Archive of Our Own

The light pooling into Yuugi's bedroom is black-and-blueish, metallic almost, saturated with the sore-limbed exhaustion of a poor night's sleep. It must be before dawn. He scrubs the sand from the corners of his eyes, vision dim and rippling like water, then out of habit he claws his way out of bed, past the desk, slowly over to the waist-high bookshelf where his alarm clock waits, only to discover that he never set an alarm last night, but even if he had, it would have gone off hours ago. The light says not yet dawn but the clock reads well past noon.

Yuugi stands there dumbstruck for a few moments, still half asleep, processing, or failing to process, the current time. His legs are kind of numb from the effort of hiking across the room. He's trying to come up with an explanation and his mind is not cooperating. They're not fully formed thoughts, more like crumbs of comprehension, even moreso like suggestion, the hypnotic sort which he obediently accepts: no school today, slept in late, shop's not busy, do your thing. Okay. That's easy. That's something he can manage.

Actually, he can manage a lot, as it's been turning out. Yuugi is very good at managing things. Like the dozens of assignments he's been leaving til the last second— yeah, he manages to get those done somehow. And the exams he's bullshitting his way through in spite of not remembering a damn word any of his teachers say. Well, he's managed to not get caught yet, so that has to be worth something, right? The final mark is all that matters after all, doesn't matter how he earns it. Doesn't matter if he can't even remember taking the test. And he's managing fine on the sleepless nights, he brought them upon himself, staying up late playing Zombire Returns, thank you for your concern, he lies.

Maybe he can manage to not tuck himself back into bed. Maybe he can manage to sneak into the kitchen for a bite of dinner-lunch-breakfast without being poked fun at for dragging his vampiric ass out of his hovel for once today. Dodge his grandfather's probing questions like he does for his friends'.

(Anzu is "perceptive," that's the nice word for it. She's bringing it up more and more recently. Yuugi goes to great lengths not to hint at the frustrating dreams he's been having, the ones with the way too many walls that move strangely and that he can feel but cannot see.)

Maybe he can work on his puzzle today, free from distractions. Or wait, that's not right— didn't he already finish it? Yes, yes he did. (He must be more tired than he thought.) It's waiting for him right where he left it, perched on his desk balanced on its loop, sharp golden tip of the pyramid pointed upright, like a bird's beak glinting in the inky daylight. Preening. He takes it by the cord and laces it around his neck. Lets it weigh him down a little bit.

He's not sure what compels him to move as quietly as possible. It's not like he's going to get in trouble for, for what, existing in his own home? Nevertheless the motions are well rehearsed. There's a trick to turning the doorknob just so, to keep it from clicking or springing back sharply; likewise he knows precisely how far he can nudge the door open before it wants to creak, and he knows how to slip through the gap he made without snagging his shirt, and he knows where all of the crooked floorboards lie in the attic hallway.

(Those noisy wooden snitches have ratted out Jounouchi once before. After the incident, Yuugi started to leave his bedroom window open for Jounouchi to climb through on clear nights. He's careful to wait until the lights have been out for at least an hour, and if anyone reacts to the thumping on the rooftop, Yuugi flicks his lamp on— the signal means "abort". So far they haven't been found out.)

And he knows where all of the splinters are in the staircase leading down to the living space. Even though he's gotten his fingertips pricked before, Yuugi can't help but hold his hand out on his way down, tracing the wall as it transitions from ragged hardwood planks to smooth eggshell drywall. Just a little thing he's done his whole life, to such an extent that his touch has worn an oily smudge into the paint. 

Halfway down, as soon as his fingers brush the drywall, Yuugi abruptly stops.

The moment is infinitely brief but the sensation infinitely profound— he's lost. 


He's lost. 

He's badly lost. 

Extremely scared in an eerily calm, childlike way, like he just realized that that isn't his mama he's been following in this crowded street; hundreds, thousands of nameless faces twice his height filing past him, seemingly through him, as though he is invisible, discarded like a crinkled receipt; tears well up in his eyes and now it's even harder to see where she may have wandered off to. Concrete floor blending with concrete ceiling blending with metal shutters blending with metal pylons, everything is uniformly grey. If there is air to breathe it's empty. Settling at the bottom of his lungs heavy and sloshing like liquid lead. A thick, human sound beats its way up his throat, terror curdles within him and he makes himself small, crouched down and furled in on himself with his arms thrown over his head, hair pinched in his elbows, huddled, fear-stricken, because there is a pair of eyes watching him from across the sea of strangers and the eyes are a stranger's and the eyes' face is purposefully vacant.

Instantly, the sensation evaporates like it never was there, along with its memory.

The stairwell takes a weird angle at the middle step, something he never noticed until now. However he does know that the step at the bottom is a tad bit steeper than the rest, a hard lesson he learned with a trip (and fall) to the ER when he was ten. Plenty of similar innocent infractions committed by his home. Loose power socket that the vacuum's plug keeps falling out of. That evil cabinet that's just a smidge wider than the rest, that Yuugi swears is actively gunning for his pinky toe. Knuckles scraped open on a rough textured windowsill while trying to close the damned thing. That piece of siding that isn't nailed down all the way and bangs right outside of the bathroom wall when storm winds bluster, and it always sounds like someone's barging in. The house is just as much part of the Mutou family as Yuugi is himself, complete with its own personality— Mama would say it's awkward yet loving just like her little boy, Jii-chan might call it some bad names on a bad day— Yuugi tells people it's judgmental. This is a judgmental house. He never elaborates on that.

His judgmental kitchen is arranged differently today; another tiny offense, but this one isn't the house's fault. It's mama who keeps putting the dining table chairs back the wrong way. She likes to look out of the big window while she eats, so she tends to scoot her seat over to one side, where it cuts into Jii-chan's leg room, so then he has to move, and of course that leads to Yuugi's chair getting shoved out of the way, round and round it goes, like a dumb furniture carousel. Yuugi stubbornly puts the chairs back to where they're supposed to be. He wants his against the wall, facing the television, end of discussion. Once he's satisfied he raids the refrigerator for something quick and easy.

Or at least he could have sworn he moved the chairs back? Certainly they wouldn't have reset themselves? Not in the all of sixty seconds that Yuugi turned his back on them to rummage through the leftovers. Not at all, in fact, because that would imply they could move on their own, which is nonsense. In any case Yuugi returns to find the chairs in Mama's incorrect configuration, which means he must have simply vividly imagined himself moving them, then mistook his daydream for reality. (He must be far, far more tired than he thought.) Yuugi relents and picks Jii-chan's seat, because today is already so unusual, he may as well embrace it.

The silence doesn't quite hit him until after he's done with dinner-lunch-breakfast, mostly because he's grateful for it at first. Conversation is the last thing he needs on, (hang on), (he's crunching the numbers), two, maybe? hours? minutes? of sleep. It's almost tempting to call it convenient. He could easily just disappear back upstairs leaving no trace behind. No one would have to know he'd been down here helping himself to the last slice of stale birthday cake this afternoon. But if he slinks away, eventually someone is going to worry, and Yuugi hates it when people worry, so he decides it's better to fess up now.

One more staircase down to the ground floor leads to the game shop. These stairs are narrow and straight. 

Something already felt off before he entered the shop though, so he can't feign surprise when it turns out there's no one here. The store is unattended. Hell, the store isn't even open, apparently. Lights shut off, register closed, signage turned. The linoleum is spotless; hopefully Jii-chan didn't throw out his back while scrubbing this time. Yuugi meanders around for a minute, searching for his family, or even just a note explaining their absence.

His next instinct is to check the calendar. Any tournaments going on today? Jii-chan might be away presiding over a round of Duel Monsters. And Mama mentioned a concert she wanted to attend. Not that Yuugi is particularly bothered by having the house all to himself, just that it would have been nice to have gotten a heads up.

Well, the calendar is blank. 

Blanker than should be possible. Yuugi squints, as if that'll magically make numbers and dates appear where there are none, but all squinting does is bend and slide the gridlines off of the page as well. What's left is a plain white stack of paper tacked to a bulletin board. No month, week, or day; hour, minute, or moment.

His confusion is delayed by fatigue, long enough that the epiphany reaches him before any obvious questions can fall from his lips.

Oh!

He's dreaming.

How embarrassing that it took him this long to realize. Cool relief washes over him— if he's dreaming then that must mean he's sleeping, and heavens knows he could use some good z's. And now it's actually okay that Mama and Jii-chan vanished, because they'll be there when he wakes. The thing with the chairs now makes total sense, and he doesn't have to feel guilty about stealing the last slice of cake. And when his alarm goes off and he gets up for real then it'll be a reasonable time of day. Yuugi drapes himself in the velvety calm of the mystery solved, then resolves to do as he pleases until the dream drops him off at home.

He shuts his eyes, teleporting himself, skipping the slog up the stairs back to his bedroom, reopens them where the bruised night-dawn light still sinks like fog to the floor. 

(Sometimes his dreams are unoccupied like this. That's alright, Yuugi is good at being alone. He keeps busy with games, even competitive games, even if it means having to be both his own opponent and himself.)

He pulls a checkered board from a teal-colored fabric bin on the bottom of the tall shelf and begins setting up a game of 4-player chess.

(He won't admit he prefers it this way. Playing alone, that is. People are complicated. They don't get the rules, they don't care to get them, they cheat, they get bored and want to play something else, they want to play with someone else, someone who doesn't take it so seriously, someone who isn't so obsessed.)

Anyone else would consider it tedious to line up thirty-two pawns just for one game of chess, but Yuugi savors the process. He rubs circles into the carved contours of each piece with the pads of his fingers, pinching, rolling them in his palm, fantasizing they might give like soft clay. He likes the feel of their smooth bodies and hefty marble weight. Occasionally he sneaks one to school with him in his pocket and fondles it while he's disinterested in class.

(Alone, Yuugi can play at his own pace, play just for lighthearted fun, able to follow the rules to a fault, enjoy the same game for as long as he deigns, with all the seriousness of a funeral if he so desires.)

Promoting a pawn with the press of his lips. Nursing on the queen.

(Instead Yuugi can be as many people as he needs to be, each one of himself fully committed, unwilling to be interrupted, and he can switch between his selves on a whim. Give each one a different attitude. Makes it more fun that way. Yuugi in the beanbag seat is a mob boss, leaning in, fingers steepled, leery. He gets away with imperceptibly tiny cheats, counting cards, cutting his own deck. Yuugi by the space heater plays stupid and aggressive and falls for tricks and whines like a brat when he doesn't get his way. Yuugi in the mirror is the candle flame, aloof, harmlessly small, and maybe even pretty looking, but opportunity burns within him and all it takes to tip him over is a careless misplay. And then there's Yuugi.)

Stupid-by-the-space-heater-Yuugi absentmindedly teethes on a rook and contemplates his limited moves. He's sticking his tongue in the tower slits. It thrills him for reasons that he can't articulate. Is it thrill? Is that the word, he wonders?

(Yuugi, naive kid Yuugi, who talks too loud, who talks like a girl, who trips on thin air and sounds like a squeaky toy when his face smacks the ground. Yuugi, who continues to live his real life in his dreams; whose waking self is all that it is, just another self, because he has long since come to terms with the fact that nobody wants the real Yuugi, they want a different Yuugi. One that talks cool and talks like a guy and god forbid walks like he knows how legs work. One who gets back up and wipes the bloody nose and punishes the floor with a good hard kick.)

Admittedly the dream state has him drunken, and he's made a fool of himself arranging the pieces all wrong. For all he cares it's a perfectly sensible game of chess, the four-player kind, the kind you play alone, all alone, because you ran out of things to do while hiding upstairs in your bedroom. The normal kind. He finds it preferable over the vulnerability of making himself known.

(He's almost, almost tempted, idiotically, to show the real Yuugi to someone.)

The game has devolved into a complete mess. He's lost track of whose turn it is. Counter-clockwise order, he thinks he had chosen, so maybe it's his turn. No one else is making a move, so it must be. Yuugi studies the board. His eyes glaze over, dizzied by the black and white and black and white, suddenly lanced by a piercing beam of unsunlight spearing down on him through the skylight. 

(Peel his skin back, slice through tendon and meat, down to the bone, and reveal the indestructible glass teardrop that he calls his brain, and its immeasurably fragile tail his spinal cord; offer his lover a hammer.)

He's in check.

(He talks so loud because maybe nobody seems to hear him. He talks like a girl because maybe he wants a boy to want him. His foot catches thin air, because there really is something there, he swears,)

He moves a knight. Places his fate in another Yuugi's hands.

(, something you can show but cannot see.)

The light is too much. His sight has gone blotchy with a blooming migraine. Overwhelmed, feeling unwell, Yuugi scoops up the dozens of pawns and couple of knights and queens and kings and whoever else and packs them all back into their bin in a jumbled heap, but he keeps the board out. Lifts it over his head and uses it as a parasol to block out the blinding column of pitch-black light spilling from the ceiling. It's only half helpful; only the white tiles deflect it, the black tiles let it through. Yuugi wants this dream to stop soon.

So in the end he doesn't manage to not tuck himself back into bed. He crawls like an injured animal under the safety of the duvet, pillows piled over his pounding head, and squeezes his eyes shut, desperate for relief. The silence is earsplitting. Time flows like tar. Yuugi reassures himself that it'll be over shortly, that the dream's selvedge is torn away and its weft is coming undone, and soon the weight of his exhaustion will punch a hole straight through the weakened fabric and he'll crash into the morning sun.

He rips himself out of his slumber, flings bolt upright, sickened and pale, hands clammy from a nightmare, head still throbbing— hyperaware that the Puzzle is gone.

It was with him. He knows it was with him. It was right there, around his neck, right at his stomach where it always is, where it's supposed to be, and now it's not, it's nowhere to be found, nowhere that he usually sets it down, nowhere in his room or in the hallway or in the other hallway or in the stairwell or in the other stairwell or in the box with the queens and kings, or in the other other stairwell, or in the hallway with the knights and pawns, or in the empty shop with the spotless floors, or in the other stairwell, or in the tomb, or in the hallway, or in his room, or in the hallway, or in the hallway, and it's certainly not in his room, either. 

