Though she did like the idea of books, of being literate and cultured, and she always enjoyed the stories she had been made to read in school or was suggested to read through friends, Gently Ponsonby was not much of a book connoisseur. In one sense, it was because she spent so much of her free time, the time scheduled for entertainment, at plays or watching movies she didn’t have much drive to dedicate those hours to the much slower, less visceral practice of reading. Sticking her nose in a book took time, time she could be devoting to other things, and she never knew how long it would take her to finish something, so she couldn’t exactly plan around completing a book or a chapter. Plays and film had established, promised end times.

And the key to any good schedule was, of course, timing. Gently liked to keep things in her control. The timing of her day, what she did and where she did it, what activities she gave what hours to and what people she shared which moments with. She was spontaneous, sure, in the sense that she had time scheduled into her day for spontaneity, and always kept a Plan B in her back pocket just in case something else came up. Even when she was taking a ‘day off’ from her theatre and newspaper related routine, she was never quite without some sort of plan.

It was just who she was.

So, despite her dislike of the inconvenience of reading, though not the actual practice itself, Gently was at the library. When she did allow herself to sit down with a book, she picked ones she knew she could read in her own time. Plays. The division of scenes and acts lent them easily to fitting into even the most hectic of days. Hell, the strategic implementation of French scenes could theoretically fill only minutes in the day if she really wanted. Today, however, she had given herself two hours to find a monologue for one of the classes at the community theatre.

At the end of those two hours, she had three plays in her arms, and two scene books on top. She’d take them all home and copy them down, store them for future projects in a binder. It was a habit ingrained in her through high school by a dear teacher she had learned, in her mind, the love of theatre she now held from. He had told his students to collect monologues and scenes, as they never knew when they might need them, and to keep searching for fresh ones. Search, learn, implement, expand. They weren’t lessons limited to the theatre, either, though Gently found that most of the things she knew about the theatre shared that ideal.

Everything you need to know, her teacher had told her, you can learn in the theatre. At the very least, she found, you could start there.

These thoughts in her head, she brought the books up to the counter to find the librarian, a handsome man with a goatee, distracted by a newspaper. There was a little Corgi puppy sitting near the front counter, and Gently just had to go over to her to pet her and scratch the little dog’s ears. The puppy seemed to eagerly take to it, wagging her whole bottom since the stump of her tail wasn’t much for expressing the full extent of her excitement and happiness. Gently giggled, and the sound, combined with Dogby’s eager whimpers for more attention, caused the librarian to look up.

“Ah! I-I’m sorry, I was… ah…”

“Reading the newspaper, I noticed that much,” Gently grinned at him. She moved back to the counter as the librarian looked embarrassed, folding the paper up without accurately following the lines, some of the inner pages sticking up and out of what should have been a neat line. He had been reading one of the inner pages, either a news story that hadn’t landed the front page or having followed a jump, she assumed. She only took an interest because one of her stories was running this week, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he had been reading it. His face had been set, serious, his attention clearly bent on whatever subject he was taking in, and it hadn’t looked like he was particularly enjoying the read.

At least, that was the impression Gently had gotten. Now, his expression was light and, though slightly embarrassed, welcoming. He took her library card and set about checking the books out to her, de-sensitizing them so they didn’t set off the alarm when she walked out, and stamping the due dates on the inner covers. He put a little bookmark in one, advertising something, though she didn’t get a look at it just yet. She’d wait until she got home.

“Did you find everything alright, then? From the looks of it, I’d think you were auditioning for something,” the librarian, whose name was written on a tag he wore on his shirt, said pleasantly. She smiled, shaking her head.

“Just for a class I like to help with at the community center,” she said, shaking her head. “So, Mister… Anthony Darrow, what were you reading just now? I mean, besides ‘the newspaper’, since we established that one.”

Tony blushed slightly as he slid the now checked out books back to her, her library card sitting on top.

“An article on some of the recent… ah… happenings from around the city. ‘Terrorists’ and what not,” he shook his head. She was interested by the tone of his voice, watching him keenly.

“You don’t seem to agree?” She prodded. The reporter in her was chomping at the bit, wanting to get him to spill his guts with as few questions as possible. He was a man used to making small talk, used to talking freely. She doubted he would take her questioning the wrong way, and would treat her as everyone else: a passing conversation that would likely be forgotten until he saw her face again. Keep things personal, but only to each individual. She doubted he would give her another thought once she walked out the door, and if she didn’t come back.

“That they’re all terrorists? No. I think that’s a bit extreme. These stories are spun to only point out the bad, the collateral damage and the inevitable losses. They always fail to mention the good some of these people do. Anyway, I think this whole… sensationalist writing does more damage than it does good: I wouldn’t trust whoever wrote this as far as I could throw them. Unprofessional, I think. I don’t know. At any rate, you’ve three weeks with these books.”

He smiled, trying valiantly to change the subject. He didn’t like dragging people down with subject like this, knowing that it was best to avoid arguments by simply not stating his opinion so blatantly, and he already felt guilty for letting so much fall out of his mouth already. He had mentioned that the article had been unprofessional, but now he was feeling he had been, just by saying it so bluntly. But some things he just cared about a great deal, and the Senshi were certainly one of those things. He didn’t like seeing them bad mouthed all the time, particularly in a way that he thought was a direct attack rather than honest journalism. The story was incomplete.

Gently smiled pleasantly and let it slide. She had gotten what she wanted, and a bit more. He didn’t think the Senshi were terrorists, did he? And he didn’t like her writing, which was fine by her. He couldn’t know it was her, as she wrote under an assumed name for those pieces, as other writers on staff also used that name to report on the terrorists. In any case, it ruffled her to hear him say her reporting was unprofessional, even when she knew she went out of her way to pin everything on the Senshi, thus making his observation correct. Well, she would just have to prove how accurate her sensational stories really were, wouldn’t she? An idea bubbling in the back of her mind, she giggled and took the books.

“Thank you very much! Enjoy the rest of your day, Mister Darrow!” She said jovially as she head to the door. Tony, finding her bright attitude infections, smiled and waved after her, looking at Dogby, who looked disappointed to see her newest friend leaving. But they always did, and new ones came. The next person moved forward in line, and the interaction with Gently was forgotten by both parties.

Gently, however, brought it with her, thinking about what she had learned, and the new plot boiling in her mind. She was due for some fun, and picking on humans was perfect for that. And there was more to it than that. It promised to be a very interesting night, and she hurried home to begin work. She was going to have to reschedule her evening a bit, and the rest of her week, but this was certainly worth a Plan B.

The books in her arms, the monologue she was going to find, were all but forgotten now. The trip to the library had resulted in an entirely new activity to focus on.