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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:u9XG12Bt Fri 06 Dec 2024 12:04:48 No.6153210 View View Report

Quoted By:

>Power of...

Inside the bunker inside your mind, your friend from the box in your attic is drunk. He is drunk because he always wins at solitaire. He is drunk because the radio is silent. He is drunk because there is nothing to do but sit and drink, wait and drink, worry and drink. He said he would be there when you needed him, but how is he to gauge that? He didn't remind you that he was locked in here, severed from you. The radio is silent. If things got bad enough for him to know, it might be too late already. It is too late already: he is slumped crooked in the armchair. He is drunk enough to feel the body in his body, the cramps, the painful contortions. He runs his finger along his conical teeth and lifts his lip and spits into the glass. He closes his eyes.

The radio crackles. He jolts forward. The radio shakes, yawns open, and tears into black void. He fumbles and stands. This is it. She's gone and done it now. Stupid bitch. Stupid fucking Charlie. He's gone and let you do it now, and now he's done for too, if he stays. He knows that shit. Anti-reality. Corrosive. Devouring. If it's in here it's over. He could still go, he thinks. Unplug. Get the spin cycle, but at least there'd be something of him. Dumb little bitch. Thinks she's so smart. Thinks she can get along without him. She's dying out there.

She's dying out there. Your friend from the box in your attic allows himself a throaty, untranslatable expletive before stumbling forward. This won't work. He blinks each eye independently and grasps his nostrils and purges himself violently of toxins. As they spew forth, he clenches and spasms. He is shunting back down on himself. He can't feel the contortions. He can't feel anything. He is all of a sudden cushioned and censored and plumped and numb and far too sober, and now Charlie dying out there has elevated from top priority to top priority of his lifetime, and he considers going out and taking over. Doing something. With anti-reality, though... no. Suicide.

All he can do is try to patch cracks, fill holes, place sutures, do anything to keep you together on the inside. If it comes to it, he will swallow you whole; you will exist solely inside of him. As long as you exist somewhere. If you do, somebody else can save you. Not him. You'll need other friends. But while he lives, there will be a Charlotte Fawkins, and that is what he can do for you. Because he loves you.

—

(1/3?)

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:1EyGFnsH Wed 03 Apr 2024 19:27:39 No.5968977 View View Report

Quoted By:

>>5968799
>EXCERPT FROM THE NOTES OF CORRESPONDENT #314, ETC.
"I have been approached by a belligerent pseudo-human woman. She seems threatened by the questions I've proposed, despite the fact that they're far less invasive than many of those already asked, and the fact that we are not directly competitors. I am reminded of Charlie.

Of course I responded politely..."

>You both think the same way, talk the same kind of circles around things instead of talking straight.
"I have been accused of this before. I can't say I understand it. I say what I mean to say, and I omit what isn't necessary. Is it actually the speech patterns you object to? If so, it's hardly my fault: it has been imposed on me by Charlotte. She has a very specific idea of how a well-bred individual should sound, though naturally she exempts herself from this."

>Well, if its about size, then it's definitely my chest.
"I see, though I don't understand. Wouldn't too large of a chest interfere with movement? Is it not 'unladylike?' (I quote Charlie.) I presume you're not currently nursing infants, so I confess I don't..."

>But pretending to be my friend was what worked best against me.
"Yes. I am familiar with this tactic. I'm afraid it's not as easy as it sounds."

>But we're a lot better now
"Really? I'm very pleased to hear that."

>Well, there's the part that opens the lock, and the part you hold onto to control the key to make it work.
"That's true---but there's actually nine parts of a key."

>Not like those trying to find some kind of edge against us like we're about to fight.
"Fight? No, no. I have no interest in fighting. As I mentioned, it's strictly prohibited."

>>5968717
>How many kids could you see yourself having?
"More children? I cannot reproduce in the way you do. If my... ah, I don't think there's a clean translation. One moment. ...If my 'genetic material' has been harvested and utilized, I would have no way of knowing this. If you're referring to children I already have, I have one. I do not want and could not handle any more."

>>5968677
>>5968870
>>5968923
CUTE!!!

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:Nr90Rvd0 Mon 01 Aug 2022 07:15:11 No.5358976 View View Report

Quoted By:

>TELL ME MORE
>13, 45, 37 vs. DC 63 — Failure

Richard is deft and steady with the tweezers and swiftly builds up a small pile of shards next to himself. He stops only to wipe the tweezers free of blood, which he does on a monogrammed ('MRF') handkerchief. You are slightly jealous, having had to wipe blood, sweat, tears, mucous, and spittle off on parts of your clothing for the past at-least-6-months, but don't say anything about it.

Instead, you interject when he next stops to wipe the tweezers. "You're sure you're not dying? Or— maybe you've been replaced with an identical copy? Maybe you should cut yourself open to make sure you're not full of mirror—"

"That man's duplicate is nigh-identical in respects of temperament. Even if I were a copy, your argument is nonsensical." Richard frowns slightly. "I was under the impression we'd dropped this topic."

"Maybe you shouldn't've acted so weird if you wanted me to pretend I never— ow!" He's pricked your hand by accident. "Come on. What were you saying? Nothing matters, and nothing's ever mattered, so that means there's no reason not to—"

"No reason? It's inappropriate. You—" He points a bottle-shard at you. "—are not my confidante, Charlotte Fawkins. You are not my equal. There are matters you are not privy to, period, regardless of their ultimate effect on the fate of the world or lack thereof."

"So who is your confidante?"

His lips pinch. "I do not require—"

"You don't have anybody to talk to?" you say. "Besides me?"

"This is a principal difference between you and I, Charlotte. You are desperate and needy and require someone around to hear your blathering at all times. I am above this base desire."

"Which is why you're telling me this stuff for no reason?"

"That's the left done," he says brusquely, and sets down the tweezers. Your left hand is clear of debris, now, but still bloodied— at least before he rubs his thumb downward across your cuts and they seal themselves into faint red lines before your eyes.

"Um," you say. "Don't— don't change the subject, okay? Who's your equal?"

A sardonic note creeps into his voice. "I'm unparalleled, Charlotte. I have no direct equal, and even then—"

"You just said you failed and nothing you did ever— unless you mean you have no equal in being useless, but—"

"Nothing could be farther from that," he says.

"So..." You shift your seated position. "Is that other snake your equal? The one you called a curse word? He was all brown, and—"

You stop. Richard has withdrawn his tweezers and assumed a stormy kind of look. "Correspondent #301 is not my equal."

"Is he better? He stole the Crown, and— do you know if he's been filling it with Law? Him and the person with the gold—"

"You have made it exceedingly obvious you no longer care about this matter," he snaps. "And neither do I."

(1/3)

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