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11 and i am the idiot with the painted face
Monmouth Manufacturing is dangerously quiet in Mercy's presence. Too quiet. The hum of electricity hangs in the air, faint from the bathroom's fridge and her phone rings with untapped dream energy. She's restless in the confines of the building. Needing to move, to do something, Mercy fiddles with the crumpled version of Henrietta on their floor. The cut-outs are soft underneath her fingertips as she moves them, straightening out and fixing places where the markers had cracked. It's tedious work, but it keeps her focused.
Mercy's phone buzzes. She already knows it's Gansey. Perhaps out of boredom or maybe a nagging need to remain in touch with Henrietta, Gansey has been messaging updates every few hours to Mercy's silent inbox. She hasn't responded to a single one yet. But she's read them. Pursing her lips and placing her hands on her hips, Mercy overlooks the crumpled town. It's an easy decision to point her phone's camera at Henrietta, snapping a photo and sending it to Gansey without any text attached. It's an offering. A piece of home. He sends her a heart: made of the less-than arrow and a three. Mercy's lip quirks in a slight smile. She shoves her phone into the back pocket of her jean shorts. There's a silent presence behind her. It cuts through her senses, faint like glitter shifting underneath sunlight. A hand presses into the wildness of her free curls, each one bending and twisting in a different way compared to the others. Noah. The Ley Line is quiet enough for him to be here, as physically as he possibly can be. But it flickers.
"Do you want to help?" Mercy asks.
Noah shifts into her line of vision, shaking his head. He points to the pool table. Mercy nods. Together, they move as one. The redhead takes a stick from it's mantle and Noah settles for pushing the balls around with his hands. He can't hold anything up.