Yuugi goes on a mad crusade, but he finds nothing. Less than nothing. The clock is gone, the board is gone, the window and its black-blue hue are gone, there are no chairs downstairs, no calendar with no dates, no signs turned, nothing. Nobody. The dream has ended but there is still no one home. He starts flinging open doors like they'll have something worthwhile behind them; there never is, there's only harsh visual snow and blackness extending forever beyond, so he slams the doors shut on their own veins and then tears them open again, spilling blood, expecting it to change, expecting that feeling of expectation to miraculously change into, into, into what, into recognition, recollection, into revelation, he himself is nothingness, but all it will take is one door, one room, one word—that's all he needs, just one word— all it will take is one door to remember the ephemeral, the impossible, the real real Yuugi, who is safe in the dream cradling the Puzzle to his chest, and then the Yuugi of the waking world can wither and die happy.

Yuugi's a good kid though, and in spite of his episode is cognizant enough to know that good kids don't idealize their own elaborate ceremonial suicides. If he can't find the Puzzle on his own then he needs help. Call the neighbor. Call a friend. Find the phone, find the phone, find the phone. It has to be somewhere in here, behind one of these doors, or wherever the chairs got stowed, maybe it somehow moved into one of the stairwells, maybe the one to his room, or maybe the one inside of his room, but he'll find it. Goddammit he'll will it into existence if he has to. 

Which he does. Tada! There it is, the white landline on the living room wall. But his stupid brain breaks again the moment he tries to dial a number. What number? He doesn't remember any numbers! Screw it! Yuugi punches some random bullshit into the numpad, picks up the receiver, and waits. Goddammit he'll will a neighbor into existence if he has to—

"Hello?"

His blood runs ice fucking cold.

The voice on the other end repeats itself. "Hello? Anyone there?"

Yuugi steels himself, clears his throat, and responds uselessly: "Yes?"

The pause could kill him. The stranger pipes up again, sounding quite frail. "Mama? That's not you, is it...?"

Okay, so it's worse than he thought, it's not just someone who happens to sound like himself, it actually is himself, or someone who thinks he's him, or someone impersonating him, or someone who recorded him and is playing it back, or something making random noise like how the random halls have random doors, and it just so happens that this random noise sounds like him, and sounds like words, just like how this random room looks like his living room, and this thing in his hand looks like a phone. 

"This isn't funny," Yuugi hisses. "Who are you."

"Um, Mutou residence, Yuugi speaking," mutters Couldn't-Be-Yuugi.

How did he get here? How did he get to this point in his life? Who was it and what tool did they use to score his mind and split it into the shape of an hourglass? Symmetrical, jagged slicing ridges, barely jade green shade of a mirror's bevelled ends, buffed and polished, until all he could see was himself reflected in every surface, himself yanked from his ankles and smeared into a shadowy stain on the floor, shackled to a wheel (a halo that had fallen off a fallen angel), spinning his limbs from their sockets and hinges, pulling him into stringy fibers, as it rolls and rolls and rolls. The horizon bends into an arc as he ascends. Everything zooms further and further out, everything out of his reach, no, still within his reach actually, just that his arm is stretched impossibly thin; his hand is the speck of skin he can hardly make out at reality's edge, grasping at something too distant to identify. Probably opening a door. It's always about the doors. All he needs is just the one, he doesn't need all of these other doors, why are there so many doors? Just like there are so many stairs, but now he can't even use the stairs because each step is far too steep and there's no way he can reach, but it really is within reach, he just doesn't know it yet, because to know it he would have to trust himself, trust himself not to trip on thin air. He's trapped at the landing, shaking like a leaf in the wind, scared to move even an inch; the non-Euclidian never-everland is going to make him sick.

Suddenly his own not-own voice is a welcome sound. A grounding presence. "Are you still there? I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone else. Is t-there something you need?"

Damn. Using his own disarming tactics against him. So this is what it's like to be on the receiving end of those big sad eyes. On an impulse he turns away from the stairs-too-steep, the horizon doesn't warp so badly now. Maybe it's fine. Maybe this is fine. This is fine, Yuugi tells himself. It's fine, this is fine, he's been through worse, (has he been through worse?) (he's definitely been through worse), everything is perfectly fine.

"Are you sure? You don't sound perfectly fine," the Other Yuugi comments. 

Oh. He must have said all of that out loud. Play it cool. "I'm fine," Yuugi states firmly, wiping the sweat off his brow. "Just a bit,"

"A bit?"

"A bit," Yuugi fights the lapse for dear life, "lost," is the word he picks. It's not the right word. It's not a strong enough word. Lost makes it sound like he's somewhere that someone might find him, instead of spiraling into a catastrophic mental collapse. Whatever. It'll do for now. Lost it is.

"Ok, well... I don't know how much I can help? I guess, uh, where are you trying to go?"

"Home," Yuugi unhelpfully supplies. Certainly the Other Yuugi is rolling his eyes.


"Okay... that's not... um. Where... do you live?"


"South of Clock Tower Square. Kame Game store."

That gets a good long pause from the Other Yuugi. He's doing the math in his head. Which Yuugi knows because can feel it not computing, gears grinding and whirring, clunking to a stop. Thoughts jammed.

"Can you... describe where you are?" the Other Yuugi chances. Yuugi is almost embarrassed by the innocence of the question. Is this really how he sounds to other people? Kind of adorable. Or is he being too harsh on himself? No, he's being too harsh. Way too harsh. Listen, these are dire circumstances. The Other Yuugi just wants to be merciful. (Why?)

Right. Right! He wants a description. He can do that. This is fine. "I'm in the living room." That's right, right? Yeah, of course. Because that's where the phone is, and he's currently on the phone, so that must mean he's in the living room. Naturally.

"Uh... okay? Whose... living room...?

Sigh. "Mine? Who else's?"

"Your living room?"

"Yeah."

"The one upstairs?"

"The one downstairs."

"Upstairs. At Kame Game?"

"Well duh," Yuugi confirms.

A wave of dizziness hits him, as though he swung his head around searching for something, which he didn't, since he knows better than to move too much right now, or else the bendy world might make him hurl.

"...Sure," the Other Yuugi accepts. "And you said you were lost?"

"Well actually, I'm looking for something. Have you seen my Puzzle?"

"The Puzzle? Umm..." Oh psh, like he knows what it looks like. Wait, no, he probably does know. He's him. Of course he would know what the Puzzle looks like. What's he saying?

Yuugi admits, unconvincingly concealing his shame with an overconfident tone, "I lost it."

It takes a moment for the Other Yuugi to choose his next words. His choice catches Yuugi completely off guard. 

"No, I lost it. I'm sorry. I'll help you find it."

For the next few minutes, or hours, or days, they talk. Getting used to the sound of their own voice...s. Voices. Confessing their confusion. Yuugi is secretly relieved to discover that the Other Yuugi is just as deranged as he is, as he goes on and on about some inescapable dream world, where a beam of bright blackness has made his room inhospitable, and how the walls are "starting to do that thing" again, which he doesn't need to clarify, because Yuugi knows exactly what he's talking about. They coordinate a search for the Puzzle, planning to start down at the shop and work their way up. Every nook and cranny. No stone left unturned.

"Promise we'll keep in touch," the Other Yuugi pleads before heading off. "Call me?"

"We'll find each other somehow," Yuugi sincerely believes.

He hangs up the phone. Tries to hang up the phone. Hangs it up. It's not, it's—really not that difficult, just, give him a sec.

There. He hangs up the phone. It takes several attempts due to the whole arm-extrusion-bending-horizon dilemma. What's up with that, anyway? Was it something he ate? The hell is he thinking, as if Mama laced the birthday cake. 

But no, really, it's starting to seem more and more likely that he genuinely has been poisoned. There's no other explanation for the way his vision has distorted, the thick gag welling up in his throat whenever he dares swivel his head, and oh god, wait, how is he supposed to go on a scavenger hunt when every step forward causes the world to mutate, walls and trims curving, centermost parts bowing in on him while the corners crimp into incalculably small points in the distance miles away, lacy, doily-like, forming bounding hills; the once flat ceiling has bulged into a dome, rigid squareness melting into kite-shaped diamond whorls. 

If not poison, then this must be... a shadow game, Yuugi concludes. Oh, that son of a...! The Other Yuugi failed to provide the rules! For as ill as the hyperbolic plane has made him, it pales in comparison to the nausea slamming him now, at the realizations, all of the realizations, so many all at once, none of which make any damn sense to anyone but him: that there is no dream, the Other Yuugi is the real Yuugi; that this Yuugi he is, is an illusion; this reality is an illusion—of course the real Yuugi would destroy his errant selves before they could become anything more than just a game—that he would do this to himself, that he would lie like this, bastard knows exactly where the Puzzle is!—no, no! It can't be true, he would never, he would never,—he is going to die like this, no one but himself to blame. This game is unwinnable. He is going to lose. What did he do to deserve this? (He knows why, he knows what he did. He doesn't remember and he couldn't name it if he tried, but he knows all the same.)

He clings to the betrayal. The nothingness arcs inward, crushing him.

Inversion.

When he curls his fingers, the back of his hand becomes its palm. Yuugi observes, mesmerized, only a little bit alarmed interestingly enough. He's more curious than anything. It doesn't hurt, it just looks unfamiliar. Actually, it eases some of the anxiety. If it's happening to his body now, too, and it's not bad, just odd, then the walls must not be dangerous like he feared. They're just passing through themselves.

He's somewhat shaken by the phone call, but he's soothed by the understanding that this is still the dream. Sucks that he can't make himself wake up from it but oh well. He's making an effort not to blink, though. When he blinks or closes his eyes, the darkness gulps him up and coils the space around him tightly, choking.

Breathing exercise. He sits at his judgmental dining room table and sips a glass of water. Good news: the chairs are well behaved. They have conveniently arranged themselves the way he wants. Bad news: this is only true because the entire house has flipped on its axis, horizontally. Typical mirror dimension. Good news: his clever trick has worked. Simply by deciding that he is done being tired and headache-y, the tiredness and headache are gone. He has become unaffected. No bad news yet on that front.

Can't help but be miffed about the Puzzle. He knows he had it on him when he was upstairs, but as soon as the phone rang, poof, it disappeared! Not even with a puff of smoke or a cartoony sound effect, like he'd been banished to a copy of Doubutsu no Mori and god was redecorating, nope, just blipped out of existence without consulting time or space or Yuugi first. Bye.

The Puzzle is allowed to do what it wants, Yuugi surmises. Three thousand-something years old, it's an adult, it can handle itself. Let the thing go for a walk out on the town. If he'd known it was leaving, he would have sent it off with some yen and a grocery list. Tell it to grab him some chips and a soda. Would the Puzzle be offended if he specified the tortilla chips? The triangle shaped ones, not the scoops.

Alright, break time's over. He needs to get a move on before he makes himself hungry. Time to begin the search. 

It starts at the shop like they'd discussed. Which is unsurprisingly reversed, just like the living space, and is just as abandoned as it had been earlier. It's funny, Yuugi casually ponders, how flipping an image can make it suddenly unfamiliar. And in a way, it's true, he's never been in this Kame Game before, the mirrored one, so it makes sense that it feels like it's his first time at someone else's place. He half expects a host to greet him any moment now. Welcome, come on in, have a look around, let us know if you need help finding anything, all puzzles are buy-one-get-one.

All he finds in Jii-chan's shop though are memories... inconsequential, darling things... rainbow slinkies, sticky hands, slap bracelets, water wigglers (he likes the shimmery red one with the dragon, likes to squeeze it and poke his fingers into its ends), digital pets, yo-yos, koosh balls. He keeps his eyes peeled for any telltale golden glimmer, but truth be told it's getting increasingly difficult to focus considering the way the linoleum tiles are shifting. Now that he's noticed, he can't unnotice it, he's hopelessly entranced by it. The lockstep square grid is developing extra vertices. They morph and swell, slowly, gently, to become octagons, then just as pleasantly shrink back down to become squares again. The same thing that happened to the walls and to his hands. He and his home, breathing in sync. Kind of sappy to think of it like that.

It's nice while he's watching it happen, not so nice when he snaps out of the trance and lifts his head to see that the shop has un-mirrored itself. Yuugi hasn't moved a muscle but he's now on the opposite side of the building. Or so it seems. There's a toy compass in one of the displays; it might be goofy but it still knows north from south. Its needle assertively stays put next time the house inhales.

The mirroring thing is not the intolerable part, it's the transition between. The part where the floor is octagons and so are the walls, but they don't feel like octagons when he runs his hands on them, they still feel smooth, unbent; his hands still feel like normal hands, while they move like anything but. Fingers sucking into themselves like the fingers of a glove removed—it keeps going, rolling his arms up like sleeves, keeps going still, unyielding, turning him inside out—until it's done inverting him from head to toe, and then it starts back up all over again. Yuugi holds his breath, hoping that the house will hold its breath, too. It doesn't work. The cycle continues, steadily rotating him through an unseen dimension. 

Well he's not going to let some dumb furniture carousel stop him, he's got shit to do. 

Nevermind the uncomfortable sensation overcoming him bit by bit. This much he is certain of: something about him has been tamped flat. The flatness worsens as he stumbles back up the straight stairs, walking a squiggly seasick path as the risers and treads wobble like the surface of water, sweeping him side to side with lazy whirly waves. He topples over, thudding all of his hundred-pounds-soaking-wet into an impenetrable invisible wall that soon fills its empty space, gasping, with its destined self. Yuugi clambers pathetically as the stairwell begins to invert itself in more ways than one. Now it's mirrored left and right and up and down, right-left down-up, left-right up-down, twisting, breathing, swallowing; Yuugi groans, moans, writhing, smushed flatter than paper, submitting himself to the mercy of the double-rotating hall. What a beautiful origami fortune teller he's been folded into, with all of his selves filling him inside and out.

