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It's kind of fitting, you think dismally. If she dies. If everybody but you dies, leaving you trapped and isolated in a even <span class="mu-i">shittier</span> and <span class="mu-i">more</span> inaccessible place. It'd be exactly the kind of thing that would happen to you. Maybe <span class="mu-i">that's</span> the purpose and meaning of your life after all. Yeah. You were right about all that drivel. The gods (or whoever) created you for a reason, and that reason was to to be shat on. To be stomped into the ground, over and over, until the only thing you knew was the feel of the boot and the taste of the dirt— and of course you'd catch a quick breather when the stomper got tired, and sometimes that'd last long enough to make you think life outside the ground could exist. But then they oame on back, and they're wearing extra-cleated boots with shiny iron soles, and the cycle starts all over again.
Yeah. That sounds about right. You'd like to sleep, but Not Lottie is coughing really hard, so you slide off her and into the grass. Maybe this is the time you do it. Go native. Crawl around and eat leaves all day. Haven't you earned that?
She's basically retching now— 's got one bloody hand to her throat, making all kind of noises. You try to ignore them, even though they're the kind of noises Lottie might make. She's dead, Gil. The truth hurts. Just eat the grass.
You eat the grass. It's not as good as leaves. You're a little bit worried that the trees around here aren't meant to be eaten by beetles, and also a little worried that Teddy's beetles are different beetles from your beetles. You don't want to starve to death, even if you won't know it. Not Lottie's retching has gone all wheezy, which shouldn't be but is a little concerning, and you feel a distinct tug in the back of your mind. An unignorable one. You lift yourself inexorably and see, for a second, a handful of soggy beetles extracting themselves from Not Lottie's open mouth.
Then comes the same feeling as always, a sliding and a smearing and a brief crisp <span class="mu-i">snapping</span> into place, and the rush of palpable satisfaction that nearly makes the headache worth it. You are <span class="mu-i">whole,</span> and already riffling through your double memories double-speed: bite-worms-kill-smoke-bang; throat-brown-red-drain-flood-beach-spat; Lottie's alive. Lottie's safe and alive. You half-knew this, but it sinks in only now, and it's all you can do to stay in one piece: to not slip your bonds and wheel like a firework into the air.
Below you, Not Lottie takes a deep, pained breath. She touches her forehead. "...What happened?"
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(2/5)
