Future Tense: Mercade

Future Tense: Mercade
Date of Scene:	14 July 2013
Location:	Castle Oblivion
Synopsis:	It is decided.
Thanks to:	3 times COMBO!
Cast of Characters:	Mercade Alexander, Avira, Narrator, Percival
Tinyplot:	Fragmentary Passage

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Narrator has posed:
The stairs for once lead where they should lead. The second floor of the Twilight Detective Agency and it's multiple apartment style rooms again has that feeling that someone just walked out of the room. Some of the doors are closed and others open. The open rooms are occupied by the things that should reside there even if the people are not in those rooms at present.

Sunlight filters through the windows and for once Manhattan can actually be seen through it instead of a reality-warping stretch of corridor. There is a sound of a door opening and closing with a faint chime downstairs. With that chime a faint tinkling rush passes through the air.

There is a quiet here punctuated by something on the radio. In the wake of that rush, everything seems to click into place. It has nothing of the empty, hollow feeling of the other rooms. City noise punctuates the quiet from a half-open window.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
Well. That's a pleasant surprise.

Mercade looks around at the familiar halls, feeling that... sense of habitation. It feels alive, and within reach. He begins to relax, slightly. He's certainly still in Castle Oblivion, but at least it's not /overtly/ messing with him. The Detective walks to one window, looking out upon the streets of Manhattan for several quiet seconds. The recent situations have been... draining.

He turns away from the window, walking farther into the apartments after his moment of respite. Something's going to be here. But what?

Avira has posed:
A breeze stirs through the halls, pleasantly cool and oddly sweet-smelling for those from a city. Perhaps Mercade will find the faint sent of chocolate on that breeze, plus baked bread.

Sunlight streams through one doorway, half-opened, painting a stripe of brilliant yellow across the hall. But moments later, something obscures that strip of sunshine. A person-shaped something, clearly.

Should Mercade peer inside the room, he will find the window there pulled open, curtains swaying in the breeze. Standing before the window with her back to him is a tremendously familiar figure.

If this is a future, following the pattern that Mercade has endured in his journey so far, Avira has aged well. She stands there, clothed in a whispy white sundress that flutters in the breeze behind her. White sandals adorn her feet, fastened with ribbons that criss-cross up her ankles. Her hair remains unbound, blowing slightly in that sweet-smelling breeze.

The woman suddenly tenses when Mercade looks upon her, but does not turn around.

Narrator has posed:
There is a rustling of activity downstairs. A clatter of cups from a kitchen cabinet downstairs and something mixing with the smells. Even in the brilliant sunshine, someone is making coffee to actually wake up to it.

A television is turned on and mumbles to itself in the background but nothing seems pressing like it before. There is no longer than oppressive aura of urgency and so the moments ease by with the gentle ticking of a clock.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
Mercade walks down the hall, the smells evoking memories of a sort. Chocolate. Baked bread. They are good scents. He tilts his head with the sound of people below moving about. Celina, no doubt, prepating herself some form of breakfast. Mercade's always just eaten at the bar instead.

The appearance of a shadow in the sunlight is caught by Mercade's senses. But who or what could it be? Another Heartless? The Detective slides around the corner, looking into the room carefully. When he sees Avira, he relaxes. She's there. She's all right. She's alive. And she still looks radiant. "Good morning, Avira." Mercade says, smiling as he leans in the doorway.

Avira has posed:
"Mercade..." she says softly, her hands tightening their grip just so slightly on the windowsill before she pushes herself away, turning to face the detective. A slow, sleepy smile forms upon her face that does not quite reach her eyes.

"You sneak." she teases as she crosses the room, walking to him. "I guess you weren't so asleep after all when I snuck out of bed." Walking right up to him, she looks him in the eyes, and for a split second there is...something that flickers in hers. It's unsure what exactly it is.

She lifts a hand to brush the side of his face with the back of her fingers before tilting herself upwards, kissing him on the cheek. "Breakfast should be ready soon. Come on down when you're ready~"

She steps past him swiftly."

