peckenpaugh | THE UPPER LEVELS

up into the balconies

you climb The breathing boughs of that nightmare tree crowd into the upper balconies of the ruined auditorium. You have to duck and bend to get by them in places, sometimes through spaces that seem to grow smaller as you press through. These branches are warm to the touch, some of them uncomfortably so, pulsing with something that isn't quite life.

You've climbed these stairs more than once in your time here; to take your place after your sorting, to watch new students find their House, or perhaps just for an assembly. This building always seemed so sturdy, so safe. It was a place to go for shows, for celebrations, and hell, to just get out of class. Now, the floorboards creek precariously, split and splintering where vines have crept through. Benches are broken, overturned and tossed aside to make room for the auditorium's new king: the malignant maple. Up here, the glowing blue seeds hanging from branches are close enough to pluck. Those that have ripened litter the floor and railings, filling the balconies with an eerie blue twinkle.

The air is muggy, clogged by falling ash. It stinks of coal and sulfer. But you keep moving, anyway. Keep opening portals and pushing on. Just a little bit higher, and then maybe you'll be able to plunge into the depths.

and you fight By now there's a plan, and with it, a slowly growing brigade of people, of beings, of bugs, who are gathering to push back against inevitability.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well he doesn't love this. Tybalt knows for a fact this blond kid, the Qualls kid, died back in the 80s. That's what this whole mess is about. It's not great to be reminded that he, too, was preparing for prom at any point. The flash of heat is scary, too, but as soon as he jumps back, everything freezes. He runs his fingers through his own curls. He knows, vaguely, what they're supposed to do here, now, but he's afraid whatever they do will trigger something dangerous.

Which is maybe why he just gingerly pokes Percy Potkin's hand with the cricket bat he's acquired, hoping the brush he's holding will fall to the floor and reveal itself golden, so they can leave before it gets bad. "You can use this." He tells Imogen, as he feels it's only smart to prepare, and she's professionally better with a bat than he is, "If it gets bad."

Imogen, who continues to run on adrenaline and spite despite increasing fatigue of physical and existential varieties, accepts the cricket bat into her fist without much comment. She's double wielding now, her wand and this new blunt-force weapon.

"Trust," She murmurs in assurance, prodding at the red paint can with the toe of her boot. "But maybe it won't."

It probably will.

After all: the weird rush, the spiking heat. That didn't feel particularly good.

"Maybe it won't." He agrees, with very little faith. Tybalt is now weaponless, which was probably pretty stupid of him, but there's nothing particularly new about that. If Imogen could have his back while he darted around in time and space in the air, why shouldn't it be the same on the ground? He trusts her, and, (wrongly) his own ability to punch out any vines that came his way.

"...I think we might've painted over this. For Aesthetic Magic. Weird." More than. He remembers the initials associated, but they don't quite match. LS and PA. That's not these two boys. More puzzle pieces that don't fit.

"And fuck it, actually." He isn't one for hesitance, and just grabs Mr. Potkin's Paintbrush. If it blows up in their faces, so be it.

Edited 2020-06-09 04:27 (UTC)

Imogen winces -- no one saw that, surely -- but her stance is one of readiness, prepared to lunge forward or back at the slightest provocation.

Swinging the bat a little in her fingers, she juts her chin at the dark spot.

"What about um, that?"

"...Can we take that, though?"

That's a stalling technique, because he doesn't want to be the one to touch it. But that's stupid. Nothing's jumped out at them yet. He takes a deep breath, checking behind him to make sure she's still looking. "If I go, make them retroactively make me prom king." He intones, and then leans forward to scratch off that patch of darkness, fully anticipating going up in flames right then.

Edited 2020-06-10 00:23 (UTC)

"Guess my dance moves can't be reined in," Percy jokes and elbows Lionel in the side. Lionel jerks, snapping to attention like someone who's been far, far away. On the little muggle radio, Bob Dylan's "The Man In Me" starts to play.

"Here." Percy offers Lionel his brush. "We'll cover it up with something better."

"Yeah? What're you thinking?"

"I dunno. Maybe a sign. Or a Bigfoot." Percy shrugs. "Maybe 'Lionel Qualls for Homecoming King' in huge letters." Lionel laughs.

"Yeah, yeah, okay." He takes the brush from Percy's outstretched hand. "But just wait 'til you see what your campaign did to the Quidditch pitch."

Just behind Percy and Lionel, in the upside down V of a metal ladder, a curtain appears. It hangs loose, swinging lazily in the wind, ready to whisk away the interlopers whenever they are.

THE UPPER LEVELS

MEMORY: Prom King

MEMORY: Prom King

MEMORY: Prom King

MEMORY: Prom King

MEMORY: Prom King

MEMORY: Prom King