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You are Charlotte Fawkins, dashing heroine, detective, adventuress, heiress, sorceress, etcetera. Three years ago, you drowned yourself in a quest to find a long-lost family heirloom; nowadays, you're just nobly c̶a̶u̶s̶i̶n̶g solving problems with the help of trusty retainer Gil and snake/father(??) Richard. Inexplicably, many people tend to "dislike" you, though you've never done anything wrong in your life.
Right now, you are in your own parlor, in your house. There's a lizard-thing there.
"Am I dead?" you attempt.
<span class="mu-i">...What? No. No.</span> The lizard-thing, perched in one of the nicer chairs, curves its muscly neck down at you. <span class="mu-i">Geez. No. Why would you think that?</span>
"Because I..." It's a struggle to piece it together. "I went too deep underground... and got disintegrated? Am I disintegrated right now? And in my death throes I'm hallucinating big stupid lizards, and..."
<span class="mu-i">You don't have to be mean about it.</span>
"Sorry," you mumble, and sit down on a less-nice chair.
The lizard-thing bends to lap something from a mug— from <span class="mu-i">your</span> old mug, with the chip in the handle— before it continues. <span class="mu-i">It's okay. I know this is stressful for you.</span>
<span class="mu-i">Yes, you are disintegrated, roughly speaking. Disassembled. You're going to be put together again, though.</span>
"Oh." You pause. "I mean, obviously! Pssh. I knew that already."
<span class="mu-i">I know you did.</span>
<span class="mu-i">I was just saying it for no reason.</span>
You make to say something, then squint. The lizard-thing swishes its tail.
<span class="mu-i">Would you like some cocoa?</span>
<span class="mu-i">It's not— it's not some kind of 'lizard cocoa,' or anything. It's regular cocoa.</span>
Damnit. "I never asked if it was lizard—"
<span class="mu-i">I know.</span>
<span class="mu-i">Here, Lottie.</span>
Compared to its tail and its neck, the lizard-thing's arms and legs are stubby. It has to heave itself off its chair and amble over to hand you your own mug, which has a chip in the handle. Huh? No. Its mug rests on the side table, steaming wispily. Your mug is billowing, and there's a pink paper umbrella hanging over the edge.
(1/2)
