Wonder Made

Fifteen, Part Two

Like the rest of the building, the elevator seemed to be of the same specifications and make as those found in non-magical ones. Metallic, stale-smelling with jazzy tunes wheezing out of decades-old speakers.

Anderson, who had followed them into the lobby, stopped just short of entering. He bowed. "I'm afraid I can go no further. I must return. My directive was to get you here and I have. What must be done next, is up to you all."

Peneloper eyed the group. Chant shrugged. "No fur off my butt."

She slapped his forearm. He yelped and while he chattered away about her having more strength than ought to be allowed for someone of her size and physique, she turned to Anderson. "Thank you for getting us here. It was a most enjoyable journey."

Anderson beamed. "Best to relish in the enjoyable ones so as to better endure when they unexpectedly turn."

He whirled and sauntered away, frowning as he tugged at an unruly strand of hair that refused to lie flat against his scalp.

Chant wrestled with a lock of his own hair, struggling to get it to stay put behind his ear. "Weirdo."

"You're one to talk," Crispen said, waving them into the elevator. They shuffled in like a parade of soldiers back from the front lines, exhausted, antsy, edges sagging - the universal sign for giving up. Chant's weary expression gave way to confusion at Crispen's words. Crispen ignored Chant, as he'd been inclined to do involving anything Chant-related, and punched the only button on the elevator panel, marked 'destination.' As the doors closed, he turned, locked eyes with Chant, and spelled out orgasm, each letter cruelly and agonizingly drawn out.

The rest of the ride was had in silence, though it lasted only minutes. Before Peneloper could wrap her head around how such machines could work so efficiently, while surrounded by inefficient everything else, the elevator doors whooshed open.

A room of warm taupe, with high, vaulted ceilings, track fluorescents, and a table at the opposite end stretched out before them. Peneloper half-expected murals from art history's most celebrated masters to decorate the ceilings.

"You could have stadium seating in here," Chant remarked, his eyes wide as he took in the vastness.

For this to be the place of an all-powerful collective of magical elite, Peneloper was underwhelmed. Where were the bubbling cauldrons? The witchy hats, dark robes, flickering candelabras, and pools of swirling water where one could watch past, present, and future collide?

"In storage," Crispen whispered.

She arched her eyebrows. "Are you—"

"Joking," he said, stepping further into the chasm of mundane office space.

Peneloper followed while Chantham seemed to be envisioning all the basketball games that could be held here, where the hoop would go, the concession stands, where he'd be, dunking and dribbling and drunk off the accolades of the crowd.

The further they walked, the more Peneloper wished there'd been one of those flat escalators like at most airports to ferry her to the opposite side. Her feet burned so hotly they might ignite.

"Only a little further," Crispen said, doing what could only be described as dawdling as Genesis stood on his outstretched arm, eyes narrowed.

When the table came more into view, it became all too clear this was office space and not the ornate chamber of magical deities. Behind the table, four high-backed office chairs sat with backs turned away from them. Scattered overhead and hung askew, were several motivational posters, some of which read: "There is no I in TEAM"; "None of Us are as Smart as All of Us"; "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together" and "Layers need Leaders, not eaters," printed in rainbow font beneath a picture of a parceled birthday cake.