Suffice to say he's a little frazzled once he finally makes it to the top.

He figures it'll be a while before he can muster his land legs back, so for now, Yuugi crawls on the ground. He barks a laugh at the mental image of himself as a tanzaku paper slip inchworming over to a dining chair stonehenge. After a cursory search, the Puzzle isn't under the table either, as it turns out.

And then, he's lost.

He's badly lost.

Fear, in the form of a flood, black unidentifiable sludge, rushes into the mindspace. Staples him to the hardwood floor mercilessly. It picks up right where it left off, tearing him down the middle, pure terror printed on him, strokes of ink split apart. Thousands of legs dodge around him, cold and unfeeling, disregarding the frightened child alone along their city path. The stranger with the expressionless stare is still there, still staring, unmoving, invariably planning, planning something. Its prey, defenseless, presses himself low to the asphalt.

There's a presence in the kitchen with him now, or maybe it's always been there. Judging him. It's nestled in a mishmash of manifolds, staring, planning; Yuugi struggles to grasp its true form, peering out from his tessellated cage of chair legs. Whatever it is, it's enormous—or is it the flatness that makes him feel small?—a colossal black monolith consuming the living room wall. Breathing with it. Blood pumping through it. Grotesque pulsating veins branching from it, snaking towards its victim. Eyes converging. Eye unblinking. Brilliant black shining. Staring. Planning. This wretched entity—

—politely avoids him, interested only in subsuming the decor, much to his relief.

It has a nose?

Baffled, Yuugi rights himself. He scrabbles to his feet with the help of the last remaining chair before it too gets slurped up into the monolith's tendril void. Yuugi, for whatever goddamn reason, sympathizes with the freakish thing. "Aww, you're just hungry," he pouts, feeding silverware into it like flakes into a fish tank. The monolith quite likes the silver, he senses. It could care less for the ware.

Now that he sees it up close, Yuugi thinks it's kind of cute. It has one humungous straining eyeball that is incapable of blinking, and it has a big round clown nose on the wrong part of its face, about the size of his hand (when his hand is not busy shifting shapes). Oh come on, like he isn't gonna give it a honk. Tentatively, he reaches for it, calmly and gradually in case the reality-devouring monolith of doom disapproves. 

He grabs the nose.

What! 

Doorknob?

It's not a nose, it's a doorknob, complete with a keyhole and latch, and this isn't a ravenous eldritch obelisk clown, it's a perfectly ordinary door. Okay, he's, uh, pushing the definition of ordinary a bit with the whole eyeball thing and the slithering blood vessels, but honestly that's just par for Yuugi's dream course. Aha! It hits him—this is where the Puzzle went off to! It must be inside of this door.

The all-seeing door is light as a feather, effortless to open.

Inside lies a memory:

m̷̘̭̣̫̤̯͚̒̓̔̉̑̒͂͗͑̓̕d̸̟͈͇̯̮̹̖̈̃̃̐̀͘͜b̶͈̉̕u̶̺͌́̎̇̃̉̈́͜͜,̸̡̙͍̟̝͌̚͜ͅę̴̛̰̗̭͙̹̥̗̟͖̊͆̈́̃̈͌̃͝ͅr̸̩̙͖̲̘̤̃̿́͆͗̊̏̐͜ẗ̴̛̝̗͚͍̤̲́̀͆̃́̐́̆̽̚͝t̸̖̣̋̋̊̃͊̿̊̋̍̀͗͠r̶̪̃̇͋̿͗͝͝ģ̵͎̭̙̠̹͓̲͚̥̺̜̃̀̓̇͝i̶̺̣̘̙̺͒͐͌̄̀̒͋͋ͅi̵̙̯̜̜̥͚̓̕o̵̩̊̏͠i̵̼̬̰͊̆̿̂̎̉̈͐͜͝͝͝ẇ̸̧̞̰̦͉̗̠̱͕̿͊̊n̵̡̧̧̪̠̝̝͍̝̈́͂̀́̇̑̚n̴̡̩̽̎h̴̤̮̗̜̺̺̐̑̎͐̎̀͛̎͊́̌t̶͉͐̐̈́͜v̷͕̩̘̘͇͍̥͕̪͐̔̌̆̈́͑̒̓ṉ̴͐̒̄̂͛͌̓͆́̂͒͝r̶̺̫͍͇̲̮̟͇̯̈́͆̏͒̆̒̄l̶̞̤̤̦͍͕̺̟̂́̈̎̂ͅd̸̟̤͇̬̭͍̺͕̳̃͋̎̅̍̄͒̕ͅͅͅá̸̢̗͖̟͓͍̟͉̑̂͜͝ḯ̵̟͖̻͉̭̑̓̅̍̇͂͐̚,̴̧͕̭͎̰͈̤̱̟͎̝̒̃̄̈́͒͂̅͂̐͝d̸͓̺̬̪͙̗̟́̅́̉́̇͗͘̚͝t̷̢̺̘͇̏̈́̎͛͆̋̈́̚ĩ̷̗̈́̓̽͜ư̸͙̂͛͒̋̀̍̀͠o̸͉̙̟͙̜̥̖͊ņ̷̝̯͙͌̎͋͐̉͐͛̚͝i̶̱̐́̀̈́̊̕̚n̶͔͔̏̆̓̆̒̈́̓͆͒̕t̸̘͕̖̠͂r̵̗̹̥̫̥͍̙̖͋̇̉͑̀͜͝l̵͇̽a̸͍̒ņ̷͋̽́̆͑̍̉̕r̵̟͍̮͍͈̘̣̿̎̍͘͘͠i̷̲͓̼͒͆̔͂͆̎̊͊͝͠͠t̷̛̪̮͉̕͝ņ̷̛͔̥̜̯̫͎̒͆̃̌̃̋̒̄̂͌͜l̷̦̣̗̗̓͗͌͒̚͝͝g̶̤̀̍̽ǵ̷̢̡̲̦͍͔͈͔̃̒̿̕r̶̢̜̻͑͛̆̀̍̒̈̃̕m̵͈̼̤̤̆̀́́͊̌́̍̃̿͝w̴̮̞͍̮͓̞͉͌̐͜ͅi̸̡̛̛̱̣͕̭̯̰̇̈́̀͂̿̏̓̉̚̚ę̸̛̻̹̹̱̼͇͑͑̽͗͋͑̿̅a̶͈̓̏͜y̶̨̖͚̠͖͎̹͕̑͆̏̋ï̴̛͕̦̳̻͈̮̟͇̜̲͙͗̄̾͐̾̚̕͠͠ͅt̸̢̢̙͇͇̹͍̼͕̹̱̐̄͆̍͗͊̄͝a̸̢̳̔̈́̍̋ĭ̵̀̈̀͑̅͂͜͝t̶͎̪̺̋͆̋͒͊̂̉̽̔̕͝͠ẻ̷̯̤̭̻̲̩̓̀̓́͋̀̆̐͊̎̈́ͅá̸̢̛̙̖͍̬̰̻̬̫͔̀͛̒͂̆̈́̋͑̊̚é̷̹̱t̶̢̟̪͚̥̰̊̇͐̈̐͊̇͠y̵̢͈̠̜̥͔̯̼̓̾͒̓͌̑͜f̴̤̟̘̦͍̯̣̏è̵̡͉̰̙̣͉̆͆͑̇͛̓̀͗̎̐͘i̶͇͌̊͌̉͋̅f̴̧̼̩͓̠̜̎ͅt̷͚̺͎̯̤̒͜ȋ̴̡̺̲̥͉̝̭͕̳͚̥i̴͍͑̉̋̾̽̅̀͛r̸̼͙͉̳̮̈́̿̐̌̍̀͠h̷̭̳̮̩̻̣̥̕d̸̡̳̰͉̘͕̥̙̲́̓͐̀̋͗͊̎̓̈́͘m̶͙̞̺͈͕̿̌̂i̸̝͍̜̣̠̣̞̹͈̲̰̞̋̊́́͐̉̉͝õ̶̢̻̳̞̱͚̰̯̲̞̳̼͛͌̈ą̶̡̩͉͓͎̲̺̩͝ḭ̴̡̖͔̺͓̮͇͕̫̣̂̆̾̌͆̂̍͆̚͝͠e̷̥̫̔̀̑̾̑̆͒̋̄͘t̴͕̭̹̦̾͋̇͊͌͐̿̑͘ȉ̶̧̧̤̠̞̫̣̯͇͓̥̄r̵̛͕̟̺̼̠͍̝̥͙͒̐͑̕ř̸̢̧̫̜͙͕͍͈̻̪̝͎̓ẏ̴̱͖̟͇̹͉͐͘f̴̡̧͖̝̫̩̥͈̮̹͓͚̈̿̆̉̏͌͑̃̽͊̕͝o̶̲̜̼͉̮̞͔̔̌̓͛̒͌̀̓͘͝c̸̛̜͍̬̩̟̱̘͐̌̄̆̄͋́́͘̕͜͝m̸̺̀̽̀͌̍̐e̴̫̥͂̒g̷͙̙̍̀̏̄̃r̴̹͖̹̘͖͎̣͖͛̈́ţ̸̛͎̖̹͎͙̭̳͛̈́̋̉̃̾̌̒̕a̶̡̹̟̰͖̫̤̳͙͑̈͆̃̍͛̿̀̿͝n̶̼̺̗͇̓̌͊͜l̵͈̭̈́͂͆̀n̷͖̩̝̩͔̹̳̯͇̟͆̾̈́̂̓́͒̑̈̓̀͘m̸̙͙̠̤͋̍͝,̴̜̰̑͑́̅̚ǹ̵͔̫̫̞̜͓͉̟̘̒̀̉ͅo̶͕͉̮͕͗̈́̅ͅḍ̷̥̰̜̣̤̱̮̕ŗ̶̧̭̜͉̜͎̰̩̫̐͌̂̑́̋̚͝n̸̨̧̠̤͇̣̩̗̘̠͆̀̇̌r̵̢͓͚͙̮̮͕̱̝̆͌̌̔̒ǔ̶̘̣̗͔̰̪͔͚̙͑̾ȅ̶̥̎̓̽͐̅̍̈́̃̂̕͠s̶̡̢̢͖̜̏c̸̨̙̗̳̭͕͙̳̹̖̥̀ͅḩ̸̦̭̖̫̲͐̄̓͒̉͆̉ȟ̵̛̪̘͇͆̈́͘s̴̛̠͔̣̲̻̣͉̞͈̞̿̓̆̓̇̇͌̌ͅḩ̴̬̯̣́͂̐̇̋̿̕͝ͅȇ̷̛̥͙̂̍̿́̄͘̚͜H̶̛̟͇̜̜̤̱̹͚̖͊̉͌̀̀͊̅͝t̵̡̧̼̫͚͖̹͂͠ĩ̴̢̖̭̜͒̌̌ȓ̷̻̾̿̊́͗́f̵̧̞͇̘̋͑̑͂̓̈́̿̀͑͛n̷̨̲͙͚̰͓̘͎̗̙͗̆̽̊̓͌͐̓̈́͊̚͝,̶͚͇̙͙͔̗̻͕̻͖̮̼̂̒̎̋̈́̍̅͆̿͝͠o̴̢̙̲̚q̷̱̦̯̈s̴̹̙͖̪̖̻̪̻̦͗̓͛͊̈̄͑͆̐̒ͅt̴̡̲͍͔͐͋g̵̛͙̼̓̽͊̇̉̏h̷̡̡̦̹̱̝̰͙̪͉͖͑͊d̴̡̢̰̯͖̳̬̘͈̱̙͙̒͋͛̾̐͒̓́n̶̡̧̛̮͕͈̺̫̣͕̫͗̍̏́͂̏̊͠o̴̢̗̪͓͇̒̔̊̊̿͂͆̀́̂̑t̴̮̳̠̄̆̎̄̐̊̍̚̚ͅh̴̨̫͉͚̫͙̟̯̰̭̦̽͊́ē̷͉̯͌̂̓́y̸̡̤̭̞͍̼̩̋͋̃̈̈́͂̚̕d̵̳̄͑͘͝ḯ̸̞̩͓͇͓͔̟͔̲̬̹͙̾̃̑͆̋̎̎͑̓͂̓,̵̠̅͛̅m̴͉̜̯͓̪̦̣̫̻̊ǻ̷̭̼͉̚ļ̴̡̢̠͔͔̝̩͕̔̀͌̀̆̂̐̄̚ṃ̵̡̣͍͒̅̂͛̕͝͝͝ḭ̶͙̪̜͕̀̊̀͑̉̉e̵̢̗͚̦̯͎̦̣̘̲̽͌̌̑̐͊v̶̨̛̖͍̗̹̭̘̲̪́̓̉͑͒͠ë̶̡̫́͛̓̃͊d̸̡̢̡̞̲̪̠̳͙̳̐̽͂̿́͋̋̏d̵̤̳͍̱̖̱̮͓̉́s̷̡͖͇͕͍͐͛̌͑̑̈́̅̾̌͊̒̚ͅȳ̷̞̗̋͒̒́̌̉̒̚ņ̷̨͎̟͙̺͓̖͉̓̿̎̂̍͌w̵̧͎̣̰̙͇̺͓̍̓̅̿͆̚ş̸̥͈̓̉͂̀͛̒͘e̸̢̠̲̟̣̰̲͙̞̹̓̔͗̿̌̀̾̊͗̄̈́̚ͅM̷̡̛̰̩̲̠̰̹̥̦̩͊͗͋̓̿͋̆͝l̷̹̣̟͇̥̙̐̄͆̈́̋͠͝m̶̱͗͐̈́̿́͒̓̌̍̓͘į̴̡̹͉͎̑́͒̿͆̒̀̓͘̚͘ȑ̶̨̟͚͇̙̗̙̘̼͚̩̊̽̌h̷̺͂͐a̸̡̺͉̬͚͗r̶̲̳̀̓̈̈͐̆̕ẏ̷̛̬̝̝̯̱͈̳̤͍̻̌̔̊̈́͜͠c̴̨̛͖̟̟̹͓̓͛̑̔͂̆̈́̕̚ņ̴̠̹̌̿́̓ͅͅ,̸̧̡̡̯̘͈͇̥́͜g̶̪͕̳̱̞̱̟̉̈́͐̒̎̄̌͛̎́͝e̸̞̺̫͐͋͐ẗ̵̞͉̙͈̯̠͍̤̗̟̦́ḧ̶̝͎́̉͂̕j̸̧̺̯̪̣̱̲̘̭̘̩̇͒́͜p̵̗̟̟͔̌̔h̷̢̺̩̱̫̩͉̆͆̋̌̿͂̑͌̚͜͠,̵̟͍̯̻̳͙͓͙̖̲̬̲̏͌̉͐͝ȃ̸̦̱̻͕͖̜̉͒̎̏͐̐̃̕͘͠i̴̢̹͉͎̳̝̳̟̖̱̙͙͐̑͆̒̃̔̃̂̕͘͝e̴͓̺̟͓̜͑́̈́͂͆͆͆t̶̗̥͍̞͇̭̜̖̩̏͜o̷̡̭̯͌̆́͘h̶̨̜̠̀͊̃͑̉̀̀̇̆͝͝ȩ̷̢̼̬͉͉̭͇̿̔͒͐͑͝f̷̨̧̡̧̪̣̗͕̗̗͗̓́̓͑̿̂͗̚į̸̥̠̖̰̳̉̄̅̈́̈̑̅̂͜͠͝e̴̥̙̫̼̯͇̙̜͆̄͗̀͊̈̍̂̈͜͠͠s̴͉̙̹̤̫̜̼̬̰̝͈͗̓͑̔̊̑͗̈́̆͜͝é̶̢̖̣̣͖̼͍̜͎͎̥̺̋́̑͒̾͑ḩ̵̦̱̜͍͕͐̈̓̿̌̍͝ȍ̶̧̪̝͈̻̮͂̈̕p̵̨̛̮͙̼̫̮͕̖͔̃̄̂̎͆̀͌̓ǫ̶̛̭͍̺͙̰̼̬͇̱̌ē̷̼͍͔͕̄̍̽͊̓̍a̷̧̛̲̽̍̎͐͘͘ë̸͚̹͓͋̔n̵̨̮̼̣̖̣̰̠̋͜,̶̢͐͗̽̈͋͆̋͋̆̕͝͠ò̸͇̓̅͌̇̊̈́̒͜ͅn̶̠͊́͠͠r̶̢̨̡͍͎̞͚̰̻͍̺̽̀͆̍̄̒ͅȑ̵̮̙̥͕͚̙ä̷͔̬́̈́͝͝t̵̼͍͉̻̋̐̃͜ì̴̢̝̞͙͍͍̳̳̑̋̾͛́͋͋͛́́͜͠ͅh̶̰͖̠̳͙͙̹̮̖̀͘c̴̻̒̔̈̀͗̏̋͠è̵̻̜̯̩̼̦̬̐̒͌̀͝ͅṉ̸̛̹͚͉͓̲͊̀̇͛d̴̡͈̝͎̹͑̎̈́̐̀͜ͅď̸̘̫̰̠̯̱̤̱͎̄̿̇̓͘͠͝d̸͚͔̜̮̮͉̆̽̎̀̑͆͜ͅ,̴͈͎̗̞͌̌͌̈̔̽̽͂͠s̵̫͉̗̣͖̹̤̉̄́̈́̏y̴̡̬̘̱̹̣͔̭̪͓͕͐r̵̢̨͕̯̘̯͇͚̥̞̱̹̊̋̿̐́̄͘͝v̵̢̳͉̗͇̩̈́͗́͛́̐̆͝,̵̢̛̜͖̤̒̈́̓͆̈́̒̇d̶̨̡̝̺͕̘̖̓̎̏̚͝͠ͅt̴̜̠̲̭̭̑͐̈͆͘̚̕͝ǫ̸͙͎̻̼͓̼͙͍͔̺̀̄́̇̉̇̈́͌̃̇r̵͕̝̫̋́̑v̷̡̧͈̹͎͖̣̱͈̬̍̏̅͂̑̇͘͝ͅn̶̛̺͕̙͉̎̅̓́̎̐̓̌a̷̢͕̗̜͍̭͙̬̅́̀̑̈́͋y̵̮̜̞͕̲̜̘̬͙̭̩̒͒̑̑̅̍͛̓̒͋̚͝,̴̻͔͍͓̘̘̰̲̖̝̱̥͌̆̅n̸̫͉͎̮̞̩͕̟͓̠̤͕̿̎͝͠ẏ̵̖̬̬͉̖̈̋ư̷͉̥̗̮ͅä̸̰͕̜͔͚̺͍̟ͅb̴̨̨̙̦͇̤̜͈͎̝̳̒͑́͠ṉ̸̨̡̧̡̛̱̖̠̯̬̱̝͒͆̔̉̃̈́̋r̷̡̧̳͎͕͙̰̝̦͠ș̶̢̛̜̬̺̖̍̄͛͑͂͌͋̈͐͊͘é̸̬̼͉̝̈́̀̿̈́̀́̏̿̏b̵̛̛͉̞͖̰͖̣̲͂̋̉̓̈́͊̚͝s̵̡̯͕̦͍͎̠̞̱̉̉͗̈́͆͂͂̿͘͘̚ț̷̨̧̥̦͎̃ă̷̫̞̩̼̖͍̲͈̣̒̓̓͛͒̂̕͝͝h̴̞̭̿̈́̀̈́͂̀̽d̸͕̙̬̖̺̻̼̦̯̻̻͊̂̐̀̀͗̎d̷̖̣̣̅̉͐̀̍̑̈́̽͝t̸̥̔̀̿̇̽̊̂͂̃̈́͐̚n̴̗͔̣̞̙̼̬͋͐š̷̺͉̏̌̒͐͊̽̚g̶̡̖̭̭̱̻̗̟̹̰̑͌̓̏̄́̉̓ŗ̸̹̜͇͓̺̫̓̎h̶̝͔̯̃͛̓͒͆͘͘̚t̵̡̛̤̣̱̗͕̓͊̂̓̊̃͠ñ̸͖̝̣̰̐̈͑̉̈̂̒̈́͘õ̶̟̣̱̰̞̓͜ğ̴̱̦̥͇̟̂̆̈́̋̃͌͆̑̃ͅą̸̘̰̟̲̟͔̘̥͚͒͐͋͝͠o̶̝̎̀̉͛̀̑͘͝͝ṉ̵͇͓̰͙̦͕͌̄́͜á̸̤̫̬͙͚̤͑̉̓͆̕͜͠ṭ̵̨̟̩̻̩̮̙̫͖͖͚̈́̉̔͘i̶͙͈͔̟̇̀̀͆̍̑̂̋̅̕͠͝w̶̧̻̱͔̭͚̺͍̝̺̆̌̃̅̾͆̕ͅͅŗ̸̰̣͖̬̎̃̒͑̍͒̊̚͝ͅi̴̬̪̙͙̹̱̲̲̗̪̿̿͛̈̀͛́̾͠į̸̭̪͚̫̻̙͈̝̮̇̏͊̒̌̉̈̀͂͜͜͝ǐ̴̭͉̓̾̄e̸̜̎̓͂̓̏̓́̑̌t̴̡̪̤͔̝̺͖͍̺̠̯̍̓͗̈́͑̈́̈́̎͠͠ͅs̷̡̛̝̦̃̓̈́̔̔́.