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7/14/2025, 1:51:32 PM
"Getting kicked off a plank to your certain death tends to shake up the belief system, as does— well, imagine the end of the world is imminent. Then imagine thirty years pass. It becomes difficult to keep up the urgency, yes? Especially when your knees hurt and you can't touch your toes. Suffice it to say that I'm a dog with no teeth— not that I ever had any for you, Charlotte. I never even dreamt of hurting you. Neither did your father. He simply could not reconcile a doomed world with one with you in it."
"Obviously," you'll mutter. "Because I'll save it."
"I don't think either of us knew that then. I think he simply needed the world to persist. But... I think I've given you enough to chew on. Too much, maybe."
"...Yeah."
"I thought you deserved the truth. Good luck, Charlotte. From me and from Martin, as much as you'll let me speak for him. Call if you need anything."
And you will be alone, and you were alone, and you are alone. Not alone. With Richard, who is working harder than he's ever worked, one-third on the time on Satellite (which will succeed, but has not happened), two-thirds of the time on you. Doing everything to you. Sometimes you're awake in a wicker chair in your garden, looking over the fire lake, Richard standing behind you, his whole arm in your back: "Tell me how this feels," he says, over and over, then releases you, points, and tells you to do something impossible. Which you do faithfully, except for the backflip—
—which is not your fault. There is something in the way. Richard said future alterations would be strenuous, which was a traditional Richard understatement, but not wrong. Sometimes you are also vomiting black gunk and, when Gil attempts to cure you via blessing, vomiting black chunks along with it. Sometimes there are bloody punctures in your back where the spines broke through. Sometimes you can't sleep on your back. Actually, all the time, you can't sleep on your back. First it's sore, and, as the skin peels off, itchy. Then the obstacles are physical. The spines, already mentioned, three inches long, smooth, dull, slightly curved, running straight down your back. The horns, which you keep trying to wobble— they're not very sensitive, so you keep half-thinking they're a costume. If you part your hair, though, they're bolted solidly to your scalp: white and smooth like the spines, the width of two fingers, sweeping backward past your ears. So not good for headbutting after all. Damnit, Richard.
(3/5?)
"Obviously," you'll mutter. "Because I'll save it."
"I don't think either of us knew that then. I think he simply needed the world to persist. But... I think I've given you enough to chew on. Too much, maybe."
"...Yeah."
"I thought you deserved the truth. Good luck, Charlotte. From me and from Martin, as much as you'll let me speak for him. Call if you need anything."
And you will be alone, and you were alone, and you are alone. Not alone. With Richard, who is working harder than he's ever worked, one-third on the time on Satellite (which will succeed, but has not happened), two-thirds of the time on you. Doing everything to you. Sometimes you're awake in a wicker chair in your garden, looking over the fire lake, Richard standing behind you, his whole arm in your back: "Tell me how this feels," he says, over and over, then releases you, points, and tells you to do something impossible. Which you do faithfully, except for the backflip—
—which is not your fault. There is something in the way. Richard said future alterations would be strenuous, which was a traditional Richard understatement, but not wrong. Sometimes you are also vomiting black gunk and, when Gil attempts to cure you via blessing, vomiting black chunks along with it. Sometimes there are bloody punctures in your back where the spines broke through. Sometimes you can't sleep on your back. Actually, all the time, you can't sleep on your back. First it's sore, and, as the skin peels off, itchy. Then the obstacles are physical. The spines, already mentioned, three inches long, smooth, dull, slightly curved, running straight down your back. The horns, which you keep trying to wobble— they're not very sensitive, so you keep half-thinking they're a costume. If you part your hair, though, they're bolted solidly to your scalp: white and smooth like the spines, the width of two fingers, sweeping backward past your ears. So not good for headbutting after all. Damnit, Richard.
(3/5?)
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