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wyatt mason was... well, desperate. they’d been desperate before. it wasn’t new to them. that was the problem.
it was simple really. you’re in a bad situation, you make a split-second decision. one thing leads to another, and it’s gotten bad again. wyatt didn’t blame themself, not fully, but they’re sure others did.
and so here they were again. big bad god planning things in secret, something needing to be done. something only they could do. but they couldn’t. not like this. waves of immateria crashed against them, crashed through them, taking something with it. they struggled against the tides. it was harder and harder to think, to speak, just to be there at all.
but they had to. they had to do something. before the boss did anything. before it all went wrong.
they needed help.
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so, what is it you want?
wyatt clutched the wire of the microphone anxiously, winding it around their arm.
“--e… th- -oin -- up t- s--ething,” they say, or at least try to. their voice cuts in and out like a call with bad reception. “- can't tell w--- -- is. i sh---d be abl- to t--l what it -s.”
the one they’re speaking to looks confused, and they grip the mic tighter, frustrated. their form flickers erratically, tearing and coming back together again. they’re not there, not really. it’s just a projection. the figure leans down, poking them lightly.
you okay there?
as if on cue, their form glitches out again. hard for them to stay here. they shake their head, looking defeated.
“g-tting s--ttered… hard -- t-lk.”
the figure stands again, hand to their chin. thinking.
well that’s priority one then, isn’t it?
“...h-h?”
you need a better way to communicate.
they move their hand, and cards manifest in midair. they shuffle through them, searching for something.
your name, again?
“uh, --att m--on.” they wince a little, hearing the words come out. can’t even say their name right. they try again.
“um, --rry, th--’s w--t- -a-on,”
no, no, it’s okay. i get the memo.
they stop shuffling for a moment. pull out a card, and hand it to them.
- XI Strength -
wyatt looks down at it, a bit confused. what was this for? as if answering their unspoken question, the other tapped it lightly.
wyatt
they went back to shuffling their cards. wyatt had looked up expectantly, only to realize that that was a statement, not part of a conversation. remarkably cryptic, just like always. they didn’t really get this tarot stuff, it never made sense. after a moment they were handed another card.
- III The Empress -
and mason.
“but, w--t is -t for…? - do-’t g-t it.”
the reading, of course.
they gently push another card into wyatt’s hand, between the first two.
and that one’s yours, i believe.
wyatt looks down at it. they turn it back and forth. it shines like a holographic trading card. they flip it over.
- The Fool -
“the r--d-ng? how w--l t-at -elp?”
i’ll patch you through. you can send a message.
loud and clear.
just need a few more outputs.
wyatt nods.
“r-ceiv-rs.”
exactly.
the cards disappear in a puff of smoke, all except for three. replicas of the ones they’d handed to wyatt.
take the cards.
send a message.
wyatt’s form began to break apart again. conversation almost over. they push against it.
“wai-, but, are y-- -ure?”
i’m sure.
just trust me.
hold on. hold on a second. one more thing.
“-ho do i…?”
the reader is fine.
the waves rush up, crash down. immateria flowing, pushing, trying to drag them away in the current. dematerializing. the reader can tell they’ve got to go.
stay safe, wyatt.
don’t go under.
don’t go out.
“-ait, b--, i d-n’t,”
the line’s cut short.
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wyatt snapped back into place, in the… well, wherever they were. the place they didn’t call home, but maybe should have. it was dark. a tangible sort of darkness. they could see just fine, but it was dark.
and it was empty, save for them, the microphone, and the immateria threatening to sweep them away.
the waves were calm, for the moment. but the resting level was higher than it had been. up past their knees. they were wading through the currents.
wyatt stopped for a moment, readjusting, before checking their pockets. the cards were still tucked there, safe. they pull them out to look at them again.
there they were. still in mint condition. giving off a faint glow, even.
they held the cards tight. not going to lose them. at worst, they could mess with them when they were bored. not much to do here other than to shuffle the cards, placing them over, under, over, under, over one another again.
they could only wait.
wait for earlsiesta, come up with something good.
and save themself from whatever was coming.