bythe_books | Log; ongoing

Who: Sam Tyler, Jack Harkness, Ichabod Crane
Where: Library
When: TODAY.

DI Sam Tyler wasn't hiding. He didn't hide from baddies. Still, he also wasn't the sort to, when figuring somebody was out to make an(other) attempt on his life, sit around and wait for it to happen. He'd made that mistake before, with Loki, and had paid for it with an extra week in the Infirmary and having the others throw it back in his face at every given opportunity. His options for how to deal with this latest problem were scarce. At the very least, he figured if he saw the man he could try to talk things out, figure out why he had such an odd reaction to him. Beyond that... he supposed he could go to the Guv (or Chris), but he refused to. No, everybody already thought he was some kind of inept damsel in distress, and while he normally was quite happy to brush off such insults, it was getting to the point where he wasn't even sure if they were right and he was wrong. Ever since he'd woken up on the Barge, things had been getting worse and worse. He was losing track of himself and... well. At least some things made it better.

For now, he wasn't going to let one strange man ruin the plans he'd had for the day. He and Ichabod Crane (oh god he was really, really mad to even think that he was meeting with Ichabod Crane) were going to sit down and come up with some proper policies and procedures for the Barge, try to get things in working order.

'Course, he doubted anybody would listen to them. But it wouldn't hurt to try (and at least he'd found a kindred spirit).

And so, Sam entered the library, looking a bit lost, hugging himself for a moment, before venturing further in to look for the other man.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ichabod Crane arrived soon after Sam. With him he carried several sheets of parchment, a few quills and of course a bottle of ink. Just one, as it seemed it never ran dry. These he set neatly on the table, quill on the paper, ready to write.

He glanced about and saw Sam searching for him. His hands were steepled in front of him and he cleared his throat to get Sam's attention.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." He said politely.

Sam turned around suddenly as the other voice spoke, then relaxed a little and offered a smile.

"Constable Crane?" he said, although such a question was unnecessary. It was obvious who the man was based on his clothes, his manner of speech, and-- of course-- the parchment and quills. He offered his hand. "Nice to meet you." Then, an awkward pause. He glanced over to a nearby table. "I guess we should, ah, get started now."

Ichabod accepted the offered hand with one of his own firm grip. Though he was, as ever, a gentleman, he couldn't help glance over Sam's strange manner of dress. "The pleasure is mutual," he smiled.

He nodded in agreement and returned to the table where he'd set the items. There he offered Sam a quill and paper, with the ink bottle set between them. "So, ah, where shall we begin, sir?"

Sam looked at the quill, accepted it slowly, then stared at the ink. After a moment, he set the quill down and simply reached into his pocket to grab his own pens, laying them down in a neat row on the table before taking one up.

"Um. Brought my own." He smiled a little. Now, onto business. "So, I was thinking, for this... we ought to have a set of standards for not just Inmate behavior, but also Wardens, as well... 'Course, the problem would be enforcement-- we're expected to self-police our Inmates, but it pretty quickly becomes clear that there's very little real policing going on here. Some Inmates practically get away with murder."

Oh, he was talking too much. But he couldn't help it; this sort of talk was what really interested him.

Then pens, like the man's apparel, intrigued Ichabod. His attention returned swiftly to Sam once he began to speak, and soon the pens were momentarily forgotten. He listened with full attention. To him, Sam wasn't saying too much. This was a subject that intrigued him greatly as well, even though he'd just arrived.

"Agreed. The ratio, however, shall be a problem. We have, as I understand it, one Warden to one Inmate. Maybe a few extra here and there as they arrive, of course. Then there's the Admiral. If we hire Wardens to look after other Wardens, that is then taking away time spent with their Inmates, which only further exacerbates the issue." He tapped the quill against his lips. "Perhaps we might have a few Wardens who only act as police, with no Inmates themselves?"

Jack had already checked most of the rooms (and met quite a few friendly people in the process) in his hunt for Sam. Not that he knew his name was Sam, of course-- he looked just like the Master. Something was off about him, but it was still the face of the man who'd tortured him endlessly for a year.

