Hi, Pen

William
William was weirdly invested in gallery openings in the district, even more weird now that Jenn was actually in LA and he had several thousand dollars worth of her work on the walls of his apartment and it was feeling a little weird for it to all be there. Like, until Jenn moved her things, it was like this weird shrine to his best friend's success. He didn't feel right with them not being there, either. The walls ha dturned into a place for either of them to actually do what it was that they did.

He works in chalk dust and no matter how hard one scrubs the vestiges of truth and revelation stays there. His apartment feels like the base for a rebellion, like the kind of place where revolutions are born. Kalen might be proud of him, if Kalen knew to look and if there wasn't such a strange rift still bleeding there that William had no idea how to span. He hasn't told him yet how initiation went, knows he's still in a foreign country so he doesn't press the problem.

He gets on at the second floor and has a box of light fixtures with him. He was invested in gallery oipenings, but that didn't mean he was a spectator who just came to them. No, he was here because someone actually needed help opening the gallery. That meant labor. The young man was in town for a few more days, didn't mind labor.

He's wearing jeans and he's got paint on his shirt. Looks like he's there to work.

mercury
The elevator never goes anywhere, doors open and doors close, people get off and people get on, an elevator is a tower; when the tower opens to admit William, there is already someone inside - a someone whose spine is just curved to touch the elevator walls, whose arms are not crossed, hands braced on the elevator's rail, whose reflection is a suggestive shiver in the elevator's gold-plated glass, whose toe is precisely pressed against a flaw in the elevator's tiling where the simple but graceful art deco (this is an art deco elevator this is a nice elevator this is a reflective elevator) tiling is beginning to peel up and away.

The someone is a woman in her mid-to-late twenties or late-to-early thirties that long golden afternoon age and she has a strong jaw and she looks like a painting, her hair the shade of fire caught in Czech garnet and falling over her shoulder in ripples, thick hair thick bangs, a layered oil painting, all self-possessed and witchery see all self-possessed and wishful all self possession and possession is a fever and fever is poetry or love ardency contained boom.

The woman is Ms. P. Mercury-Mars and Ms. P. Mercury Mars is wearing a dark green knappy orchestra-band jacket with embroidery at the large cuffs the better to hide a dagger or a wand something to wreck your shit m'dear and beneath that jacket some almost-flowy thing which adds another royal color to the mix and then a pair of snakeskin pants and boots the laces of which have been tied very dashingly. Daringly, even.

When the second floor elevator door opens and William gets in P. Mercury Mars looks at him directly, and any blink which follows (languorous) after is physiology, and if William is the kind of young man who meets gazes directly. William is a young man who is the recipient of a burning embers on a cold night sort of smile.

mercury
ooc: grr! or latetwenties-to-early thirties it should say, obvs.

William
He has never been accused of being coy, and meets her gaze head on. Little ball of chaos in a nearly six foot tall package. William is a handsome young man, but it is to say this- he is a young man. He's tall and lanky and smiles like he is a host of bad decisions waiting to be opened up to the world. He's holding a box full of light fixtures and this building with this elevator- this rather lovely elevator- holds a woman who is striking and who knows precisely what she is doing.

Embers set close to stacks of paper, ready to go up like kindling, this one. Green eyes flick to the indicator panel, to see if they're going to the same place. Back to her.

"Your coat is fantastic," he announces. Isn't wearing a coat himself. He's been going between the basement and the seventh floor all day. He's probably an intern. William always gave the impression of an intern, someone you don't pay for the amount of trouble they cause but they cause it so beautifully that you scarcely mind the kind of trouble that comes with them. The young bring life with them.

mercury
They appear to be going to the same level, round mellow yellow with age button illuminated trace of red in the illumination like a stain of cola in otherwise pure water. William announces, and Ms. Mercury responds, shrugging both shoulders with muted vibrance, listing an inch to one side and side of her neck swan-long exposed all to execute the perfect asymmetrical shrug, pleased lines around the corner of her mouth the burning ember flicked fanned brighter and more smouldery for a moment with an aw shucks tucked like a thorn in the middle of all that composure.

"Consignment shops are filled with the fabulous," she says, meaning precisely that. "They consign their riches to rags and when I am very fortunate I pounce. There are too many fantastic coats in the world for one woman. I'd return the favor and pay you a compliment, but that seems to be a very average box."

