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Finding a newspaper takes a moment's work, because an entire decrepit table— so aged and sagging you think somebody tried making it out of actual wood— is stacked up to your shoulder with them. It must be the work of years, and it would be an invaluable resource were the older papers not glued soddenly into one mass newspaper-brick. You're fairly sure things have burrowed into it.
The newer papers sit pertly on top, however, having not yet been convinced they ought to be damp. You stand on your tiptoes to sweep a random one off, check the date (very recent— a couple days ago), glaze over the headlines, and deem it suitable. "Okay!" you say. "All done."
"What? I-I mean... if you're sure, then, uh..." Gil twists his hands. "...I-I assume you know what you're doing. Are we delivering it next?"
Are 'we'? You are, certainly. But you're delivering it to Possibly Madrigal, who looks like Madrigal but might not be, and to deliver it with Gil, who looks like Madrigal but definitely isn't, to Lucky and his happy trigger finger— Gil reads your guilty expression. "Oh."
"It's not—!" you attempt. "It's just— it's not /you,/ Gil, it's just that—"
"I-I-I know." He rubs his shoulder. "Um, I-I wish I could help, but I know I— I know. Sorry. I-I-I can, um— I-I can try to— I'll stay here."
"You will?" Phew. "Okay. Probably nobody's going to come in here, but don't talk if they do. Just look busy. I shouldn't take /too/ long, so—"
"Yeah."
It's a weary little 'yeah.' You half-frown. "I'll— we'll get a real body soon, alright? And then you can come with me wherever. It's just— it's bad circumstances.'
"I know," he says.
"Okay. Good. Cool. Can I have the—?" You stick your palm out and waggle. Slowly, Gil deposits the deck of cards onto it. "Wonderful. I'll be right back."
-
It's funny to think that yonks inside Headspace has translated to— 10 minutes, tops? You'll be sliding into the Wind Court HQ less than an hour after you left, which you think is a good amount of time: not so short that it's outlandish, not so long that it doesn't give you a certain advantage. If you're lucky, or good, you might be able to wear Lucky down through sheer irritation and/or attrition.
You might be good, but you're not lucky, because when you waltz into the HQ Lucky's nowhere to be seen. Instead, a slight, black-haired woman is manning the entrance room— she looks up from her nails when you jangle the door open and assumes a look of faint derision. "Hello."
"Hello!" you say grandly. "I'm—"
(2/3)
