Ring Ring (Attn: Margot)
"Saying hello is difficult after a long period of time because that length of time makes me seem like you need a cannon, a battering ram and the mother of all Monologues to explain yourself. Starting with a hello? Just seems like you're holding out a handshake while they went for the M16s the moment you crested the hillside."

~Tremennis Volska, Akashic Brotherhood~

Margot's cellphone rings. It is evening and somewhere in the house. Specifically, in her room. The call is calculated to do this, to place her somewhere in her comfort zone and not beyond it's borders. To maximize the cushioning that the call may well produce. 

Because a Mage with Entropy, Mind and Corr at their disposal coupled with a dedicated urgency like this, would go to the trouble of ensuring those sorts of things without actually indicating that's what this was.

She's at home. In her room, available to talk should she accept the call. 

Cue appropriately youthful ringtone. 

"Ms. Travers?"

A last name to indicate whoever it is knows her family name. A soft tone to indicate it isn't something official. A familiarity to indicate it isn't a stranger. A question mark to inform this isn't an intrusion (or at least it doesn't want to be). A formality to suggest courtesy. The time of Night (late enough to be off-putting of the previously mentioned courtesy) a hallmark to say this was important. 

"I'd like to have a word." Pause. "Please."
It's evening, and Margot has been nestled in her bedroom for the past forty-five minutes.  There was a large mug of soup on the edge of her desk, cooled and largely consumed, and a pen in her hand as she worked to transcribe an idea for a new spell into one of many journals where she'd taken to keeping such studies.  She had switched over to a green pen and was absently sketching out and filling in the crude illustrations of herbs required for the recipe of blended ash the spell would call for in the margin of the page when her phone began to chirp out a tune.

The upbeat tempo that unknown numbers defaulted to was interrupted after what would be the third ring on the caller's end, for she took a moment to regard the unknown number before deciding it couldn't hurt to answer. She tapped her thumb on the screen to accept the call before bringing the phone to her ear and answering with the standard "Hello?" that most people do.

The use of her last name didn't concern her so much, an unfamiliar number could be a business likely to do just that, but the tone of voice seemed a bit too personal for that.  "This is her," she said cautiously, and laid the pen tip back to paper to slowly shade out a stalk of root that she'd been working on while she listened.

The 'please' that followed the request for a word stilled the pen.  She laid it down across the page and sat up straight in her chair, leaning back to glance out her window (why would anyone be there, Margot?) as she answered slowly, that same caution still in her voice.

"Okay... But who is this?"
"My name is Martin."

There was a clearing of voice on the other side.

"...And I really don't want this to come across as some Darth Vader like level of menace. That would be a horrible first impression." A pause. "You are familiar with who Darth Vader is- Nevermind Nevermind. Consequences are beginning to spiral out from this moment already."

A sigh. A familiar sigh. She'd heard that particular tone and sigh four every mouth in the Travers family since the dawn of her conscious existence.

"My name is Martin Travers and I believe I'm your father." One might think there is a dramatic pause right here for the sake of clarity to sweep in but- "And I recognize this moment is by no means comfortable or at ease or even uncomplicated but I had to start somewhere and a phonecall seemed more pleasant and open-ended then showing up on a doorstep and forcing a confrontation. So here we are."

Here's the pause.

"How have you been?"


And the awkward, apparently.
There's a sudden dull thud! as all four of the legs of Margot's chair found the floor once more. She knew the name 'Martin', and the lead in to the Darth Vader reference said enough to already escalate her pulse and draw her wakefulness and attention to a very sharp and sudden pinpoint. The familiarity of the sigh felt like a nail in the coffin and made her heart ache in a way that made her want to reflexively withdraw, like pulling a hand from a hot stovetop.

One of the problems of having a mind as keen as her own was the ability to grasp a wide scope and process much aptly in a quick amount of time. What this made for in this situation was a rapid succession of thoughts firing off and igniting the fuses on a multitude of panicked internal thoughts-- how did he find her? why did he find her? where had he been? did he know about Mom? did he know about Luke...?

"Ohmygod," he was pretty sure he heard her breathe halfway into the receiver right after he proclaimed his belief to be her father, and very soon thereafter a scuffling sound as the phone had slipped from her hand and she'd scrambled to (successfully) save it from hitting the floor before returning it to her ear. Both hands went to her head when she brought the phone back up, so the other could press over her forehead and eyes while the call continued.

"Well," she said uncertainly and a little shakily, "you're right about not showing up on the doorstep." She took a breath, and he heard an echo of his sigh before she cleared her throat and didn't answer his question at all.

"What's going on? I mean... why did you... are you, uh..." She lifted her hand from her forehead just enough to slap it back down again in exasperation with herself and inability to vocalize. Punctuated with the slap was the quiet curse of "fuck!" off to the side of the receiver before she was speaking directly into it once more, frustration with herself and the stress of the situation bleeding into the edges of her voice.

"What do you want?"
"To get to know my daughter."

It isn't a direct, emotional cue meant to pretend at 'Dun dun dunnnnn' empathy. It is more like a guilty confession. A suggestion that he understands something about that statement would probably have gotten him slapped if this were in person (raising doubt about his actual intentions on not meeting in person first). It comes out like a verbal shrug and perhaps a willingness to accept the decibels things might be about to climb to.