̷̨̧̛͈̮̜͙̱̮̜̩̻̮͒͆̏̏̂͗̏̌p̷̮̰̙̜̩̼͇̿̔͊̒̽͂̀͝m̷͙͇̦̪̻̮̻͈͘͠ǹ̵̻̟̭̦͈͕̟́͝͝͝b̴̧̢̹̦̻̦̙̩̾̎̀ȅ̴̡̞̭͚̯͖̫̟͎̹̓̽̎͌͂̆̾̏̒̓͑c̸͔̯̞̺̙̝̪̎̿̉͊͜ã̶̛͈̦̝̦͌̾͘̚͝͠ẖ̷̪̯̞̓̽͌̌̃e̵̡̛͎̊̉̈́h̷͕͙͚̑̂̿̄̀͊s̸̩̱̣͓̻̮͖̈̚i̷̢͕̣̠̦̫͇̻̽̋̉̓̇͗̒͜e̷̢̨̮̙̱̩̳̠̮̣̓ͅĭ̷͈̥̿͒̃e̸̜̻̣͍̳̳͚͖̳̦̪̜̎͛͐͠n̴͕̲͍̙̱͈͛̈́̽̂̓̀̋͝ć̶̢̡̘̻̝̤̤͔̮̝̇ͅẽ̵̗̜̙̝͝ò̴̢̳͍̞̘̤̀́̐̐͑͛͊̏̚͘w̵̟̤͈͍̳̉͒̽̄́̇͌̽̚͠,̵̰̼̼͐͆͆̎̕ọ̴̡͖̊͌̾̈́̉̿̏͌̀͘͝n̸̛͈̭̟͚̼̖̆͌͒̽̓͗̈́̐̎͠s̷̤͔̤͎̗͇̲̓̔̉̓̀̏͠͠ý̷̫͎̼̰̫͐o̶̧̨̜̮̫̹̮̹̲̱̽̾͜͠o̸̞͚̼̼̝̫̖̪̮̳͗̿͛̃̂͠ͅͅă̵̧̖̺͇̬͓̈́̈́̈͌̈́̾̓l̴̪̰̙̼̓͊̽͋͑̓͘ͅò̴̢̺̥̰̞͕͈̝̣̎̽̈́̏͛̈͗͑̍͘̚ͅͅa̷͖̩̐̉h̷͍̖͆͒͛̈́͑͗̕ę̸̺͖̫̥̳̼̖̘̤̘̈́͂̒̑̅͠ͅh̵̭̯̞̹̭̩̀͑̾͛͌͂̓͑͜ḩ̷̡̗̼̠̼̘̺̟͚̠̅̑h̵̠̟͌̀̾̈́͒͘o̸̟̣͇̺͕̳͉̾̅̚͜ĕ̷̡̧̛̦̫͎̜̤̠͉̙͕̆̂̈n̴̹̩̠̩̳͚̣͇͊̓̓̀͂̉͌̆ỉ̵̧n̷̤̠̭̰͍̣͂͜ḁ̵̲͎̞̹̰̹̄̇̀͜t̴̝͚̠͖͇̅̓͛͑͗͗͘̕͝͠ẇ̴̤́̓̏̚a̸͔͈͐́͐̔͌̓̾̊̌̎̀r̴̛̤͎͕̦̈́̓̀͗́̈͘͘i̷̯͔͙̤̳̱̓ȅ̷̥͍͠͝r̶̡̡̢͖̰̥̳̤̹̟̎͆̑̓̓̂͌̂̓̂͝ͅe̴̼̓̿͌̈́͗̍ë̴̟̰̙́ţ̵͉̺̟̗͎̮̫̫̤̂̏̍̌̀̌̾̐͠s̴̢̧̳͔̙̜̩͈̋̈̀̒̊̅̿̓̈́̚i̵͓̱̬͗́͌͑̀͠d̷̢̤̙͇̫̣̻̬͚̏͜l̵͉̺͖̙͍̙͉͍͖͌h̸̩͍̺̫̰̜̪͈̜̙̻̓̋͌͐̾̈́͛͛̏̚̚ͅẁ̷̡͖̖̰͔̭̞̹̺͔̣͆̈́̔̏͝ͅę̸̛̫̩͕͇͗͂̀̓g̴̤͚̪̝͆̐̑̂̚͝l̴̮̼̍͛̑o̸̢̩͌ş̸̛̙͓̹̝͚̭̰̮͔̯͔̂͊̏̐̿́̚͝s̴̢͉̠͇͍͚͐̈́̉͊͂̇̓̔̕g̶̝̱͙̎̉̑̃͑͘b̸̧͍̭̩̽̿͑í̸̠̩͓̮̼̦͔̀́̐̇c̵̤͔̥̰̫̔o̸̬̖̞͕̳̭͈͖̣̗̽̆͑ͅe̷̢̡̨̧̧̮͖͇̭͈̠͆͜t̶͓̪̪̳̮̗͛́̂̀͠e̶̦̺̘͚͔̖͓̟̦͐̇̀̉̀͛̒͗s̷̡̢̡̧̭̝̞̲͇̰͇͐̊͆́̄͂e̶͓͚̺̭̪̲̣̗̝̘̒̆͋́̈̓̊ͅt̴̙̲̊̉̆̈́̔̂͑̕͝w̸͚̭͈̥͖͙͉̼͍͍̾̆̚ť̸̮̘̫̩̙͓͉̲͔̄͊̐͛,̶̡͔͕͠ò̵̧̧͓̫͉̫̪̫̝̘̪̋́͐̾͗͋́́͜b̷̡̦̳̳͍͓̀͌̔̒̋́̊͜c̸̫̥͇̰̩̣̙̙̖͙͕̬͒́̌̆̿̋̅͑͘͝o̴͚̳͚̞̹͉̖̣̮̿̈́̎̇̽̌͆͗̀̚f̴̖̬̜̆̉̄͛̐.̵̣̗͋͋̐͊̈́͗̅̽̑̌̈́ņ̵̨̢̠̺̆̍̔̈́̔̐̑̍̑͋͐ṃ̶̤̀̏̊̒l̴͇̼̖͈͇͖̳̭̓̎̏̀̐̆w̵͙̜̔̈̓̌́͜ḭ̴̯̻͎̜̻̈́̊̀̓̊́̈́̚͠ę̸̻̮͇͈̫̺̆̅̀͘ţ̴͇͇͍̮̺̼̣͍̘̬̳͆̈͘͠͝t̷̺̝̣͇̺̥͚̯̝̾͜͝n̴͈̎͊̎̍e̷͍̬̻͓͌̿͂̄̃̿̌̿͘̚͝͝ŕ̶͔̒̐̆̉̇,̸̠͂́̓̊̇͋̓̓́͐͘ę̶̧͚̦͖̩̬̥̞͂̎̓̆̈́͌ö̴̡̡̝͇̤́̎ͅo̸̡̢̰͉̫̘͙̤̎̿̎b̴̨̉̎̇͊͐͆̈͑̕͠ę̴̺͕̻͎̮̇̃̿͌͐͂̔͂̉̅͘͝ͅͅḯ̵͙̰̘̟̩̦͕͜,̸̧͉͍̳̓̊̑̈́͒̉͌͐̀̒̈́e̸̡̛̜͍̪̖̪̬̘̓̎͛́͆͌̿̓̐̕̚'̷̘̼͖͍̜̗̰̱̙͓̜̥̈́̆̂͐͊̈͒̔̆͝͝ş̵̙̑͒͑͆̕e̴͈̟̘̳͕̝̭͍̬͚͒̑̈́͋͜͝͠ḷ̷̨̱̼̞̭͎̥̝̯̀̅̍̍̅͜͝s̵̢͔̥̪̬̼̬̬̗̬̯͖͂́́̍͌͑̓͊̉͘͝o̶̞͈̘̟̙̮̙͖͓͕̟̐̊̈́ę̸̭̯͇͖̙͉̳͖̪̭̍̅͒̾̔̚w̷̡̦̤̖̖̟͇̣͚̰͛̍̈́͌͂̇͌̊̋r̴̛̞̈́͝y̷͖̠̤̭͇̅̀̌̀͗s̷͉̠̣̦̓,̵̛̭̭̠̺̝̘̣̫̀͊̎̿͌̃̿̿̔ȋ̶̢͓̺̤̭͇̞̊͑̋͊́͗̿̂͘̕͜͝m̸͈͓̀̾͗̓̏̿̔́͗̾̚,̵̭͉̺͊̋͑͒͆̄͊̌̊̄̕̕t̵͓͇͇̞̑̒̀̎̂̀̽͑o̶̢͓͒͒͐͐̿͝͝͠ȩ̴̞̫̹̬̠͖͉͉̣̼̩̉̓̈̏̿̇͛̕̕͝e̴̢̡͓̣̙̳̯͕̭̥͐́͑̿r̸͉͊͌̑̋̈́̓́̂͗̕s̸͔̠̖̗̩̹̙̬̊̊̎̀͋̈̏̓̈́͗̚i̴̛̘͈͍̝͇͕͚̼̹̤͋̆̈̋͌̌̌̚ͅl̵͎͔̫͈̳̻̳͂̎̂̀͑̈̽̕̚e̴̗̭͎̋̀̌̃̿̿͐̏̕̕ḛ̶̛̹͎̘͉̜̱̼̰̫͖͕̀͘͝ę̴̜͇̳̗͓͉̱̬̩̇͆͂͒̒͂̓̒͒͜͠š̸̻͚͇̘̠̭͙̼͐̈́͛͋͌̃̑̾͊͆̎g̸̡͎̥̳̙̟̮̝̬̻̲̬̓̓͑̐̊̿̚h̵̡̹̗͚̖̻̪̤͈͗̌̒t̶̙̬͕͚̼̠͚̯̳̺̎̉͝ͅb̶̫̥͗̇d̷̨̥̠͓̮̣͖̏̓͂̀͜͜ͅo̵̡̞̪̗̯̪͊́c̸̛̠͇͕̫̘̰̈́̈́̈́̓̅̕͘̕h̴̛͖̪̦̗̫̗͌̄̂͝,̸̞͚̞̈͌͌̄̀̄͆̆͝ͅb̵̛̪͇̗̞̥̗͑́̎̐̊͑͘̕͝ơ̴̰̺̯͉͖̬͉̜̭͈͂̽́͒͊̑͛̏͗i̶̮͚̝͚͚̯̪̲̤̟̥̿̎n̸̘̫͉̐͋̂́̉̈́͌́̓̓̏͒i̵̧̙͆͛̈͐̽̾̈́̚̕h̴͍͚̭̼͖͇̳̻̫̲̦͌̽͑ṣ̵̡̛͖̺̞̦̘͙̒́́̅̋̉̇͗͜t̸̯̩̞̜̤̭̟͔̰͍̯͕̾̄͊̂̌̀̀̾̌̕͠n̴̨̙̮̤̺̬̤̱̤̭̒́̍̒͑͜f̸̧̨̭̙̩̦͕̩̫͇͈́̈̈́̋̾̈́̿̉̾̍ȑ̷͎̜̮̗̱̤͇̤̰̥͉̍͛͜͝͝r̴͈̥̬͕͖̜͉͐͋̌̀̈́͒̌́͗͝d̷̡̖̙͚͉̟͕̙͇̋̇͊̿͜ą̷̯͔̮̮͎̤̜͇͂̽̈̈́̑̒́i̵̧̹̦̜̮̳̪͎̊̾̎͑͑̊̅̎̿̈͋͠ư̶͙̣͓͋̂̕ę̸̡̤͔̻͙̹̞̼̞̞̑̊́̂̅t̶̗̱̝͙̳͎̹̠̯̩̗͂̽͂͜.̴̧̜̬̈̾̓ͅa̵̗̤͉̬̭͕̭͖̠̬͐͛̋ṅ̸̲̤̝̥̖̆o̷̦̗͙̜̓͆̾͘l̶̨͔͚͎̱͔͈͉̦͊̎͝ͅģ̴͉̭̫̰͔̬̼͗̈́͆̍͆̉̎̅͌̂c̸͕̺̤͉̭̓̇̇̌̃̆e̸̲͔̟͍̳͎͗̄͑̉̀̚͝ͅh̵̫͕̖̪̗̘̘̠̰̺̤͋̍͝i̶̝͉͒l̵̪̙̤̗̣̉͂͊͜ṵ̷̢̨̗͇͕̰͙̟̭̹̞̌̈́̓͒̐̽U̶̧͈̘͍̗̖̣̟̺̅͑s̵̨̞͓̩͓̪͋͒̓̌̆͂̿͗̕͜͠ͅh̷̳̜̑̒̈́͒̐̀̈͜͜͠͝n̷̞̭͇̞̗̟̓͗̅͜,̸̧͍̫̩͎̹̺̲̀̒̍̋̅̓́̕͝ͅͅi̴͓̝̜͚͉̤̣̾͌͗͛̋̿,̷̲̣̰̳͖͗̔̓͌̈́̕͜ť̴̡̮͚͖̰̈́̆̿̀̎̒ḙ̶̛̮̫͚̠̩̝͎̬̩̂̊̅͝ļ̶̱̮̘̄́͌̔̒̀̍͆̅͌͐͜ṁ̵̨̫̈̎̋t̶̛̲̣͚͇̲̜͎̣̥̟͈̃̋͛̊̌́͐̆̃͌͜͠h̷̬͕͓̬͇̫̜̞͕̠̾̀̂͋͆͆́͛͝ͅh̵̡̫̝͈͚͗̆͑̆ͅg̸̢̛̫͓̝͈͖̐̍̕t̸̟͔̱̫͛̎̽́̑́͑̈́̚͜͝g̷̞͎̯̣͍̤̳̻̿̅͝ḧ̸̜̂̋͆̅͋̌͑̕͠͠g̵̨̡̟̳̱̻͖̦̞̳̜̝͛̐̈́̌̀̋̐̅r̴̤̼̬͎̳̱̎͛̓͝ṇ̶͇̻̩̝͚̇̋́̅̇́̕͝ḩ̶̡̠͔̬̠̟̱̫̜͇̎̌̈͝͝a̶̦͕̹̹̺̖͎̼̫̐̏͌̊̆̊̍̊̍̆̚ś̶͇̻̠̼̙̼͖̖̟̌͘ͅn̸̻̘͍̓͒̌ė̶̦̦͓̩̽͠s̶̡͉̣͇̦̥͇̫͊͋̏̈͂̂͛́͜ͅf̸̣̠͉͑̂̍̐͊͊̆̃a̶̛̛͍̺͊̍r̶̼̰̬̄ȩ̸̢̛̦̯̟̮̤̺̥̹̤̃́̇̆̒͂̅̌̚r̸̨͉̱̱̝͇̳̪̘̟̪̈́ͅỳ̶̭͈̜̭͂̏̑̿́̚͘̚e̷̡͈̦͇̩͐̈́͗ḟ̸̥͈̲͎̺̙͆̌́̾͐̋̍́́a̶̻̩͊̓̓̈́͛̽͛͑͋̀͐͝ë̸̦͎͔̬̞̫͚́̊̌͐̓̀̀̐̉̔ť̵̢̺̦̥̟̫̟̖͔ͅf̶͕̩͔̣́̆̋̐̓͊͋̒̄̀̚g̶͚̰͓͉̖͓̙̱̱̿̒́̂̏̐̚s̴̳̮̟̬̻̓͝r̴̯̬̘̻̮̀̑̃͂̚͘̕͠͝͝,̵̮̗͌̌̍͛͒s̸̥̋̐̓͘ͅç̷̙̣̥̪̫͋̂̈́ŗ̵̛̛̗̦̖̪̻̗̬͙̪̜̔͛̀̾́̑̎́̚̕ͅţ̷̧͍̜͚͚̫͓̙̻̒i̴̪͕̝͒̃̆̃͒t̸̬͚͕̀̔͆̋̆̍o̴͇̫̥͖̥̣̤̪̜̰̱̐̋̆̋͜n̵͍̬̙͇̱̘̘̰̞̗̆́̾̊̅͐́̕ĕ̵̡̛̮͖͕̭̹͌͊͐ͅv̸̡͖̱̟̝̟̎̓̉̇̃̚͝ï̷̢̛͓̼̼̹̦̲̪̄͗e̶͉̥̪̓̈́̽̈̽̾͊̚̕s̸̢̝̬̠͙̦͍̦̏̓̈̋͛̾̃̾̉̌̃ͅh̶̢̹̝̼̖͇̺̏ï̸̢̖̖̫̝̮̲̯̭̀̿̈ḡ̸̗͖̮̺͚͍̀̾͂̊̌͆̑̕ǹ̴͓͎̘̆̏̇͐̓̏͋͆̕͝a̷̰̋̿̈́͗̍̔͘ő̵͕̤̬͈̺̖͔̤̙̬̼͔̑̀̀͛̈̓́̑̊͛̕d̴̝̗͎̤́̎̽̂̿̂ẅ̸̨̬̳̞̖̝̪̩͊̈́̏͑͛͒̃͋̑͘̚n̸̨̛̹̗̘̣̙̬̣̾̓͐̏̓̕ę̶̢̭̻̯͕̯̜̠͛̊̌̅̎̎͋̈͒͠ř̷̥̟̼̞̱͒̍n̶͉̑̽̂̿́̍̆̃ḩ̴̨͍͈̩̘̙̼͍̱̙́̄̓̈i̸̛͖͉͐̈́͛̏̂̈́̆ṟ̵̙͉͗̓̏̃͘ę̵̨̙̜̩̯̖̩̐̈́̾̉̌͑̾̊̍͝ţ̴̡̡͎̹̫͇̼̼̣͓͗n̵̩͒̏͑̽͂͑̉͐́̚͝ń̷̡̡̘̞̙̗͚̓͋̇̈́̌n̵̡̠̮͗̒͂͠ř̴̪̭̘̹̘̱̳̜̈́̏͘ͅẙ̵͙̱̮̓́́̈͛͋̇̐̽͠͝ẹ̵̢̺̲̦͍͇̗͚̑̉̅ą̸̡̛̩̦͓͓̙̭͎̲̘̏͆̇͌̃͒́͘̚p̵͈͚̍̇g̸͉̜̩̬̋̈́̂m̷̗̖̑̏̀͗͠ṇ̶̨̛̰̮͙̤̓̚͝ņ̶̧̢̧̼̣̺͍̠̗̰̞͋͛̚͝ọ̵̧̧͎͇̖̲̖͎̤̝́̏̀̾̋̊̅͂̃͒̽͜͝s̴͙̦̰̰̻͔̬͔͉̓̂̇d̷̨̛̳͔͖͚̙̟͉̘͂è̵̳͙̀͐͐̅͌̇̕͠͝g̵͓̊̄̀ņ̸̤͇͉͍͎̜̳̞̬̖̗̽̈́̄͐̈͂̌̽̀̒ņ̶̬̣̠͍̞̲͔͙̭̝͗̅̈́̏͛̌̀̐͋͘̕ͅo̴͈̬̫̙̦͈̠̽̾̐̾̉̄̈̓̅̕͜ō̸͖̖̻͇̭̲̻̦͇͐b̸̯͖̟̣̰͚̮͎̜̹͂̿̋̃͐͐̎͝ͅe̸̠̾̓̏̓̇͂̂̑i̴͈͎̻̮̯̪͜͝ͅa̴͔̼̗̪͇̠̾̈́́̔̂̿̐̕͝͝g̷̡͖͉̥͗́̽͂̇̄͆́̏̾͘̕ͅT̴̗̠̝͈͂̓a̴̛̗͎͓̩̱͆͂̈̓̊ẻ̶͙͓̭̹͖̿̈́̽̈̏͐͌́̓̾ǹ̴͖͎̞͎̦̒͌̏̐̋͒́̊̚n̵̘̭̞̱̗̱͙̞̯͈̂̌́̏̐̎͐̀͆͝n̶̝̱͚̤̝͍̂͛̂̀̕n̸̜̻̈́,̶̧͍̘̬͈̼̱͙͎̥͔́̌ͅr̸̢͚̳̃i̴̢̛̗͈̍͋̂̎̎̃̆̌ò̸͚̲͉̯͍̝̻ͅe̴̞̰̤͕̪̗̺̺̺̰̿t̵͕̟̽̿͊̅̈͑̈̐͝ḑ̴̢͕̲͇͙̯̗̟͔̲̯͗̇͒̑š̵̼̦̮̻̭͔̜̃̈́̒̀́͂̆́̾͘͘͜ṉ̶̱͕͒̈̌̋̇̀͜͠͝f̵̛̤̙͍͎͚͇̫̺́̉̓̎͐̕i̸͍̘͖͎̔͆̍͑͠͝͝c̴̣̼̳̱͖̽́͑̐h̵̢͙̮̳͉͔̗̙͗̈́̈ͅͅį̶̳̤̬̭̬̟͙̪͆͒̓̎͑͆͝t̷̢͇̞̳̪̗̙̊̈́̃̑̅̅̈́͊̃͋̽͝p̴̢̬̙͚̗͆̅͊̉̈́̓̿͊̕l̸͖̘̋̈́̆̋̀̅ŵ̸̬́̕s̷̻̺͇͆̆̈̈́̉͂̂̚ģ̷͍͕̤̥͚̠̓͛́̃͌̿̄͗̽̽͐͘e̷̺̹͉͛̌̄ȑ̶̨̛̳͍͐͂̒͌̎̉̇͠͝ĥ̵̨̢̧̩̬̳͔̝̳̋̅̍̀̈́͊̀̾ŝ̶̡͍̯̻͎̀̓̍ĕ̸̤̞̻̼̲̾͋͗̎̒͐͜͠ͅf̴̡̡̡̡͎̦̼͎̘̭͕̑̉̂̽̈̒̎̍͠ų̸̱̣̣̣͎̘̖̳̄̉̈́̇e̵̡̞͙̼͗̔̿̾̄̇̿̚͠r̴̢̜̺̺̰͂͗͐̓̈̓̓͜h̶̜͍̥̩̤͕̻̬̙̫͔͊͑̂