(Untitled)

[literallyrotten]

Darren Nichols enters from upstairs, looking aggresively unapologetic just in general.  Deal with that, everyone.

And down he sits, at the bar, and orders himself some good whiskey.  It seems like the day for it.

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[puckishly]

"May I ask you a question?"

Says the fairy who appears on the bar.

Not at the bar.

On the bar.

[literallyrotten]

Darren examines first the bits of Puck that are at eyelevel, then trails admiringly and slowly upwards.

"Ask away."

[puckishly]

Puck smiles faintly, but really he's here on Srs Bsns.

Therefore:

"What is a cell phone? Do you know?"

He thinks he once saw him with something that resembled Andrew's little 'recording device'; however, he can't be sure.

[literallyrotten]

"A cell phone," says Darren, reaching into his pocket for his own, "is a highly developed technological shackle."

He sets the demonic, unassuming little thing down on the bar next to Puck.

[puckishly]

Puck does not start back. He does, however, appear ever so slightly ill at ease.

One hand extends slowly to poke it.

"Shackle?" He glances at Darren curiously. "Meaning what, precisely?"

[literallyrotten]

"Meaning that any one, at any time, can summon you for conversation with a ring. And if it's an employer, order you to appear, and if it's a parent, at any moment they can ring you up and give you the standard 'why didn't you become a doctor like Mrs Smith's young boy' lecture."

Darren eyes the cellphone with naked hatred.

[puckishly]

At the phrase 'summon you for conversation,' Puck stiffens slightly. But it's only slightly; he imagines however Andrew managed to call him, it was through slightly more orthodox means.

Slightly, at least. Or else what was the circle for?

"I was told," Puck says, slowly, "that they recorded conversations-- or that they could. Very little was mentioned by way of summoning."

[literallyrotten]

"They can record conversaytions, yes, and what you do with them is up to you. Essentially, they're a way to communicate. They ring--"

He reaches out, and punches in a few numbers, making it perform its example ring tone.

Bethoven, because it's Darren.

[puckishly]

Puck does not jump.

But his eyes narrow.

"Perhaps the little sorceror was telling the truth, after all," he mutters.

[literallyrotten]

"And you never know who's on the other end," says Darren, ominously.

"So it might be the artistic director, or it might be a good friend."

[puckishly]

"Or it might be Security."

Puck makes a face.

This is really not his day.

[literallyrotten]

"If they have your number, yes."

Darren puts the thing down again, out of the way, and grins up at Puck, a rare, open sort of smile.

[puckishly]

Puck blinks.

"... Number?"

Smiles are nice. However, he knows no numbers!

[literallyrotten]

"Here."

He flips it open, and gestures at them.

"Peoples numbers come in combinations of seven. Type in all seven numbers, and you can get someone else's phone."

[puckishly]

Well, seven does sound about right.

"Perhaps that was what he did, then," Puck sighs wearily. "How perfectly tiresome. I had hoped to avoid another stay in the cells."

He is sorry to say that he does not trust in the least that something like his alleged confession won't be used against him at a later date.

[literallyrotten]

"You're to be celled?"

Darren sounds rather alarmed by this. He doesn't want Puck locked up!

Plus, prison terms back home are usually measured in months.