He ended up at the end of one hall of rooms, in what he immediately identified as the Library. The books were a dead giveaway. At a far table he spotted what looked to be one of the men who'd greeted him earlier -- shame he might end up with blood spatter across his face, he seemed like a nice guy -- and that face.

Without preamble Jack pulled his fist back and swung forward, aiming clearly for Sam's jaw.

"That is..." He stared at Ichabod in a state of semi-shocked wonderment. "An incredible idea." He jotted it down. "Of course, that's a matter we'd have to bring up to the Admiral-- he seems to be the one responsible for pulling people onto the Barge in the first place." He looked down at his paper, then sighed. "We wouldn't want these Wardens to feel as though they're of a higher position of authority than the rest, however. It could--"

Then Sam looked over his shoulder and saw a large, rather angry looking man coming towards them. He jumped up from his chair and put up his hands in a disarming way. "Wait, you've--"

And that's when a fist hit him cleanly in the jaw. He gasped in surprise (and pain), then clutched his jaw for a moment, before glaring at the other man and swinging his fist to return the blow. He may not have been as big, but he was fast, and stronger than he looked (of course, the drug addiction had taken a toll on that...). And, more than that, he was fed up with the Barge and everybody here trying to push him around, make him a victim. He wasn't a victim. He was a police officer.

Ichabod began making his own notes in a flourishing script as Sam spoke. This meeting so far had been quite productive; he could fathom the rules and regulations would be nearly complete by the end. That seemed quite possible--until, of course, someone entered. Someone very angry. Someone coming towards Sam. Ichabod stood, and began a protest.

"Pardon me, sir, but you are intruding on a private meeting--" And he got no further. Of course the meeting was anything but private, but the fib seemed minor in comparison to the fight. Ever the brave Constable, Ichabod immediately distanced himself. And continued his protests. "You really shouldn't...this is a place of education!"

Seeing that he was getting nowhere, he fumed for a few seconds. However angry this man looked, he was nothing in comparison to the Hessian. So, gathering his small courage, he grabbed the nearest book from the shelf, ran up to Jack, and hit him with it. Hoping to put an end to the fight.

He took the punch on the jaw with good humor, stumbling back a bit before turning to Sam. "Well, that was fair. Sorry about that," Jack was saying with a grin, shaking his fist out. "Nothing personal. Just something I had to do on account of your face. That face tortured me for a year, you know!"

-- and then he was brained with a book. "Ouch!" He grabbed the book, turning on the man who'd brandished it and shook it at him like one would scold a naughty child. "You should be careful when you throw books at people. That can hurt, you know."

He sighed, tossing the book to the ground, and offered a hand to Sam with another smile. "Captain Jack Harkness. Nice to meet you."

"Nothing personal?" Sam repeated, fuming with self-righteous indignation. Oh, so this one must be another 'old friend' of the Master's. "I don't care if my face looks like Adolf bloody Hitler's, you don't just walk up to a man and attack him for-- for looking like somebody else!"

Clearly... Sam was not happy.

He looked down at the offered hand, then with a frown accepted it.

"Right. DI Sam Tyler," he murmured.

While he did not like being scolded like an errant child, Jack's further actions confused him more. Ichabod had seen fights before, had viewed the aftermath. Introductions and smiles were usually not in that category.

But they were preferable to punches. With a smile of his own, he offered his hand to Jack. "Constable Ichabod Crane. I believe we corresponded through the journals when you arrived."

Edited 2008-10-28 20:57 (UTC)

He looks somber for a moment. "What Adolf Hitler did pales in comparison to what the Master put our world through."

But he brightened a bit when Sam actually took his hand. "Oh, British police? Where are you stationed? I worked out of Cardiff. Had a DI on my team, too, actually."

And when Ichabod introduced himself, he turned and shook his hand as well. "I'm surrounded by police!" Jack's grin was a wide, toothy thing. "We did. I liked you better when you weren't hitting me with books, though."

Log; ongoing

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

IM IN UR LIBRARY. CRASHIN UR THREAD.

DDDD:

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject