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You are Charlotte Fawkins, dashing heroine, detectivess, 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 MIA snake/father Richard. Inexplicably, many people tend to "dislike" you, though you've never done anything wrong in your life.
Right now, you have determined that the best way to descend to the lower level of sinister corporation Headspace is to jump out of a window. So far you have yet to be proven wrong. Not by Gil, whose yelling has subsided to unintelligible muttering, and who is valiantly failing to break your fall. Not by gravity, which is off its game: you haven't hit the ground yet. You can't tell if there is a ground to hit. You've jumped straight into the terrarium-mist, the one they probably need all those window cleaners for, and it's thicker than it looked from the outside. Warmer, too. You'd hardly know you were falling if not for the terrible mounting pressure in your ears.
You seem to remember something about that, the pressure change between manse layers. The interim eases you into it, or something. Falling straight through doesn't. Boring Richard stuff. Well... it's fine! It's not like you're going to explode. Even if Richard were here, he'd tell you you're not going to explode. Even if your ears have knives in them. Even if there's a scalding hot-poker feeling right at your collarbone. You're not going to explode, because you're not stupid Rudy Doheny, and you are not Headspace Corporation. You are Charlotte Fawkins! And you and your 400 beetles are hurtling toward glory, not to mention the imminent void. The actually imminent void. The mist clears, your ears scream, the string around your neck dangles empty, and you fall from darkness into <span class="mu-i">blackness.</span>
>[-2 ID: 8/14]
The interim is supposed to be white stairs and white doors, but you guess Management deemed those passé: they're gone, ripped out, replaced with fat, twisting tubes. This is good, in that you're less likely to smack face-first into a sharp-edged object. This is bad, in that you're not able to change your trajectory, and a tube gapes open under you. You yelp as you thump into its lip, bounce off, and begin a ricocheting slide downward. Gil, dislodged by the impact, says something intelligent like "Fuck!". You maintain a determined silence— your ears haven't gotten worse, but they're no better— and attempt to hang onto your dignity. Once again, thank God Virginia dressed sensibly. This is not an occasion for skirts.
(1/2)