Mercade Alexander has posed:
As far as futures go, this one is not looking bad at all.

Mercade arches his eyebrow as she scolds him. Everything feels pleasant and right, but... Something about this triggers his detective-sharpened senses. A tightenss arround the eyes. The way the hands move. It's like listening to an orchestral piece with one violin out of tune. He nods, letting her pass and sweep along as she wills. "See you downstairs!" He says, pleasantly.

He doesn't follow immediately, moving forward to put his own hands on the windowsill, his expression clouded as he considers what's going on here.

He sighs, shaking his head. Everything seems fine. He just pushes that slightly odd feeling down and turns around to head downstairs. Well, may as well see what's for breakfast.

Avira has posed:
There's quite a drop out that window. It seems like the same kind of drop Mercade endured ages ago when he first encountered the Heartless as they descended upon Manhattan. It was a miracle he survived that, Avira had remarked when he had recounted that tale to the huntress ages ago. Over pizza.

Mercade will find that Avira moves like her hair had been set on fire. He'll see nothing of her until he's descended the stairs. As he walks into the kitchen, he'll see her back again, alongside of Celina. They seem to be talking softly to each other but as he nears, Avira's shoulders seem to tense again.

She turns around with that smile upon her face, a cup of coffee in each hand. One is held out to Mercade.

"So what's the mighty Knight of Manhattan up to today, hm?" She asks, sipping her own coffee, her dark brown eyes never leaving the detective. Breakfast smells like something with bacon.

Lots and lots of bacon.

Narrator has posed:
There are clippings on the bulletin board. Some of them are starting to weather a little from being up there so long. A half dozen pieces of handwriting. Also newspaper clippings of cases the TDA has solved, some of them unfamiliar but the notes written in Mercade's handwriting. There is still trouble in the city, but apparantly there has been some tangible traction made.

There is no mention of the heartless, though crossworld clippings means Manhattan is still connected. The television is showcasing a quick segment about about the memorial put up in central park to honor those who fell while restoring the world from darkness a second time.

Celina gives a pursed lip smile at the bacon, fingering the necklace for a moment before flipping over the pancakes in their separate griddle. Sadly, no bacon pancakes will feature in this sequence although there may be bacon / pancakes.

"Good morning." she says with a smile. Unlike Avira's, it reaches all the way through although her eyes are ever so slightly glassy as if she was not quite focusing as she looked up at him. "Everyone's out and about. " There is a pause. She applies coffee to her own mug and grips it firmly, looking out the window at the city. "Going pretty far afield now.." the tendons rise on the back of her hand as she raises it up to her lips.

After that moment she goes back to levering the sizzling bacon onto a plate and grabbing the syrup.

Percival has posed:
The telltale familiar click clack of talons are heard on the stairs as the Gargoyle descends from the rooftop.

Descending all the way into the kitchen, the Gargoyle had aged rather well. He looked just the same as always, except now on his body were lines of blue paint, marks of his fondness for Atlantean culture.

Upon catching sight of Mercade, he locked eyes with the man briefly. For but a moment, there is tension, perhaps a chill in the air. But then it fades as the Gargoyle offers an affable smile, his eyes showing no hint of his feelings..

"My apologies, Sir Alexander, I'll remember to use the front door next time."

And then with his wings cloaked about his shoulders, he places one hand over his chest, and bows only slightly, but then he turns away from him.

The sizzle of bacon and the smell of pancakes brings him over to the kitchen where he states to Avira, a hint of warmth in his voice, even if his words seem excessively stilted.

"Avira. It's been ages. Maira wanted me to pass along that the two of you ought to.. catch up, some time."

He offers Celina the same smile. "That smells heavenly, Celina."

