>[A LITTLE WHILE LATER]
You are a poor lurker and a worse skulker, you've discovered. Your boots aren't balanced for stealthy crouches, but you absolutely refuse to ruin your socks. You dislike the idea of taking the long way to your destination. And, moreover, the stress is getting to you.
“Why,” you hiss under your breath, “why are we doing this!”
?I told you,? Richard hisses back. ?Three fish, one hook, etcetera.?
He doesn't hiss it. He says it neutrally— how he says everything else. But, given the circumstances, you feel entitled to describe it that way.
"Two hooks." You shimmy, perhaps unnecessarily, past a warped limestone outcropping.
?I know you have the memory span of an eyebrow mite, Charlie, but I did say three hooks. We want to extract some unfiltered law, we want to convince him to like you—?
"That's still two."
?—and you promised to dig up dirt on him for the girl. Madrigal. As much as you're keen on reneging on promises, it's hardly a good look to cultivate.?
There it is! Ellery's tent never seemed so far in the friendly light of day, but you're here and practically perspiring. "I wasn't planning on reneging," you protest. "I just think…"
?That it's strange to 'muck around' inside of other people's heads. Impractical. Improbable. Dangerous. Morally ambiguous, perhaps.?
"Well, yes." You think about it. "Maybe less the last one. But yes. And—"
?You'll get used to it. Regular people do this too, you realize, and only a handful have died. Maybe two handfuls.?
You bite your lip and slide open the tent flap with as little rustle as possible.
?Or, you know, a moderate number. But you'll be fine. You have me.?
Comforting. Everything inside is tinted blue in the half-light, including Ellery's unconscious body. You hover above like a sweat bee on a sticky day, glancing back at the entrance every few seconds. It's empty. Nobody's noticed your trespass.
You, however, are noticing all sorts of things. The tent? Actually rather spacious, now that everything's pushed to the sides, and t— you can't bring yourself to call it tasteful, but the decoration is thought-provoking. Which is the next best thing, anyways. The bizarre little tchotchkes on the hanging shelves to the right could be conversation pieces with the right display case, and the chaise longue pushed off below the shelves is upholstered beautifully in green tufted velvet. You have no idea how that's stayed so pristine. Clear those stacks of boxes off, move it more towards the center— why is he sleeping on the ground, and not the perfectly good chair?— regardless, move it—
Richard drapes about you like a particularly irritated stole. ?Prolonging this isn't useful,? he grouses. ?Or efficient.?
Hmm, wow, what's this? You're not listening. What is in these boxes, anyways? What's on all the papers?
?Irrelevant.?
>[1] You're just gonna look at these boxes. There might be useful information in them, after all. And you won't even need to do anything… weird.
>[2] That, but papers. Quieter, but you'll have to decipher Ellery's handwriting.
>[3] Okay, fine. Fine. Fine. It's not like he'll let you leave, anyways. Just do… whatever. You can search his tent later.
>[4] Write-in.
They're everywhere: thumbtacked to the wall, lining the floor, bristling out of folders and notebooks. You make an anxious loop around the far edges of the tent to see if anything looks legible. But it's all the same: blackened with heavy chickenscratch or irregular diagrams, filled with spirals in the margins. And you don't know what any of it says.
?I never would have guessed this is a waste of time.?
In nervy desperation, you slide a big stack off the nearest… surface (is it a table? is it a chair?) and slump down to shuffle through it. Chickenscratch, chickenscratch, chickenscratch— a middling sketch of Madrigal, smiling— chickenscratch— wait.
Though you're surrounded by a small snowdrift of discarded papers, you've finally found something… well, you're not sure you'd call it legible, but it seems to be composed of actual words. "Dear C… I'd be happy to enter a partnership… please contact me…" and so on, whatever. The paper below it is a drawing of an outstretched arm, but labels on it read "Cephalic… Basilic… Median ante-[smudged] BEST". Which aren't words you know, but are words, you think.
You gingerly extract one of the discarded papers to compare. You thought it was just hasty handwriting, but you can't read any of it. What happened?
?Code. Or a different language, I suppose.?
Oh, so now it's not a waste of time. Now it's a valuable clue, huh? Code, or a different language. But why? And why so consistently?
?Hmph.?
You slide the letter to C and one of the chickenscratch papers into your coat.
>[OBTAINED: Letter to C; Coded(?) Paper]
Ellery is out cold. You're not sure you've seen him twitch.
>[1] You're on a roll! You don't even need to do anything weird, surely. What's in these boxes?
>[2] Richard is giving you the death stare, you're pretty sure (he generally looks like that). And you've already claimed your little victory for the night. Just do what he says.
>[3] Write-in.
?Well, I hope you're happy with that. My heart is swelling with pride. Wow. Incredible. Way to go.?
"'Good job' would have been fine," you murmur, and inch back towards the boxes.
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?No.?
No?
?I know how you do things, Charlie. You act out in little, petty, childish ways, because it's the only way you feel you can retain your independence. You feel you have independence to retain, which is a massive misconception I've been unable to shake you of.?
You cast a look towards the entrance and towards Ellery. You take another step towards the boxes.
?I don't want to stop you, Charlie. It makes me sad when you make me stop you. But we're not looking through those boxes.?
Why? What if there's a smoking revolver in those boxes? What if there's an actual skeleton? Clearly there's useful things to be found in the tent, and you're right here, anyways, so it's not inefficient…
?We did not come to look at boxes. Anything other than doing what we came here for is inefficient. You know this.?
