Archive of Our Own ^beta

     You wake up before the alarm clock's chime, wrapped into the warm cocoon of your blanket for another ten minutes. Outside, the pale fingers of dawn begin creeping their way through your window; the harbor winds up once again, the whirrs and keening of heavy-duty machinery picking up in volume and pace. Slowly, you sit up, resting your heels against the cool floor, and run a hand through your hair in an effort to rouse yourself. At last, the alarm comes to life on the bedside trumeau, only to get silenced straight away. You're used to it, but Dei, if there ever were a contest for the most annoying noise in Elysium, this tune would win in a landslide.

     The next half-hour is spent packing a small duffel bag with anything that might come in useful in an exploration - quelle pensée, you smile at that - a hand-crank flashlight, a vacuum flask full of coffee, some bread-and-cheese sandwiches with a sprucing of wilted tomatoes and lettuce on top, several items from your first-aid kit, a length of rope, a sharp knife and a fresh pack of menthol Astras. You take a shower at breakneck speed, wincing when the suds get in your eye, and throw on a pair of FALN track pants along with a polo shirt, a windbreaker and a sturdy enough pair of running shoes. Far from your usual style, but the occasion calls for the garment - and anyway, it's time to go, the clock on the wall approaching 6:50.

In the morning light, the staircase seems washed anew, its harsh cement parapet delicately mottled by hundreds of ash bloom-roses from snubbed-out cigarette butts. A small bottle-green cactus perches on the side; you make a mental remark that it's well overdue for watering. No time, no time - you gallop down the stairs three steps a go, then swing the faded door open and swerve into the darkness of the first floor. To the right, someone is playing Sad FM, and you can hear a man screaming in a slurred, throaty voice of a long-time alcoholic. Another, younger and much more shrill, crescendoes through the beaten-up wall; it's the de Ruyters going at it again in the early hours of morning. Sometime soon they're bound to be out on the street, you think, and oh, what a relief it will be. 

     At the far end of the winding corridor, the old cleaning lady is rinsing her mop-rag in a scuffed aluminium pail, her breath rattling like a captive bird inside her desiccated ribcage. She straightens herself with great effort, peering warily from beneath a cumulonimbus of grey hair. You nod at her as you walk by, muttering "Madame-", and she returns the courtesy, sighing as she wrings a muddy trickle back into the bucket. 

     Cindy is waiting for you on the same balcony where you first talked to each other, nodding in tact with the barely-audible tune from the first floor. She's still clad in her usual blouse and vest, but you notice that she's switched to the wine-red track pants that you'd given to her the day before. You were right - they fit her quite well with how lean she is, barely more than skin and bones. The girl turns around swiftly, her sooty hair standing on ends, and breaks out a dazzling, coy smile. "There you are! Ready for the adventure of your life?" You chuckle; she must be quite a morning bird to be this enthusiastic before the clock has struck double digits. "Ready as I'll ever be, ma chére. Let's go before someone else beats us to it, shall we?"

     As the girl dashes past you, she punches you in the shoulder, yelling, "And that's for the money in the jacket, you dick!" You can't help but guffaw; quelle démonstration de gratitude! The two of you race down the staircase, along the docks where the rich woman's yacht is moored no longer, and towards the plaza. The sea is ashen, glinting on the horizon like a polished silver tray; you can hear the cacophony of seagulls flocking near a narrow strip of land where Esperance opens its hungry mouth. 

     On the bench, inside a crater shaded by a sprawling conifer tree, an old man sits sad and forlorn, holding a cap in his knotty, liver-spotted hands. You vaguely remember him from before; didn't he have a friend with a habit of turning his nose up at you? The man is alone right now, unmoving like a discarded theatre prop. "What's his deal?" you whisper to Cindy as you walk past. "That's old Gaston," she mouths back, "His friend just died a few days ago. Heart attack, I heard. Guy was meaner'n a bear with a sore head, but it probably still hurts when you just... know someone for half your life and then poof! Gone, like that." You can't help but feel a pang of pity - none of this is your business, but you do know how hard it is to be left alone in the world.

     You pass by the remnants of Cindy's aerograffito; the ghostly letters are already fading into oblivion one step at a time, carried away on people's boot-soles. "So much for trying to make a lasting statement!" the Skull snorts.  You shake your head. "Oh, it's not the lasting part that matters, it's the impact that you leave behind. Even when it washes off completely, someone is bound to remember your words." The image of two men standing on the plaza, haloed by the orange glow of burning fuel, comes briefly to mind. A chill breeze ruffles your hair, running along your spine like ripples on water, and you know that both of these men will carry Cindy's message for as long as they live, in their hearts and on their sleeves.

     The windows are glowing faintly in Roy's store; he's probably starting the day by battling his ancient deathtrap of a percolator and  wringing out that swill he claims is coffee. The man barely sleeps; you'd asked him about it before and he laughed raspily, shaking his head. Longtime Pyrholidon users don't want for much rest, he said, and besides, why would he waste his time sleeping when he can listen to milieus and read? You chuckle; sometimes your nighttime is spent listening to the radio as you pore over endless conspects and articles. Perhaps that's why the two of you bonded back in the day?

     Martinaise seems to be filled with nighthawks, the oldest Indotribe of them all. And you're glad it is. The night is a comfort.

***

     The waterlock's metal origami looms over Esperance; as you're crossing, Cindy tuts at the broken billboard that is now completely submerged underwater, its bright red letters screaming agressively as the blond boy on the image keeps smiling on like a lunatic. "Fucking Samaran butter, eh? Whoever mowed this disaster down did a favour to all of Martinaise. They don't even sell the stuff anywhere nearby, so who the hell are they advertising to?" 

    You shrug. "Stray tourists? Debardeurs? My weekday friends?" The Skull grins at that. "I think they just put it up there so that they could pretend that people here have cash to blow on ad fads. Anything to make themselves look better." That does make quite a bit of sense; the locals would be happy if they could get their hands on a stick of margarine in any of the local Fritttes. In a way, you consider yourself among the few privileged ones who can get their hands on fresh produce, courtesy of the small Mesque market right next to Académie des Arts and your polished charm that tends to make haggling a smooth ride. "Good riddance", you mutter under your breath; the wind carries your words away towards the shore.

     Soon, the paved road gives way to a sludgy track; Cindy curses as her boot slips into a deceptively shallow puddle and takes on a lap of water. The Skull groans as she yanks her foot out; the puddle releases its leather hostage with a disgruntled, slurping noise. "Fuckin' tits, I think my sock is wet!", she hisses angrily. You suppress a chuckle and instead offer an apologetic smile; it's still too early in the spring for the ground to harden, and too late for the frost to really catch. Somewhere to the left, a cacophony of snoring marks the place where the village's soûlards usually spend their time by a campfire; you carefully ignore them every time you pass by. Somehow they raise your hackles.

     The village houses contrast painfully against the bleached sand; clustered together, every angle tilted and fractured, the smell of driftwood, salt and fish guts permeating the air. Even though it's still early, you can already hear Isobel humming her lullaby and the children yelling with joy as they race back and forth along the thawing shore. On the porch of her house, Lilienne la pêcheuse is mending a particularly torn net, furrowing her brow as she tries to weave the edges of a tray-sized hole together. Ça devait être un sacré poisson, eh.

     Sometimes you wonder whether she'd still choose this life if she could afford anything better than spending hours on end in a ramshackle boat, grasping for a haul that restaurants would buy out for centimes, only to turn a triple-digit profit from their wealthy patrons. The fisherwife is a woman of few words, but occasionally she's made some surprisingly astute remarks during your conversations with old Isobel, suggesting a considerable education that she keeps to herself. 

     You cast a glance at the glacial swath of sea, fading into the pale denim fabric of the sky, and think - does she hear the spirit of the city when she peers down into these depths? Can she pick up La Revacholiere's call in the cries of seagulls or the flocks of geese? 

     Or do the memories of her deceased husband ground her to the village, stronger than any tether or fishing line ever could?

     Perhaps it's not only because of the children that she chooses to stay.

     The breeze rustles a smattering of yesteryear's leaves, floating them gently over the roof of Isobel's shack and into a distant faraway. There's your answer. 

     You close your eyes and smile.

***

    Old Isobel flashes her mostly toothless grin when you greet her, setting down the pillowcase that she'd been laundering onto the scrubbing board; you gently touch her shoulder, as frail and creaky as the stilts beneath her house. A chilling thought comes and goes - she probably won't last another year, and she knows it too - but you deliberately push it away it as she rests her driftwood hand on yours. "Ah, there you are! Early today, aren't you?" You bow. "Beautiful as ever, madame." She cackles, delighted, "Not at all, dear boy, not at all, but thank you! Your flattery warms my heart!" You laugh in return, and Cindy roams over to say hello as well.

    "Who's that?" the old woman asks, squinting her rheumy eyes at the unfamiliar face. "Hello, I'm Cindy." "Dei bless, an actual Skull! Haven't seen me one of those in a looong while! Are you this boy's friend?" The girl leans close, so Isobel can see her better - a young visage, covered in greasepaint and kohl, next to an old one, as withered as a baked apple - and nods mischievously. "Yes, ma'am. We're going exploring today!" The washerwoman looks her up and down. "My, you're even skinnier than him - heh heh. You need to eat, child, or the wind will blow you away just like my laundry!" She reaches into the pocket of her rough-spun dress and brings out a fistful of cheap toffees in colourful paper wrappers. "Here, have some. Not much, but sweets are sweets, aren't they?"

     Cindy weaves her hands together into a finger basket as the old woman unceremoniously shoves the treats in her direction. The toffees are fused into a solid clump, their bright papers permeated with sugary stickiness, but the Skull wastes no time picking one out and throwing it in her mouth, wrapper and all. She bounds off towards the shoreline, past the whispering reeds and onto the foamy ribbon of the sand, but not before turning around and shouting her thanks mid-way. You roll your eyes, laughing; Isobel peers into the distance, as if trying to remember something from her own past.  "Ah, to be young..." she mutters, then turns her attention towards you. "What's new, dearie? Don't leave this old woman hanging."

     And so you take a seat on a footstool right by her rocking chair, ready to start from the very beginning of the tribunal that you've witnessed. You tell her about all of it - the demise of the three mercenaries, the débardeurs' misfortune, the mourning at the Whirling-In-Rags, and the desperate bravery of the two gendarmes who saved Martinaise from descending into bloody chaos. Isobel listens, humming quietly with a ponderous look on her face. "Knew he's a good one, that boy with the sideburns... Harry, was that his name? I've known a Harry back in the day and he was stupid as a box of rocks, but this one, oh - sharper than a fishing hook. Odd, yes, but aren't we all?" She smiles down at you. "He stayed in my shack, you know? Was very polite - and repaired the door, too."

For a second, blood thrums in your ears. You yearn to go inside and look out from the same window that he must have stared out of, to perch by the same table, to lay down on the bed and inhale the faint smell of him off the bedsheets, better than any perfume could be. Instead you compose yourself and nod. Que pouvez tout faire d'autre?

     On the shore, the kids are chattering away; you hear Cindy's guttural tone intermingling with their voices. The two of you turn around; it appears that the Skull has decided to help Lilienne's daughter with her sand castle. She's sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, twirling a thin branch in one hand and gesturing with the other. The two boys are kneeling next to their sister's creation, while the little girl is patting a fort wall together with her palms. "See," the Skull says patiently, "Now if you want a reeeally tall tower, you need to stick a stick in it first!" The girl giggles, repeating, "Stick a stick!"; her freckled face lights up. There's an indeterminate plush creature hanging out of the pocket of her navy blue jacket - perhaps a goat or a ram, one of its button eyes dangling by a thread. All three look on in awe as Cindy deftly spears the branch into the middle of the castle, scooping handfuls of sand to cast a square shape around it. Soon, the fort is protected by a large belfry; Lilienne's daughter oohs and aahs happily while the twins gawk at Cindy like she's a superstar. Then one of them asks, "Can you build a bridge?" "A bridge!" the other one echoes. The Skull chuckles. "Sure, but you kids need to go find way more sticks for that."

     "I'm glad that your friend is a nice girl," Isobel remarks, her eyes almost disappearing into the laugh lines much older than you are. "Those children get so bored - the village is no place for youngins, unless you want them to grow up into more fools wasting their whole lives by the campfire." She juts her thumb at the misfit band of bodies heaped around a gone-out pile of ash. You can still hear them snore. "Nothing to do here but kill time, nothing at all."