͒͒̊̚ǵ̸̻̿̈́̈́͒̍͑̀͛͘͝i̵̦̹͎͋̎ģ̴̛̟̠̲͍͚̥̘͈̣̥͝ḭ̵̹̟̮̺͚̥̻̯͙̓̃͋̐̔́͜l̴̛̠̤͎̈́̃͑̽̓͗̃́̕t̶̲͓̬͖͒,̵̢̡̨̥̝͔̦̰̮͆̂̈́̈́͋̊̄̏́̀̈ȋ̶̡̠̗̈́a̷̢̢̙̻̲̹̱͙͖̬̾̆̆̂̐̋̐̈́͝ţ̵̱̖͇̩̖̝̤͇̘͇̥̓͒̓͌̍͂̃̚͝o̸̥̹̟̮̯̬̒̈́͜h̷͎̬̞̜̍̀͋ͅi̸͖̬̳̗̤̼̓̍̍͘͝i̶̛͈̝͕̦̘͌̄̄͋̆̕͝͝͠n̴͇͇̰̅̈̀͑̂̃͊͆̑į̶͔̟̫͚̻͎͊̈́̕n̶͕͝͝n̷͙̻͕̤̋̈ś̵͚̲͕̼̌̈̏,̵̠͉̬͖́̑̈́̽̎̄͘̚d̶̡̛̦̜̝̰̙̠̝̬̟̤̊͒͂̅́̾̈́́̑͆̚ͅh̷̡̙̳͖̻̮̥̞̼̣͒̎͗͋̉̆͗̇̈́͊̚͜͝į̸͙͉̥͓̖͓͍̯͒̿̏͑̇̽̍̈̈́͜͝t̷̢̻͍̪͓̺͙̐h̸̢̛̭͇̥̯̺̘͖͐̉̂̏̈́͛̎͘͠͝͠ͅk̶̼͆̈ṣ̴̢̛t̵̨̡͖̤̗̬͎̱̪͑ͅe̶̻͉̦̣̳͎͒͝w̴̨̧̡̧͉̟̺͋́r̵͉͇̞̈́̔̄͐̋̈͒̑͒͝͝x̸̥͓͙͎̘̠̭͓̬̯͗̉̔́̈́̈́͝͝ö̴̜̫̘̜͉͉͍̺͚̱͈̭́á̶̡̝͍̬̬͎̤̼̪̹͐̂̉̈́́ͅl̶̛͔̿̓̽̽͂͑̕t̸̨̪̣̬͎̱͙͓͇̪͔͆̎̋́͛̓͜͝b̷̦͕̠̫͉̮͈͋̂́͑̕n̵̺̻̰̰̣̔͐͌̿̌̇̈͝ͅẅ̷͙͇̜̲̭̘̮̲́̈̾̂̂̓͌̿̈̕͘r̶̳̪̾̒͠r̵̭̯̳̻̱͍̲̙͈͗̾̏y̶̱͕̝̝͒̿̔̆b̴̨̿͋̇͑͋̆͆̀̉́̐s̷̜͎̞͖͕̥͕͆͊̍͌n̴͉̩͔̰͍͎̱̝̳͍̋è̷̛̥̋͗̿̀̌͒̀̅͘̕s̷̢̻͚̪̟̟̯̙̀́̄̎̔̒͒͜ͅͅȩ̶̞͉̞̫͎͎̱̝͈̫́̓ă̵̘͓̟̄̂̌́̐̆͂͝a̴̳̘̱̻͊̅̏̽̍̀͆͆̆̓͝͝ą̵̛̟̺̻̙̰͎́́̐̌̈͠â̸͈̠͛̃͛̈́͒̏͑̓ĩ̴̛̙̳͓̈͗͛̂́̈́͒̋r̷̝̙̬̭̼̳͂t̸̛̻͈̟͇̠̊̇͒͒̄̃͂͆̀̐͘ḧ̴̢̭̣̩̠̪̖̱̘́̿͗̑̔͊̀̆̔̚͘͜͜͝u̵̘̝̫̼͕̪̙̦̫̞̓̒͜,̵͖̣̋̈́̎̅̕į̶̫͚̲̙̬̣̭͛̌͆̃̽̈́̌͜ṯ̶̢̺̘̓̾̊́͑̏̽̐̃͝n̴̖̟̖͍̲̪̯͚̈́͝ȧ̵̭̙̫̻͓̺̻̫̖̝e̷̳̖͎͇̳͔̤̮̻͕͗e̵̢̨̛̖̰̖̣̞̠̰̽́̽̎̑̉̐̐é̷̦̪̫̝̪̬͠f̷̖͈̮̊͋͂̏ḥ̷̱̬̠̞͚̽̋̈́͒͜ę̵͙͇͖̘̜̮͑l̶̬̋̈̓̓͊ş̴̛̭͖̜͓̭̲͓͈̱̓́̌͗̉̈͘ͅͅo̶̡̧̞͔̹̼̤͍͎̤̜̼͒͊͛̉̚̚̚s̷̢̱̥̬͓͓̺̹̮̘͍̈͐̀́̄̍͂́͌͘͝ở̷̧͍͓̬̣̿͌̉̂̐̎̔̀͜͠s̴̩̬̱̞̬͑͌̌̈́͒̐̿͑̊̾͆̕l̶̥̰͈̘̯̙̞̐̀̄̚r̷̨̛̦̹͔͉̻̬̾͐͗̈͂̃̇́̕͘͝ͅȟ̶̨̧̢͍̱͈̹͎͓͚͌̋j̷̨̟̦̆͑̚̕h̵̖̺͇̺̮̖͖̬̖͇͈́̈́͛́͒̕l̸͓̤͙͖͙̖̃̆͊̄̓̇̌̏̕͝͠ͅ,̸̯̙̜͕̬̫̲́̏̄͂̈̕ͅh̵̛̞̼̻͋̊ở̵̡̤͚̤̈́̂̿͐̚̕͝n̴̫̖͚̭̍̔͐u̶̯̥̍̒̿̽͊͗̈́́̀̔̽̕ẹ̴̹͑̓͘t̴̛͍̪͈̰͎͖̫̂͊̐͂́͑͂̽̄t̸̢̺̰̝͖͑̅į̷̡͎̮̳̋͌̄̆̆̏̇́̈̊̒ĕ̴̲̖͚̝̤̤͗̋̀̃̌̑̊͛̕͝f̴̛̪͓̣͇̩̤̙̣̅̆͝y̶̛̘̯̣͔̖͎̬̻̒̄̈̓̓͌̒̅̃̈́s̴͈͙̱̋a̸͕̳̜̬̗̜͈̺̻̹͛̃̋͗̏̈́̐̽̊͋̚h̶̢͉͙͉̙̬̖͑̂̈́b̸̮̠͍͐̓͒̂̕g̴̡̨͉͇̩̑̒̀̎͑́̌̒e̵̛͈̭̯̝̙͇̯̫͈͈͉͑̈́̽͊̿̒́͠ͅd̸̡̟̯̫̯͎̯̪̯̟̑̚͜a̶̢͗̐̿͐͌͐͆̊͑͘ą̸͖̔̂̊̒̌͆̔̾͋͊͂͘t̷̨̗̊̇͆̂͜͜͠r̵̛̭̙̟̠̳̩̾̀̋̎̉́̌̾͛͝g̴̳̹̣͇̫̥͍͚͉̺̦̎͊̎͗͂̏̀̿̈́ş̵̡̢̨͙̤̮̣̙̮̼̩̔̽̃̍̃̈̇͘͘͝ĺ̷̛͉̈͘͠c̶̢̯͍͛̍̇͊̈́̔͒̏͋t̶̡̥͓̝̮̼̾r̴̡͔̗͎̖̪̈́̌́͘͠s̷̖̹̭͇̥̬̥̳̩̏͐͐̉͑o̷̭̦̺͋̎́͗́̓͆̅l̴̢̬̗̩͕̫͍͇͉̥͆̀͝ͅp̷̪̠̲͔͇̝̗̥͈̽̈́̀͊f̴̡̘͖̬͇̟̎̏̾̑̈́̐͜ẗ̴̨̛̜͉̦̥͈͈͍͕́́̄͋̾͊͗́̆̕͝ṱ̶̬͇̣̩̀̾d̵̪̞̖͗͐̑͘͘t̷͙͕͇̪̱̙̼̻̺̃̆̊̑̈́̕͜n̴̯͚̝̬̩͙̣̺̲̪̿̆͜i̷̧͕̪̹̤͕̣͚̤̪̲͆̒͘g̴͇̫̬̮̘̮͛͑͐̈̄͝e̴̗̕ͅḛ̷̀s̸͉̹̦̦̥͓͉̓̈́̿͋͒̑̊̅͝͠ͅỉ̶̬̞̠̊̕͜͝ȩ̶̨̤̣̟͔̩̟̰̈̇̃̈́͠ͅͅͅh̵̳͔͈̻̙̟̍́̇̒ͅh̵͈̆̑͋b̷̡̗̜̣̜̦̳̩̰̺̖̘͝t̴̻̩͍̘̖̬̩̞̰͆͊̃̽̇l̷̤̗̣͙̣̇͂́͆̒̎͝i̷̡̬̻̟̭̥̖̺̮̯̩̋̾͛h̴͕̞͇̏̍̒̿͘͝ş̷̮̱͉̺̬͆̎́̈̍̐̑̆́̌̓̄ͅẗ̶̨̧̨̖̗̩̬̫͕̠́͐͠ṣ̴̡̧̯͓̺̟̣͓̥̾́̈̃͒͐ͅp̵͔͗̆͑̈̎̑́̍̄̈́t̴̻̙̜͚͆̔̌̃̓͛͐͐ǐ̵̢̢͉̠̫̫̙̾̂͆́̈́̓̋̀̀̀͂d̶̰̭͛̈̓̀h̴̻̼͍̖̆̉̇̓͘͝ę̸̨̦͇̹̲̝͕̪̤͆̈̀̚̕͝a̴̪̹͖͔̫̦̲͓̟̬͈͓̒̾͑̅͠͝k̸̨̞̤͍͕̰͕̽͛͆̈́̓̎̋͝p̶̡͍̒h̸͈̩́͐̋͠͝ͅņ̶̢̜͙̻̘̦̞̪̩̯̦̀̓͊̏̓͒̑̓̚͘h̸̠̘͙̟͇̭̥̳̏́̚ͅo̷̘̪̟͚͚͗̒̒̊͊̌̃͂̔̕̚͝ţ̵̡̤͉̝̭̳̬̲̄̀̋̎s̸̩̟͉͇̳̝̀̏́͝r̶̢̤̘͍̱̰͇̯̼̗̉̿͐́͗͠e̵̬̯̦̫̥͚̜͕͊̀̈́͊̚͝ͅȉ̵̟̰͎̯̪͖̮̈͛̎͛͑́̆͆̅̕̚ͅę̷̗̞̫̝͍̹͇͕͛͂͒̅̇̄̆̀̚i̸̢͇͇̯͇̰͖͚̽̒́͛͊̉ŕ̸̡̢̺̳̪̯̦̄̏̈ͅs̸͚̓͌́̓̊̽̄̊͝s̵͈̦̈́l̴̯̍͑͂̍͂̿̔̕̕f̶̩̱̗͎̞̄̅̋̓l̴̢̼̙͖͎͖̥͍͙̍̈͗̔̿͌͋̈́̄̊͝h̷̢͕̼̭̜̮̰̻̳̝̖̃̌̎̄̉̋s̶̹͖̥̑͛̾̇̋̈̇̈́͠ë̵̛̤́̇̅̕͘͘̚͘͜ȁ̸̗͈̮͎̪͓̜̮͐̎̀̌̀̀̆̍͆̀̚͜ͅn̵̡͙̮͇̰̮̹̠̄̓̈́̋͂͆̕͝ͅģ̵̧̟̣̬̋̑̊̀̍́̾͘͝͝͝ņ̴͉̱̤̜̩̩̘̪̎͋̈́̀̾t̷̡̬̹̺̮̺̼̣̀́̈́̍͝e̶͓̗̱̓̊̉̾̍́̀̋͗͝e̸̡̛̥̺͕̱̹͐̉̈͜s̸͗̽͛̇̀̏̚͜͝s̸̢̳̰̯̼̭̠͍͕̊͝e̶̛͓͇̩͋̎̒̈́̄̀͛̽͠͝d̵̨̙̤̤̼̰͕̺̤̰̻̓̓̏͛̉͝ͅè̵̢̬̪͖͛̏͝e̵̳̙͍̼̫̰͔̿͜t̶͎̣̹̳͕̻̭̱̣͐͛ņ̶̟̳̝̣̞͚̗̼̮͒͂͗̏͑̈͆͜͝è̸͍̮̖̈́̀t̵̮͕̐̃f̶̨̧̣̰͚̮̹̬̥͕̩̒ͅy̴̡̳̖̠̻̜̯̮̭̫̙͆́̀̃͝f̵̠̼̼̯̌͊̔̿͋b̵̧̡̛͙̦̜̲̖͚͍͔̤̫̉̈̎̃̿͛̓̂̓͋ŗ̶̪̟̣͙̼̮̙̯̀̔̎̓̾̅̏̌̕͜͜ͅw̶̧̻̺͈̣̬̭̪̫͎̞͒͂̆͝ͅe̶̩̔n̷̨̧̘̠̭̋͋͋̓̍͑̕͜͜i̴̻̣̼̺͇͙̟̠̿͆̐̀̉́́̽̾ḯ̸̪̗̙̗̭̯̉s̸̨̧̛͖͕̖̺̬̣̯̭̲̐̐̊́̃̎̔̀t̵̗͔̣͍͙̺͍̳͔̜̬̿̑ḽ̸̨͍̠͖̈́͌̒̐̄͋̐͗͠Ȉ̶̯̇̉̀͐̇̀̋͊̈̕e̷͓̤̙̺̺͌s̸̺͒̑̂͒̍͗͝ę̵̡̥̠̘͇̭̲̻́h̵̭̜̼͕̫̜̺͍̯̿̈́̓̇͆̓͑̀̓̑̕͘ă̶̡̡̛̲̮̗̫̾̂͗̃̌̇̕̕͜ͅs̴̡̳̱̪̯̄̀͗͆͐́̉͛̚͝ͅa̵̱͑p̸̺͌͒͒̒͊̈́́̃̈́̕͝,̸̻͇͌͗̂̒̏̈́̃͛ͅŗ̶͖̞͉̲̬̺̪̑̓́̍̈̅̔ę̷̛̱̼̺̲͖̼̺̮͑̏͜e̶͔̠͔̩͑̅̄͗͒́̎̾͛͗̄d̶̮̳̻̼̖̞͆͆̚l̵̡̜̱̮̠̩̖͋i̵͉̺̅͛̊͝t̸̢͇̰͍͕̺̗̟̲͉͖̐̈́͑͌̔̈g̷̡̭̪̖̠̻̖͔̘͖͕̔̆ͅy̸̛͚̱͔͍̰̼̿̂̃͜͝͝ä̷̡̠̜̗̞̜̜̣̹̥́̾͆͂ù̶̡̡̼͉̩̺̰̥̟͈̀̿̊͆͌̅̇̕̚͘s̷̨̳͉̲̲̬̰͕̪̻̻͖͆̒̀͑́̎͘͘a̶̱̳̰͇̫̞̤̲͕̖̞͇͐̂͘w̷͍̱̟̋͑̍̔̒̔n̶͓͍͙̥̗̟̯̐́̑̅̂̀̈́̔̈́͝ỉ̴̧̩̝̜͖̺͓̓̇n̷̯̹̰̮̳̎̂̕ṇ̷̗̠̭͂̔̀̄t̵̜̪̊̊͌̉̈͘h̶̯̦̳̟͕̽͒͊̚a̶̪͕̬̹̭̭͊̐̒͊̋̾͝ẗ̷̨̡̫̹͎͙͉͈́͋̚͠s̴̝̋̔̀͒̄̋ŏ̷̢̨̪̖̗͈͓̝͉̓̉̎̏̓̀̓̄͆̔͑ả̸̘̞̝d̶̰̠͔̖̜̭͉̲̫́̈́̋͜͜f̴̨̢̫͙̜̮̥̱̀̓̐͗̄͌͠͝͠s̷̨̥͍̫̣͓͇̠̬͂̀͠ͅą̵̛̠̰͊͛ṽ̷̙͓̞̺͒͌̍̽̈́̚̕͠͝b̷̛͖̝̣̼̻̣̌̚͝͠ͅģ̶̛͙̜͔́̌̾̍̉w̶̨̛̖̫̤͙̣̭͍͓̘͖͍̔͌͗̓̏̔ţ̷͚̞̘̰̺̀ǹ̴͖̭͖̤̥͇͔̏́̿͑͗͝l̷̯̰͚̤̱̘̒̑̽̅͛̈́̀̍̑̇ǔ̷̧̡͖̲͎͈̺̘̭̺͚̳͐̽̌̿͊̋́͗͐͝͝ơ̴͔̣̫̻̟̻͈͙̳̘̖̏͛͂͂̑̐̃̃ẍ̸̧͉̼͈͈͙̠́̾͂̀́͒̊̚͠d̶̢͍̰̲̜̥̘͍̥̾̓̀̐̆̂͐̂̋͛́̕,̴̥̂̓̄̽͝ö̷̧̞́̒̃͆̊́ŏ̸̡̨̠̝̫̙͇͒̂̓ŗ̶̛̻̼̲̙̜͔͖͙͇͊̊̇̾̔͆̅͊͘͜͝͝t̶̡̼̓̿̄̓̅̋̈́͘ė̴̡̨̥̙͓͉͕͚̺̰͉̐̍̌̑ú̷̲̰̮͉͎͖̙̳̈́̔̒͋̄̌͘͝ͅȇ̵̠̝͙͔̜̖̣͓̤͈̄́̇̉̃͜ͅs̸̱͚̜͙͎͎̬̱̩̝̱͌̅̌̒̋͗̉͂̽̽̚i̶̯̠̹̘͎̱̤̫̙̿t̸͙̲̪͋̓̇̊̉̕̚̚ẗ̴͔͍́̈́̈̃͝e̶̛̟͇͌̈́̈́̿͆̔e̵͖̰̙͔̟̳̤̜̼̖̙̫̋h̵͕̟̰͋̅́̿̔̓͆͐a̶̢̢̨̟̣̠͇̠̘̓̈́͂̆̒̎͛̈́́͘̚͜͠ģ̸̻̙̯̤͔̘͎̩͕̝̆̃̿̏́e̵̼̘̐̓̈́͐̕͘͠͝r̵̡̢̬͈̙̹͔̋̈͂į̵̨̝̺̺̬̘̯̙͍͐̀̓͘t̶̨̺̖̮͍̥͔̩̿̅̌̇̽̚͜ͅa̵̠͕͆į̴̻̠͇͉̥̬͉̳̘̘̦͑̓̕ẹ̷̬̇̄̏̃̔͌͘̚g̴̢̥͚͔̰̳͍̗̫͂͑̾̔̃͂͑̚͘,̴̧̰̻̮̬̗͚̏̾̿̐̑́́̅ͅơ̴͙͂͌,̷̡̛̝̼̗̱̭̲̙̯̽̈́̌̾̈́͒̀̕̚͝͝i̷̡̩͈̭̮̤͉͔̻͖͇͎͛̍͆́̅́̓̈́̕ċ̸͉̖̺̥̫͍̟̘̗͙̗͑̈́̐͜͝ḽ̸̪̞̼̎̐̑̆̉̄̈͂̋͘͝ͅe̶͖̭͔̫̽͗̽̈́i̵̘̣̜̥͍̣̫̠̺̾͆̀͑͗̈́̿̚ḿ̶͎͔̯͐́̔̋͊͝ó̶̡͚͔͇͓͍͎͈̝̠͑ṋ̷͚͙̱̥͖͎̞̈́̋͒̐̾̈̈́̚̚h̴͎̮͂̎̀͊͌̈́͑̒̓̃͌͘r̸̜͍͔̅̀͌̅̍͗̀̎͝f̷̙͇̝͈̗̪͙̎̎̅̑̿̊͐͂̆͒̎̋ẗ̴̞̦͔̮͍̘̰́̀̾f̷̨̡̣̣̜̈́