You take another step towards the boxes—
?Like I said, I have no desire to do this.?
—and stumble reflexively backwards, towards Ellery. Your leg is stiff and wooden-feeling. Your spine is aflame.
?It's really, frankly, a pain in the ass. You have so few parts. I had to add some joints, last time, just to get you remotely manageable…?
Richard walks you jerkily backwards, away from the boxes. You do everything you can to avoid crying out and waking Ellery, who shifts a little.
?There, see, that's better. Right there. Let's just have you bend down.?
You have little choice.
?Good, good. Now, be a darling and open his eyelid. I really can't— there's so many tendons and little muscles, I can't be so precise. Please do.?
His eyelid? But he'll wake up. But— you know that tone.
The heat at your spine boils off, though a knot of it remains at the nape of your neck. You scowl, press the papers close to your chest (a petty victory, maybe, but still a victory), and peel open Ellery's eyelid.
It's glassy and unseeing but otherwise ordinar(-ily ugly). "Oh good," you snipe. "Would you like my other hand down his throat, or..."
?Shh-h-h-h.?
Richard unravels off your neck and swishes towards the open eye. He doesn't say anything at all, but coils himself into a precise spiral, and something indistinct but imperious rattles the back of your head
Ellery doesn't move, but the pupil of his eye gapes open until it's consumed the iris and much of the white. "Oh," you say, with less bravado. "Okay, that's funny, but…"
?Hold on to me.?
You hold on to him. He's cold and slick in your grasp. (You try to let go, which doesn't seem to work.) There is a method to get rid of him, isn't there? You'll find, after this, and then maybe your life can be normal…
Richard slides into the eye. This is fine, you think. This will work out well. I am definitely not going to be dragged behind him into the eye, because that's physically impossible, and also not what I want to do with my life.
Your vision mercifully blurs as you are dragged behind him into the eye.
You are falling. Your surroundings are dark, humid, and smell vaguely of cinnamon. You can't tell if you're still holding the snake; indeed, you can't tell if you still have arms or legs. You are, by and large, nauseated.
The sickening crunch with your landing tells you exactly where your limbs are: under you, probably broken. God-blessed. Good job, Charlotte. Way to go, Charlotte. This is what you get for listening to a snake you found in a box. Why hadn't anyone ever told you never to listen to snakes? In boxes? It's not your fault if nobody told you…
"Wallowing in self-pity never helped anyone. Get up."
You roll over instead, defiantly. Richard still looks like a watch salesman. He has dark sunglasses, now, and a distinct lack of wrinkles. And there's something else, too, that you can't pinpoint.
"Give yourself a facelift?" you say. "And sunglasses? Are they to hide your secret snake eyes, or what?"
He smirks (you don't) and lifts the sunglasses. His eyes are icy blue. "Sorry, Charlie, I can only afford so many liberties. Do get up. You're not injured."
He's right, to your mild disappointment. But your head throbs. Something about where you are isn't quite right, like you've developed sudden-onset astigmatism. The sand beneath your feet is black. The sky is olivine green, which tints the placid ocean teal. There is a gentle cliff face behind you, with stairs leading up, and on it— some kind of towering building, or regular tower, but not one built with any structural stability or good sense.
All of it is wrong. "It's not real," Richard offers. "Do you want sunglasses?"
"I don't own sunglasses," you say instinctively.
"So?"
You sift a handful of sand through your fingers. "So… what's a texture?"
"Right here—" Richard gestures, broadly. His cufflinks glint in the light. "This is a manse, right? We're not actually in Ellery's entire mind; that would be unfortunate indeed. That would shred you up, probably. No, this is a nice, groomed, touristy section, like—"
"Little Saroh?" Desalinated parks and charming boulevards.
"Little Saroh, yeah. This is the Little Saroh of the mind. But it's still permeated with some of the local flavor. The texture. A different worldview."
He's getting quite excited, you notice. He likes explaining. "But what is it!" you cut in.
He holds his hand quite close to your face, which only seems to make it blurrier. Are you farsighted? "Look!"
You strain quite hard. You blink a couple times, and then rapidly. You close your eyes one at a time.
"Look!"
And then it snaps, suddenly, into razor focus. Richard's hand is a collage of tiny scraps of paper, varied slightly in size and color but at a distance a cohesive whole. As is your hand. As is the sky, and the sea, and the cliffside.
You sway. Richard grasps fast your arm. "It's not real. You're still— well, you're still the concept of flesh and blood. The water is still wet. It's just how it looks, here."
"Okay," you say shakily. "Okay, that's… fine, then."
"Yes. It is fine. Take my sunglasses."
He presses them upon you, and you're too busy fumbling with their arms to notice the pair still on his face.
They make things darker— which, you will admit, helps. You can pretend things look normal in the dark. "Thanks," you say suspiciously. "Now what?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know." This is even more suspicious. Richard always, always, always has a plan— usually four or five. Is he trying to trick you? Is this his evil (therefore good) twin? Did someone steal his body?
He has the decency to dip his head a little. "It's an art, Charlie, not a science. We need a way down. Could be a door, could be a ladder, could be, I don't know, falling a long distance. But the next layer is always down, and we extract Law on the next layer."
"So we find that," you say. "What about clues? Like, will there be symbolic representations of his trauma, or whatever, floating around?"
"Perhaps! Just look around, Charlotte. We'll figure it out."
He must be trying to trick you, you decide. What with the whole spiel about no independence. It's a trick. He knows exactly what he's doing.
But if he's not going to tell you, then…
>[1] Write-in
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