Post by Jordan Mercer on Apr 8, 2016 0:14:12 GMT -5
I found God, I found him in a lover
When his hair falls in his face
And his hands so cold they shake
I found the devil, I found him in a lover
And his lips like tangerines
And his color coded speak
-Halsey, “Coming Down”
When his hair falls in his face
And his hands so cold they shake
I found the devil, I found him in a lover
And his lips like tangerines
And his color coded speak
-Halsey, “Coming Down”
Mercury Vadimovich
The Venetian Hotel and Casino
Vegas Strip, Las Vegas
This was not what Jordan wanted to be doing.
However, he would soon be graduating from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with a degree in nuclear science and engineering, and aside from the “special assignment” Gabriel Constant had given him, Jordan had nothing pressing to do. Once the whole Reier mess blew over, he hoped to get an actual engineering job with either IntelliTouch or Ark, and just be a normal person. Years later, Evelyn’s death had not left him alone; but then being the primary cause of a young woman’s suicide was not a thing that passed one’s psyche easily. Not even Jordan’s, and he had considerably more control and familiarity with his own mind than most others.
For the moment, though, Jordan was bored. That was not new, but previously he could throw himself into his studies when needed, or more recently go dig up stuff on Ira Reier and his activities. But that left Jordan’s nights open, and the nights were always the worst.
He had tried everything. Drugs, women, more often both. And as he tended to disappear somewhere new every night he had managed to avid detection for a while, except that his mentor happened to be a precog, and - before his ability went on the fritz - caught Jordan and reeled him in, putting him to work and forcing him to study. At least Jordan knew he would coast through his final exams. But after that… then what?
He had never really figured out what it was he wanted to do with his life. Which was a shame; he was twenty-nine years old. Sometimes he thought he wanted a family; sometimes he loathed the idea of being tied down. He just did not know. And no one was telling him to sit down and be this or be that.
He did know, though, that he could not be ordinary. That was a start. And so he “pulled some strings” - using his ability - to land a regular show on the Strip, under the pseudonym Mercury Vadimovich. He did magic. Supposedly.
What passed for magic in Mercury’s show was hailed as “revolutionary” and “original,” but was actually just a very elaborate and sneaky use of his main ability. He could make a room of people sense things that weren’t there - that included sight as much as smell and hearing. Really it was just practice for his ability, plus an extra way to make money, and have a private laugh at the audience’s expense.
Indeed, Jordan hated people. He was sick of them. How happy and contented they were, with their cars and houses and spouses and things he could not have. Whatever. People were sheep. He knew that much for sure; look into the minds of enough people and you are certain to lose a certain amount of faith in humanity.
Or he thought that, at least. Wanted to think. It was always easier to be a cynic. Less potentially damaging. He deserved to take the easy way out for once.
“Hey.” There were two things Jordan tended to get during his show: hecklers and people using cell phones. Hecklers were fine; Jordan liked to incorporate them into the show as he made them look like idiots. People not paying attention to him, though, that hit a nerve. “Hey, douche in the back. Tell your side chick you’re at a show and you’ll call her after.”
The offender glared at Jordan. “What?”
“Get off the phone, asshole. This is my show, not phone call hour. Trust me, she won’t want to lay your drunk ass any more ten minutes from now, so hang up, all right?”
The man stood up and smirked at Jordan. “Make me.”
Jordan shrugged, then tuned to the rest of the crowd. “Look, he literally asked for it….”
His ability attached itself to the man’s mind. The man did not notice.
“This one,” Jordan said, leaning on the stool onstage, “I like to call ‘Find My Phone.’”
Under Jordan’s control, the man walked up to the stage and dropped his phone into Jordan’s glass of water, then returned to his seat. Jordan let the man go and then moved the water away from the stage lights. “Hey, uh, Cody, is it? Where’s your phone?”
“Uh….” The man searched his pockets. The crowd began to giggle. Jordan raised a finger to his lips.
“This one,” he said, “I like to call ‘one hundred witnesses.’”
He held up the glass of water, with the phone submerged, for the man to see.
However, he would soon be graduating from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with a degree in nuclear science and engineering, and aside from the “special assignment” Gabriel Constant had given him, Jordan had nothing pressing to do. Once the whole Reier mess blew over, he hoped to get an actual engineering job with either IntelliTouch or Ark, and just be a normal person. Years later, Evelyn’s death had not left him alone; but then being the primary cause of a young woman’s suicide was not a thing that passed one’s psyche easily. Not even Jordan’s, and he had considerably more control and familiarity with his own mind than most others.
For the moment, though, Jordan was bored. That was not new, but previously he could throw himself into his studies when needed, or more recently go dig up stuff on Ira Reier and his activities. But that left Jordan’s nights open, and the nights were always the worst.
He had tried everything. Drugs, women, more often both. And as he tended to disappear somewhere new every night he had managed to avid detection for a while, except that his mentor happened to be a precog, and - before his ability went on the fritz - caught Jordan and reeled him in, putting him to work and forcing him to study. At least Jordan knew he would coast through his final exams. But after that… then what?
He had never really figured out what it was he wanted to do with his life. Which was a shame; he was twenty-nine years old. Sometimes he thought he wanted a family; sometimes he loathed the idea of being tied down. He just did not know. And no one was telling him to sit down and be this or be that.
He did know, though, that he could not be ordinary. That was a start. And so he “pulled some strings” - using his ability - to land a regular show on the Strip, under the pseudonym Mercury Vadimovich. He did magic. Supposedly.
What passed for magic in Mercury’s show was hailed as “revolutionary” and “original,” but was actually just a very elaborate and sneaky use of his main ability. He could make a room of people sense things that weren’t there - that included sight as much as smell and hearing. Really it was just practice for his ability, plus an extra way to make money, and have a private laugh at the audience’s expense.
Indeed, Jordan hated people. He was sick of them. How happy and contented they were, with their cars and houses and spouses and things he could not have. Whatever. People were sheep. He knew that much for sure; look into the minds of enough people and you are certain to lose a certain amount of faith in humanity.
Or he thought that, at least. Wanted to think. It was always easier to be a cynic. Less potentially damaging. He deserved to take the easy way out for once.
“Hey.” There were two things Jordan tended to get during his show: hecklers and people using cell phones. Hecklers were fine; Jordan liked to incorporate them into the show as he made them look like idiots. People not paying attention to him, though, that hit a nerve. “Hey, douche in the back. Tell your side chick you’re at a show and you’ll call her after.”
The offender glared at Jordan. “What?”
“Get off the phone, asshole. This is my show, not phone call hour. Trust me, she won’t want to lay your drunk ass any more ten minutes from now, so hang up, all right?”
The man stood up and smirked at Jordan. “Make me.”
Jordan shrugged, then tuned to the rest of the crowd. “Look, he literally asked for it….”
His ability attached itself to the man’s mind. The man did not notice.
“This one,” Jordan said, leaning on the stool onstage, “I like to call ‘Find My Phone.’”
Under Jordan’s control, the man walked up to the stage and dropped his phone into Jordan’s glass of water, then returned to his seat. Jordan let the man go and then moved the water away from the stage lights. “Hey, uh, Cody, is it? Where’s your phone?”
“Uh….” The man searched his pockets. The crowd began to giggle. Jordan raised a finger to his lips.
“This one,” he said, “I like to call ‘one hundred witnesses.’”
He held up the glass of water, with the phone submerged, for the man to see.