William
"I am a man cursed with average boxes," he says, sounds almost sad as though it were an actual curse, "forever burdened to hold the attentions and imaginings of remarkable women with little more than my wits and LED light fixtures from IKEA. I'm a little like a modern Atlas that way, but instead of the overwhelming burden of the earth I'm just stuck with the mild burden of a box."

A beat.

"Baby steps."

mercury
"IKEA?" Ms. Mercury says, coming out of the sway-shrug elegance made over into kinetic energy different from grace she's a touch too raw for real grace for practiced grace for the sort of grace that looks unpracticed, and laughter is contained too: a warmth instead of a hint though her eyes are sparkling. They're the pale blue of swords, reflecting some bright thing.

"Then you're a brave man. IKEA has actual minotaurs. They eat people and happiness. You're a good friend to risk it. I'm assuming;" the acknowledgment of assumption is as close as Ms. Mercury-Mars actually gets to an apology, but it's a social move followed by a beat.

It clearly does not occur to her to, in this context, give a fuck about how weird this conversation might be to someone other than a young artist or whatever it is William is. But let's find out.

"Are you somebody's friend or are you presently at your work?"

William
Ms. Mercury-Mars is proof that poetry exists in the fabric of humanity. The way her eyes look, the way that her laughter sounds that isn't quite laughter but, again, like embers. So many things about her like energy, something raw with the veneer of being less raw.

"I'm a working friend," he said, "I'm not getting paid to carry boxes, if that's what you mean. Friend of a friend and nobody knows how to build flats and false rooms and partitions so! Here I am. There's a gallery opening on the seventh floor in a week."

The elevator, this elevator, is slow to move. Shudders when it does and gives a quick shake as though it has intentions of giving up. There's a flicker of the lights; William doesn't seem to really notice.

"Sometimes, I like to build things."

mercury
The woman listens with the attention due the information, and her face should have been painted on a harpy or a siren; but then, take the spirit out of the face, and what is it? Shapes, dimensions.

"Ah. I see. Do you know Ben?" Beat.

"Are you Ben?" Warmth in the tone, again, the after-thaw - that first kiss of firelight when it's just a dream of skin.

Ben is on the seventh floor, Ben is one of the showrunners, Ms. Mercury-Mars' interest in Ben is strictly voracious: he advertised an antique wardrobe on craigslist and someone wants it.

William
"I'm not currently Ben, but this-" he picks up the box again and shakes it a little "-happens to be his box of light fixtures. He's a decent guy, I just don't trust him with power tools."

mercury
"It's something to know one's new furniture is coming from a good home," Ms. P. Mercury-Mars says and somebody could say that flippantly and somebody else could say that with too much gravity but she has the right balance between, like she means it. The elevator stops and sputters and is really very slow, but the seventh floor will be reached in time; the light shivers on the arching Art Deco sundial, finally lights up a minor glow all the sunrays filled and the door dings open. Seventh floor.

"Do you trust him with heavy lifting? I intend on convincing him to deliver."

William
"The guy owns one of those vans that would be considered creepy in any other instance except for the fact that he's an artist who likes to work in gigantic installation pieces? I'll bet you could get him to deliver if you offered him a beer on the way back- something in the IPA variety usually gets him to do any number of things."

Ah, a sage of people, one who knows this Ben fellow well enough to know his beer of choice, what vices to ply when one needs to get something done.

"Probably not delivering tonight, though. Would probably take more than one beer to get same day delivery."

mercury
The elevator door is open but William and P. Mercury Mars are still in the elevator. The woman stands straight; her shoulders are back; her posture is good without work Venus in a half-shell quicksilver in a glass an element a card. She is not taller than William and her heels are not so high.

"Thank you for the tip," and holds the elevator door open with her elbow and her back, because William is holding a box and he has just been kind so she is frank: "I rather believe I would have recruited you to do some of my heavy lifting otherwise. But I'll need to check for curses before delivery anyway. Care to point out my quarry?"

