City Name: John Gates Position: Cave: Assistant librarian; City: purveyor of secondhand e-reader materials and back-up drives at a shop between the outer and the middle ring, known simply as "Gates's". History: John was born in the Center into a large family of feuding siblings and distant parents. Considering himself above all that factionalism, and frustrated by the frequent absence of his father, he left home for the Diamond City at the age of sixteen to pursue a career in library science. He was admitted to Diamond College of the Social Sciences despite his young age because of his intelligence and dedication to what he described as "the preservation of the written word".
Though never fully satisfied with the modern library system, he stuck with it because he was convinced it was what he was meant to do, that it was inevitable. He took several courses in religious studies and thought for a while that it would be interesting to pursue further, but soon decided that religion was impractical and dogmatic and that he was serving a higher power in any case - that of the written word. Graduating two years early, he quickly got a job at a large City library, where he quietly reshelved books for seven years. Then, suddenly, he became inspired, possibly by a night of wine and philosophy with a young man whose face he couldn't quite remember, and quiet John Gates came into work with a light in his eyes, speaking of the need for creativity and independent decisions and thinking, really thinking about things.
Needless to say he was fired.
After months of depression and insomnia, waist-deep in bills, John realized that the only way to put his life back on track was to start his own business. He transformed his cheap first-floor apartment into a little shop, lived in the back room, and sold just enough used materials to pay off his debt and get by. However, he became something of a recluse, rarely leaving his shop. He never pursued long-term relationships, romantic or otherwise, with anyone, and generally kept his thoughts to himself, until the Disaster came.
Proof: A grainy video of his half-drunk rant, taken by one of his former coworkers, and preserved on a drive.
Playing First-person sample: To whom it may concern:
This is very curious and fairly clever. I can certainly see where the idea came from, although I'm not sure why you're doing it. It's a well-constructed farce. Very well constructed! But I don't know if it will be believed, unfortunately. People believe what they remember, you know, and I certainly don't remember this. (Although I don't claim to remember everything, I certainly remember enough.)
Speaking of which, to the general public: I am looking for a menace to society. He wears dark glasses and expensive suits and is probably, oh, inciting vice somewhere, unless he's given up on that again. If you see him, give him a stern look and tell him to find me.
Best wishes all, John Gates (I suppose)
[Also: this thingy.] Third-person sample: Aziraphale curled his lip.
Really, now. They called this a library? Not that he enjoyed libraries in general; they were too big and open, and all sorts of people touched the books, and borrowed them, and got stains on them, and - it wasn't to be borne. But this was a travesty! There weren't books to get stains on. Just chips and flat screens and mad little terminals - and he'd thought 1995 was bad.
He wondered briefly what his face looked like. He must be a sight right now - simply the picture of disdain. But all he wanted to do was run his fingers down the spine of an old crackling first edition and smell that smell that one always got. Word smell.
Instead he let his hand slip into his pants pocket and tighten around the small drive that contained - well, proof, or so they called it. He'd watched the video at the little flat they'd provided for him. It was fairly convincing. He wondered how they'd done it. A young man who might've been Aziraphale, if Aziraphale had ever actually been young, glasses askew, shirt untucked, ranting about free will and the beauty of humanity. Clever. Very clever. But not clever enough.
He didn't remember everything about What Almost Happened, and he hadn't remembered it every day even at the cottage, but he had woken up in the cryo lab with a solid certainty that yes, you are an angel; yes, you nearly let the world end; and yes, in the end, everything was all right. There was a sense of urgency he had as he was regaining consciousness, a need to get his footing by remembering basic facts, and once he'd done so, it was impossible to believe anything the Workers told him.
They seemed quite unpleasant anyway, so he didn't feel too bad about doubting them, for all that they were clever in their lies. Perhaps at a later time he would learn why they were so intent on their story, but for the moment, he would grit his teeth and bear this . . . "library". In any case, nothing was to be done without Crowley. Who would be here. Aziraphale refused to believe otherwise, despite the niggling fear at the back of his mind, the whisper that they didn't include him in your biography. He's not here. You're all alone.
aziraphale | good omens | 2/2
Name: John Gates
Position: Cave: Assistant librarian; City: purveyor of secondhand e-reader materials and back-up drives at a shop between the outer and the middle ring, known simply as "Gates's".