Mercade Alexander has posed:
Mercade steps downstairs. Avira moved fast as hell, which doesn't really surprise him. She's fit, does acrobatics and such and she is more than capable of hustling when need be. He doesn't notice anything unusual about her talking with Celina, and he takes the coffee. "Thank you." He says, smiling as he takes a sip. "Good morning Celina!" He says, pleasantly. Avira asks him a question, but the clippings draw his attention. He walks towards them, looking them over in detail. Things that haven't happened yet. Could happen. Unlike Will, he doesn't concern himself with ponderous issues like paradox and predestination, but there could be useful information here. Also, it would look weird if he answered the questions ignorantly.

"I haven't quite figured out yet what's on the to do list for today." Mercade replies to Avira, rubbing his chin. He turns to say something else, when he looks to Celina. The eyes are the most important thing to look at when interacting with someone. It's how they know you're paying attention to them. They are also called the windows to the soul for a reason. And again, there's something off here. He takes another drink of coffee to hide the pause of noticing. Something continues to be off here. It's a normal day with normal things. No crises at the moment, but...

Something is just off. Something that bothers him deeply, like a splinter in the back of his mind. But he can't figure out what it is. "What are the others up to?" He asks Celina. "Anything unusual?"

He turns as Percival arrives, and he waves in greeting to the Gargoyle. "Hi there, Percival. Don't worry about it. Why would I care if you use the front door or not?" He asks the question before he even realizes he said it. Huh. "So what's the latest?" He asks the Gargoyle."

Avira has posed:
Avira smiles at Mercade distantly, apparently placated by the nonspecific answer. "Well when you make up your mind, let me know so I can change into something more appropriate." She lets out a laugh that seems slightly on the edge of forced before she walks to the table, preparing to sit down.

At least until Percival swoops his way in. She freezes, watching, perhaps with a hint of apprehension as the Gargoyle looks at Mercade. Then she turns to face him fully. "Percival." the warmth in her voice sounds geniune.

There's a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Oh? Well she's...free to come visit anytime, you know." Her eyes shift from looking directly at the gargoyle to Mercade. "We can meet up here. Have some lunch. Manhattan is the safest place she can be right now. Thanks to Mercade."

There's no small amount of grateful emphasis on that last sentence which matches the intensity of the smile on her face.

Narrator has posed:
"Then park yourself and have some, Percival. There's enough for everyone." Celina gives him an admonishing look, the older den mom sending those wavelengths at Percival and mom'ing at him for several distinct seconds before returning to breakfast concerns. "How is Maira doing, by the way? Still holding up well, I hope."

There is the faintest tingling rush, another faint pressure wave that pries at the edges if this reality like the tides. It comes in and sights and smells and sounds all sound just a little bit clearer, more intense than they were before.

When it goes out, it pulls at recollections. This was still Castle Oblivion... wasn't it? But there are no watercolor edges and frayed camera edges here. Everything is sharp. Almost brutally so. Crisp and vivid as Celina steps in front of Percival's sightline with a plate of pancakes and bacon that she offers to him. "Thanks to all of us." she adds to Avira, in the tone of someone faintly correcting, that glassy look in her eyes again. "And Traverse Town as well. Everybody deserves some safe shelter after everything we've been through together."

Percival has posed:
As Mercade offers him that question, he looks over his shoulder and gives him a look of consternation. In fact, he does not respond to it at all, instead moving on to the next question, as his expression returned to one of smooth neutrality. He turned as he addressed him, "Nothing of real note, Sir Alexander. Our services have been in high demand as of late. For mark-hunting mostly."

When Avira answers his questions, he turns to face her quite swiftly. Such that one would wonder if hed ever faced Mercade in the first place. There is mild disappointment in his tone, and a notable pause, as he takes his time in framing his words, "Of course. Ill let her know. Manhatten gives succor to so many... VALKYRI finds such little cause to visit it as of late."

Percival knows better than to argue when Celina decides to /Mom/ his way. His gaze lingers upon her for a moment as she steps into his sightline. "Maira... is well, Celina. Shes keeping herself busy. Taking life one day at a time."