William
"You know, you could recruit my help anyway- keeps Ben from having to get out in this mess and I get the joy of your company," he said, casual as can be and he's nodded off in the direction that they needed to go. To Ben, of course, because like the Wizard it would seem the Tin Man has business with him as well as Dorothy. They're just headed to the same place.

"And making sure what you're bringing home isn't cursed? Incredibly important."

Oh, damn, almost sounds like he means it, too.
mercury
He knows what Ben looks like. He's one up on P. Mercury Mars. Penelope. Pen. Pen who follows William's lead with a certain (elegant swagger) self-possessed assurance, not outstriding him now that her quarry's in her sights because William is pleasant and he has a body and the body can also do heavy lifting.

Her eyebrows flick. He might've been flippant he might be almost serious but Pen is absolutely serious, without anything but a hint of gravity touching her eyes and the corner of her mouth but social ease is honey sweet melted heat here and she says,

"Isn't it the truth? I could tell you stories." Is she teasing him? There's a glint in her eye; inconclusive. "And," laughter. "Offered bravely, and like a man who doesn't know how many stairs lead to my apartment. I'll accept your offer if you're not frightened of stairs."

Ben is Benjamin and Benjamin is bold a nappy haired tall drink of water with thick square glasses and a rangy sort of musculature. Ben says, "'Sup, Eli." Or maybe he calls him William, maybe Elijah's changed his names all over. "Jah. Did you bring them all?" Greedy hands for the box and a flicker of a glance for Pen then a nod-up smile and a "Hey."

William
"I've stared down dragons and a starless sky, stairs got nothin' on me," he shoots her a grin. She may be teasing but he takes it in stride, beams and has the light that only comes with being young and indestructible. gthere are things he's worked on, things that he's held close, the idea that the world won't unmake him unless someone deigns to literally unmake him.

But there are things to tend to, and that thing happens to involve the mission full of light fixtures.

Ben calls him Eli. Eli-Jah. He seems to respond to it, shoots him a bright and pleased smile. The box of light fixtures are thrust outward, prone to exaggeration and he laughs in the way one can only laugh when they are getting rid of the terrible burden of IKEA fixtures. "Everything you kept in the basement- though I think I'm getting stolen for armoir moving duty for a bit. You have, dear sir, someone inquiring about your stuff."

mercury
"Oh god. That thing," Ben says.

"With the clawed feet," Pen says.

"It's a monster."

"I think the going rate for monsters is ten dollars," Pen says. "Some wiggle room after the piece has been inspected, of course." Pen is beguiling; she isn't smiling but one doesn't need to smile (there's a spark, a careful recognition).

"Hey now wait, monsters go for more than ten in cer-tain neigh-bor-hoods. I was hoping for..."

"Extra for delivery? Naturally. A dollar for every stair."

"How many stairs?"

"The best adventure is a mystery."

"I'm no adventurer. Elijah..." because Ben is charmed, rapid patter does that sometimes "...Has my keys."

"But you've got its history, yes?"

"Yeah. I mean, kind of. It was my grandmother's. She got it from her father. Beyond that, I dunno. It might fetch a pretty price at an antique market but," Ben grins at Elijah, "ain't no artist like me got time for that bullshit. Maybe he can show you the - ?"

"What do you think?" Pen says to Elijah, measured.

William
"Show her the furniture, deliver the piece- I'm basically the keeper of all furniture-related mystery," he tells Ben, grins happily to be released from his box-related servitude and it is away with him.

The armoire, of course, isn't terribly hard to find. William has headed off on his way and eventually (because walking can be done so easily) they are there.

"It's a Louis the fifteenth style cabinet-" he starts "-it needs to be refinished because someone in, like, the sixties decided they were going to paint the damned thing turquoise and, fuck I'll be honest it really dinged up a perfectly fantastic piece."

He stops, and they are there. And he beams.

"It's deep enough that you can put a false back in, though, if you're a carpenter and like having hiding places."

mercury
They walk. They talk. They arrive at Ben's not-too-far-away place, just around the corner. The woman who looks like or holds herself like or conjures up the image of a painting of some red-haired enchantress eyes the van parked in the front, just far enough away from the fire hydrant to be legal. The armoire is met with a rather fierce look and Pen puts her thumb under her chin curls her forefinger over the corner of her mouth and cants her head while she inspects it.

