(Untitled)

[mercurialist]

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

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[notboundnow]

There is an apartment in the South Loop with all the lights on.

In that apartment is a bare set of furniture left by the previous tenants, a few nonperishables to keep visitors from getting suspicious, and a number of arcane markings applied in a variety of media to key locations, including doors, windows, walls, and floorboards.

Also in that apartment, slumped with his back against the front door, is Prometheus. The knock against the wood triggers his first conscious movement in days. He glances at a set of signs, comprehends their new shapes, then knits his brow and rests it against his knees.

Mercer may find himself unwelcome at present. Prometheus has made the doorknob very, very hot.

[mercurialist]

Muffled, through the door: "Prometheus?"

A brief pause; a second flurry of knocks.

Then there's a loud hiss of pain -- somebody just grabbed ahold of the doorknob -- and an "Ow, you fucker!" before a much louder THUMP sounds from about two feet off the ground.

(Kicking the door, it turns out, doesn't accomplish much more.)

[notboundnow]

"Take a goddamned hint, kid!" He chuckles at that. "Heh, god-damned..." A grunt cuts off the grim laugh before it gets very far. He glares into the apartment. "I've got sigils up, you know, and all sorts of other stuff I ain't telling you about, so don't you fucking think that thing you're thinking any louder or harder, you got me?"

[mercurialist]

"What thing, that I could cut through the bar and be walking out your bathroom door in fifteen seconds or that I just ran all the way here from fucking Roswell and I'm giving your Egg McMuffin to the homeless guy three blocks over if you don't let me in?" he shouts back, and punctuates it with another kick.

When the only reason your right hand isn't blistering is because of sheer force of will, and your left hand's fisted around a McDonald's bag, knocking becomes a lot more difficult.

That, and you can't convey frustrated annoyance nearly as well with "Shave and a Haircut."

[notboundnow]

"I'm hunger-striking for world peace. Give it to the schizo down there, he doesn't care if it goes straight to his ass or not."

Without looking back, he makes a gesture. The wood of the door begins to smoulder, like tinder.

[mercurialist]

Mercer eyes the wisps of smoke and sighs, restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Then, without ceremony, he drops the food, flops to his knees in front of the door, and shakes out his hands before puffing three quick breaths into them.

What can he say? He's a tenacious bastard.

Exactly how many of those sigils are going to go off if he picks the lock?

[notboundnow]

The one that belches out flame if he touches it in any way Promtheus doesn't like?

That description could go for him, too. More with the "bastard" than the "tenacious," mostly.

"I don't. Want. To see anybody," he growls. "What's your hurry, buddy? You can't die. Come again later."

[mercurialist]

Okay, bad plan. Mercer yelps and dodges the fire, then backs up, crab-walking, before settling crosslegged on the floor a few feet away.

"It's been ten days," he points out, and, admirably, manages to keep the childlike are we there yet? tone out of his voice. "That's a damn lifetime."

Distracted, he grabs the McDonald's bag and starts unrolling and re-rolling the top. It's something to do with his hands.

"And the last time you didn't want to see anybody," he begins to continue, then stops.

[notboundnow]

The light seeping out from the edges of the doorway ripples and wavers. The voice from the other side of the door, once it chooses to speak, is cold, and quiet.

"I hate to think what would have happened if he'd put you up there instead of me."

It's not what they're here to talk about. Not directly. (It's the thing that never leaves, the five hundred-pound eagle in the room.) But it's familiar, and it's easy, and it's better to go on the offensive than confront what just happened again. Not now. Not yet.

[mercurialist]

The bag crinkles sharply, but Mercer's voice stays level, casual.

Unapologetic.

"He wouldn't have." And a fraction of a beat. "And I would've escaped."

Ego runs in the family.

[notboundnow]

Like the intake of a breath, the fire in the door draws back. There are no scorch marks, no nothing to indicated that anything amiss had just been taking place.

The door swings open. Prometheus stands there with his hand on the knob. There are dark circles under deepset eyes. He's not smiling.

"Come in."

[mercurialist]

Mercer sits there on the floor for another quarter of a second, drumming his feet, staring up at the Titan.

Then he vaults to standing with his usual thoughtless grace and walks to meet him, lobbing the McDonald's bag at his chest.

"There's hash browns, too. Eat. And don't argue or I'll kick your ass."

[notboundnow]

He catches the bag, watches Mercer, lets him come in, shuts the door after him.

It's only then that he drops the meal and throws his first punch.

Before the retaliation comes (and he's proud of that, since the element of surprise counts for almost nothing with the kid's speed), Prometheus launches himself at Mercer. "When did you ever know me to take advice sitting down?" he growls between blows. There might be something amused in it, even now.

[mercurialist]

...All right, it'd be a lie if he said he wasn't half-expecting that.

Mercer's stronger than he looks, and he knows his way around a fight. (He invented boxing. He'd kind of have to.) The best description of him would probably be "scrappy."

"Scrappy" does not work too well against somebody half a foot taller, fifty pounds heavier, a few thousand years older, and just as strong as you. Especially when you don't make any real effort to get away.

He scrambles to retaliate, swinging a few blurred, stinging punches of his own.

And he's snickering.

[notboundnow]

"There's--"grunt "--a saying--" thwack! "you know. About-- ah! Age--" kick "--and treachery."

It's a good thing the apartment's sparsely furnished.

[mercurialist]

"Yeah, well -- ow!" Thump. "Welcome to the new order, Gramps, enjoy your stay and try the veal I hear it's -- " elbow to the stomach and foot to the kneecaps -- "delicious!"