Despite the power of /Mom/ though, he doesn't sit down immediately, instead standing behind a chair.. waiting for something, or someone.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
That rushing sense works over Mercade, giving to him... And taking away. His sense of position erodes. Where was he, again? Manhattan, right. The TDA, breakfast time. Everything is comfortable... Right?

An edge of confusion enters Mercade's expression as he stands there, lost in thought for a moment. When Avira talks to him, he blinks, and nods. "Yeah! Sure." He takes another drink of coffee. Silly absent-minded detective! "Is there anything you wanted to do, Avira?" He asks her. What /should/ he be doing?

Mercade listens. Maira? What happened to her? They talk like something bad happened. "Is there anything we can do to help Maira? It sounds like she's having a hard time."

But Avira lays the credit for Manhattan at his feet. "Look, Avira, there's no way I could possibly have done it myself." He doesn't know what exactly happened, but it kicks his natural self-depreciation into gear.

The Detective sits down to one side. There's a growing feeling of something... His Detective Hunch is pointing at something going on here but he's not sure what it is.

Avira has posed:
"...me?" Avira seems genuinely surprised for a few seconds as she sits down at the table. "Well I...uh..." she fumbles before putting a smile on her face, "Spend time with you? I mean...if there's..nothing we need to do today."

The smile starts to falter. "Maira just misses me, is all." she says hastily. "You know. We've been busy. There hasn't been the time to get together again lately."

There's another laugh-one of those just-off ones that she had let out earlier, "Right, right, you're both right. It was all of us together." she puts a hand over her chest. Over her heart. "Not just Mercade and his keyblade. -hey, would you pass the bacon, please? I'm starving."

Narrator has posed:
"It's a crime how they spin that on television." Celina says with a wry snort, putting a hand on her hip as she divvies out breakfast to Avira and then to Percival. "You want some?" she asks Mercade as he sits down, waving away what she said earlier.

" It's what you expect with a media outlet owned by Xanatos. But then.." she purses her lips slightly as she looks at the skillet, the spatula clattering a little loudly against the surface. "Maybe some of it is." A pause, looking towards Mercade. " It's been different since you came back." She turns away again and nods. "Better."

In a much fainter voice. "..at least the memorial was finished." a beat. "..that needed to happen."

Percival has posed:
The Gargoyle's gaze lingers upon Avira as they discuss what theyd like to do for the day.

There's a flicker of emotion in the Gargoyles eyes as Mercade mentions how to help Maira, and he turns to face her. He smiles at Mercade for the first time, with some warmth, though his eyes belie this with their same neutrality, "No, I don't believe so Sir Alexander, though thank you for asking. She just needs time to adjust. It is as Avira says."

He even lets out a soft chortle as Avira answers, though his laughter dies out quicker than hers does, "It was a glorious battle, I admit, with the Knight of Manhatten at the lead..."

He looks briefly abstracted, and once Mercade has taken a seat, so too does he. The chair offers an alarming creak, but he eases up on it, rebalancing until he seems secure. "....Yes, please Celina, Bacon makes everything better."

He snorts as Celina offers her insight into the news, "I rarely watch television any longer. It is a true shame, I remember the days when the news networks were relentless in their pursuit of truth. Now it seems that only detectives seek the truth in this world..." His voice appears to connote a touch of irony.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
"Sure, Celina." Mercade responds. Bacon and pancakes are awesome, even if they are not bacon pancakes.

And then he sees Avira's response. The look on her face. The way she's behaving. Something in it... Makes his stomach churn. He pauses. "On second thought, Celina, I think I'll... keep it light right now." He says, as he watches Avira carefully. The conversation about the television flows around him.

That churning feeling continues in his stomach, moving with some... uncertainty. Percival metnions a battle, and Mercade gives a quick, 'uh huh' before mumbling to himself, "Wish I was there."

He tilts his head slightly. "Truth, huh." He says, before he looks back to Avira once more... And finally asks. "You've been acting odd all morning, Avira. What's wrong? Is something causing you trouble?"

