most likely goodies ; an update book

sorcerer supreme!!

continuation from last chapter

Mitch is standing there, a bit too giddy to be holding his former superior by the neck in an awkward-sideway chokehold. The brunet is as tense as Brice would remember him, with glossy eyes set in a death glare and a stoic demeanor looming over his ever-so-pale face. He cursed out the Canadian, scowling while eagerly attempting to push him away.

Brice had rarely caught glimpses of the Sorcerer, only seeing him around midnight either rampaging through a bowl of microwavable noodles or wrapped up comfortably in Tyler's beanbag chair in the living room. He's known to be busy, frequently so as more threats to Earth appear. Brice doesn't particularly want to befriend him, especially upon witnessing his cloak nearly toss Mitch across the room. He isn't even aware of his first name, everyone seems to just call him Sorcerer — whatever that meant.

"Would you be a dear and make cloakie get off me?" Mitch pleads, trying to pry the tightly wrapped cloak away from his body. He grimaces, gasping for air as the cloak presumably tightens its grip.

The Sorcerer snaps his fingers and the cloak retreats back onto his shoulders. Mitch sighs with relief, a hearty laugh escaping his throat. He justifies his actions with a joke; Brice can tell he's getting nervous as the seconds pass by.

"Anyway, you both look particularly lonely," Mitch explains, backing away slowly. "So get to know each other, yeah? I'm gonna go see what Jerome's doing."

As fast as they arrived, Mitch is gone, disappearing back into the sea of endless faces. The Sorcerer frowns, eyeing the blond in front of him. He lets out a small snicker, to which Brice tenses up.

"Brice Purton Solace, you've resigned yet still decide to show up," he murmurs, "...surprising."

"How's you know my name? We haven't even officially met," he questions, spluttering a bit.

"I know every single person in this room, regardless of my history with them. If I wanted to, I could know their social security numbers and personal information, but I choose to not go that far. After all, it is my business to know."

"Okay, creepy," Brice accidentally says aloud. Upon realizing his mistake, he slaps a hand over his mouth — two, actually. The Sorcerer glares at him, cloak fluttering.

He's in for it, big time.

The Sorcerer begins to mutter something in a different language — if Brice knew any better, it would be a mixture between Latin and Old English — and raises his arms in concentration. Brice begins to get nervous; his fears are affirmed as a portal opens beneath his feet. He falls, screaming, then lands back on the floor in which he once stood, hitting his forehead on the ground. Disoriented, he stands, rubbing the bruise.

"Did—" Brice takes a breath of air, "—did you just make me fall from the ceiling?"

"Yes," he nods, shrugging, "and quite frankly, if you had any more snarky remarks, I could do it again."

"I wonder how your ego can fit through your shirt, Dumbledore."

Brice falls once more, this time he falls through the portal about four times. The final fall saw him grimacing as the impact was much stronger. "Okay, okay, I'm done now."