In a way, it was encouraging to see such a turnout for a pro-import author. However, Sherlock could only imagine how little these natives truly understood. How they were moved by patronizing pity towards those outside of their carefully constructed world, not out of a genuine concern for fellow human (or at least sentient) beings. It only made him angry, but what other support could they get? Frustration continuously threatened to boil over inside him. Why everyone didn't just band together and smash Lachesis to bits was beyond his comprehension.
No one seemed to notice him slip into the queue, nor did they notice him nick a copy of Maskin's book from the closest stand. He flipped through it idly as he waited his turn; the prose reminded him somewhat of John's in its more folksy moments, perhaps with a more polished vocabulary. It's what turned him off the books, really, though the more dissertation style sections were half decent. Nothing revolutionary. No, that would need the accompaniment of action, or the talent of a statesman, something that Maskin might have been holding back, if he was who some said.
When Sherlock finally caught a glimpse of the writer, he amped up his senses to full. Mitch's most obvious identifiers-- his scars, were gone, and the face was all wrong. Snatches of familiarity hover about the brow and the mouth, but if it was the result of reconstructive surgery, Sherlock was impressed. He would have dismissed the claims of this being the former mayor entirely if it weren't for the contacts.
Before taking up the Trevelyan identity, Sherlock researched colored contacts for himself, but in the end decided against it because of one factor-- no dye could quite properly duplicate the precise reflections and levels of melanin that create an individual eye color. The brown of Maskin's eyes was too rich of a hue. A shade lighter or darker and it may have been natural, and the placement of the contacts themselves was pristine. Still, it wasn't not his eye color, Sherlock is certain.
When he reached the front of the line, Sherlock was again impressed by the lack of any reaction to him. He could have made a more proper disguise of himself, but now Sherlock wanted to be recognized. His mannerisms weren't familiar, all smiles and wide eyes, but once he looked down at Maskin, the smile deflated into something altogether fake, and his eyes pierced him just as coldly as always. He slipped the book against the table, running his finger along the inside of the jacket.
"Just 'to an old friend.'" Not a trace of British, but the sarcasm is still there.
Inside the jacket, if Mitch bothered to look, there would be a matchbook with the address of an antique shop there, with the words 'TUTUS PORTUS' scribbled in small writing across the back.
no subject
No one seemed to notice him slip into the queue, nor did they notice him nick a copy of Maskin's book from the closest stand. He flipped through it idly as he waited his turn; the prose reminded him somewhat of John's in its more folksy moments, perhaps with a more polished vocabulary. It's what turned him off the books, really, though the more dissertation style sections were half decent. Nothing revolutionary. No, that would need the accompaniment of action, or the talent of a statesman, something that Maskin might have been holding back, if he was who some said.
When Sherlock finally caught a glimpse of the writer, he amped up his senses to full. Mitch's most obvious identifiers-- his scars, were gone, and the face was all wrong. Snatches of familiarity hover about the brow and the mouth, but if it was the result of reconstructive surgery, Sherlock was impressed. He would have dismissed the claims of this being the former mayor entirely if it weren't for the contacts.
Before taking up the Trevelyan identity, Sherlock researched colored contacts for himself, but in the end decided against it because of one factor-- no dye could quite properly duplicate the precise reflections and levels of melanin that create an individual eye color. The brown of Maskin's eyes was too rich of a hue. A shade lighter or darker and it may have been natural, and the placement of the contacts themselves was pristine. Still, it wasn't not his eye color, Sherlock is certain.
When he reached the front of the line, Sherlock was again impressed by the lack of any reaction to him. He could have made a more proper disguise of himself, but now Sherlock wanted to be recognized. His mannerisms weren't familiar, all smiles and wide eyes, but once he looked down at Maskin, the smile deflated into something altogether fake, and his eyes pierced him just as coldly as always. He slipped the book against the table, running his finger along the inside of the jacket.
"Just 'to an old friend.'" Not a trace of British, but the sarcasm is still there.
Inside the jacket, if Mitch bothered to look, there would be a matchbook with the address of an antique shop there, with the words 'TUTUS PORTUS' scribbled in small writing across the back.