Avira has posed:
"You'd think they'd never seen a real hero before." Avira mutters to Celena in relation to those news reports. "Or realize the kind of sacrifices people need to go through." She reaches forward, stuffing bacon into her mouth quickl, perhaps distracting herself with delicious food.

But she pauses abruptly, turning to stare at Mercade for a long moment before looking down at her plate. "/I'm/ acting weird? If anything, you're the one acting weird." she starts shaking, her hands balling up into fists. "Is this another one of your little games, Mercade?!" she blurts out, unable to contain herself in front of Percy or Celina as she usually does. "Wake up one morning and start acting like the happy-go-lucky detective again?"

She looks up at him, staring, fear building in her eyes, "W-why? What did I do wrong? I've stayed safe...I've happily accepted the...gifts you gave to make me whole again..." One of her hands clutches the fabric of her dress. "I haven't left Manhattan...and..and I love you, Mercade, I love you with all my heart...but I honestly don't know what you want from me now!"

Narrator has posed:
RECORD Scratch: BGM Change. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LApkHzyKxrw

Celina gives Mercade and sets phasers to 'Mom' "You know." she says with a faintly teasing tone. "Eating healthier doesn't mean not eating at all." but she doesn't push either bacon or the ubiquitous pancakes on him. Her movements freeze up when he asks that question and she looks at him consideringly.

A moment of disquiet purses her lips. "Avira." she scolds. There is a faint afterecho of another voice with hers as she moves over and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Avira.. don't do this again. Nobody's playing games here." Her words are calm and soothing like a comforting blanket.

Another faint pulse of tingling air. The rush of fragments. Bits and pieces as the tide goes in. Now sight and smell have become too sharp, too omnipresent as if pushing for attention along with the cutting words. Then pulling back, a little harder, a more insistant tug of the fraying carpet separating this reality from the other one.

He gave her everything. He gave her love and safety and everything he promised. He put the world right again.

Why was that not enough?

Why has it never been enough?

Percival has posed:
Percival watches the interaction between the two while munching on bacon, and before long the Gargoyle stands up, and walks over to Avira, putting a hand upon her left shoulder, before he moves just enough to interpose himself only slightly between the pair. He turns his head towards Mercade, stating in a mild tone, as he attempted to try and clear the air,

"She's just a little distraught, Sir Alexander. I can't imagine it's easy being married to the perfect man."

He looks back towards Avira, smiling just slightly to her, lowering his voice in a sort of soothing way, "Isn't that right Avira? Maybe you need some time to clear your head."

Mercade Alexander has posed:
Everything starts falling apart. Mercade reels at the accusations, like knives shoved into his heart. He opens his mouth, about to respond when another dizzying wave sweeps over him. He stumbles over as his memory is threatened, his personality, his sense of self. He hits the floor, his coffee spilling as he grips his head. "I... Who..."

Everything is so real. It floods his senses, obliterating thoughts as they race through this mind. Memories appear, recalled as if through a haze. Sharp and real. "Gggh..." He struggles. Something is trying to change things. Change his memories of what happened. Change him. It's hard to resist.

Or does he need to resist? Is this really so bad? The dissonance is intense as his mind fights for some form of equilibrium. Everything is changing too fast.

He clings to one thing he can attatch to. "Avira..." He says, holding his head as if he's having a migrane. He looks up to her. "I love you. I have always... Loved you. Safe, and happy, and secure. But..."

Something twists in him, a deep revulsion, and a hollow, gnawing feeling. His face looks agonized for a moment, and he leans backwards on his knees for a moment, trying to sort everything out in his head. Everything is clouding his mind. He has to grasp it.

"The truth..." He says. "What is the truth!?"

Avira has posed:
Fear turns to guilt. Guilt over acting like -this- in front of Celina and Percival. "I..." she says in a tiny voice, clasping her hands together. She shivers beneath Celina's touch as she admonishes her. The Gargoyle does not receive a similar reaction.

