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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:A23gTW4T Sat 03 Jun 2023 09:00:48 No.5678908 View View Report

Quoted By:

>Grab and go

You ponder this. "Could you make them portable? I know they're little already, but if I'm lugging a dozen around... I don't know if they let you have giant rucksacks in Headspace, I mean. Could you make them go really little? Or set up a thing so I can pull them out of thin air, or..."

"I-I-I can try? That's getting a little far afield from, um... I-I might need crystals for that, but I'll look into it. Since, um, that makes sense. You're right."

"I am right," you say brightly. "Thank you for your service to the cause of—"

"I-It's what I'm good for." Still resigned.

"—exploding Headspace— what? You're good for lots of things, Gilbert."

The beetles rustle.

"Like... like being my retainer... and providing a very comfortable hammock for me to rest my eyes in... so there! Shush yourself! I shall await your creation, but at the moment I'm afraid I must returneth to the world of reality, so I can ensure I hath not been encaptured by foul cultists and so on. I wish you good fortune, and, er... um... could you help me leave? Maybe do your weird eyeball-holdy thing, or, um—?"

"I-I don't have hands," Gil says awkwardly. "Uh, I-I-I could... go get myself? Do you still not have an anchor yet? That's a really i-i-i-important part of safe, um, delving... did you ever finish that model?"

"The model? I don't have— oh." Your pocket bulges: you fish the model out delicately. "Give me a second."

It's not really safe to keep something so fragile in a pocket, of all things, but the model of your manse doesn't seem like any other model you've made. (The other models you've made also don't tend to appear mysteriously in pockets.) You turn it around in your hands for a bit, willing it to open up and get you out of here, but it's hard and still. "Do you usually have to do something with an anchor?"

"Um, yeah, usually... i-it sort of depends on what it is." Gil pauses. "Um, i-i-it's all a mind trick, so you can probably make it up yourself."

"Okay." You're good at making things up. After some consideration, you hold the model up to the cloudless sky. "I'll see you later, okay?"

The manse's sun catches through the model's tiny central window, sending a ray of light onto your forehead. Squinting, you rotate your wrist, angling the window so the ray—

—"Ow!"—

—lands right on your good eye, causing it to flutter and spasm, and for the world to go white and then black and then...

(1/2)

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

View Same Google ImgOps iqdb SauceNAO manse window.jpg, 71KiB, 418x600

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:40Q0Ehom Fri 16 Sep 2022 06:16:32 No.5405674 View View Report

Quoted By:

>Gil!

Anyhow, there's only one logical place to start: with Gil, who is after all your best retainer and therefore the most important person on the list. (It's a narrow margin with Annie there too, but he does come out ahead.) While it's also true that Gil is the least likely to laugh in your face and/or reject you outright, this played very little role in your complex calculations and can therefore be ignored. Richard.

«What.»

Nothing. Can he just do the thing where he— or no! You don't need him. You've never needed him. You slide off your cot, find the model where you left it, and hold it to your good eye. It's not too difficult to imagine yourself inside— it's weirdly easy, actually, unnervingly easy, and if you hadn't made this with your own hands you'd be concerned about what wicked compulsion lay inside the thing; instead you imagine yourself remembering the whiteness crowding in on your vision, and imagine yourself telling Richard not to let you hit your head, and you can't tell if you're imagining or remembering or actually physically slipping forward. It's altogether far too confusing, and you are prepared to (will? have already?) succumb to the wicked compulsion or whatnot and die or whatever-the hell (maybe you have? would Richard have...?) when you

like an awakened sleeper jolt upward. Your eyes are bleary. Eye is bleary? Eyes? You don't know what the eye status is anymore. There is something in your hand. You look. It is a small immaculate model of your tent.

And you are in your manse, of course, of course. God. You don't need Richard, but you have to admit that his method offers a more dignified means of entrance. Were you actually contemplating if you were dying? You knew full well—

"Your mind," Richard says, "is extremely primitive, Charlie."

You squint at him. He looks terrible: better than last night, since he's standing upright, but that's about it. "How hungover are you?"

"What a stupid question." He frowns down at you. "By all official standards I cannot be 'hungover.' Therefore I'm not. Yes?"

"That doesn't really answer the..." You trail off. "If you drink some more it ought to fix it, you know. Something about dogs?"

"Yes, Charlie, I am aware. Now cease wasting your time on— I know very well the nonsense you came for, and per usual my hands are tied, so—" Richard gestures impatiently. "Beetles is over there, doing infant's first fingerwork. Go on."

"Does hearing me talk make your head hurt?" you say.

He glowers at you through his sunglasses— are they darker than usual?— until you saunter off in the direction he's pointing.

(1/3?)

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