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"I don't know what that is," she says stiffly. "A nightmare monster."
"Hell, you're asking me," you say. "All <span class="mu-i">I</span> know is that I don't own leather pants. But I absorbed all the nightmare darkness shit, I guess, and this <span class="mu-i">is</span> a nightmare, so it makes sense that—"
"This isn't a... nightmare." Pat has folded her arms, but it reads more exasperated than aggressive. "What are you talking about? Here?"
"Yeah, here? And yes it is? I'm asleep, so I'm dreaming, and then it got all dark and spooky and you started turning into— hey, why the fuck aren't you a monster?"
She ignores that. "You're not asleep, and you're <span class="mu-i">not</span> dreaming. You're in my manse. It's an entirely different state of—"
Oh, shit, is that what Charlotte called it? A manse? "Aren't those basically the same thing?"
"No."
"They seem like basically..." These fucking people and their fucking jargon. "Whatever. So why aren't you—"
"They're <span class="mu-i">not</span> the same thing, and whatever you just..." Pat shuts her mouth and snaps her fingers a couple times. The lights flicker, barely, and stay resolutely on. "That's <span class="mu-i">not</span> possible. We're on the <span class="mu-i">top</span> level, I don't allow any bleed, this is not some kind of— some godsdamn— some unmaintained Headspace <span class="mu-i">hellhole,</span> this—"
"Okay, I dunno what any of that that means," you say. "And I don't really know what I— I just drank some shit. But it clearly <span class="mu-i">is</span> possible, since it happened, so I'm not sure what you—"
"You are exactly like him," she snaps.
"What? Like who? Use your... I am <span class="mu-i">not</span> like Ellery!" You fold your arms tightly. "What the fuck! How is that—"
"<span class="mu-i">Exactly</span> like him. This is what <span class="mu-i">he</span> does— breaks the rules and pretends he didn't. And he is <span class="mu-i">insufferable</span> about it. I was wondering how someone like you put up with that, but..." She shakes her head. "Now I know."
This is possibly the meanest thing anybody's ever said to you. "Okay, first off, fuck you. And second off, why the fuck aren't you a monster, Pat? All that fucking buildup—"
Pat looks sideways, sullenly. "I opted against—"
"Gullshit."
"I— it's a delicate process, alright? There's a lot that can go—"
"Did you get fucking stage fright?" you say.
"No," Pat says.
"You got fucking stage fright! Well, serves you fucking right— shoulda just gone and <span class="mu-i">done</span> it—" You stretch your shoulders. "Whoo, boy. Well, that sucks for you, doesn't it? Leaves you kinda... vulnerable?"
She sighs deeply and points a gun at you. "No."
"Really? Because I just don't— I just don't think that's going to do shit to me, Pat. Sorry." You're not dicking around this time. You mean it. "Because that's kind of, uh, the schtick? The nightmare monster... uh, hold on."
You reach into thin air and (to your unsubtle delight) pull out a spear— not the Fitz, god bless it, but something longer and darker and wickeder. A <span class="mu-i">nightmare</span> spear. Hell yes. "Yeah, okay. Sweet. Anyhow, you can't shoot me, I <span class="mu-i">can</span> stab you, so... let's do it."
(5/6)
