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She raises her eyebrows back at you. "Sorry. I seem to be <span class="mu-i">busy</span> with all these bodies I have to make now."
Oh, wonderful. Well, it's fine. Surely you don't have to be an expert. "Okay! I'll do it, then. I won't hurt you if you don't stop me."
WE WILL NOT TAKE THAT LIGHTLY
"Good! Then, um..." It is Gil's drooping face in front of yours, and Gil's lightless eyes. When you grab his shoulders, they sink under your grip. "Hold still! I'll just—"
>[-1 ID: 5/14]
Just <span class="mu-s">see through,</span> and feel the soft ground yield under you, and feel your body— Claudia's body, weak and wobbly— sink through itself, again as though a thumb had pressed it. You either go straight through the floor, or your mind is fooling you. In a place like this there may not be much difference.
Pushed upside-down and inside-out, you are standing freely, upright, in a sea of people with wrong faces. They are turned towards you, every one of them. Seen from above, they'd make a rose or a sunburst. Seen from your vantage, they are formless and useless. They are blocking your view. You would shout Gil's name, but your mouth is sealed smooth, so you— so you— for God's sake, you are Charlotte Fawkins! Your fingernails are plain and neatly cut and are closing around the friendly hilt of The Sword.
Of course it's here. It's yours, it always has been, and before that it was your father's, and his, on and on. Has Claudia seen it? Has she held it? She will now. You grasp The Sword in two hands and swing it in a wide circle around yourself— more sunburst than rose. The fire on The Sword's blade snaps and flares and lights the doll-eyes of the Us-people and forces them to shuffle back, back, until you have breathing room.
Is Gil in the circle of faces? He is not. But he is here, somewhere, and you press forward with The Sword— not swinging at the people, not striking them, but pushing them out of the way. They shy at the flame, and it's true you take a degree of pleasure from that. This is not a hunt, though. You are not red or overdense. You are yourself, whatever that means, for whatever good that does, and this— The Sword, the flame, the endless faces— this is a rescue mission.
They are endless, though. Truly. How many people did Pat say was in here— thousands, all stuck together? How many is Gil? Just one. You are weary from the day that it's been, and it's all too easy to slip into negative thinking, but you must take heart. Management is gone. Nothing blew up. And you will find him.
After some time, you do. You almost don't. His back is to yours, and his clothing is at a glance unfamiliar— some slick brown jacket, nothing he's worn before. But the sandy hair gives you pause, and with that, you remember: he was in a new outfit, wasn't he? The same shirt, but new slacks, and a new jacket.
(2/5)
