most people are. But I guess it just didn't-- in the heat of the moment, I didn't think the tech would misalign like that."

He takes another delicious sip.

"It worked out okay in the end," he says, perfectly blithe now that the danger is over.

"Oh -- I should probably leave a note for Security about the piskies, in case they spread out from the library."

"Ah, right," Matt nods, "that'd be a good plan." A little rueful, "The next people to stumble into them might not have time to find the right book."

Since there's no time like the present, he digs into his bag and comes up with a notebook and pen, flipping past a few pages of abstruse-looking diagrams and ancient languages to a fresh sheet.

He nudges the notebook Andrew's way.

Andrew, about to dig for his own notepad, pauses and waits when he sees Matt doing the same. "Thanks," he says with a smile.

And boy, does he ever want to take a look at those diagrams and languages. But you don't read someone else's notebook without asking.

He pens a few quick lines, describing the piskies and their brief encounter with them, identifying them by name, and adding the full list of ways to get rid of them -- domestic cats and iron bells as well as the cock-crow. The recorded sound appeared to work as well, he adds, and then pushes the pad across to Matt.

"Did I leave anything out?"

Matt peers seriously at the note-- it's a loose-limbed sort of seriousness, but seriousness nevertheless.

"I don't think so," he says at last.

He tears the sheet out neatly (and a bit over-carefully), sliding it to Andrew, and fiddles absently with his pen.

"Do we tell them we're around to help if they need anything else? I mean, I am, at least, or I can be."

(He ought to stick around for a little while in any case, to see if not-his-ex-Dracula will make an appearance.)

"That's a good idea," he says, and reaches for the pen back to add a quick postscript.

He signs his name, leaving a place for Matt to sign his, and slides the note back across.

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