     Elle n'a pas tort, n'est-ce pas? How long until a transient storm blows those stilts out from underneath the pier, snapping them as easy as twigs? Perhaps the Dolorian church will one day crumble like a house of cards, ephemeral, its beams and rafters collapsing unto one another, its opulent vitrail shattering into a myriad rainbow pieces. The desolate shore brings to mind a bit from an Old Old World poem that you found as a footnote in one of your thrifted textbooks, scrawled on the flyleaf in a loopy cursive: "Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away." The wind rushes across vast plains of bone-white waterfront, shifting the ice floes and making them creak in ominous discordance; the washerwoman sighs, watching the grey waves lap at the sand. On the porch, Lilienne cuts away at a cord with a paring knife, thin strands snapping like sinews. You gaze out at the sea, lost in thought.

     It's Isobel who breaks the silence. "Oh my, before I forget! There's something I've wanted to ask your help about, if you can spare a minute. I've been meaning to clean the room up after that boy left, but I might have to move the bed to sweep up behind it, so could you be a dearie and lend me a hand?" She smiles at you, somehow conspiratorially; it almost feels like she's been reading your mind. Maybe she has - old people seem to have a way of picking your thoughts apart as of late. 

     Cindy and the children are laughing as they dip their hands into cold water, splashing at each other.

     You fidget with your earring as you enter the shack's comforting enclosure. It's tiny - not much bigger than your kitchen - but surprisingly cozy, in an indigent, lived-in kind of way that reminds you of Cindy's coal room. There's a disheveled bed in one corner and an antique wood stove in another, a pair of greenwashed chairs flanking a lame-legged table, and several shelves scattered along the walls. Atop one, a small radio is playing some vaguely familiar tune. 

     For a brief moment, you close your eyes, surrounding yourself in the darkness of the space in which he stood, slept, ate, clothed himself, smoked into the window and pondered his thoughts. Briefly, you imagine him reading a book by the lamplight, those striking gray-green eyes skimming through faded lines with the fluidity of a lifelong book addict. Your lungs clench with longing; from a cloudy tabletop mirror, a long-faced young man is staring back at you with sad eyes. 

     Assez de ces bêtises. There's work to do.

    The bed is oddly sturdy for its unassuming make; at first, it refuses to budge. No wonder that the old woman would have to ask for your help - not even Lilienne would be able to move it. The bedframe is stuck to the floor; you put your back into it and with a rueful whine, the damned thing gives in, its legs etching groves into the water-cupped floorboards. You grab the broom and the dustpan by the door and begin sweeping up the room; there's little dust in the shack, but a fine layer of sand is crammed into the corners, especially around the stove. Most of it falls into the gaps between boards, but you do manage to make the floor look more presentable. 

     You leave the corner behind the bed for last, quickly working your way through the rest of the floor. But once that's done with, you cram yourself into the tight space that you've freed up and try tidying the neglected swath of floor underneath it.

      Something glints in a deep crevice between floorboards. You crouch down, trying to dislodge the object, and with some effort, you manage to pry it out.

      It's a small plastic figure of a headless man riding a galloping bull, a sports cap in his outstretched hand. The faux bronze finish has mostly rubbed off of the man's leaning silhouette, but the bull's horns still have a dull sheen to them.

HEADLESS FALN RIDER FIGURINE

+1 Shivers: Urban legend

+1 Inland Empire: Such stuff as dreams are made on

-1 Half Light: Head in the clouds

     As you carefully inspect it, you notice a long, dark-brown hair wound around the bull's rear leg. You pick it off; the hair shines in the dim light emanating from the curtained window, like a woven metal thread. 

     For a moment, your inner eye glimpses the tall shape of a man, coming in through the ramshackle door, shrugging off his long RCM issue cloak and throwing it haphazardly over the back of the chair. He plonks himself onto the bed, stretching like an old cat, and drapes a hand over his eyes, asleep almost instantly. From the cloak's upended pocket, a figurine falls out, rolling under the bed with a soft clatter. The man doesn't hear - he's fast asleep already, stuck in a nightmare of his own making.

    You cup the figurine in your hands, cradling it like the most precious relic, a sacred object, a faveur from the Franconigerian cavalry times. This is a tiny, tangible part of him that you might be allowed to keep - just like the feeling of his hair under your fingertips that one time, or his name that Isobel had told you. Into the deepest inner compartment  of your bag it goes, checked twice over to ensure that you won't lose it.

     Smiling, you return to the task at hand. Once the clean-up is all done, you once again force the protesting bed into its place, then, with a moment's consideration, begin to strip the bedding - just a nicety for an old woman with a crumbled spine.

     The bedsheets still smell of him.

     You have to go. Now.

***

     For your efforts, la laveuse rewards you with a generous heaping of sticky toffee from her seemingly endless supply. You peel one delicately, already hungry for a drag of nicotine - you refuse to have one whenever you're around the village's inhabitants, out of courtesy - and chew on it, hoping that you won't break a tooth. The sweet burst of plum flavour helps assuage your craving.

     "Aw, you're a sweet boy. Thank you for the bedsheets, too - my back's been killing me this whole week." She takes the neatly folded stack of laundry from your hands and crams it into the wooden dolly-tub full of sudsy water. You lean closer, briefly displeased with yourself for not considering this sooner. "I could get you some Drouamine, you know?" 

      Isobel simply waves you off, cackling. "Ah-ah, don't worry your pretty head about it. I'll do fine, dearie, I'll do fine. You better go off now, and be careful!" She pats you on the shoulder. On the porch, the fisherwoman is stretching the freshly mended net on a makeshift rack, probing for slack in the new knots as she picks at the crisscrossed cording with deft fingers. You call Cindy over; as she passes by, Lilienne glances at her briefly, then nods in acknowledgement. The little gesture warms your heart; impassive as it may seem, it's full of approval and acceptance.

     The Skull smirks, baring her teeth like a small feral creature. "Hey, cool sword!" Lilienne chuckles at that, clearly pleased, then calls the children over: "Kids! Breakfast, now!" You can hear the little girl's reluctant "But moooom!", promptly met with "Don't you mom me. Up, up, up! Boys!". Cindy waves goodbye and the three silhouettes wave right back.

      As the houses fade in the distance, both of you shake Astras out of your packs and light them greedily, filling your lungs with blessed smoke. Neither of you says a word - you don't have to. It's bliss, this silent communion.

***

     At the Land's End, you can hear the crackling and shifting of the floes deep beneath the church's stilts. In a week, the whole sheet will split into a thousand pieces and float away - it's already sweating rivulets under the morning sun. There's a young woman kneeling on the ice right next to a particularly large fissure, holding a small apparatus close to the water's surface. You recognise a portable contact microphone used for sampling sounds (as well as surveillance, according to at least one of your weekday friends). "Hello! Are you doing research?" you ask, trying not to startle her into falling into the frigid ocean.

     The girl turns around, still crouched. She's your age or perhaps a little younger, cocooned into a puffy orange vest and a green scarf, peering at you from beneath a loosely-knit, obnoxiously yellow bum hat with a pompom on top. You notice that she's not wearing gloves, her hands looking red and sore. "Hi. Yeah... you could say that." Clearly, she's a bit wary, or distracted - or simply busy with whatever she's trying to do. From behind your back, Cindy hollers, "Hey, careful on the ice, okay? It's too thin to stand on it like that!" The bundled-up girl laughs gently, "Yeah, sure. Don't worry, whoever you are, I'm just about wrapped up with this set." She stands up, ignoring the ominous groans of the frozen sheet under her boots, and trots towards the church, breathing at her numb fingers. You can hear the anodic beat emanating through the entrance; it's not half bad. Kind of catchy, actually.

     Before the young woman walks inside, you yell after her, "Are you guys opening a nightclub in there or something?" She turns around and finally cracks a smile. "The best since the Paliseum! You should come check us out when we're done with the setup!" And with that, she disappears in the church's tenebrous entrance. 

     The Skull whistles, bemused; the two of you exchange a look. "Now that's a high plank to clear, n'est ce pas? I do envy the confidence, though.  Guess my invitation to check this place out still stands - after our little Communard bunker dive, of course." Cindy snickers, "Man, did you notice? She's fucking bombed!" You blink. "No, I didn't." "Kid's so far in the altosphere from all that speed, she's about to bump into a fucking warship." "Damn. Yeah, that sounds like a nightclub to me, alright." The girl humphs, taking another drag of a nearly-finished cigarette, then stubs it out against a fence post. "Been to many?" 

     Hoo boy, where to begin with that one.

    "You don't even want to know, ma chéri. Every big one there is in Revachol West - been to it. I've gone to the Paliseum, actually - twice - not that there's anything else to do in Faubourg besides touring Boogie Street, really." The Skull is heeding you with rapt interest, you realise, much like the fisherwife's children were listening to her not even half an hour ago. Her eyes are glowing with a curious hunger, bright in their deep-set sockets. It must be something that Cindy probably isn't very familiar with - she doesn't seem the type to enjoy stroboscopics and overly handsy, sweaty partygoers. "How was it?" 

     Your hand reflexively comes up to mess with your earring. "I don't remember much, you know? I was... fifteen or sixteen back then, and probably higher than Miss Funky Hat there - on a few things at once, too. They do have a really cool open scene though, with rows of seats that loop all the way around, so that's going to be hard to out-do. The rest of the Fau is all batiments and trailers, trailers and batiments as far as the eye can see - that, and the People's Pile." 

     The Skull makes a face. "What, a nuclear meltdown doesn't spice up your clubbing?" "Quelle surprise, non?" She shoots a finger gun at you, then stops, looks at her own hand and remarks, alarmed, "Oh no, I'm picking up habits from the Art Cop." The parting smoke from your own Astra goes down too deep, choking the air out of you. As the girl slaps you on the back - wham, wham, wham! - and you regain your breath, you laugh, heartily, until tears stream from your eyes. 

     After the lingering unease of the past few days, it's so wonderful to simply laugh, you think.

     Deep inside you, a small voice like radio static and droplets of rain adds: TO SHARE BREATH WITH A FRIEND. There and gone, but you're happy to hear it.

     The reeds whisper mysteriously, nodding in agreement. 

     Ahead of you, the FELD building looms, its monolithic bulk making everything around it seem small by comparison. The old plank boardwalk around it is covered in decades' worth of bird droppings and beach grime. Sunlight casts reflections on the enormous, grated windows. In the distance, the abandoned amusement park complex flanks another, smaller building with a partially caved-in roof. Beneath it, you notice the entrances of several large pipes - an interconnecting system that no doubt distributed hot water and disposed of waste back in the days when the whole shebang was still in use. 

     Plenty of people have tried the pipes before, only to find steel beam grating a few metres inside, barring them from entry. FELD Electronics was the kind of company that took theft of intellectual property seriously - and those same grates prevented desperate employees from escaping when the Communard revolutionaries shot this building chock-full of bullets.

Something rustles inside the pipe furthest away, below a dipped section of the boardwalk, startling you. A small animal? You tap Cindy on the shoulder, pointing at the source of the noise, and she steps closer, listening in. "Don't shit your pants, potache. Must be a fox or a wildcat - they hunt seagulls here, I think?" The two of you pass by a dilapidated chainlink fence, leaving the mystery creature alone. 

***

     "Well fuck." You frown, staring at the jammed entrance door. The hinges are crooked, warping the frame along the side in a way that keeps the solid metal sheet firmly in place. The Skull scratches at the eye-level bullet dents speckled across the rusty surface, muttering, "How the hell did the cops get in there then? Through a fucking würmhole?"

     You point at a flimsy-looking ladder on the side of the building. "Pretty sure that's where they went." The girl spits on her hands, then makes an attempt at scaling it; instantly, one of the rungs breaks off with a loud thunk. She jumps down, dismayed. "Nuh-uh, nope. No way in hell it's gonna hold." Looks like the ladder's out of question now. 

     A brief inspection reveals a crumbled rear wall, but it's unreachable, facing the sea directly. However, the third one has a few hopper windows right above ground level, unshielded by grates. You kick at one experimentally. The glass doesn't budge. Cindy inspects the frame up close. "Don't bother, it's bulletproof." 

     Before you can say a word, she runs down the incline, grabs a chunk of rock the size of a shot-put - and with a practiced swing, hurls it at the window. The glass explodes, shattering inwards. The opening is big enough to fit either one of you, pitch-dark like an empty eye socket. The Skull smirks at your astonished expression. "Watch and learn from an actual pro, kid." You give her a round of applause, which seems to greatly please her.

      Looks like your bunker dive may have just become quite literal.

     You drop down into the basement's gaping maw, landing on your feet. Broken glass crunches under the soles of your boots. The space is dark and empty, full of ancient dust and cobwebs. Its corners are crowded with overturned tables and shelves, some riddled with bullet holes. 

