Faint and wearied by long travels o'er earth still dark and damp, sunlight streams through cracked windows of sullied clarity, vitalizing dust and age, drying pages of open new worlds and straining knowledge to shades of yellow, to finally reflect off the glasses of a young women, asleep under her books, her necessities. Paper flutters to her breath, as if alive without beating heart or thinking brain, all living a sort of life around her, dancing to a rhythm unheard and unseen.
But beats disrupted by ringing volume of her phone, crying louder and louder, buried in the words. So shifts, the women, arousing to a voice, so beckoning her to sleep, to go back to her world of black ink and white pages; A slender hand, out of books piled to heaven, reaches for the phone, now screeching for human touch. With a grab and habitual flip, rings phased to voice, one unheard of before.
Words articulated a tone so fine, rid of all impurities and hostility; she had almost mistaken it for Joker, the accent, the careful choice of words, but it seemed so jovial and light, so oily to the touch that they struck sparks against Joker's usual half hidden bitter tone dipped in poison. "Hello, Ms. Readman. Are you enjoying your sleep?"
Tension pulled her up, papers tapped in mid-step to her hands, edges sharp and dedicated to attack and disarm the intruder, ruffled books jumped in surprise off her to the ground, shaking. Veils of sleep snatched away by keen attention. In mere seconds, she was up and ready, eyes fierce and strong. Dust formed in storms, winding through bookcases, cracked and weathered, over books. They wind around the legs of a rather stout man, clean-shaven and chinless indeed. Black blazer and trousers ironed and cleaned to perfection with not a speck of stain on the silk black and with a tie worn so perfectly straight as if measured with a ruler, he wore on his face a smile, inviting those to join him in whatever he was doing. Ruddy legs, hardly used to the overbearing weight he carried on himself, brought him hobbling to the women out of the rows of bookcases.
But no sweat dampened his hair or tarnished his tight bowler hat which he tipped in greeting, "Top of the morning to you." The closed the phone he had in hand and simply let it disappeared inside his trouser pocket. Bending down, the sort of way that's possible with no knees, and he picked up a book. "A bit old, they are. I don't know why you would spend all your time with them. A tragic waste of life, I suppose." The next words, defensive and quick, a rip shot first reply:
"Who are you and what do you want?" She dropped her phone as well, and with no second passed, that hand was occupied by the rippling pages. Did he dare to propose her books as meaningless? Dust swirls in dances, stroking the papers that soon join the frolic around and around them, forming a loose circle, caging them in barely visible boundaries. He chuckled, low and throaty, and made his way, his bulging girth first, fingers twirling his ruddy mustache, to her, closer and closer until she lashed out in a paper trail of sheer edges, fueled by the seemingly endless reserves inside her coat, flowing in arcs like a whip around to him, he blocked with the book, hardly flinching. Wedge deep into the book, unable to continue cutting through, completely stopped by unseen force. Was he a paper master also?
"My dear, I think it would be better if you would drop your petty weapons and kindly come with us."
"Us?" those sounds, once uttered, reverberated throughout the still library that encased them, growls and woofs were heard in accordance, metals rummaged through the piles of books to them.
"These are my metal, my claws in the organization that holds me. Now, I ask you again, will you drop your weapons?" he sighed. Metals moved closer. "It is futile to retaliate."
"Never, "the paper trails dissipated, knives replaced the former. One sheared the book, and another, a raging metal, rolling back hitting its companions. Blinding light reflected off their hides and charging with equal strength of bulls, they bit and scraped their way against the forming structure of the white barrier, each touch prompted large paper spikes through each muzzle and paw. Materializing rapier sought guidance in her grip, a pathway emerged from the white walls and she bounded forward towards the man. Blade poised back, ready to stab through his flesh, paper followed behind her in beautiful grace, azure sight narrow and fierce, and such the final blow in a climatic drama.
But no blood, no crimson, just clear, unblemished water. The paper matted with the liquid started to falter. Those that still could, the wolves creaked into position around her. Various gears and springs fell to the floor, now slowly drowning in the water. The books soaked some of it up, running the ink right of the pages. Right before her eyes, unbelieving and trapped, he melted. Features became distorted, skin became syrup. Color changed from the rosy red cheek and fair skin to transparent, she saw her reflection then sliced in half. Rising out of the clothes was a tower of glisten, vaguely resembling man.
With a voice at first indistinct, it said, "I told you all this fighting is futile." Pounding over her, like the waves, it engulfed her, water filled her lungs. No escape. Coughing and scrabbling in the pool, she tried to swim her way out, but invisible hands held her down. Air, she needed air. "Pleasant dreams, Agent Paper."
Author's Note: You enjoy?