Sucking in a breath, she barks out a laugh that sounds altogether pretty pathetic. "Y..yeah...I think you're right, Percy, I just need some air." She pushes her chair back and abruptly stands.

Just as Mercade collapses to the floor, reeling as if his brain was just backhanded like an insolent child. "I love you too, Mercade but..." she says in a tiny voice, "..but..but you've changed...I mean..I know you've had good reasons. I know you have responsibilities and expectactions to protect everyone. And we love you for it...we all love you for it, Mercade. But sometimes it's..."

She looks away, a look of profound sadness on her face.

Percival has posed:
Avira stands, and there is a low, rumbling noise in the Gargoyle's throat as she offers her explanation, like a repressed snarl, but it's not directed at her.. His hand slips off her shoulder a moment later.

His expression for a moment directs his ire at Mercade, but then it smoothes out.. perhaps into a look of, self-righteous pity? "I should go."

And then he takes Avira's hand, and squeezes it lightly, "I'll see if I can't convince Maira." He murmurs unto her in a soft voice.

Narrator has posed:
What price, to be the bastion they need?

Celina looks towards him, then away as if in resignation. Her shoulders lower slightly as she turns away towards the window, taking up her coffee and simply absenting herself further. As if blocking herself away from this conversation, this pain.

It looks like she had had a lot of practice at it.

It need not be this way.. The fragments go still and allow for a moment of clarity as the voice or.. presence.. neatly pushes it all aside with an elegant and invisible hand. In that moment of clarity everything looks so blazing sharp as to be carved from crystal.

.. full of doubt.. and pain. There is Avira. And there is Percival. Everyone is turning away from him. Everything is falling apart. Celina stays looking out the window, her fingers trembling only a little as she raises the mug and lowers it almost mechanically.

but I did not lie. It is /A/ truth. And it is in your grasp. That moment of clarity continues to stretch and stretch like a single note of a piece of music held and held while the rest of the world grinds on.

Do not fear this fate. You are better than it. Stronger than it.

You Can Still Be The Hero.


Justice tempered by Mercy.


Let Go. Let Yourself Be Better Than This.

And you will be.. Truly Beloved.

Let Go.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
Everyone turns away. Everyone shrugs off what's happening. Everyone tries to ignore Mercade having a mental breakdown. How can they accept it from this guy? He's apparently been an invincible hero for a long time, creating...

What has he created? An island of safety and security in the worlds, a utopia, perhaps? Everything is different. The air is sweeter. People are happier. Worlds connected to worlds as the Heartless menace was driven back, interdimensional trade giving everyone rich opportunities for the future. Everything is golden and shining in Manhattan, the center of...

Of what? The Empire of Mercade? Is that what this is in all but name? People have been declaring him their hero, the Knight of Manhattan.

But the being does not lie. It is a truth. It is within the Keyblade's power to do this. To bring justice and peace.

Whether they like it or not. As the being demands that he let go, his mind and soul war.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
No more doubt. No more pain.
But at what cost?

There is no cost! They gave up everything a long time ago! What about what /you/ pay? Who cares about what you think? How you feel?
This is a twisted abomination of everything I am fighting for.

You've won. You won't need to fight. You have sacrificed enough already. She will love you forever.
This is not love. It is fear.

In the end, does it really matter? She has given you everything. Even her Heart.
This is not what I wanted!

Of course it is. Just laugh it off. Go to bed, everything will be better tomorrow. And if it isn't, you can make it better.
This is wrong!

Who decides what is right or wrong? You have the power! You and no one else! You are giving the people paradise! What are you getting in return now? Nothing! More pain! More uncertainty!
No one should have that kind of power.

You bring them justice. True justice.
This is not justice. This... This makes me sick.

This weakness will pass in time.
This isn't weakness. It's having a <goosehonk> conscience.

If you don't hold on... They will leave you. They don't need you and they never have. She will find someone better.
SHUT UP!