      MINDSTREAM - bullet holes empty eyes trained on you like sniper sights, lingering hopes and gunpowder seeds, planted into those who shall never rise by the ones who dreamed of paradise until the ground itself bleeds

     "Hey, is everything alright?" Potache's voice echoes from above, startling you out of your thoughts, back into the room. You raise your head; he's trying to peek into the basement, but of course it's too dark for him to see. After all, he's not like you - not used to the pitch-black of the coal room or lightless shacks.

     You step aside and yell up, "Yeah! Jump right here, just don't touch the floor or you'll cut your hands to shit!" The boy awkwardly slides halfway into the small window, then leaps down with a disgruntled noise, clutching his duffel bag under one arm. Luckily, he regains balance just in time to avoid resting his palms on the cement, leaning against the cracked wall instead. He looks around, wide-eyed, at the scant remains of the abandoned workspace, muttering "Whoa, ça a l'air effrayant comme de la merde..." You chuckle. "What, scared already?" Pretty Boy rolls his eyes, slinging the bag over his shoulder in an effortlessly cool gesture. The tiny earring he so constantly messes with catches a flitting spark of light. "I don't know about you, ma chérie, but I've never been to a public execution spot before. It's completely different from hearing about this stuff in history class... really weird how they used to develop groundbreaking technology here, then it was burned down by people who thought they could do better - and got shot up just a few years later." It's almost like he tuned to the same sine as yourself. But then again, what else is there to think about when you're in a building full of ghosts?

      A brief search reveals that the numerous table drawers are all empty, save for a few yellowed leaflets that turn to dust between your fingers. You scour for hidden table compartments, but nothing - not even a porn stash taped to the underside of a drawer, or a cubby in the wall. The whole room is drab cement, sterile like a doctor's glove. You suppose that the Moralintern scum ripped any decorations left by the defeated right off. Maybe they even had a fucking bonfire and danced around it.

     MINDSTREAM - banners burned by the winning side swallowed whole like a coming tide, and so it goes, swings like a pendulum, history written over and over again until the truth is drowned way under and no-one even remembers

      The heavy wooden door is locked, but one glance is enough to see that it won't be a problem. Potache watches with fascination as you pull a lockpick out of your pocket and slide it into the keyhole; you fish around until you feel the first obstruction and coerce it to give way. "They used a warded lock here, probably because there was nothin' important in this room. These are fuckin' easy, see - this is the kind of mechanism that has a bunch of little quarter-plates in it, so all you gotta do is to poke it until you line the plates up and give your key a pivot point to turn around on. You can actually make something called a skeleton key that will open most of them, too!"

     You hear a chain reaction of metal bits clicking into place; with a loud screech, the door cracks open. The boy smiles at you - a charming grin that makes him look teen-aged - and murmurs, "Beautiful. Quelle compétence!" With a smirk of your own, you light an Astra, reveling in a lungful of clove-scented smoke. He does the same, eyes closed as the smoke curls into thin ribbons as it exits through his nostrils. Feels nice to be praised.

      Outside the door, a long passageway loops, slithering like a snake. The two of you soon discover several more rooms, unlocked and completely forsaken, bar for hoards of ancient clutter. There are a few hidey-holes inside the walls, but they've all been emptied - one recently, the others long ago, judging by the cobwebs. 

     "Well, this is anticlimactic", the boy remarks, perching on a scuffed table. You snort. "What did you expect, fanfares and confetti? All hail the explorers from the Isola of Martinaise, discoverers of mysterious crypts!" He nods sideways, pointing his chin at the two sets of footprints in the dust - one bigger, steps wide, the other smaller and more evenly paced. "Technically, we would be the settlers, seeing as how the crypts have been already explored before us."

     You frown, staring closely at the floor. "You know what bugs me? There are no rats here at all. Little fuckers usually love dark, abandoned places like this one, but I don't see any tracks or shit anywhere. What's up with that?" Pretty Boy shrugs, "Ma chérie, I'm afraid you're the rat expert here." You pretend to smack him on the arm, and he fake-flinches. 

      It's actually fun, bantering back and forth like this.

      You don't remember the last time someone was fun to be around.

***

      A crumbling staircase leads to the roof, or whatever remains of the second floor. The view is fantastic, though: the sky opens up above, feathery clouds stippling the pale blue like surreal waves, a make-believe sea above the real one.

      MINDSTREAM - a neverending sea as far as the eye can see, infinity like mirrors posed across one another; if you jump into the sky will it be a freefall until the Pale claims you and the stars go by, or just a final dive until nothing really matters and it's all the same anyway, so why even bother

     "... it's really quite sad, isn't it?"

     Shit, it appears you've missed a chunk of conversation there - fuckin' mind-voice loves flooding your brain at the worst time possible. Potache leans next to you against the remnants of a wall, leisurely draping an arm over the edge; a cigarette is breathing its last in his fingers. "Endless blue, just like in my dreams," he sighs wistfully. "I can see why you're fascinated with it. Either way, I was saying that they probably used to conduct most of their research on this floor, back in the day. Apparently, FELD came up with some new type of radiocomputer that was supposed to work on... j'sais pas, ferromagnetic tapes? Not that our retro-tech course was very clear about it, but it appears that the only prototype in existence was either burned or dismantled, and no blueprints survived. Must have been incredible..."

     You wonder too, even if you don't understand a thing about radiocomputers - you've only seen pictures in books, but never a real one. What was it like, to create complicated machinery that had a life of its own? The building remains quiet; outside, seagulls squawk at each other as they fight for small fish. There's nowhere to go from here but down.

     A small, dusty door is concealed beneath the stairs, right next to the ground floor hallway. You try the handle; it's unlocked. Inside is a row of toilet cubicles, several chipped porcelain sinks and what seems to be a shower stall. Experimentally, you turn the hot water knob on the nearest sink. The tap gurgles, but nothing comes out. The cold one, however, spews a stream of rust-coloured sludge, rattling up a storm. In a few seconds, the water clears up, coursing freely down the drain. 

    "Holy shit, look, it still works!" you call out to your accomplice. He pokes his head through the door, startled as he notices your discovery. "Now that's something! Why don't we check the rest of these?" he exclaims, already poking and prodding at any knob and spigot within reach.

     Sadly, only one sink seems to be operational. Nothing comes out of the other two, aside from pitiful groaning. The closest toilets don't flush anymore - but the furthest two still do, to your delight. "Hey, look, look!" you yell, pressing the button over and over again. "Now let's see if the shower is any good." "Don't push your luck," he grins, but obligingly tries the "COLD" valve. Immediately, a spray of water hits the floor; the boy yelps "Fuck!" and recoils just in time not to get drenched from head to toe. Your jaw drops; soon, both of you are cracking up like damn fools. "Oh Dei, that fucking face you just made, I can't!" He laughs even harder, thin arms folded across his chest. The shower hisses like an agitated snake.

***

     The two of you walk down the corridor, following a tangle of pipes. On one side, a tiny storage room hides a tall mounted shelf holding dozens of isosilicate glass panes, stacked together like pages of a fantastic encyclopedia. The boy shines a flashlight at them, and the whole display lights up, casting rainbow glimmers across the mold-stained walls. "Qu'est-ce que c'est? I've never seen anything like this!" he exclaims, handing you the flashlight in order to crank up as he picks a slide out, turning it this way and that, inspecting it up close. You notice hairline fractures in the glass, scattered deep within the surface like blood vessels, and point them out. "Careful, it's cracked. Put it back, 'kay?"

     Potache leans closer, bringing the rectangular panel directly towards the source of light, and scrapes his neatly trimmed nail along a scintillating line. "No, see, it's not cracks, it's wires!" You squint at them just so - and yes, those are metal filaments finer than hairs, encased deeply inside a centimeter-thick sheet. The boy muses, frowning. "I suppose they're some sort of equipment or record stacks for the radiocomputer vein-work they had running through the building. It's such a pity that we can't see this in action." He smiles dolefully, probably imagining electricity running though those lines and lighting them up like roads and highways. "Ça a dû être un spectacle à voir..." 

    You gesture for him to put it back. "Yeah, and now these babies are gatherin' dust in a basement. Think we could sell 'em?" He raises a brow, clearly unimpressed with your suggestion. "Chérie, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't retail for much even as collectors' items - Roy might be interested in a slide or two, but frankly, these are altogether useless without the machinery that would run them. Everything of value got burned down a long, long time ago. Besides..." He glances down quickly, looking pained. "...I don't like the thought of pilfering this. It's like... "

    MINDSTREAM - pouring gasoline on a flower field and burning it down for the sake of greed, turning precious grain into pig feed, casting library books down a grinder and watching knowledge disappear from this world, page by page word by word, some things are better untouched and left as a reminder

     "...Either way, I don't think it's a good idea. Laissons-les tranquilles." You nod. Might be better to let the sleeping ghosts lie.

     The boy slots the glass panel back into place, patting it down with reverence - like a priest handling an ancient relic, which, in a sense, it is. Once the bright beam moves away, the caleidoscope of colours turns back into ordinary glass, falling asleep.

     As you walk out of the storage space, a gust of cold wind blows across your face, startling you. There must be a room on the other side of the corridor, right behind the wall.

     Sure enough, your hand stumbles upon the wooden side of a weirdly narrow door frame, obscured from view by a jutting slab of broken cement. Both of you peek inside, squeezed against each other; Pretty Boy winces as you accidentally step on his foot. The corner of his bag is poking you right between the ribs, but you barely even notice.

     Through the doorway, you see a room that looks a bit more lived-in than any of the previous ones. There's a double-decker bunk bed in a corner - with an actual mattress! - a writing desk, a chair and what looks like a small storage box. From across, a badly printed linograph of Kras Mazov is staring you right in the eye with unwarranted judgment. How rude.

     It takes you all of two minutes to cram yourselves in and start digging around. "Holy shit, we're finally in a Communard bunker, aren't we?" you laugh, digging through the knick-knacks on the table. There's nothing of interest - some plates and bowls, an old shaving kit, several cheap ball-point pens with long-dried ink, a brittle notepad that's filled with the most illegible chicken-scratch you've ever seen (including your own) and covered in antique cigarette burns. "Wow, this is all useless garbage," the boy huffs as he pulls the storage box out from underneath the table, prying the lid open with a small, sharp-looking pocket-knife - probably a lock-blade, by the look of it. "Behold, the Revolutionary riches!" he motions at the empty bullet shells and a single ripped sock at the bottom of the coffer. "That's it, we're moving to Ozonne and buying ourselves a villa," you deadpan right back.

     From the wall, Mazov observes your antics, clearly unamused. "What say you, Comrade? Any valuables that you know of?" you quip, snatching the linograph and waving it around. The damned thing is backed with cardboard; no inscriptions there whatsoever. Annoyed, you shake the portrait, then slam it against the table.

     Something small rattles dryly inside the frame. Your ears perk up; Potache turns around to check the odd little noise as well. "Did you hear that? There's something inside, under the backing!" you exclaim as he rummages around in his duffel bag. Out comes the knife again. The boy motions you to hold the lino down in place, while he swiftly pries the flimsy clasps away, pulling the framed piece apart. You lean closer to look inside.

     Beneath the cardboard, you find a dry wisp of maybell flowers, fragile to the touch and almost completely see-through. The flower stalk snaps in half when you attempt to handle it, disintegrating faster than a poor man's paycheck. On the back of the portrait, a single line is scrawled in shaky lead pencil, barely there - "I HOPE THEY NEVER FIND THIS". The other object inside is a pendant of some sort, attached to a red string. You pick it up; Potache catches the shiny thing between two fingers and tilts it against the lantern light.

STERLING SILVER 0.5✤ COIN

+1 Empathy: Ultima memoria

-1 Composure: You thrust your fist against the posts and still insist you see the ghosts

      It's not a pendant, but a silver coin, cloudy with grey patina. On one side, a pattern of stars and lines - a map of constellations - rises slightly above the scuffed surface. On the other, a barely visible crowned woman's profile, with "50 CENTIMES" engraved below. You inspect the coin for a release date, but find nothing on either side. The boy squints, mumbling, "It must be from at least 200 years ago! Didn't they stop minting silver centimes sometime around the middle of the Filippian reign... no, wait, the Oranjese map on the back is pretty new since they still use it on notable date issues... Either way, this coin is definitely at least a century and a half old! You know, I think you found a treasure after all." 