No, no, no you don't understand, he knows, he knows! that it cannot be true! The Other Yuugi can't possibly be so senselessly cruel! He wouldn't, (he would), he would, wouldn't he? No, no, no, no... he can't even remember what he did or what he said (he knows what he did.) or what any of this even is! (he knows what this is.) Yuugi opens his mouth to cry out for help but the only sound that escapes is a hoarse staccato note. He plummets to his knees, magnetically attracting the floor into him, intersecting him, the parabolic horizon curls its lips upwards now, parts them into a nasty vindictive grin. Mockery. In him, from him, enveloping him, whole. Strangled silent by a hellish lightless lull. Clasping his elliptical heart and ripping it out of him and slamming it loud and wetly into the infinitely distant corner. Hole-in-one. Tears pearling on his cheeks, racing down as crystal clear fractal swirls. Into and into itself forever, forever.

He's lost. He's dying. He lost the shadow game. This is going to kill him. It is killing him. His vision is fading into eternal darkness, his limbs numb, pulled every which-way by space's distention, nerve bundles stretched beyond snapping oh god, oh god, what if this doesn't kill him, what if he's here to stay, what if this never ends, interminable horrific suffering, painless heavy paralyzing pain,

The phone rings. 

Yuugi flips himself face up and takes the call, leaning cooly against the wall. "Yo," he says, very normally, like he wasn't just freaking the fuck out.

Oh good, it's the Other Yuugi. "Update. Didn't find the Puzzle yet, sorry. I did find a...strange...door, though. How 'bout you?"

"Nothing to report," Yuugi replies, cleverly making it sound as if he contributed anything other than wallowing in agony.

"No biggie. Hey I don't know how long the phone is, going to, exist? Listen, the door is kind of, um, eating everything in the house,"

"Oh pfft. Yeah, they do that sometimes. My bad," Yuugi says flippantly. "Don't worry about the phone. Just make it appear if you have to."

"Wh-huh? How?"

"Y'know, with your, whatever you wanna call it. Mind powers. Or something."

"My fucking what?"

"Like you did with the shadow game. By the way... you forgot to tell me the rules." He tries not to be too snide about it, but there's a sting to those words.

Judging by the stupefied silence, the Other Yuugi is not impressed. "What the hell are you even talking about?"

"Don't tell me this isn't your doing."

"What isn't my doing?"

"The shadow game!" Testing Yuugi's patience here.

"The hell is a shadow game? You mean the chess?"

"What chess?"

"The four-way chess."

"I mean, I know what that is, but what does that have to do with the shadow game?"

"I don't know what a shadow game is!" the Other Yuugi yells.

Ah. If that's the case, then it's unlikely that this is a shadow game, because as far as Yuugi is aware, he is the only one capable of initiating them. Other than the Other Yuugi, obviously. Huh. Go figure. So... is this the part where he admits to thinking that the Other Yuugi had damned him to a hellfire of never-ending topological torment? 

No. 

"Nevermind then, what were you saying?"

"No no, go back, tell me more," the Other Yuugi insists.

"I don't see how that's necessary."

"You know what, just, just... get back to your search."

The Other Yuugi is clearly frustrated and about to hang up when Yuugi suddenly interrupts: "Wait. Before you go. What was behind the door?"

A shiver fizzles through him. 

After a discomfiting minute of silence, the Other Yuugi finally imparts what he saw. "I, I don't know what it was. I thought I was going to find something silly like a big katamari of tables and chairs and forks and knives, 'cause, well, you see, I was near the kitchen, and I was giving it knives,"

"Giving it... I'm sorry, you gave the door a knife?"

"Knives," the Other Yuugi corrects, then continues, "but when I opened it up there was... it was like... something out of a nightmare. It was so frickin' loud and bright, I couldn't make anything out. But I got the feeling something was supposed to be there. That something was there, or used to be there, like, like," his hands are shaking, "it was there, but I couldn't tell what it was supposed to be?"

"Like TV static?" Yuugi suggests. He makes his voice low and gentle. The Other Yuugi's story sounds like a confession to him, a eulogy, even, something that should be whispered; received and handled with utmost care.

"Sort of? It felt like a game falling apart. Like the RAM overflowed or something. It hurt, though. It felt like I was being ripped to shreds, except not really. I don't know how to explain."

"Mind crush?"

"I guess you could call it that. More like shattering, though. I hope you don't know what I mean by that. I really don't want to go through that again."

Quietness falls over them both. They stay on the line, neither one having any comfort to offer, except to hold the phone to their ears as a substitute for closeness. Words do nothing here. Not when the Other Yuugi's anxiety strums a chord on his ribs, echoing between whatever separates their worlds, returning to him and amplifying the dread welling up, sullenly. Better not to tell him that the shattering is all he's ever known. That the Other Yuugi is lucky that it's only one door for now. That his random-access analogy is a flawless portrayal of these memories: erratic, barely contained, subject to corruption and change, copy and paste, manipulation, and then they get erased, overwritten. He doesn't know, doesn't want to know, who left their memories here to rot, imprisoned behind a million-million watchful doors. The Other Yuugi doesn't deserve this burden.

A flame ignites within him. Yuugi makes up his mind.

"Forget the Puzzle, it'll turn up when it wants. Let's find each other instead."

Easier said than done, but that's the new plan. Yuugi thinks they can do it— thinks that if they think they can do it, then they can—no matter what it takes, or what incomprehensible imaginary plane lies ahead, they will find their precious line from A to B. Then at long last they'll both be free from this spiraling nosedive dream. And if not, then at least they'll be in good company guaranteed, and they can pass the time with some chess.

He hangs up the phone. Tries to hang up the phone. Boom, easy.

It only takes two attempts this time, much to Yuugi's smugness. But now that the Other Yuugi is gone (in a way, as gone as he can be), Yuugi is alone with his thoughts again (which is never a good thing), and the limitless expanse of umbral black brick nothingness is all he can see (which is not helping with the former); he is immobilized with indecision. 

