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[28 Nov 2006|12:48am]
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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[ooc: because why limit the meme-spam to Wash's journal? I mean um.] [27 Apr 2006|03:43pm]
Also known as: Phoenix + Concrit = OTP.

I play these guys. If you're familiar with any of their canons, please tell me if you think I'm doing anything wrong with them in terms of characterization, voice, the consistency thereof, or, y'know, anything else -- even if you think it's something tiny, nitpicky, and not worth bringing up.

Comments are screened, IP logging's off, and anons are allowed.

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OOC Reference [22 Apr 2006|07:41pm]
How (Some of) Mercer's Powers WorkCollapse )
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[01 Apr 2006|11:37pm]
There's a stretch of beach along the Mediterranean Sea darkened to shadowy blues and purples by nightfall. Above, a few stars are beginning to peek into view. Below, the sand's still warm from the daylight.

Two figures sit just out of the water's reach.

Well, one's sitting. The other's flopped over onto his back, arms spread wide, burrowing his hands into the sand with a contented sigh.
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[19 Feb 2006|06:14pm]
It's dark here. Dank. The indistinct, amorphous blobs of shadow all around her swoop up to form a cavern, rock walls slick with cold. Pebbles crunch under her feet.

The muddy river -- stream? creek? It's barely there, anymore -- reeks of algae, sulphur, and the atrophy of the unchanging. Wisps of fog skitter over what little surface is left.

She's alone.
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[18 Feb 2006|08:07pm]
There are temples to Mercer in every major American city.

Of course, he exaggerates his own importance. He always has. But it's fun to think of the stadiums that way, and hell, he sometimes gets a little buzz on Super Bowl Sunday from that cloud of pure, raucous energy of sport.

Italy, though...Italy's different this month. Turin's suspended on a thin wire that pulls him through eons, connecting the here and now to the shadow of Olympus. It's like that every two years (in the beginning, every four): he can't stay away. Couldn't, if he tried. It's not as strong or sweetly painful as it was last time -- the old grounds, the old city, the hum -- but Mercer's been there since the torch was lit, and he'll disappear the instant it's extinguished.

If anybody went looking for him, this is as far as they'd have to go, and they'd probably spend the whole time laughing about what a creature of habit their dear Enagonios has become. To which he'd offer little more than a fuck off and a whack to the head (Mercer prides himself on his eloquence, and sometimes, brevity's the best way to get the point across); predictability has nothing to do with it.

Like they could turn down a chance to touch that wire, too, if it were offered. Spread their arms, hear the echoes of crowds long-departed.

This is Mercer's festival nowadays, set in an ever-changing temple, and he's enjoying every damn minute.
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