     Carefully, you lower it onto the palm of your hand, rubbing your thumb against the crest of quatrefoils. "Guess it used to be a lucky charm? Some kid's momma probably put it around his neck - before he got taken out and shot in the head in front of the building. Or a keepsake from a lover, maybe." Your friend nods thoughtfully. "Looks like nothing's been lucky around here for a long, long time, n'est-ce pas vrai? But maybe it can spare a little bit of magic just for you." With that, he picks the coin up by the string and loops it around your neck. The little silver piece gleams like an old medal.

***

     Further down, the corridor splits, both passageways looping away from each other in the dim light. The cement crackles under your feet; the structure is still strong, but the salty air has taken toll on it. Far away, you can hear the rustle of the waves, lapping at the remnants of that collapsed wall you've seen from outside. The noise is actually soothing, like a steady whoosh-whoosh of a huge broom, sweeping up the clutter of old away into the ocean. 

     An array of footprints streaks the left passage, running back and forth like a trail of large ants. Dust has already begun to settle on top of them; soon, nothing will be left at all. Out of curiosity, you pick the turn to the right - it seems to be the one that the cops left alone, somehow. What's the point having an adventure when you only choose the paths that others have walked before you?

    The boy totters ahead, shining a bright circle of light on ancient walls. There's only dust and cobwebs as far as you can see; it's honestly beginning to feel suffocating.

     MINDSTREAM - packed in tight deep within a mine, neverending corridors in the corners of your mind, leading down like the catacombs of Le Royaume to the realm of nightmares where old shadows roam, aimlessly twisting and coiling like a hangman's noose you better shake it off if you want to let loose-

     You're interrupted by a loud crack, sharp as a gunshot, followed by a gasp. The distraction is so sudden that you startle, baring your teeth like an angry animal; your heart thumps inside your ribs like a well-oiled train engine, echoing deeply inside your head. 

     It's just a rotten board, snapped in half by the heavy sole of Potache's track-and-field boot. Ahead, the sun grows brighter as the corridor slopes gently to the left. The floor is oddly tilted, as if the artillery cannonade had damaged something deep in the foundation. The boy props his hand against the wall, steadying himself as he passes the turn - then stops and stares at the vast expanse of cement, frowning. "There's air blowing out of here!" You press an ear to the spot that he's pointed out and hear a faint whooshing; a thin, vertical crack spans from ceiling to floor. 

     "Do you think there's a hidden room?" he asks, running the flashlight's beam back and forth across the corridor's curve. "Might be!" you nod. "If it's an actual secret room, there must be a button to open it somewhere 'by."

     Up on the wall, above head height, a small rectangular piece of cement stands out against the smooth surface - just a little, almost unnoticeable unless you know where to look. Your friend pushes at it; the switch clicks, and you hear a dull, ominous roar of ancient mechanisms coming to life. A whole section of the wall reluctantly sinks in, as if whatever's powering it has been asleep for ages, then stops, gears screeching, and begins to slide sideward. A gust of stale, moldy air rushes into your faces, and you pick up something disturbing as you recoil - a faint, sweet stench that you hate above all others. It's the smell of flesh that's decomposed a long time ago. The boy winces, "Ough!", covering his nose with a sleeve. 

     It's dark inside. Faint glow comes in through a fissure in the outer wall of the building, close to the ground. The room is narrow and tall, made to fit the curve of the nearby corridor. You grope around blindly, but only feel the outline of a shelf, and then a ray of bright light swings into the room, spilling over the dusty walls.

      When you see what's on the floor, your breath stops short in your lungs.

      In the corner of a near-empty room, a withered corpse, barely more than a skeleton, sits upright, its legs sprawled wide. It's still wearing the tattered and moth-eaten remains of a white laboratory coat. Potache makes a pitiful little noise, as if he's about to hurl; you lay a hand on his arm in an attempt to ground him. In the harsh spotlight, the dead man glares at both of you with gap-toothed mockery, bottom jaw unhinged all the way down to his chest. You shudder. Some Skull you are, scared of a guy who's been dead for half a century. 

      Something is clutched in the corpse's skeletal hand, pressed close to his chest. You hunker down, trying not to look into the hollow eye-sockets, and carefully wrestle the item from his grasp.

FINAL NOTE

+1 Self-Conscience: The first death is in the heart, the last one's in the memory

-1 Pain Threshold: Abyssus abyssum invocat

     It's a sheet of mottled paper, covered in neat lines of cursive, and surprisingly well-preserved. As you carefully pull it from the man's fingers, you notice a small round hole on the side of his coat. The rusty, faded stain around it is unmistakable.

     "Must've gotten himself shot and hid in here so he could die in peace, poor fellow." The boy crouches next to you, looking sadly at the researcher's corpse, then places a hand on the desiccated ribcage. Stations of Breath, you realise. "How horrible, knowing that you'd never get out of here alive..." His voice trails off, choked up.

     The two of you huddle together on the dusty floor in the middle of the room, shining a light on the dead man's letter. Your friend takes it from you, examining it up close, then exclaims, puzzled, "This is papier d'archive!" "Huh?" He rubs the edge of the sheet between his fingertips. "It's treated with chemicals for durability. See how it hasn't yellowed after all this time? You use this sort of stuff if you want your records to last a long while - usually to preserve the most important notes, but papier d'archive is really expensive and hard to get." Reflections flicker back and forth in his eyes, tired and wan. "I think he hoped someone might find him... mais pas après si longtemps."

     He squints a little, getting used to the old-fashioned, curly handwriting, then begins reading out the message in a quiet, monotonous voice. 

     "My love,

      If you're reading this, I'm probably already gone. I'm so, so sorry that I couldn't keep my promise and return to you... Right now, I would give anything to see your smile again. 

    As I sit here, these barbarians are burning the research that I've poured half of my lifetime into. The prototype, the blueprints - they've rounded it all up under the pretense of "confiscating technology for the betterment of people", but I can smell the smoke coming from the top floor. My precious baby, they've destroyed it... Those fuckers shot Jerome, and Mathieu, and Etiennette. I heard the screams but couldn't do anything to help. Instead, I played dead, only to hide in the safe-room. Please forgive me for being such a coward.

     The only thing I got to salvage is my footnote journal, the one I told you about, with the last month's logs. Once I die, it will be the only memory left of my life's work. 

     I know you won't ever read this, love. Run to the aerodrome, save yourself and be happy, wherever you are.

    Après la mort, l'espoir encore.

    Yours, ---"

     The handwriting becomes shaky towards the end; the last few sentences are barely understandable. A fat smudge of dried blood covers the writer's name, a ghost obscured by another ghost. 

     Quickly, you turn around so that nobody can see you blink away the tears. The boy is quiet; you sneak a look only to see the corners of his mouth distort into a bitter scowl, so unlike his usual self. It takes him a moment to regain composure - a shudder, and he rearranges his features into a neutral expression, then carefully folds the letter away and tucks it into the chest pocket of his windbreaker.

Both of you sit in silence for a little while. 

     MINDSTREAM - wherever you go, ruin and decay, everyone dead or turning on one another like rabid animals, divided and conquered so thoroughly that only bits of skin and fur remain, run, run from this room, run like you ran from your old home and your old pain and never come back again unless you want to meet your doom

     You shrug off the thought. Sometimes the little voice in your head gets a little too personal; truth is, you do want to run away, but won't. You wanted an adventure in a Communard bunker and now you have to chew through whatever you ended up biting off.

     Bright light bounces off the walls, illuminating old spiderwebs covering a row of warehouse-type shelves. They're all empty, except for one.

FELD RESEARCH LOG

+2 Encyclopedia: a compendium of lost knowledge

+1 Logic: a scientist died for this

     The dead man's last gift to you is a thick, leather-bound journal. In the bottom corner, you notice an embossed logo of a running cat with "SCHNELLER" printed underneath. The cover is scuffed and stained, but the tiny button-lock is still shiny after half a century of disuse. Inside, rows and rows of angular symbols and lines dot the pages. It's clear they're supposed to mean something important, but you have no idea how to read any of it. The only thing you can understand are the numbers at the beginning of each entry: the first one is dated with 07/02/'02. If it's the day when it was written, that means... about a month's time before the Revolution struck, you think. Checks out with the note, doesn't it.

     Here and there, the wall of text is broken up by drawings. One is a quick sketch of something like a tape spool, attached to some type of automatic roller. Another looks a bit like a splayed ribcage, with more spools disappearing into the machine's innards. The piece of tech is fragile and intricate - something you wouldn't really dare to mess with. There's one more drawing, of a room with the same mechanism taking up at least a third of the space, a few people in lab coats standing around it. The journal is three-quarters full; the last of the blank pages has been ripped out.

     "I guess that's what he used to write his final note," the boy comments, examining the blotchy, thick paper up close. "This is some kind of cipher, I'm sure of it, but for the lungs of Dei, I doubt I could solve it. For all I know, this was important enough to write down on long-lasting paper and hide away before he died." 

     You peek at the dead man's ghastly face. "Let's try to figure out what the fuck it's all about, then."

     The boy scoffs wryly. "Oh, I'm sure we might be able to crack it - the real issue is doing so without gaining the attention of all the wrong sorts of people. In my experience, our friends of the forget-me-not persuasion can take on la responsabilité real quick if you find something that interests them, and my life plan does not include getting suddenly dropped off the face of the isola." 

     Now that you think of it, he's right. The only two people you know who are even remotely knowledgeable about this sort of stuff are the two fools in the room next to yours, and you're not even sure they could help. Way too chatty and pretentious, and besides, the man went to great lengths to hide this piece of -

     MINDSTREAM - information so priceless that it turned the world upside down, so dangerous that there's no-one to turn to, nobody to trust, better tread carefully if you must because in the wrong hands it will cause war once over, aerial bombings of such scale that might blow the whole archipelago into the Pale, no-one to turn to, no-one to-

     A thin hand shakes you very, very gently. You snap out of it, feeling stupid; the boy stashes the journal away into his bag, zipping it up. "N'y pense pas trop, d'accord? Let's deal with this some other day... and get out of here while we're at it. Very impolite of me, but this room gives me the fantods." You smirk. "Sure does. We're pretty much grave-robbing, huh." "Let's hope it doesn't come with some sort of death-curse, then."

     The secret door locks behind both of you, screeching with effort. It's barely visible, but now you know where to look... if you ever decide to come back again.

***

     You stand in a vast open space, gawking at the ocean through the collapsed side of the building. After the dark passageways, the sunlight is blinding - so bright that everything blurs together at first. As your eyes get used to it, you look around in awe. "Holy fuck. What happened here?" Potache squints, shielding his face from the glint on the water's surface. "A shootout, by the looks of it." He goes on ahead, carefully observing the tangle of tracks scattered across the floor. "I believe our gendarme friends found someone in hiding, had a brief struggle with the person, who then ran. See this third set of tracks that goes back into the other fork of the corridor? The one with the odd sole, here. I suppose they lived in that-"

     The rest of his words you don't even hear. In the corner there's a tent, and you dive straight into it, mentally thanking whoever used to own the damn thing. Inside you find a portable stove, a sleeping bag (practically new), a nice pillow, several pots and pans, some cutlery, a bunch of radio-bino mags and a whole shitload of - inexplicably - unopened hair dye boxes. You dig through them. The colours are too bright for you: green, fuel red, neon blue, magenta, but you do see a few labeled 'black' and pocket them greedily. Beats having to paw through Frittte shelves and risk being punched out by an armed guard.

     "Whoever this was, I'm pretty sure they were hiding from someone really dangerous. Maybe Padre Madre... or Mazda's hommes de main. Not a wise choice, to dye your hair that bright - if you want a good disguise, you have to draw attention away from your head, not to it." You turn around, grinning. "I don't even care - dibs on the whole tent!" Potache blinks, puzzled, then explodes into laughter.  "Chérie, never change!  Go ahead, help yourself to the spoils of our adventure!" He slicks back his hair, still chuckling, then totters over to the remains of a broken device on the other side of the room. "This looks like a custom-bashed wave transmitter to me, not that I'm any good at radio-science. I'd bet a reál that you could tap into a lot of interesting conversations with this."

     The cement slabs are warm where the sun lingers, and the two of you take a seat right by the edge of the broken wall. Your foot catches on a bowl left by the stowaway, and the boy winces in disgust as you check it out - it's full of rotten porridge. You snicker at that. "Gross, huh? Ate worse." The horrified response is priceless. You dump the slop into the sea, rinse the bowl off and throw it into the tent. "See? No big deal, buddy."

