ladyfirestarter (
ladyfirestarter) wrote2007-08-26 11:30 pm
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Every so often, Charlie's called to the home office in New York. She tries to arrange a day or two extra before and after the scheduled meeting, just to walk around and see the city.
The desert has become her heart's home, but ... once or twice a year she starts to sicken for the sight of skyscrapers and yellow cabs, the way some people sicken for mountains or the sea.
It's a brisk day in early September, cool and breezy, ideal for walking.
The desert has become her heart's home, but ... once or twice a year she starts to sicken for the sight of skyscrapers and yellow cabs, the way some people sicken for mountains or the sea.
It's a brisk day in early September, cool and breezy, ideal for walking.
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Ideas make him restless. (Fire wants to burn.) He walks on.
"So," he begins, "that night's been on my mind. I think there are some options to have out on the table, as to the future of things."
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She's maybe one long block and two short ones from Herald Square; there are benches there, if she recalls correctly. Her walk changes direction as she goes on speaking.
"Okay, let's hear them."
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"Option A, duly noted," she finally manages to say, still giggling. "You are awful."
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His stride gains a little more swagger, if only for a few steps.
"Now," he continues, serious again. "Less fun, but possibly more effective, Option B. We go in and provoke you, somewhere lonely where no one else can get hurt. This is the one I like least of all."
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"Mm."
Her fingers play restlessly along the side of the statuette.
"I've kept it together under provocation before. Not exactly like that's new."
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"You have, and you do. It's just Option A amped up and without the fun prelude. Like I said, not my favorite option, but if you think it would help, I'll work with it."
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"And is there an Option C?"
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"Yeah?" That's mostly curious; if there's suspicion in there, it's good-natured.
"What kind of somewhere?"
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"Boetia somewhere. The Old Country, assuming it's not all on fire."
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Something of Prometheus's restlessness has communicated itself through the link. Charlie studies the chairs and tables in Herald Square, looks up briefly at the statue of Athena and the bell-ringers, and shakes her head and walks on.
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"Clay," he murmurs. "Good clay at that."
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Quietly: "The kind of clay you make people out of?"
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He scrubs one hand through his hair, and looks over each shoulder, just to be sure. New York is full of things other than just people, and you never know who could be listening in.
"It doesn't do anything to me, but to a human being, it can... change things, in significant ways."
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Charlie's standing motionless on the corner of 32nd and Broadway.
"Change things," she repeats finally.
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He wishes he could see her now, to gauge that silence.
"I was thinking it that night, but I didn't bring it up, because I wasn't sure. And the more I think about it, I'm convinced it could -- Charlie." He lowers his voice. "I don't know if it could put out the firething, or even if you'd want that, but I think it might stop it from hurting you."
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As the DON'T WALK light starts to blink its warning, she starts across, walking faster than before.
"Permanently?"
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He waits.
"What are you thinking?"
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"Not so much thinking," she says, with a small shaky laugh. "I don't ... I'm not sure what to think."
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"There's no clock ticking. All options are on the table. Particularly the first one."
Prometheus stops to take stock of where he is. New Yorkers don't do this. Almost instantaneously, a man with a fanny pack taps him on the shoulder. A woman, also with a fanny pack, waits behind him. Prometheus cups his hand around one ear as he turns to face them.
"Excuse me," the tourist says, "you don't happen to know where the -- what was it called, honey? The thin, pointy building on the intersection."
"The Flatiron Building," the wife provides.
"Yeah." The tourist looks up at Prometheus hopefully.
"The Flatiron? -- 'Scuse me for a sec." Prometheus holds out an arm behind him. "Go that way, maybe seven, eight blocks. Can't miss."
The tourists beam. "Thanks!"
He dips his head. "No problem." His crosswalk goes red.
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Charlie sounds startled.
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That's amused, rather than annoyed.
"And seven or eight blocks north of the Flatiron Building? We're practically on top of each other."
Half a beat.
"Don't touch that one."
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The crosswalk changes. He steps into the street. "This is going to be a recurring theme, isn't it. The there-but-for-the-division-of-the-multiverse thing."
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