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6/18/2025, 10:29:21 PM
What of weapons? You know nothing about Dale, but his handshake was sturdy, and he seems perfectly nice. No reason to maim him. You turn The Sword over, examining it, take a deep breath, and run your hand swiftly over the blade. When you take it away, the fire is extinguished, and the edges of the blade are glassy-smooth and rounded.
Did Richard see that?
«Yes.»
Does he—
«You don't care what I think.»
Still cranky? Geez. Dale is dark-haired, and if you squint you can pretend it's Richard's new body you're whaling on. Okay, maybe not 'whaling on.' Dale is more agile than you thought, or maybe you're less, though when he tries to sweep your feet you don't even wobble. You pay him back with a thwack across his shoulderblades, and continue, back and forth, until you're sweaty and battered and can only think about lemonade. You're not even thirsty, not exactly, but thinking about a cold lemonade... Richard...
«Get your own.»
Really cranky. Why? You told him you'd kill him from the start. Whatever. You shake hands with Dale, who holds his smarting knee and insists on giving you pointers on your sword grip before he goes.
Later than that, you drink something Henry gives you, which stops your heart, and you die. In his defense, he told you it wasn't lemonade ("sorry, kiddo"). And you don't think your heart is actually stopped. It might just be really slow. But you look super dead from the outside, Claudia will tell you later, with no small amount of glee.
In any case, it's easier to slip out of your body if your heart isn't in it, and pretty soon you're underground. Let your mind slip free, too, and you can drink in the shape of the world, the billion billion strings, can watch them tremble and stretch toward you, drawn into your orbit inexorably. Could watch forever.
«No.»
You said you could, not that you would. You're busy. Drift with purpose away from your body, toward the massive unmistakable glow in the distance— hope Annie followed instructions— reach her and peer upward. You're looking for something. Someone. Strings like a web. Search and search and... there! They're horizontal, and a little crunched-up, but that must be the goo. Drift up, until you're level with them, imagine a deep breath, and make contact.
Jarring color, weight, sensation, but you're still behind a veil. Press harder to pierce it, tumbling in. You're in Gil's workshed, the one in his manse. Oops. Is he not asleep? He's sitting right there, back to you, tinkering away at— something. You don't know what. It looks like a jumble of parts to you.
If he isn't asleep, he might be annoyed if you watch him secretly. You clear your throat. "Gil?"
No reaction. He stands— you thought to greet you, but he reaches for a tool on the wall and sits back down. He's in his undershirt. You step into his peripheral vision. "Hi, Gil, I, uh—"
(5/a lot)
Did Richard see that?
«Yes.»
Does he—
«You don't care what I think.»
Still cranky? Geez. Dale is dark-haired, and if you squint you can pretend it's Richard's new body you're whaling on. Okay, maybe not 'whaling on.' Dale is more agile than you thought, or maybe you're less, though when he tries to sweep your feet you don't even wobble. You pay him back with a thwack across his shoulderblades, and continue, back and forth, until you're sweaty and battered and can only think about lemonade. You're not even thirsty, not exactly, but thinking about a cold lemonade... Richard...
«Get your own.»
Really cranky. Why? You told him you'd kill him from the start. Whatever. You shake hands with Dale, who holds his smarting knee and insists on giving you pointers on your sword grip before he goes.
Later than that, you drink something Henry gives you, which stops your heart, and you die. In his defense, he told you it wasn't lemonade ("sorry, kiddo"). And you don't think your heart is actually stopped. It might just be really slow. But you look super dead from the outside, Claudia will tell you later, with no small amount of glee.
In any case, it's easier to slip out of your body if your heart isn't in it, and pretty soon you're underground. Let your mind slip free, too, and you can drink in the shape of the world, the billion billion strings, can watch them tremble and stretch toward you, drawn into your orbit inexorably. Could watch forever.
«No.»
You said you could, not that you would. You're busy. Drift with purpose away from your body, toward the massive unmistakable glow in the distance— hope Annie followed instructions— reach her and peer upward. You're looking for something. Someone. Strings like a web. Search and search and... there! They're horizontal, and a little crunched-up, but that must be the goo. Drift up, until you're level with them, imagine a deep breath, and make contact.
Jarring color, weight, sensation, but you're still behind a veil. Press harder to pierce it, tumbling in. You're in Gil's workshed, the one in his manse. Oops. Is he not asleep? He's sitting right there, back to you, tinkering away at— something. You don't know what. It looks like a jumble of parts to you.
If he isn't asleep, he might be annoyed if you watch him secretly. You clear your throat. "Gil?"
No reaction. He stands— you thought to greet you, but he reaches for a tool on the wall and sits back down. He's in his undershirt. You step into his peripheral vision. "Hi, Gil, I, uh—"
(5/a lot)
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