     Waves lap at your boots, washing off the road grime. Far away, tankers honk at each other as they haul cargo to places you've never been to. The water is so clear that you can see tiny fish pecking at the seaweed growing between submerged rocks. Potache rummages around in his bag, pulling out paper-wrapped sandwiches, a large thermos flask and two metallic cups. "Careful, these do heat up quickly." He pours dark, fragrant coffee into your cup with a graceful gesture, then offers you a sandwich to go with it. You mumble thanks, feeling as awkward as ever. Not only is being offered help - or even food - something you're unused to, it feels... fundamentally wrong in a way. Smokes you can and will take, same for Pyrholidon, but that's just... getting fucked up together with someone else, not being fed.

     Flavour bursts in your mouth with each bite. Oh, this is so, so good. You do your best to eat slowly instead of scarfing everything down in two bites... but you haven't had fresh bread in a long time, maybe weeks, and it's really hard to mind your manners. You can't help but make a delighted noise as the lettuce crunches on your teeth.

     The coffee is just as nice - the right mix of bittersweet, hot but not scalding. Smells like life itself.

     "Glad you're enjoying it, chérie. I did my best with what I dug out of my fridge, and it was already of dubious quality to begin with." The boy stretches out his legs, looking into the distance, then takes a tiny sip of coffee and exhales happily. "Ahh, ça fait du bien!" He looks so effortlessly cool that you can't even envy him. Some people are just born that way; there's nothing you can do about it but remember that you're not one of them and never will be. 

     For a while, you just sit in silence, enjoying your lunch. The tiny fish are now fighting for the wasted porridge you chucked into the sea. Guess your trash is their treasure now.

     MINDSTREAM - treasure being stuck in this moment here and now nothing that could hurt you no fear no hunger no pain only pleasure of floating in your head coasting along a nameless friend and his little song

     The voice in your head is right - the boy is humming a tune in some unknown language. 

"Geldiğim yerde aşk çok zordu 

Aşk sadece filmlerde olurdu 

Çok izledim, öyle öğrendim 

En iyi aşkları taklit ettim 

Yavaş yavaş yaklaş bana 

Sözlerim seni korkuttu mu? 

Rüya gibi sevsek şimdi 

Aşk bu kadar zor mu?"

     The words are melodic in a way you can't really explain. "Damn, have I told you that you're really good? Ever thought about signing up for Sad FM?" He raises a brow. "Chérie, turning a hobby into a job will suck all the enjoyment out of it. Trust me, I know. Besides, I do perform better when I know my audience." He actually winks at you, then lights up a cig, glancing at the horizon. You do the same. Clove-flavoured smoke floats up to the cracked ceiling, curling up like a tangle of snakes. 

    "So, I know it's kinda shitty of me, but I never asked your name." Potache turns to you, surprised, cracking a sly grin. "You haven't, have you now? Mais ça ne fait rien, I should've introduced myself earlier - it's just a bit of an... affaire compliquée, really. See, I have a rather odd relationship with my given name, so I never really use it." You hum. "Too foreign?" "More like, too fraught with bad memories. The only people who know it are the secretaries from l'Académie, and only because the paperwork is, pardon me, a bitch. Otherwise, I'd rather go by Martin Martinaise. Makes me feel a bit less unwelcome, tu sais?" He takes a drag of his cigarette, then huffs twin ribbons of vapour from his nose.

     You can definitely understand that. There's a good reason why everyone knows you as the Skull instead of the last name your shitty fucking father saddled you with. Might as well tell 'im though. "I'm Cindy Baker. Cindy the Skull is better though, 'kay?" He turns to you, reaching his hand out. "Nice to meet you, Cindy." The grip is deceptively strong for those bony fingers. You suddenly feel self-conscious about your own sooty, nails-chewed-to-the-quick hands, but your friend looks like he doesn't care at all. "Same to you, Martin." The name suits him. Makes you think of a fancy drink for some reason.

     Thankfully, the voice in your head is quiet for now. Out comes another sandwich, just as delicious as the first one. You manage to blurt out with your mouth still full of bread, "What was that song? I don't think I ever heard it before." Hitting a smoke between bites feels wonderful. "That's Kedran, from an old adventure milieu back..." You feel like he wants to say "home", but can't bring himself to do it. Instead you ask, "So, how did you end up here in Martinaise?"

     Martin sighs thoughtfully. You scramble for an apology, but he shakes his head. "No, no, that's alright. It's a long story, really. In short, my family thought that the Old Old World wasn't good for business anymore, so we moved to Revachol East, but it turned out that migrants with a very basic knowledge of Suresne aren't all that welcome in the rich people districts, plus interisolary travel eats up cash faster than a posh MC guzzles up fuel. We had to move to Jamrock, and then they found out about me and, well, threw me out. Fun times."

     You cringe - a rich kid alone in Jamrock sounds like a murder waiting to happen. The boy notices and shrugs, dropping ash on his pant leg. "Ah, it is what it is. Besides, I'd never crawl back to them and give them the satisfaction - haven't seen them in almost a decade and not planning to. What about you?"

     MINDSTREAM - don't go there nononono no-

    You concentrate on shaking the voice off. Sometimes, if you try hard enough, you can stop it from putting your thoughts into a chokehold. It's kinda worse - and better at the same time - when you're on Pyrholidon and your brain floats like a balloon. Honestly, you wish you had some on you. Martin shoots you an alarmed look. "Listen, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, okay? C'était stupide de ma part de demander-" "Nah, it's not that. See, my brain's a little fucked up - sometimes I get really lost in thought and tune everything else out and it takes me a little while to, like, come back up?" He hums, dragging on his Astra. "Must be a lot on your mind, n'est-ce pas?" 

     You shrug.

    "Anyway, it's a trivial little story, boring as fuck. Used to live in an absolute shithole of a place with my parents and sister, it was hell, dad was a fucking drunk, blah-blah-blah. Then, when I was thirteen or so, the pox came. Mom caught it first, then my sister, and we didn't have a doctor around..." You shift uncomfortably. "Dunno why dad and I never got sick, though. We buried them and dad's drinkin' got even worse." The boy looks at you sadly - must be a story that he's heard many times before.

     "So yeah, guess I had enough of the place when he started noticing that I was growing tits. Left that motherfucker to drink himself to death in his shack and never looked back, baby." Your friend looks mortified; you wave him off. "Nah, it's alright - told ya, it's the kind of shit that just happens everywhere. Then I lived in Central Jamrock for a little while - now that was fun!" You smile, remembering the shit you used to get up to a few years ago - all the joyriding, lock-picking and purse-cutting. Too bad the folks you were with were too dumb and got caught eventually, as they often are, sooner or later.

     Wind blows through the barebone steel beams of the second floor's structure, keening like a ghost. It's actually peaceful in here. You wonder if you could move into the tent - the weather's finally getting warm enough to stay out overnight. 

     Maybe you'll finally get rid of the stench on your clothing. It just seems to cling to you wherever you go - you can take a girl out of Coal City, but not the mine dust out of her lungs.

     You stub the Astra out on the floor, cramming the butt into an empty can. "Sooooo, Art Cop. What exactly got you so rah-rah about 'im? I mean, there's a ton of decently looking guys working in the harbour, so why not get hung up on one of them?" Martin scrunches his nose in pure disgust - not at you, at the idea. "I'd rather drink turpentine than cavort with unsophisticated men who work for Evrart." You... hadn't considered that. The thought of dealing with that slimeball - both of the brothers, actually - gives you the fucking creeps. "What about your... weekday friends? All those rich men you got and you decide to latch onto this bum?" 

     Martin looks at you, nonplussed. "Chérie, I wouldn't have touched any of them with a maypole if they didn't pay me... Alright, maybe one or two I would, but it's not that I like them, tu comprends?" You do understand. Sometimes he seems to be a person of an entirely different standing than you, and then you remember that he has to depend on favours from rich assholes to afford the fancy clothes he wears, or the food he eats. He's-

     MINDSTREAM - trapped in the same cage as you, only his is gilded, and he knows, and it fills him with rage but his hands are bound just like yours, and it burns, burns

     You jab him with an elbow; he dodges. "Yeah, and instead you want to get into the pants of a dude who went on a copocalyptic mega-bender. Seriously?"

     He pokes your boot with the toes of his fancy track shoe. For a minute, you just foot-scuffle around, giggling like a pair of idiots. Then he leans over to your ear, cupping his mouth with a hand, and whispers. "In all fairness, I never said I like them totally sane. Besides, have you seen his ass in those disco pants?" Now it's your turn to whisper. "Eww, no, he's like fifty!" 

     The boy grins coyly. "Just like fine wine - much better when it's aged." You wiggle your fingers next to your temple - did you go into the Pale and come back wrong? - and he pokes his tongue out back at you. You wonder if any of his friends ever saw him like that... no, if he actually has anyone close enough to talk to frankly. Must be hard to pretend day in, day out - one persona for the men he screws, another for classmates or neighbours, but nothing real. How does that feel?

***

     Turns out you missed the proper way to enter after all - there's an unlocked maintenance door right under the boardwalk, overgrown with tall weeds. You study footprints in the sand, dress shoes and field boots, and wonder how long it'll take for them to disappear. The critter in the pipe is either gone or silent. The only things you hear are the rustling of sand, birds' cries and the roar of a motorboat somewhere in the distance. Must be Lilienne casting her nets. She's one tough broad, sword and all. Maybe you could get a weapon for yourself as well, if only to scare the fuck out of people... then again, who's there to impress? Old Baptistine, or fuckin' Cuno?

     From inside the church, music is still blaring. Not exactly your jam, but catchy, the sort of beat to get stuck in your head for days. There's another noise mixed in as well - a handsaw? Kinda unusual to be repairing shit around here instead of breaking it. Nobody really even bothers with old buildings anymore.

     As you're crossing the bridge again, Martin waves cheerfully at the old man perched by the junk shop in a rickety fold-out chair. The man waves right back, then returns to the book that he was reading. "I should probably talk to Roy about the journal. Not a hundred percent sure he can help with deciphering, but he actually knows a lot about Revolutionary history, of all things. Besides, he's not a narc, so I think we can trust him on this." You pause. "Huh... you know him well, don't you? Never been to his shop - he looks creepy with those glasses and besides, I don't think he, like, ever sleeps."

     The boy smiles at that. "Trust me, he's better than he seems, especially since I don't sleep all that much either. Just make sure to stay away from his coffee if you don't want to feel like you drank a flaming cup of paint retardant."

    Suddenly, an electronic melody chimes from your friend's wrist; he startles, muttering something like "OhshitohfuckIgottarunclassesbye!", then hugs you - briefly but fiercely - before taking off towards his apartment. 

     You light another smoke, cackling. Are all students fools? Or are all fools students?

     The sunglasses-wearing peddler hollers from his stack of looted Humanox crates, "What a nice friend you have, Miss! Really cool!" You whip around, ready to tell the nosy fuck where to shove it, but he smiles at you disarmingly. "It's good to have friends in a place like this, right? No offense intended, Miss. How about some rations, at a low low cost of only fifty centimes apiece? You buy a whole box, I'll knock it down to forty!" You can't stand the way he always talks at you, but the pressed bars are still better than fried rats, even if they taste like dry cardboard. 

     "Not now, man." The peddler's grin becomes wider. "Thirty centimes per ration, alright? Now or never!"

     You stretch, blowing a cloud of vapour into the warm spring air. Somewhere nearby, children are playing tag, screaming happily in a mixture of Suresne and Mesque. As you start walking up Rue de St. Ghislaine, something possesses you to turn around and yell, "Looks like I'm moving out today!"

     The peddler smiles and waves. You cross the plaza, passing by the old conifer tree, turn right, and the graffito on the wall comes into your field of view. 

     Looks like Art Cop was right. 

     It's time to get out of the coal room for good.

      The classes would have run you ragged if you weren't prepared for daily scholastic misery. You're already mid-way through the dreaded exam week; the rest of your class alternates between being overly optimistic and utterly disoriented. The cafeteria is full of freshmen burying their noses in books while chewing on haphazardly grilled toast and overcooked potato wedges. Someone's crying in the corner while a fellow student mutters feeble consolations. The buffet workers bang their pots and pans with alarming ferocity while a middle-aged cleaner diligently picks up discarded napkins and paper cups to clear whatever meager space the tables provide.

      You make yourself scarce, as usual - the hustle and bustle gets on your nerves the way few other things do. On your way to the next exam, you trip over someone's leg; your bag spills open, scattering a pile of tattered copybooks, pens and assorted stationery all over the dingy floor. "Ah, putain de bordel-" you hiss quietly, shoveling all your belongings back into their respective compartments. 

