(no subject)

Nov 28, 2006 00:48

When you're fast enough to go anywhere in the world almost instantaneously -- and a few more places beyond -- "patience" loses its meaning after the first few hundred years. Mercer's tried anyway; over a week ago, he shut the door behind Prometheus, on that sun-scorched land,

(if you change your mind, you know what you have to do)

then opened his own to a rest stop halfway between Baltimore and Pittsburgh and killed time by hitchhiking.

People do still pick up hitchers. Not as often as fifty, even twenty-five years ago, but two or three were still willing, and two or three was enough. It'd meant he'd had to wait to get where he was going; it'd meant Prometheus could go do his own wandering and get some space for a time, maybe even enough of it to kill off that unfocused, haunted look he'd been wearing.

But it's been over a week, and patience has never been one of Mercer's virtues, so somewhere in New Mexico, he digs his rucksack out of the trunk of a college kid's Honda, sticks twenty bucks in the passenger-side visor to help cover gas expenses, and veers back east to Chicago.

Knock knock-a knock knock, knock knock.

Five minutes later, he's at the Titan's door.
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