"I understand things are somewhat more complicated for you right now and perhaps they have been for a while but...you should know that I am genuine. I always have been. I want very much to be a presence that will stand by while you get whatever you need out of your system and eventually come to see me as something worthwhile, even valuable. The Light opened this opportunity before me for a reason and it is not something I intend to let go by unanswered. I will accept whatever scorn or displeasure there is to come with all of this but once beyond that, there is something that could be managed here. Salvaged, even. It is to that I look for guidance and in that, I will put my faith."
Though the senior Travers wouldn't likely perceive this, the air in Margot's bedroom suddenly pulled almost physically tighter, like a bow string being pulled back and held taut. Perhaps others in the house would feel the shift and dismiss it on craftwork. It didn't matter, she wasn't answering knocks on doors at this moment anyways.

She didn't interrupt when he said his piece, though some of what he said caused her pause. She listened and sat with an elbow on her desk to help cradle her head, staring down at the words she'd written just a dozen minutes earlier on the page and hardly seeing them at all. Her head was still pinging back and forth between thoughts and questions about how much he knew and what subject this conversation was going to lead them to-- she felt like there had to be a point, a reason, a catalyst that caused him to finally reach out after all this time, and her inability to quite lay a finger on that was causing her mind to spin out while trying to solve for the equation.

"Okay...," she said, dragging the word out in a way that suggested mild disbelief, or if not even necessarily disbelief then at least some amount of suspicion.

"But why now? And not, say, ten or fifteen years ago?"

She didn't necessarily intend for the question to smack of accusation, but it was a hard thing to ask without it coming across that way in general.
"Because you do miracles."

Spoken with a bit of humour. A bit of disbelief that they were going to have that conversation. Like it wasn't something already discussed and known. Because...it wasn't. The humour vanishes from his tone and that sigh. That sigh climbs back into the conversation, followed closely by something in Russian (Bozhe Moi).

"You work miracles. Craft things from nothing and make things happen that no other can. There are hundreds of us in existence with our own way of performing these miracles but they are done as such. From the smallest of measures to the broadest of saintly endeavor, they exist. We exist. I have served the Holy Order for three decades. Their methods are just and true and with them I have accomplished many divine edicts and many more efforts toward greater understanding. Both in myself and in many others. I am of the Choir and through them, I am of the Faith."

A pause. The sound of bells, trumpets and organs fades from the background noise. Or...would if it actually existed.

"Of course, I'm also a man in his mid-forties trying to sort out a relationship with his only daughter in hopes that there is a possible game of scrabble over a cup of herbal tea in our future so. A delicate balance somewhere."

She couldn't help it, didn't mean to; it just slipped out, that disgruntled, disbelieving, and somewhat disgusted teenage response to an adult answer. This time it was specifically the word 'miracle', paired with his earlier choices of phrase about the Light. But then he sighs, mutters something in a language that her ear doesn't catch well enough to decide between Russian or Czech or some other Eastern European dialect, and once more she yields the floor to hear out what he has to say. Margot wasn't one to interrupt, since it would mean she'd have less to learn from or about the person speaking if she did.

Certainly enough, her patience rewarded her with plenty to learn. He was a Mage himself, a preacher man of the Celestial Chorus, speaking with the words of a devout person and wanting to reconnect because she did miracles.

The pause was filled with silence and Margot exhaling slowly from her nostrils. She had been about to speak but he went on with a more human statement of wanting simple reconnection over normal people things like board games and hot drinks. That earned a chuckle, but the sound was nervous and exasperated and at a loss, which ate the humor down to nothing at all.

"So it only took a miracle or two for you to call, huh?" It was a hard tone to read, sounding angry and tearful and a little panicked but all in ways muted by determination to keep her shit together on the phone and that steadiness that she'd carried about along with her macabre aura ever since her first Seeking. "I... Look, this is a lot to process... I haven't seen you since I was four-- I mean, why would you even start a family in the middle of your Choir'ing if it was going to--..." endlessly cutting herself off, she sighed once again, heavily, to match how her voice had grown heavy near the end there as well.

She swallowed and shook her head, lifting it from her hand and sitting up straight in her chair once again. She cut a glance to her door, like she was suddenly paranoid someone may appear at it apropos of nothing. Sniffed and wiped the cuff of her sleeve under her nose before rising from her chair and moving to hover before the window so she could look out upon the side yard and road beyond.

"Are you in Denver?" she asked abruptly.
The responses were a smattering of well-timed insertions that failed to be interruptions. She cut herself off and he finished the sentence with unerring, even spooky levels of completion.

So it took a miracle or two for you to call, huh?
"You can't talk miracles with someone who wants to sleep"
I haven't seen you since I was Four--
"--Four and a Half--"
Start a family in the middle of your Choir'ing if it was going to--
"I fell in love. That's all Faith strives to fight for. To be."

There is silence on his end when she needs it. When it's asked for even without being asked for. She is looking out on the yard and the road and taking in everything and by some miracle ( Perhaps literally, working the other end of the line to know the timing needed to insert his words without them being overstepping or interrupting) he remains present in the conversation when she is willing to return.

Except with the last question:

Are you in Denver?

There is a clearing of the throat and a deep inhale.

"Not yet."
There was plenty that Margot would have liked to say to rebuttal his interjections, but she did not. Instead she quietly sucked at an eye tooth and cupped her hand to her other elbow and settled her weight onto one leg and bare foot over the other as she settled herself to make an ominous silhouette in her window while watching the landscape and continuing the immaculately and intentionally (supernaturally) timed and executed phone call.

"Mm," is her response at first, a thoughtful noise before she continued careful as she had done when she'd first answered the call. "I imagine you can find my house. That you already know where it is. Don't go there."

A pause on her own end, and then, inquisitively: "When will you get to Denver?" Careful to say the city's name, and not 'here', though she's already explained to herself aloud that he probably already knew exactly where the hell she was.

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