      "Ah fuck, mate, I'm so sorry! You aight?" a raspy voice croons right next to your ear. You glance up; it's your pink-haired classmate, the one who fills her margins with witty little caricatures. She looks genuinely apologetic as she hands back the last of your notes, waiting patiently until you get up and dust yourself off. "Well, time to face our fuckin' doom. Think the Dingbat will go easy on us this year?" You shake your head; the Dingbat, a middle-aged, rail-thin Graadnik woman whose actual name is a cacophony of sibilants that no-one ever gets right, is the scourge of every would-be art conservator. Rumours have it that a decade ago she failed an entire class at once three times in a row despite the dean's protestations - and you're not entirely sure it's just campus hearsay.

      The door slams shut behind you like a coffin lid. Your turn to pull a ticket comes all too soon; the Dingbat glares at you from behind her bottle-bottom glasses as you grab at the nearest piece of paper. If looks could kill, you'd be immolated faster than a Seraise monk; her eyes are boring through the back of your skull on the way to your assigned desk.

      You've really lucked out this time; your essay topic turns out to be a fairly straightforward "The Cultural Importance of Using Period-Appropriate Materials and Techniques in Preventive Conservation of Early Innocentic Art", which is easy-peasy for anyone who's been paying attention in class - and you certainly have. It's all about tempera, pine resin and gold leaf anyway, with a smattering of ground-up lapis lazuli and melchiorite for the post-Dei paintings. Lines flow from the tip of your pen like ink rivulets, filling up one side of the paper and then the other. The rosy-haired girl next to you groans in dismay; you manage to sneak a peek at her worksheet and wince. She got hit with "Technical Advantages of Using Synthetic Binding Media in Early Modern Art Restoration", a double-tricky question requiring in-depth knowledge of chemical formulas and proper technique. She chews on her pen, writing at a snail's pace and crossing out every other line. Ça va être un désastre, c'est sûr.

      You move to turn your paper in after the prize students do; attracting too much attention by being first would mean getting right into the Dingbat's crosshairs, and why would you do that? As you pass by the girl's desk, you touch your thumb and pinky together - a common good-luck gesture - and hope she can weasel her way out of this mess.

      The professor scowls at the ever-growing stack of signed papers on her desk; you make a beeline straight for the corridor. You're glad to be out of this antediluvian building with its vast halls and pretentious faux-wood paneling. 

      Outside, the air is fresh and sweet; a faint breeze caresses the nape of your neck as you head down to the tiny Mesque market that lies down the street from the Académie. It's just a dozen makeshift stalls, really, but you feel more at home haggling with old, serape-clad ladies who call you "hermoso" as they put up a stubborn fight for every last centime in your wallet. Eventually you emerge victorious with a plastic net of small potatoes, several heads of broccoli, a paper bag full of sweet bell peppers, some rice and - truly a rare treat - a small jar of lemon jam. The delicacy cost you ✤10 and a boatload of flattery to go with it, but the satisfaction is immeasurable. How would Cindy like that, you think. Next time she pops by, you're going to show her what good lemon tea tastes like.

Across the road, a garish sign advertises "The Finest Thrift Shop" - a friperie where you go for most of your clothing. Its proprietor smiles at you absentmindedly, clearly engrossed in his paperback novel with a futuristic-looking aerostatic on it. The cover says "In System" in bold, blocky red print. "Any good?" you ask, pointing at the book. "It's pretty alright if you like science fiction," the man responds in an impassive manner, but you make a mental note to check the book out later - by Dei, you need something to read that isn't art-related.

     Today's scoop is the bottom of the barrel. You flip through the usual hand-me-downs - tacky faux-silk shirts, scuffed pants with worn-down seats, fraying belts and hungry-mouthed shoes. Something catches your attention in the fabric section; you unfurl a pale-green bolt and drape it over your arm, marvelling at the sheen. 

      The cloth is a wide swath of muslin, wonderfully see-through. Its hue makes you think of sea water on a sunny day - the exact same colour as his eyes, full of warmth. You cradle the treasure in your arms and obligingly pay the full price - a whopping ✤15. The man behind the counter shakes his head, then returns to his reading.

       Even with your arms full, the way home feels like you're walking on air.

      Somehow, it's soothing to return to Martinaise before dark; on the boardwalk, the book-seller's daughter is feeding pigeons while her mother tries to peddle the latest Dick Mullen book to a rail-thin, mustachioed Mesque fellow who looks like he'd give an arm and a leg to wriggle from her grasp. You chime in and inquire about a copy of "In System"; the fellow shoots you a thankful look and scrams towards the harbour. The woman sighs wistfully, but obliges you anyway - the prospect of at least one customer is better than nothing. You purchase the sci-fi novel and shove it into your bag, where it joins a heap of poorly-sorted papers, thanking the vendeuse as you do so. Maybe, if you're lucky enough, you might get to read it on the tram to pass the time.

  IN SYSTEM, BOOK 1

+1 Conceptualization: a whole new world to ponder

+1 Inland Empire: escape from reality

-1 Half-Light: don't read while walking!

      Once home, you set out to work - the floors are in desperate need of scrubbing, the table is stained with stew from yesterday's meal, and your bed is an absolute tangle of pillows and linens. Slowly, you tidy up the kitchen, water the plants (even the outdoor cactus gets some love this time), sweep up the dust and wipe down every surface until your apartment looks almost spick-and-span. The kettle whistles somewhere in the kitchen; on the radio, an overly energetic DJ advertises cereal with a madman's gusto. The little figurine of the FALN rider takes its place on your trumeau, amidst other knickknacks - yet none more treasured.

      You tear down the old fabric, brittle with time and constant repairs, and neatly tether the sides of the muslin sheet to the upper bedframe. The bolt fits almost perfectly - perhaps just a little wider than you'd have liked, slack in the middle - but nothing some creative maneuvering can't fix. The new canopy casts a faint aquamarine glow onto the ceiling, rippling in the evening draft, almost like the ocean surface somewhere tropical, in the lands you've only seen on postcards. How beautiful.

      Next time you go shopping, you might as well look for a nice wooden frame for your portrait. It doesn't deserve to be hidden in the closet forever.

      Besides, wouldn't it be nice if the last thing you saw before falling asleep were his face?

     This evening's friend comes knocking just a few minutes later; you're still grinning as you pull him right into the apartment and plant a kiss on his neck. "Did something good happen?" the man remarks, chuckling as he unbuttons your shirt and runs his thumbpad over your collarbone. You proudly gesture at your new acquisition - voila! Your friend laughs heartily, smoothing out his greying hair with the hand that's not busy fondling your chest. "What a colour! Almost like the ocean down south, around Ile-de-Casherbrume and Olduvai. The water's so clear, you can see the coral reefs down below for kilometers away from the beach. I should take you there one day - wouldn't you like it?" You nod, making quick work of his belt buckle.

      After you're through with him, you untie his wrists from the bedposts and wipe away the wax drippings, still thinking of the green-blue water far, far away. The man gently strokes your hair, looking up at you with the awe of a zealous worshiper whose god has graced him with its presence. "Dei, you're beautiful. I should keep you all to myself."

      You look down at him, hoping that your smile is reaching your eyes.

***

     The dawn-break sky is somber and grey, veiled with a drape of nimbus clouds that hang over the pink-tinged horizon; you can feel the electric charge in the air as you walk briskly towards Roy's shop. It's still too early, but the dead man's journal is practically burning a hole in your bag. Tucked inside it is the letter with its bloodstains. You're pretty sure that Roy would believe you anyway, but a little bit of convincing wouldn't hurt, n'est ce pas?

     You knock; for a moment, there's silence, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. The door opens, its rusty hinges whining pitifully. The man behind it stifles a yawn, mumbling, "Ah, I should get that oiled sometime. Well, come on in, I'll pour you a cuppa." You brace yourself for an inevitable portion of murder coffee, passing by the endless rows of trinkets new and old. A snake of faux pearls coils around an antique presse à papier in the shape of a Coalition aerostatic; a Welter typewriter is snarling at you from a dark corner, its predatory grin missing a few keys. A herd of tiny porcelain elephants from Graad flanks a vitrail table lamp, which is casting prismatic reflections onto the floor. A pair of hubcap spinners shines under the dim halogen lights. You cozy up in your usual spot while Roy wrangles his percolator into submission; might as well get on with it and drink the poison before you get down to business. The old man sets a scuffed plastic tray down next to you, bearing two cups and a saucer of Kedran sweets. Your brows nearly disappear into your hairline.

     "Why the surprise?" he cackles. "I've always had a thing for candy, and these look appetizing. A bit, hm, hard on the teeth, but they definitely improve the coffee, don't they? What were they called, pavarda?" "Parvardah," you reply, dropping pink-and-white squares of spun sugar into the cup one by one. The clock on the wall chirps; it's 06 hundred in the morning.

     "So, what's wrong? Must be something serious, if you're here with the sunrise." You wordlessly hand Roy the journal that you found in the secret room; he browses the pages in silence. 

      After what seems like an eternity, the man takes his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture of utter exhaustion; you notice the bags under his eyes and the harsh lines that frame his mouth. Suddenly, you understand how a person can age a decade in a single minute. Roy places the mystery record on the table, gently buttoning the clasp as he folds the cover shut. "Where did you find this, kid?" You tell him about your exploration of the FELD research center, gruesome bits included - Roy deserves nothing but honesty if you want his time and advice.

     "Can you read this? What does it say?" You leaf through the pages, looking at rows of triangles, squares, lines and dots that blend into a wall of ink. If only the notes would give up their secrets. Roy shakes his head. "This is some form of replacement cipher, but I can't read it. Never been one for decoding information and don't want to be. I can guess that it was important enough to be protected with a life, though, so hear me out, shall you?"

     He sighs, rubbing his temples, then looks you right in the eye. "You mustn't show this journal to anyone you don't trust, do you understand? This can and will get you killed if it gets into wrong hands, and believe me, wrong hands are everywhere. You can't go to the library to learn more about it, you can't ask around your... what was it, academy? If this gets discovered by the Moralintern, you might disappear from the face of the archipelago, along with your Skull friend. They likely will come digging around, and destroy the fishing village as you know it." Roy pours himself another cup of coffee, throwing in a handful of sweets. His hands are trembling. Makes you wish you never even showed him the damn thing in the first place. Merde.

     "Listen closely now, boy - if you're smart, take this back where you found it. Unless you find somebody... hm... who's not affiliated with the Coalition, do not, under any circumstances, disclose the existence of these records." The man shakes his head, then puts his glasses back on. "Dei, I must sound like a senile old coot to you. Who knows, maybe I'm getting there, but if my hunch is right, you've got quite the find on your hands." 

     You sit in silence, swirling the teaspoon in your cup; a growing sense of unease swallows you whole, like a stone dropped into deep, dark waters. What do you even do in a situation this precarious? Roy smiles uneasily, cawing in his quiet, rusty voice, "Who would've thought this place still had secrets." Outside, the dogs start idly barking as someone walks by. Martinaise is slowly winding up; in the distance, the hum of the 8-81 grows louder as the lorry drivers navigate its knots and tangles en masse. Almost like you're inside a beating heart.

      Then, a tiny voice, quieter than the pattering of rain droplets, whispers: YOU ARE.

***

     Sunrise gilds the roofs of the fishing village shacks, casting a resplendent glow onto the vast shoreline. In the early hours, the decrepit buildings look almost dignified, like a faded gravure from some antique book; even the snoring trio of drunkards in the crater to your left seems vaguely idyllic as the morning light softens their swollen faces. You press on past the meagre vegetable patches, where potato sprouts are withering in loamy soil, until you're at old Isobel's steps.

     She's snoozing in her chair, wrapped into a thick, roughly knitted shawl; right next to her, Cindy is hanging out the freshly wrung laundry onto the clothesline. Before you say a word, the Skull shushes you, "Shh! Let the ol' bird take a nap, she's been working through the night." You nod, then wordlessly pick up an item out of the basket and drape it over the rope above your head. The girl gestures at the pocket of her pants; you find it full of wooden clothespins. Somehow, it feels quite soothing to do chores together at the end of the world, so early in the day -  especially after the talk you've just had.

      In time, the laundry basket runs empty; the last item is a pillowcase with the silhouette of a black cat on it. Cindy pins it to the line, tugging on the corners. "This is cute," you whisper, pointing at the cat's mischievous face. She looks embarrassed. "It's mine. Izzy says she'll do 'em for free as long as I put up the laundry, haul water from the well and weed the garden. I mean... hell, not like it's hard. 'Sides, her legs ache real bad and she's blind as a fucking bat." You chuckle. "Hey, c'est totalement compréhensible. Honestly, I wish there was more I could do for her, but she always refuses whenever I bring that up." The girl squints against the harsh sunlight. You notice that she already looks less exhausted; her hair seems to be freshly dyed and her clothes are free of coal stains. For once, there's no look of starvation in her eyes, just morning grogginess.