"Narnia?" Pen reaches out to open the armoire up, and says over her shoulder, "It would be rash to step inside without checking first, don't you think?"

But she has lent herself to concentration: little armoire do you feel like a curse like a disaster like resonance sleeping a brief paying attention to her hunch her magickal intuition.

[Perc Awareness because yeah?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

William
And it feels, oh how it feels, not cursed or broken or anything of the sort but it has memories. If she touched it, if she looked too long it knew what it was, knew where it had been, had seen cities and unruly grand children. It was a piece who had the feeling of fondness and, perhaps, a touch of where the magical world had brushed against it.

No, the most prevalent feeling of magic that came there was not from the furniture but, instead, from her companion. Ardent ball of chaos that he is.

"I don't think I'm being adequately compensated to accidentally end up in Narnia."

mercury
The woman's hand on the edge of the armoire is a strong statement, a shout of ballad-pale milk-pale skin and jewelry (stones and metalwork) against the turquoise painted scarred and scratched wood. The woman's hand is a pause; a punctuation. Her attention swerves (swoops! kingfishers flash flame--!) from the deep armoire claws as promised to her companion.

"But what about purposefully?" she says, after a slender pause. Her eyebrows flick again. C'mere. C'mon. She sounds as if she'd casually saunter into Narnia, pulling a sword from who knows where; she sounds as if she'd know what she was doing.



William
"I'd do it for free if it were on purpose."

mercury
"What's your compensation, then? Where's the satisfaction? A will to act?" Gallant, she opens the wardrobe wide: does not quite lean against it but tests the door with both hands. Her muscles bunch and then she swings herself up into the wardrobe. This isn't graceful: this doesn't lack for grace. Pen is a woman, flesh and blood (as ardent as a first kiss, a last kiss, a kiss good night a kiss good bye a kiss good as blood pressure spiking ardent as a purpose is as clasping hands together hope a spark the heart of wood turning to ash), and her coat goes sweep! swept, swoosh.

William
"I get a story out of it, and a good story too- for the price of getting a little sweaty and a little dirty I get an opportunity-"

and the wardrobe is flung wide and she is stepping in. He doesn't know her, hasn't even exchanged names but he steps in anyway and finds himself surprised at the fact that the armoir is spacious enough that it can in fact, hold two full grown adults.

"And sometimes that opportunity is the chance to be immortal without having the burden of being immortal. It's a win for me."

mercury
"You want to leave a mark?"

The wardrobe smells of old wood, melancholy brilliance; of many years, of the warmth nestled in every tree, of trees, the old wood smells of acrylic paint and pear and it smells of green beneath the rest.

"Be a line of poetry: something rich and strange, something full of sound and fury, ubiquitous and glittering?"

This isn't how she'd talk to everybody but it's how she chooses to talk to William once they're settled in the wardrobe. It might be the kind that once closed from the inside would trap a little kid, but

(daring)

wouldn't that be a funny story. She swings the door shut.

William
"Who doesn't want to leave a mark? It would be sad to wake up and think I want to live a life that is forgotten by all, and when I am gone there will be nothing but dust in my wake. Maybe a line of poetry," he says, and this isn't how he talks all the time, but it's just so much fun. She has such a give and a take and she's like a living verse.

And now he's in a wardrobe with her.

"It's better than just being a metaphor."

mercury
"Ah, but a metaphor is useful. For instance, a mark - " and even in the dark wardrobe (because of course it's dark now; that's what happens when you fucking shut yourself into a wardrobe. This is an old piece of furniture. There are no chinks. No light let in, straying sneaking across the floor. Pen's shoulders touch against the side; she rests the flat of her boot against the wall opposite the one she's leaning against. More self-possessed than ever, sans aloofness. " - what kind of mark? Would you be satisfied with any scratch as long as it stayed or would you rather have it be a letter? A word? Messages?"

William
"A metaphor is useful but a metaphor is singular, why be one when you can be a collection of them?" he says, turns and takes in what is around him. It's quiet in there. It's dark enough that the presence of another person is more felt than seen, and he lives in a world where things are felt instead of seen.

"There's a hierarchy of marks I would rather leave. If I had my way I'd be... huh, you know, I never boiled myself down to a form? Are you more of a sonnet or free verse?"