|Momoko / Amatsu-Mikaboshi [天津甕星] (obakemono) wrote in paxletalelogs,|
@ 2010-08-16 21:16:00
|Entry tags:||mikaboshi, odin|
Who: Mo and Pierce
What: If she doesn't go along with it, he'll just find another way.
Where: The Tower.
When: After this.
Warnings: Not likely.
When she was younger, only by a cold, scarcely detectable wisp of a sum, Pierce was only a familiar name that was mirthfully exhibited at the dinner table like an immense ornamental centerpiece; with fondness, with honor, and with pleasure. Her father really liked him, it seemed, as ever the name did disseminate the sort of grin one upturns when they've been digging for a reason to boast. She never understood it, because she was simple then, small, and only knew how to smile and agree. Years before she forgot the ingredients on how to, the cooking up of grins was effortless. Pierce was a piece of folklore, the mist of a man of myth, whom she did not ever at length fully meet. Only heard of. Company Christmas parties were full to bursting with rushing, busy words, laughter and finger foods. She was the everlasting performer, the little mermaid, the one with pinched cheeks and missing teeth that made everyone chuckle. The one with pink frosting on her face.
Pierce was never an actual person to her until years after it happened. When she was no longer sleeping beauty, or snow white. She was Sally stitched crookedly together. And even then, he was more like a mystery than a reality -- why would anybody want to visit her? How could he even keep on visiting her? He won. She gave in. They became friends.
Thus, it made sense to Mo, the revenant that stood gravely still inside the shoddy elevator as it clambered up-up-up, that Pierce was living in a place above everybody else. Where her father would have propped him. Where he seemed to belong. The sound of it halting, that fragrant elevator, didn't rouse her from the dismal reflection of her past experiences, but it did incite the initiation of her steps forward and out of the musk the old alcove bridled. Someone was in there before her, and they wore far too much perfume. There was an enormous, elaborate staircase that swallowed the milky-red view of a door she reluctantly made her way to... these days, she may have felt the cringe of hesitation to do any one thing, but as a growing fatalist never stopped herself from doing. She was a walking, withered little shade. Who hardly looked the part on the outside, with the messy ponytail, the plain black pants, the plain white shirt, the plain black flats. In fact, she appeared rather normal on the outside.
Eventually she was at the top of the staircase, knuckles ready to knock at the door but froze in motion. Few seconds of hesitation, after all, was not uncommon as it had been a while since she'd seen his face, but knock-knock-knock she did.