     "I guess she kinda thinks of you as a... grandkid of sorts? She's been praising you all day yesterday, Potache!" Cindy elbows you right in the side and you poke her between the ribs; both of you horse around until you remember to be quiet and make your way towards the beach.

     You find a rock outcropping where the shoreline dips into the land, take a seat and immediately pull out an Astra. The Skull reaches for a cig as well, sighing blissfully as the tar hits her lungs. "No smoking around the laundry, y'know? I've been dying all morning!" "Chèrie, I believe all that nicotine is gonna kill you faster." She snorts, scrunching her nose. "Smartass."

***

     "No." Lilienne's voice echoes across the shack, quiet but stern. "I don't have time to waste on burying a fool who's been dead for years. There's a boat to fix and a haul to catch and kids to be fed." She turns away from the window, fixing the tattered curtain. The hooks in her ear gleam sharply in the morning light. You take the letter back from the table, where the fisherwoman has placed it after reading for what seemed like an eternity, putting in back into your pocket. Cindy stares at the woman in disbelief, slack-jawed; before you can interfere, she stands up, her face a snarling mask of rage, and hisses, "He died there, alone! Alone, in that fucking room! Just help us bury him!" Lilienne shakes her head, putting a stop to the Skull's plea. You're standing in the corner by the stove, caught in this crossfire - entre le marteau et l'enclume. 

     The Skull whips around, growling "Oh fuck this shit!" as she rushes out of the shack, almost slamming the door off its hinges on her way out. You turn to Lilienne, muttering a hasty apology; the woman looks at you with sad, dark eyes, her expression inscrutable. The door closes behind you as you run after your friend; outside, Isobel looks at you, alarmed.

     Cindy is running along the shore, leaving deep tracks on the seaweed-covered sand. Soon, she reaches the beginning of thin ice and stops in her tracks, crying out a raged, indignant yell. The wind tangles her hair as she stares off towards the horizon, slumped and defeated. You catch up with her, breathing heavily - the Skull is a much faster runner than you are - and gasp, hands on knees, "Let's --hah-- bury him ourselves!" The girl turns to look at you, eyes sunk deep into the kohl-painted sockets, and sighs. "Might as well fucking do it, right? C'mon then, let's go."

     The walk back to the FELD building is silent; you pass the church with its blaring dance music. A tall, dark-haired woman is sitting on the porch, drinking from a steel thermos. She looks at you with mild interest, then yawns, gets up and walks back inside, shutting the heavy wooden door behind her. You walk quietly as the terrain becomes sandy again, the cement monolith looming ever closer. Something rustles in the dry reeds; the moment the unseen creature hears your footsteps, it rushes back into the empty pipe. "Shit, that's a big wildcat", the Skull grumbles as she squeezes into the rusty emergency gate underneath the boardwalk, motioning for you to follow.

     It takes the two of you half an hour to shroud the dead scientist's remains into an old army blanket (which you recognise as one of Cindy's prior possessions). She carefully places the corpse's arms across his chest, straightening the withered remains out as much as possible before wrapping them up in coarse woolen fabric. "Are you sure about the blanket? Do you have a spare?" you ask, tucking the corners in to keep the edge from unraveling. "Fuck the blanket," Cindy grumbles back. "It's been a pain in the ass ever since I fuckin' stole it, and now I have a sleeping bag, so." You nod. "Where should we bury him? Maybe somewhere further up, near the wooden tower? I think he'd like the view". She ponders for a moment, then sighs. "Yeah, why not. Land's End is as good as any other place, I guess. Wait a sec, I gotta grab the shovel."

     The thin strip that juts out past the FELD building is devoid of life; only dried reeds rustle along the shoreline. Soon, you reach a small hill - just a mound of loess, really - and rest the body at the top. "Well, let's get to it," the girl sighs, cracking her knuckles and shrugging off her windbreaker. Her thin, pale arms are little more than scraps of flesh and sinew wrapped around scant framework, but she handles the shovel with surprising dexterity. How this wisp of a girl has survived for years in the furnace room is beyond you - yet she fearlessly stabs the ground, driving the blade down with her boot. The loamy soil doesn't yield easily, resisting Cindy's efforts, and soon the girl plonks down onto the curb, wiping sweat and makeup off her brow. "Fuuuuck, I should've remembered that it's been raining the whole night. This'll take us until the second coming of Dei!" You touch her arm, bird-boned and feverishly hot. "Let me try, chérie. I do not profess myself a pinnacle of fitness, but two people are better than one, n'est pas?"

     Fifteen minutes later, you're covered in mud from head to toe, and the pit has only been dug half a meter into the ground. You sit down next to your friend, struggling to catch your breath; she reaches into her pocket and hands you a plastic water bottle. You gulp down greedily, each mouthful fresh and cold, then let her finish it. The wind soothes your upturned face; you chuck off your own sweat-stained shirt and throw it onto a nearby rock. For a while, both of you are hunched over the shallow grave, passing the shovel back and forth and gasping for air as you rub your blistered hands for reprieve.

      Suddenly, you hear the stomping of heavy boots approaching; before you can even look up, a woman's husky voice rumbles above your ear, "Give me that." The Skull jolts, snarling defensively at the intruder, then scoffs with disdain. You look up; the sun blots out the woman's face, but there's no mistaking the fishhooks glinting in her ear.

     You stare in awe as Lilienne plunges the blade deep into the ground with short, precise movements. The muscles in her arms flex, moving sinuously, making you think of ocean waves coming and going. La pêche doit être un travail très dur. The fisherwoman keeps muttering something under her breath; at first, your attempt at eavesdropping results in nothing, but then, her voice grows louder, as if she's talking to someone who's not even there. "Stupid men" - thwack! - "Who go off" - thwack! - "And end up dead" - thwok! - "While their wives keep waiting!" 

     She curses as the shovel hits a rock buried deep in the soil, then excavates it in a single strike - big, the size of a shot-put - and flings it into the sea with force that would humble a professional athlete. Cindy whistles through her teeth, brushing an unruly strand of hair out of her eyes. "Holy shit, I think she's mad mad."

     Lilienne snaps back, "Of course I'm mad! Look at me, digging a grave for some ancient nobody when I could've cooked dinner and helped with homework. I can't be dilly-dallying around like you two, because if I don't work, I don't eat and neither do my children!" She whips around, peeling the last bits of sediment off the gravel horizon as the mound of loam behind her back grows ever bigger. Yet, somehow you sense that she's feeling relieved. You remember what old Isobel told you once - that the fisherwoman's husband went hauling nets drunk in a storm and was never found.

     A BURIAL FOR A BURIAL, the ghost voice sighs, like static electricity skimming across your aching back. A love for a love, you think.

    Before Cindy helps you lower the dead man into his resting place, you tuck the folded square of paper into his pocket. "Je suis vraiment désolé... repose-toi maintenant, mon ami," you whisper, folding both withered hands over the corpse's chest. The girl produces a handful of centimes from her pants, scattering the shiny coins across the man's lab coat. "For the ship across the Pale, man," she mumbles, turning away to climb out of the grave.

     Lilienne looks on silently, her face impassive as usual, but before the two of you can throw the first fistfuls of soil, she picks something out of her ear and drops it down. The tiny thing catches the light - there and gone. A fishing hook, you realise, as a tribute to the dead.

     Halfway through the burial, the first droplets of rain begin falling; the air turns cooler and, far across the horizon, thunder rolls as a flock of swallows finds its way under the eaves of the old church, chittering cacophonously. You throw the muddy shirt over your head, shielding yourself from the drizzle, and, once Lilienne finishes patting down the mound of soil over the fresh grave, the three of you hurry back to the village.

***

     Old Isobel is waiting on the deck of the fisherwife's house; Lilienne's youngest sits by her side on a tiny stool while the old woman is brushing out the child's hair, strand by strand. When the little girl sees you approaching, she starts off towards you, yelling "Mama!"; the washerwoman laughs. Lilienne picks her daughter up, spinning the kid around, then sets her down. "Go on, let Gramma Izzy rest a little, okay?" The girl nods, then sprints back into the house, her shoes pattering on the woodboards. "We, uh, should get goin'-" the Skull chuckles awkwardly, but the net-picker cuts her off. "You will do no such thing. Come on in, you two, we're going to have a wake. Oh, don't look at me like that - in for a centime, in for a reál. There's some foldout chairs and a table in the house, bring them out onto the deck." You exchange surprised looks, but do as told, carrying worn-down furniture outside and setting it under the awning, where rain can't reach you. 

     Isobel hobbles back into her home and returns with a tray full of flatbread under a faded linen towelette. The little girl looks on with interest as you cut the sourdough circles into quarters while her mother chops up some not-quite-ripe tomatoes - home-grown, no doubt - into thin wedges, along with some sprigs of leek. The fisherwife slaps a smoked mackerel onto a dinged-up cutting board, swiftly deboning and slicing it into chunks. Both the fish and the vegetables go inside the bread, almost like some nearly-forgotten treat from your childhood. 'Gözleme', you remember; the word comes along with the sounds of bustling trade streets and carnival performers juggling wooden clubs and oranges. You bring one of the numerous jars from Lilienne's kitchenette, filled with weak herbal brew, and several mismatched mugs. She'd like your PAINT WATER set, you think, chuckling under your breath. 

     Soon, the table is set; the four of you sink into your chairs while Little Lily finds a spot on the scrubbed-down steps, munching on a piece of bread and whispering something indecipherable to her plush buddy. For a while, you sit in silence, until the fisherwife raises her glass. "Well, for the ones long gone, I suppose." You sip on the brew; there's a faint sweetness of mint and something sour that you can't quite name. The rain isn't letting up, pattering on the tin roof like ghost fingers. Old Isobel takes a bite out of her sandwich, then sighs contentedly. "Ahh, what I wouldn't give for a cold one right now. Haven't had me a beer since my youngest moved out." 

    The Skull glances at her, smirks, then catapults herself out of the chair, darting down the deck stairs and past the wilting vegetable beds. The rest of you gape as she approaches the trio of drunkards, still sat in their usual spot, and waves her hands at them in a flurry of gestures. You can't make out a single word - the rain is blurring everything out - but the men are becoming more and more agitated, then exasperated, as she stands over them, hand outstretched. After a minute or two, they hand something over to the girl, utterly defeated. Cindy turns around, sprinting back towards your ragtag gathering, light-footed as ever. She hops up onto the deck, shaking herself off like a dog, then, grinning wildly, pulls two bottles of Potent Pilsner out of her pockets, slamming them onto the table. Lilienne blinks in shock, brows raised almost up to her hairline; the old woman leans in closer, then exclaims, "Well, I'll be! How did you manage to snag beer from these ne'er-do-wells?"

     Cindy cracks the bottles open; they hiss and foam at the mouth as she pours cold liquid into a mug and thrusts it into the washerwoman's hands. "I told 'em I'd have to call Abigail!" she laughs, chugging down the rest of the bottle. 

     Then, everyone is cracking up along with her; the fisherwife is banging her fist on the table and wiping tears from her eyes at the same time. You try to not spit out your sandwich and now it's blocking your throat like a traffic jam. The old woman is cackling like a fairytale witch; even Little Lily is laughing despite not being quite sure what the commotion is all about.

     Outside, the clouds are thinning; once again, the pale blue fabric of the sky peers through the dim veil. Barges honk; far away, motor carriages growl at the traffic lights like poorly-trailed tigers. Seagulls are squawking as they nestle on the tall spire of the Dolorian church, raising a storm of loose feathers.

      You think of the dead man in his new grave, and of the letter he'd carried for decades.

      You think of the gendarme - Harry - and his eyes, green and dark like deepwater. His lips, his hands, big and scarred. The way he smiled in the Whirling, draped in ultramarine silk and neon lights. So close but always out of reach.

      The dried mud peeling off of your sleeves suddenly makes you feel more self-conscious than ever; you pick at it, letting the bits fall into the deck's crevices. 

     What will become of you?

     What will become of everything?

***

     The plaza is desolate today; not a single lorry or pedestrian in sight, as if swept clean by a giant broom. The sky is reflecting on the wet tiles of the mosaic, polished by the rain; Cindy's aerograffito is almost gone now, save for ghostly shadows retained in the grout between the pieces of ceramic. On the terrace, the libraire's daughter is skipping across puddles, stomping her galoshes with glee that only comes with childhood. The Skull pulls up her track pants - the cleanliness of which could be greatly improved - and joins her, landing square into the biggest puddle that is almost the size of a miniature pond. Splashes soak your already ruined shirt; the most you can do is roll your eyes. Ah, merde, pourquoi ne pas le faire quand même, you wonder, and jump into the water as well. "Attaboy, now let loose a bit, will ya?" the Skull giggles, as does the little girl.

