[ It starts as a desire to prove he doesn't need anybody. Whoever's company he'd been assigned at the trailhead he's keen to sever ties, to forge ahead alone and make it bloody well clear that he can look after himself, thanks.

And so he gets drawn down a path that's wild, the canopies of trees knitting together overhead as though he's wandering into a tunnel and who knows what he'll find at the end. The absence of noise should feel off to a man who's used to cities, and storms, and yet...

There's nothing that strikes him as strange about how willing he is to approach that dark water as though it's an invitation he can't possibly pass up. And who wouldn't? Stooping down he runs his fingers through, digits moving with the eddies of enjoyably warm water, desire to slip down beneath the surface a powerful urge he doesn't want to deny. And so he tips forward, face rushing towards that surface as though he can't wait to be enveloped in the water like a long, hot bath. ]

--and I can assure you I've never borrowed a bloody book here.

[ Anybody standing close by will hear a decidedly argumentative tone framed by a rather southern English accent. Clearly Rye is having none of this, and it's unfortunate that the librarian is getting the brunt of his ire. ]

No, no. I know how easy it is to create false records. I have been the person creating those false records.

[ There's barely a pause for breath - either his own or the librarian's - before he clarifies. He doesn't have time for some idiot to take his words literally. ]

No, not these false records. Somebody else's handiwork. Clearly they didn't think this whole con through.

For god's sake, I think I'd know if I'd checked out a book in a place I've barely just arrived in, don't you?

[ The lack of useful reaction from the librarian has rubbed Rye up the wrong way and, with a huff of irritation and a 'oh forget it, I have other means to get to the bottom of this', he turns on his heel and heads for the laptops he's been told about. At least he can get some sensible answers out of those.

Though apparently not before somebody who's already hogging one of the bloody things seems to just be sitting there staring at pop-ups. This is painful. ]

Christ, what questionable shit have you been clicking on? Are you going to close those popups or... just keep staring vacantly at them?

[ Such a charmer, really. ]

[ It seems like a terrible fucking idea to get onto this train with what feels like not enough information in the slightest, but Rye needs something to keep his mind busy. It seems like an even worse idea to be weighing in on a fight that doesn't yet feel like his, but he finds himself aboard the train all the same, carriage rattling in a way that feels strangely reminiscent of home.

The longest he's ever spent on a train was from London to Edinburgh, and that was a sleeper train for a grand total of six hours. Eighteen is an entirely different kettle of fish, and it's scarcely two hours in the need to stretch his legs troubles him. His knees - a decade older than they should be, fucking joint problems - feel as though they need to be cracked to relieve the growing ache in them.

It all happens despite him feeling fairly confident about wandering between one car and the next. This train feels like the old slamdoor trains that used to be in service, and he's surely quick enough to get the door to the next car open before the other one snaps shut behind him.

His brain takes a moment, then another to process the information - the door is jammed, must go back. But the door behind him, the way he came, is also jammed, it seems and Rye exhales in heavy disapproval. For fuck's sake.

Of course he's not claustrophobic, that kind of thing has never bothered him. And yet the air suddenly seems to grow thick, too warm, and loosening the collar of his shirt seems to do nothing at all. Then there's the dark terror that starts to grow at the back of his mind, and literally at his back as he can feel the walls shrink until the space is nothing more than the size of a coffin and he's stuck inside.

Oh god, is that fingernails buried into the wall?

He's barely aware of how hard he's pounding on the door, doesn't know what he's screaming at the top of his lungs that are struggling to suck down the soupy air. His words are nonsensical to anybody close enough to hear, but Rye's convinced he's shouting for aid, shouting for somebody to let him the fuck out. Why can't anybody hear him? Why isn't anybody coming to open the door?

He's going to die here, isn't he? This is where he's finally going to die. Not some bullet to the head via sniper. Not in a prison cell of her majesty's choosing for cyber terrorism. No, he's going to die between two fucking train carriages that got jammed shut. ]

( ooc: feel free to wildcard if there's anything that takes your fancy! I'm on pms or over at edgerunner for any questions!)