You can't make me shut up. I'm you. However, you can stop it from happening. Only you.
...

The moment passes. Mercade's eyes open. The agonized expression is gone.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
He stands up, slowly, looking over the people present, and he nods. "Celina. Percival. Avira." He says to them all in turn.

"I'm sorry. What I did... It was wrong. I hurt you. I hurt all of you. You were right, Avira. I changed. I became a monster. Go, be free. I would rather die, or worse, than to hurt you like this one more time, Avira. You do deserve someone better. And maybe one day, I will become that better man."

Mercade then turns away, looking uI'd rather be alone for the rest of my life than to manipulate and twist everyone around me to force them to stay. DO YOU HEAR ME?</span>"

He then grimaces, staring at the exit. "No more games, you bastard."

Narrator has posed:
Reality ruptures like a soap bubble. As quickly and as silently as in any other dream where you fall out of bed. White walls and an empty white room.

Truely empty. There is no feeling of echoing passage. There is no eldritch presence. There is no laughing madman whose hand was behind it all.

The real truth settles into the silence that grows and grows, stretching out to the plain white walls as the angry words reverberate.

The keyblade is there, in his hand. But it is not the uncertain, shifting concept. It is a real thing. Real and tangible and glimmering with a fierce inner light.

The truth is..

There has never been anyone here.. in this featureless, plain, unassuming room.

Nobody but you.

And the door is open, leading out into the corridor.

One way or another. It is decided.

Mercade Alexander has posed:
Mercade screams his way out of the illusion.

You carry into it only what you bring with you.

Mercade looks around, his body shaking in the aftermath of the catharsis. He says nothing. He can say nothing. He does, however, look down at the object in his hand.

The Keyblade is desceptively simple. It is a construction of brass, polished to a dark patina. The handle is wrapped in deep brown leather, the key-guard ornate, A gold fitting at the base sets off the brass shaft of the Keyblade, whereupon a sharp, starlike flare is seen from one side. Complex, mysterious etchings run through the head of the key, forming what looks a stylized eye pattern. A gleaming glass lens sets off the 'pupil' off the eye, and a brass sphere sets off the cap of the hilt.

Mercade holds up the weapon, feeling its heft.

"It's done." Mercade says, to reassure himself more than anything else.

And then he walks forwards, out of the door, leaving the illusions behind him. 5r
Whereupon he turns to the waiting man outside.

"You are like the opposite of Yoda." Mercade says, simply.

Narrator has posed:
How much time has passed seems irrelevant. The man is still there, Lucas leaning away from the wall in which he had been reading a text. He puts the notebook away fastidiously and looks up at Mercade.

His expression is amused but.. a titch disappointed. He then looks calmly resigned as his lips quirk in a smile. "Perhaps." his voice is calm and certain. "But no cryptic statement will make me Mercade Alexander, detective. And the trial is ultimately, only against yourself. For good or ill."

He shrugs in a rather magnamious fashion. "I am curious. After what you have seen, are you quit with me and this place entirely?"

Mercade Alexander has posed:
Mercade doesn't even need time to answer that. There is a flash of light as Mercade banishes the Keyblade, sending it away until it is needed.

It is not needed here.

"No. Why would I be? The problems I faced in those rooms were my own, made manifest. It would be a jerk move to blame you and yours for my own stupid ass being so screwed up." Mercade tips his hat. "I'm trying to not be a jerk." He says, with a grin.

"So, now what do we do?"

Narrator has posed:
"Apologies. A moment of caution is always in order. Especially in the wake of whatever you experienced." Lucas genuinely does not seem to know what transpired because he moves onto the next easily.

" And now, detective, we find a venue that does not give either party a conniption." he says this in a very dry voice.

"Possibly there will be a drink involved. Either for you or myself is up for debate as this truly.." he chuckles. "..has only been the beginning." He leans away from the wall and begins down the corridor, following the blue line.

"But it is a worthy enough start."