History: John was born in the Center into a large family of feuding siblings and distant parents. Considering himself above all that factionalism, and frustrated by the frequent absence of his father, he left home for the Diamond City at the age of sixteen to pursue a career in library science. He was admitted to Diamond College of the Social Sciences despite his young age because of his intelligence and dedication to what he described as "the preservation of the written word".
Though never fully satisfied with the modern library system, he stuck with it because he was convinced it was what he was meant to do, that it was inevitable. He took several courses in religious studies and thought for a while that it would be interesting to pursue further, but soon decided that religion was impractical and dogmatic and that he was serving a higher power in any case - that of the written word. Graduating two years early, he quickly got a job at a large City library, where he quietly reshelved books for seven years. Then, suddenly, he became inspired, possibly by a night of wine and philosophy with a young man whose face he couldn't quite remember, and quiet John Gates came into work with a light in his eyes, speaking of the need for creativity and independent decisions and thinking, really thinking about things.
Needless to say he was fired.
After months of depression and insomnia, waist-deep in bills, John realized that the only way to put his life back on track was to start his own business. He transformed his cheap first-floor apartment into a little shop, lived in the back room, and sold just enough used materials to pay off his debt and get by. However, he became something of a recluse, rarely leaving his shop. He never pursued long-term relationships, romantic or otherwise, with anyone, and generally kept his thoughts to himself, until the Disaster came.
Proof: A grainy video of his half-drunk rant, taken by one of his former coworkers, and preserved on a drive.
Playing
First-person sample: To whom it may concern:
This is very curious and fairly clever. I can certainly see where the idea came from, although I'm not sure why you're doing it. It's a well-constructed farce. Very well constructed! But I don't know if it will be believed, unfortunately. People believe what they remember, you know, and I certainly don't remember this. (Although I don't claim to remember everything, I certainly remember enough.)
Speaking of which, to the general public: I am looking for a menace to society. He wears dark glasses and expensive suits and is probably, oh, inciting vice somewhere, unless he's given up on that again. If you see him, give him a stern look and tell him to find me.
Best wishes all,
John Gates (I suppose)
[Also: this thingy.]
Third-person sample: Aziraphale curled his lip.
Really, now. They called this a library? Not that he enjoyed libraries in general; they were too big and open, and all sorts of people touched the books, and borrowed them, and got stains on them, and - it wasn't to be borne. But this was a travesty! There weren't books to get stains on. Just chips and flat screens and mad little terminals - and he'd thought 1995 was bad.
He wondered briefly what his face looked like. He must be a sight right now - simply the picture of disdain. But all he wanted to do was run his fingers down the spine of an old crackling first edition and smell that smell that one always got. Word smell.
Instead he let his hand slip into his pants pocket and tighten around the small drive that contained - well, proof, or so they called it. He'd watched the video at the little flat they'd provided for him. It was fairly convincing. He wondered how they'd done it. A young man who might've been Aziraphale, if Aziraphale had ever actually been young, glasses askew, shirt untucked, ranting about free will and the beauty of humanity. Clever. Very clever. But not clever enough.
He didn't remember everything about What Almost Happened, and he hadn't remembered it every day even at the cottage, but he had woken up in the cryo lab with a solid certainty that yes, you are an angel; yes, you nearly let the world end; and yes, in the end, everything was all right. There was a sense of urgency he had as he was regaining consciousness, a need to get his footing by remembering basic facts, and once he'd done so, it was impossible to believe anything the Workers told him.
They seemed quite unpleasant anyway, so he didn't feel too bad about doubting them, for all that they were clever in their lies. Perhaps at a later time he would learn why they were so intent on their story, but for the moment, he would grit his teeth and bear this . . . "library". In any case, nothing was to be done without Crowley. Who would be here. Aziraphale refused to believe otherwise, despite the niggling fear at the back of his mind, the whisper that they didn't include him in your biography. He's not here. You're all alone.
It didn't bear thinking about. So he didn't.
Did you read the rules? I did indeed. :)