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 causing 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're hazy on what's happening.

<span class="mu-i">I think I've done all I could do.</span>

You're in your head. Something is in your body. Bone. Marble. Roses. You can't see. Something is the matter with your eye.

<span class="mu-i">Shh. I'll take care of it. Give me a moment.</span>

You are reaching into your pocket and taking out an eye and you are reaching into your socket and taking out the sun. You are putting the eye in the socket, and you are opening your mouth wider than it goes and swallowing the sun.

Fire and clarity return to you. You are Charlotte Fawkins. The lizard-thing, the Herald of the Bright Epoch, is in your body. You are in a tight space surrounded by Managers, which would ordinarily be frightening, but you remember. They worship you.

<span class="mu-i">For now. I wouldn't press the matter. They are already resistant.</span>
<span class="mu-i">I'm sorry I couldn't smooth the path for you further.</span>

You summoned the Herald so they wouldn't gang up on you and kill you, and because Richard told you to. You're decidedly unkilled, so it's okay. You can figure out an evacuation yourself. But thanks. Richard?

<span class="mu-i">Still cut off. I will return him when I go.</span>

Okay. You hope he isn't mad at you. You hope the Managers don't get mad at you either, because there's four or five with you in the space the size of a closet. They're taking you down, you think, to whatever it is that powers all of Headspace. Whatever it is you need to blow up. Hopefully soon. Ellery is still on his way.

The Management is looking at you. "Is something wrong, Great Herald?" one of them ventures.

"Hmm?" The Herald speaks with your voice in your mouth. "No. It is taxing for me to be here in such full flourish. I must step back for now."

Discomfort and shuffling. There's little else they can do. The elevator is in motion already. "Then you will leave us? Before you have seen what you—?"

"Leave you? Did I say leave?" She scoffs. "Is what I am when I step back <span class="mu-i">not</span> me?"

They need a few moments to parse this. (So do you.) "The client—"

"She is me. I am she. Don't draw foolish distinctions, <span class="mu-i">dog.</span> Face it: your Wingnut has achieved the impossible future. Now I will retreat."

<span class="mu-i">There. Now that is really all I can do. I hope it is enough to fend them off.</span>

Um... thanks. But can't she stay? You don't mind her stealing your body or anything. You're used to it.

<span class="mu-i">I must go. I am an inveterate meddler. I must control myself.</span>
<span class="mu-i">Things will occur as they are and have and will and will always.</span>
<span class="mu-i">Good luck, Lottie. And forgive yourself. It was never your fault.</span>

(1/2)