(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."