     You're interrupted by the shop's proprietress herself, who comes outside to check on the noise - and nearly drops some magazines she'd been holding onto. "Annette!" she exclaims, indignant. "What have I told you about bothering people? Are you done with your homework?" The child stops in her tracks, bright smile now erased. "Yes, Mama," she whispers, eyes cast down at her dirty green rubber boots. You step in, trying lay the charm on thick, despite looking more like a drowned rat than a thing of beauty. "Madame, she hasn't been bothering us at all - it was us who decided to stop by. Your daughter's truly well-behaved... no doubt due to your effort." 

     The Skull side-eyes you, but flattery seems to have been the right choice. The woman smiles nervously, adjusting her fashionable cat-eye glasses. "W-well, I only try to do my best. After all, children are so hard to raise these days, what with the... circumstances." You put on your best smile; the shopkeeper clutches the magazines to her ample bosom, blushing. "Would you like to order a second volume of the book you bought yesterday, young man?" she asks, moseying a little closer. "Ah, I haven't started the first one yet, but do count me down when I'm done with it!" you reply, starting towards the empty pier around the building. Cindy winks at the girl, mouthing "good luck", then follows in your steps.

    "What in the hell was that?" she laughs, thrusting her thumb back. "That, chérie, was a lot of grease applied to a very squeaky wheel. Poor kid will learn to do the same for smother dearest, sans doute." Your friend sighs. "At least she's fed and looked after, I guess." "Quite true, n'est pas? It's all about perspective."

***

     In the kitchen, tea steeps and soup simmers; you can hear the shower hissing from across the apartment. Your friend was hesitant at first, but you reminded her that your amenities were still an improvement over an abandoned bathroom in a bombed-out building; it must have been the promise of shampoo and deodorant that did her in. The girl is happily splashing away, humming some incredibly off-key tune. You throw an oversized shirt - probably some gift from one friend or another - and a pair of threadbare but comfortable track shorts over the curtain rod. A yellow Frittte! bag is parked right in the middle of the room; you peek in to find a spare change of clothes and some makeup. A familiar blouse, now smelling vaguely of basement dust and gasoline, a pair of ripped jeans, and what looks like some sort of plasticky, knitted poncho, all tangled into a complete clusterfuck. How very Cindy-like. 

     You carefully place two bowls on the table - nothing special, really, just some carrots and potatoes in broth made from chicken scraps - and fill mugs with hot tea. Behind you, clothes rustle; the Skull takes a seat, stretching out her legs under the table. Without her makeup, she looks not much older than the De Ruyter boy; her dark, messily cut hair falls down, framing a pale face with deep-set eyes. "Eat up while it's hot," you jab your spoon at the food; she doesn't need another invitation to dig in. You throw a few candies into the tea, then add some lemon jam, swirling the golden liquid around until there's a vortex in the middle of your cup. 

     For a short while, the kitchen is silent, save for the clinking of cutlery against the dishes and satisfied slurping noises. There's a soft guitar-and-synthe tune playing on the radio in the bedroom; outside, you can hear drunken yelling and the slamming of doors. Cindy sighs. "That kid's gonna end up in the morgue before he grows chest hair, or rottin' in the Reunion. I kinda wish he could see that he can leave, y'know? Shit, even sleeping on fuckin' benches and under boats is better than... this." You stare down at your tea; a failure stares back, dead-eyed. "The devil we know is more acceptable than the one we don't, n'est pas? Perhaps I wouldn't have left either if my parents didn't catch me kissing a boy."

     You still have a small indentation on your ribcage, next to the sternum, where your father's boot had connected. A rib cracked, you remember, and healed somehow wrong, as if irreparably gnarled. The tea tastes of the ice that the bartender in a seedy club down on Boogie Street placed over your chest to soothe the pain, the soup tastes of Drouamine that a dancer gave to you in the backroom to take your mind off of being discarded. The kindness of strangers is the bitterest pill of them all, the hardest to swallow.

     Quietly, you finish your meal. Bits of lemon rind swirl in the ceramic cup like a miniature twister, distracting you from what you were about to say next.

     TELL HER, the far-off noise of harbour machinery whirrs into your ear.

     PICK YOUR WORDS WISELY, implores the electric song of the 8-81.

     "Chérie, about that journal... "

     The Skull looks up from her plate, soaking up the last of the broth with a piece of bread. Her eyes are wide; unlined with kohl, they look anxious, half-hidden behind the falling strands of wet hair. "Yeah? Did you talk to the Glasses Man? What'd he say?"

     C'est inévitable; you sigh, resting your forehead on the back of your hand. "He can't decipher it, but from what he understands, it might contain some... inner workings of the ferrotape computer they'd been working on before... you know. I haven't ever seen him this frightened - like he's met a ghost. We should keep it somewhere safe until we find a way to break down the code by ourselves; Jamrock library's out of the question, so is the Académie. Talk to the wrong person, and we just might go missing." The Skull scratches her neck; a nervous tic if you ever saw one. "Ah shit, coulda guessed it'd go that way; poor fucker must be spinning in his grave now, huh? I doubt he'd want his records in the hands of a crusty ol' rat fuck and a peacock-pants, of all people." "Quelle éloquence. A poet at heart, aren't we?" 

     She snorts, cramming the soggy chunk of bread into her mouth. "Saying' it like it is, Potache - we aren't exactly radiocomputer scientists, are we now? I'll keep mum, but... if we find someone we can trust, promise you'll give them the journal?" "Tous ne pouvez pas imaginer que l’œuvre de toute une vie soit perdue, n’est-pas?" Cindy doesn't respond, but the silence is answer enough.

You motion at the PAINT WATER mug that the girl still hasn't touched. "I actually went through the pains of making you a nice cuppa, so go ahead, try it. And for the love of Dei, please don't turn your tea into sugary sludge again; my teeth already hurt just from thinking about it." Cindy chuckles, then takes a sip. A momentary surprise registers on her face; she chugs the drink down in three mouthfuls. "What's that? It's sour!" "That, chérie, is lemon jam. There's this little Mesque market that I pass by a lot, and sometimes the old ladies there tempt me into buying this deliciousness. Ça coûte la peau du cul, but worth every centime."

     The Skull scrapes up bits of rind with a spoon, licking them off. "Wow, never tried one of those before. Do they even grow on Insulinde?" You try to remember anything you know about citrus fruit, which admittedly isn't much at all. "I think they're imported from the Archipelagos, like Villiers and such? Je n'en suis pas sûr, but it's a week's journey from here by barge or a day by aerostatic, so I'd wager there must be plantations somewhere warmer." She hums, ambling across the kitchen to marvel at the windowsill plants with their glossy leaves. The sense of unease has almost dissipated now; your apartment feels more like a protective shell than a cement cage, as it does on worse days. 

     Cindy rests her forehead against the windowpane, staring out of the window. Behind the glass, Martinaise is descending into dusk, its sparse electric lights and bright signs a shelter from the darkness. Someone is smoking on the deck of the Whirling-in-Rags; you think you recognise the portly silhouette. Garte must be trying to catch a mid-shift break before the weary and belligerent flock into the bar like bees into a hive. A woman peeks from behind the corner, beckoning him; the man puts his cigarette out on the bannister before leaving. "Hey, do you have any Pyrholidon on you? Fuckin' dead man's book makes me want to shelf my brain for a little while, y'know?" 

     "First it was my smokes, now it's my funtime stash - what's next on the wish-list, my brushes?" Cindy pauses; both of you break out into hysterical laughter. "Just sayin', if you ever fuck a muralist, ask him to throw in a few buckets of paint, aight?" You're wheezing, tears streaming out of your eyes; imagining one of your friends hauling buckets up your staircase is cracking you up, knowing that quite a few of them would is even more hilarious. "Chérie, screwing for art supplies hasn't been on my Lotto card so far, but I'll generously consider it for an artisan like yourself."

      It doesn't take long for Pyrholidon to do its magic - you've always been a lightweight, and it does work better in the evening hours for some reason you never bothered to investigate. The world tilts subtly, almost as if you're on a surface made of fractured glass; the street-lights take on a fantastic aura of mauve and indigo, shimmering around the edges. The footsteps you left behind as you walk outside glow faintly, then disappear as you both settle against the cool, pitted cement of the balcony parapet. The Skull twirls an Astra in her fingers; it leaves ghostly trails of fire, slowly cascading from the palm of her hand. From the way she looks down, you can guess that she sees them as well; everyone's experience is slightly different, but as far as you know, auras are the most commonly encountered aspect, along with the feeling of floating above your head. The highway pulsates far away in the distance, across the miserable plains of the Eminent Domain, almost arterial in its presence. Menthol smoke curls deep down in your lungs, enveloping your anxiety and smothering it - like a blanket over fire - until there's nothing left to inhale. Truly beautiful.

      Before you can turn around and make it back inside, a noise startles you. There's crying in the courtyard, the sound of someone who has screamed themselves hoarse, desperate and pitiful. Cindy leans over the parapet, squinting into the poorly-lit space, then mutters, "Well shit, that's Cuno, right over there, in the tree!" You look in the direction she’s pointing at, and after a moment’s hesitation, finally see it - a small shape, curled up tight amidst the desiccated branches. "Hey, kid, are you okay?" Cindy hollers, looking concerned. The boy startles, grabbing onto the limb from which a dead man had been recently cut, then snarls, "Fuck off! Leave Cuno the fuck alone, bitchtits!" The Skull tries again. "Listen, if you need someone to talk to-" The little gremlin cuts her off, stringing together a tirade of profanities so colourful that you whistle, amused. His beady eyes hone in on you, making you feel uneasy - as if you've encountered some wild creature that's not big enough to inflict major damage, but certainly ferocious enough to stand its ground against anything. "Don't talk to Cuno, you pig-fucking faggot! Can't Cuno just sit in a fucking tree for a minute? Stay away from me!" He suddenly reaches into his pocket and lobs a rock at you with surprising strength for a teen-ager. It whooshes past Cindy's ear in a glowing green arc, bouncing off of the wall-mounted mail-box and leaving a massive dent. You crouch, startled. The girl gapes at this demonstration of defiance, then grabs you by the arm and drags you back into the apartment. "What the fuck, kid?!" she yells before closing the door.

     "Well, that went spectacularly," you quip, sitting down on the corner of the bed. The Skull shakes her head in dismay. "Little shit must be having a mental breakdown - I haven't heard him speak about himself in first person, ever. Maybe I should go talk to his fuckin' father up close, teach him something about treating kids right." Her eyes shine silver, just like the coin on her neck. The hairs on your arms stand on end; in this moment she reminds you of a newly-sharpened switchblade, primed for slicing to the bone. Then she looks down, and the fight is gone from her face, replaced by profound melancholy. "Let's see if he's there tomorrow morning." You nod; leaving the little gremlin to his own devices would mean more destruction of whatever property's left in Martinaise. You remember it all too well, the steel-toed boot connecting with your ribs and the large hand grabbing you by the throat, dragging you towards the front door.

      A ghostly voice implores: FACES ON THE WATER, ALL LONG-GONE. The world shifts its facets, like a kaleidoscope, now turquoise and electric blue, as if you're standing on the ocean floor. You look at the swath of muslin above your bed and see ripples dancing across the surface, a polarised light casting reflections below.  

    "Oh wow, feels like we're on the ocean floor, doesn't it? Damn, that's actually sick - are you, like, doing industrial grade stuff?" The girl spins around, arms outstretched, then falls to the floor, laughing like a lunatic. You fetch a winter duvet and a pillow out of the wardrobe, spreading them out next to the bed. "Here you go, mademoiselle - ton lit a été fait!" She curls up on the pile of stuffed fabric, already drowsy; you turn the lights and the radio off, crack open the window, absentmindedly pick up the pencils scattered across your bedside table and hide them in a drawer. The wall clock chimes oh-two hundred in the morning, punctuating the quietude. 

      Before you drift off to sleep entirely, Cindy reaches out and pokes you in the leg. "Hey." You glance down over the edge of the bed; she's nodding off, slowly but surely. "What?" you mumble, semi-conscious. "You should hang that portrait on the wall, y'know?" "Huh?" "Then you'd see his face first thing in the morning." You smile; right now, it's as if your sines are synced. "Gotta..." - you yawn - "...get a frame first." The Skull rustles in her blanket nest. "Mh. Maybe tomorrow..."

      You drift off before she finishes the sentence, and all you see is endless swirls of sea-green.