What if he makes a wrong turn? What if there's actually no way to reach the Other Yuugi, and this plan is all for naught? Worse, what if the Other Yuugi gets lost, too? He doesn't have the phone powers, he can't just conjure one up, if something happens to him, how will he know? How would he know where to look? He doesn't even know where to start! Should he go left or right? What if there's a trap? What if there's a door in his way, does he take the chance? Not all of the doors are filled with garbage data, some of them lead to other halls. So maybe one of the doors leads to the Other Yuugi's world. Maybe he can will it to be so, like he did with the phone, like he did away with the migraine and the bone-deep exhaustion. This is his dream, their dream, they can do whatever they want!

With renewed determination, Yuugi marches straight towards nowhere, and is instantly slam dunked with a brutal reminder of what he's dealing with here. Knuckles, get blue spheres. Head-spinning world-whorling curvature under his feet, spreading wide, and before it can even register, he's zooming. Literally. Vision tunneling, bloated walls accelerating inwards-outwards, faster with each godawful step. He makes sharp turns but turns nowhere in fact. There are no blue spheres. There are doors and halls and doors.

This hall is tremendously long! Is it even a hall? It's broad enough to be a ballroom with an elaborate chandelier and a thousand guests of honor, and so narrow that Yuugi can fan out both arms and trace his fingertips into every crack on the frosty cold hewn brick walls. And it goes on, and on, and on. The doors are no help, they just lead to another hall, identical, with all the same doors, he can take eight or ten or twenty doors in a row, and just end right back up at square one. Well shoot! Does it just loop?

This hall is tremendously long! Is it even a hall? It's broad enough to be a stadium with a holograph projector and an audience of ten thousand shrieking viewers, and so narrow that Yuugi can fan out both arms and trace every crack on the damp musty hewn brick walls. And it goes on, and on, and on. The doors are no help, they just lead to another hall, another hall, identical, with all the same doors, he can take fifty or a hundred or a thousand doors in a row, and just end right back up at square one. Son of a bitch! Does it just loop?

This hall is tremendously long! Is it even a hall? It's broad enough to be a gorgeous white pyramid with a glamorous gold plated tip and enough tomb space to lay a god-made-man to rest, and so narrow that Yuugi can't breathe. And it goes on, and on, and on. The doors are no help, they just lead to another hall, another hall, another hall, identical, with all the same doors, he can take three thousand or five thousand or a million-million doors in a row, and just end right back up at square one. God help him. God help him. God help him.

This hall is going to be where he dies. It's not even a hall. It's broad enough to be a prison with a labyrinth of traps to ensure that he can never escape, and so narrow that Yuugi can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. And it goes on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on. and on. The doors are no help, they just lead to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors to halls with doors.

Yuugi collapses into a broken heap and heaves up a horrid, guttural scream. Hugs himself so tight he squeezes bruises into his arms, rocks in place, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, sobbing, sobbing. Rocking, hugging. It's working, it's working. Bit by bit, hushing. Another self unfolding from within him and swaying him, telling him that everything will be okay, just breathe.

Forget the unmentionable anomaly plaguing the stairwells (both of them, as Yuugi has just loathsomely found out), the attic hallway is utterly beyond conceivable. It has transmogrified into an unrecognizable monstrosity of crisscrossing angles, new corridors born each time he blinks; walls sloughing off the walls, wet and dry and ice cold, raw splintered creaking wood metamorphosing to metal and stone. The door to his room is at the other end of the kaleidoscopic shitshow, swollen on its hinges, threatening any second to burst open, gush down the hall, and drown Yuugi in a surge of wicked strobing darkness.

Every fiber in his soul is pulled towards that darkness, strung on a weaver's loom. A shuttle of panic sheds through him, fear bats him against the fell. Bile rises up his throat. The Other Yuugi! he senses sharply. He needs his help!

Urgency overrides any and all hesitation. Yuugi plunges headfirst into hyperspace with his eyes fiercely trained on his goal: get to that godforsaken door!

He makes it ten steps at full speed and then collides his entire body into an unseen solid something with the loudest crash imaginable, like a train too tall for that tunnel, derailing and scrunching into an accordion of mangled metal. A kicked dog kind of sound ruptures from his lungs. Knocks the wind out of him, bad.

Now he's pissed. Now it's personal. Yuugi staggers to his feet, possessed by an uncharacteristic fit of rage, he punishes the something with a good hard kick—stubs his toe. Hears a crack. Ow, ow, fucking ow, this is why I hate fighting, he seethes. Luckily his toe is unharmed. Instead it's the something that had broken—sputtering up wood-stone dust flecks that twirl and vanish into their parent dimension. Stupid invisible walls. Stupid dream, stupid stupid-by-the-space-heater Yuugi.

The red hot fury cools into simmering frustration, as he feels his way along the unseeable barrier, pointedly trying not to look at his fluctuating ten, twenty, thirty, twenty fingers. The wall terminates, turns sharp right, and Yuugi stops dead in his tracks because somehow he just knows there's a pitfall trap of stairs here. Can't see it, but the way his panting breaths echo off the too-many-walls is the dead giveaway. Cautiously, Yuugi sidles past the ambush. 

"Shame on you," he chastises the house. Judgmental has become the judged.

As he navigates, Yuugi learns that moving slowly is the key. No running in the halls. No sudden jerks, no melee attacks. Have patience. He can manage that. Armed with new understanding, he forges onward. The fifth dimension grapples at his wrists and ankles, but fails to find purchase on his surefooted stride; it falls away like a backdrop, crumpling down to four dimensions, then to three, down to familiar reality, until all that remains is him and the door. He stands victorious at the threshold, braces himself, then turns the knob.

He could stay here forever, floating in this inner self's mournful hold, eyes shut like slumber, protected against the lurching void. Still he knows he must press on. Mustering courage, Yuugi pushes himself up onto jittery legs. 

He'll solve this maze blind if that's what it takes. One step at a time he advances, seeing nothing—though this time the nothing is under his control, keeping his eyes squeezed tightly closed—concentrating; magnificent shimmering unlight burns behind his eyelids, guiding him along an unknown line parallel to unknown lines.

The tightrope is taut beneath him. Comfortably flat and perfectly straight. All around him is a sliding slippery black glaze. Inching forward, cautious, watchful by the light of his third eye, Yuugi submerges. Up to his waist, to his neck, to his nostrils, veil of darkness over his face. A waltz in the night.

Blissful unawareness. Now he is beginning to understand how all of his memories slipped through his fingers like sand: this is peace. He himself is nothingness. There are no doors containing explosive static psychic attacks, no infinitely recursive fractal hallways, no hurl-worthy hyperbolic labyrinths. Just nothing. Harmless, gentle-handed, whispered on a feather's drift, nothing. The silent unexistence of who he was before his birth.

Oh, precious Yuugi, whose name is not his own. Who wears a dozen different selves, whose steepled fingers, losing-tempers, candle flames, and girl impression flit-fold open like a paper fortune teller, another game to be crowned king of, bow down to his majesty, all.

He lifts his head in prayer to the stars.

This proves to be a superb error in decision making. By tilting his head back with his eyes shut, his sense of balance is misinformed, and before he knows it, Yuugi is teetering backwards. He doesn't know it until he's already hit the ground. An embarrassing squeaky toy noise punts out of him on impact. His eyes blast open and the fragile illusion of nothingness shatters like glass. Nice going, your highness.

Good news, the mild concussion has cancelled the Mandelbrot maze ahead of schedule.

Bad news: now he can hardly parse what he's looking at...? He thinks it's another door? Except the image balloons so wide, smearing towards him, that it almost looks like a texture wrongly mapped to the inside of a spherical skybox. Believe it or not, he can almost make sense of it; it's not the door melting and forming a dome around him, no, it's the horizon wormholing up and sealing off. There is no horizon anymore. There is only a closed-circle space. Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing Yuugi has yet to establish.

Well it's definitely a bad thing, but it might not be as bad. It's uncanny and claustrophobic, impossible to judge distance—at least before, when the space was stretching outwards, he could adjust over time to meters becoming miles— but this is unprecedented. Is the door located above him, putrid eye pretending to be the sun? Yuugi reaches up to touch it, but can't get his arm past his nose. 

Actually, he can. But he can't. It's too short. It's proportional. It's squished down. It's just fine. He can't tell.

He steps towards the door, immediately fucking regrets this, then takes a few steps back, and becomes enlightened.

Singlemindedly fixated on it, Yuugi reverses course, shuffling backwards and observing the way it unmelts itself, funneling, time rewinding, back to its inception as an ordinary looking, veiny eyeball-having door. It's just the one door as well, as opposed to a dozen thousand, thank god. There'd better be something good behind it or else Yuugi is going to have a conniption. But now he has a problem: how to reach it when all he can do is get further away?

Experimentally, his first move is to try approaching it from the side. This does not work. There is no side. If he veers off of his path even a smidgen, he gets thrown off kilter, a satellite flung from orbit. And there's no doing it the Euclidean way, walking right up to it and inviting himself in. Walking backwards is all that seems to stabilize the space. With a bit of trial and error Yuugi soon determines that looking straight up is in fact looking straight ahead, and that perplexingly, the further he walks back, the closer he seems to be. Trusting his gut, he keeps heading backwards as far as the world will let him, until, without warning, he bumps his rear into something cold and heavy. Well look who it is! He has arrived at the door.

(Damn, he's good.)

Yuugi's finest work! He has outdone himself. Satisfied and uninterested in lingering in this hamster ball hell for any longer, he rewards himself with the highest honor, the opening of the door. Drum roll, please...!

It's a hall.

"Fuck," Yuugi blurts.

Wait, he takes that back. This hall is different. It's normal!

Well, maybe it's normal. It extends forever in both directions, vanishing into terrible blackness, but it also exudes an aura of, how could he call it... tender-hearted nostalgia? He's definitely been here before, he remembers this feeling, like second nature. Calm. The opposing wall is smooth hardwood, arranged as a curious lattice, pleasing to the pattern seeking mind—but more importantly, there is only one other door here besides his own. It lacks a sun-mimic eye, and does not breathe, or bleed, or crave.

He knows what this is. 

He knows what lies behind it. 

This door is an angel, swooping. This is his rapture. It's finally time. In here will be all of the answers, all of his memories, all of his worries and fears and furors and joys, joined in harmony, as his soul is softly disassembled, thread by thread set aside, untangled, re-waxed, realigned, and woven into a brand new life. This Yuugi can finally rest. This is what he has sought for all of time: death. Silent unexistence, take him now.

Ceremonial suicide, well practiced: he opens the door.

BAM!

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—" Yuugi sputters, collecting the Other Yuugi off of the floor after having knocked him clean out with the swing of his bedroom door, "I-I didn't know you were in here, I just, wh-what... what is even happening? Where did my room go?"

"S'right behind you," The Other Yuugi slurs, pointing dumbly. He nurses his welting forehead with the palm of his hand.

Yuugi spins on his heel and yelps. "But I just—that was—I was in the—okay, sure."

After helping the Other Yuugi to his feet (not without a flurry of apologizes and pardons), the two of them venture back the way Yuugi came, not into a magical morphing attic hallway, but rather to his freshly manifested bedroom. It's barely changed since he left to pick up the first phone call. Blackish blueish light before dawn, sore joints, time slowed. There's his alarm that he forgot to set, there's the box with the pawns and queens and kings, neatly stowed, and what do you know—in the center of his desk, bathing in the moonlight sun—the Puzzle, perched conceitedly, clearly content with its accomplishment. Yuugi stomps over to it like a disappointed parent. He's about to claim it and wear it around his neck when suddenly the Other Yuugi yanks him by the sleeve, holding him back. 

"Don't go," he pleads, fighting fractal tears.

"And why would I do that?"

They decide to stay until the unsunlight begins to burn.

Yuugi was tempted to say some silly things, like "nice to meet you," and "I like your hair," but ultimately he decides to keep quiet. There's an immensity to their being by one another's side after an eternity apart, the sensation of having already met a thousand times in a hundred indistinguishable dreams prior, each one just as delicate as the last; eyes flutter open, the memory gets left behind in wakefulness's windswept canyons.

(He's unaware that sometimes his dreams are accompanied like this. That's alright, Yuugi is good at getting along. He keeps busy with games, even competitive games, even if it means having to make his opponent lose.)

Yuugi knows the Other Yuugi like the back of his hand turned inside out, he is himself after all. "Move with me," he says. He doesn't need to explain. They fuse to each other, like zipper teeth slotting, skin underneath skin, ribs clattering, double heart drumbeat, every inch of them overlapping, it's a perfect fit. Ecstasy zaps through their braided nerves.

(He won't admit he prefers it this way. Playing together, that is. People are complex. They get the rules, they care intensely about them, they grit their teeth, fight to the very end, they want to play with someone else, someone who can take it more seriously, someone who's equally obsessed.)

They dance, pirouette, sort of. Just doing what their body wants to do. Spin in place like a wobbling top, happily swirling red and black and blond, nurturing their inner child. Maybe it's revenge for what the Puzzle did to them, taking back what's rightfully theirs, the turn of their earth. Their romp up the stairs. Their own infinite self-recursion, into and into themselves, forever, forever. Their feet on solid ground, nothing standing between them and the space surrounding, spawning a whirlpool of wondrous feelings, nothingness, ideation, soaring stomach-flopping loop-de-loops, whipstitched to each other, seamlessly shamelessly whole.

(Together, Yuugi can play like time is short, forcing themselves to become something strong, able to follow the rules even if it kills them, battling it out with savage desperate grief, with all the seriousness of a funeral.)

They play a lightning round, just two players for once. Yuugi in the mirror teases Yuugi for being in check every other turn. He doesn't realize it's on purpose, and that he's going to lose in seven moves; the real Yuugi is calculating, opportunistic. He's not a risk taker because he never needs to be. For him the stars will always align, the wish will always be granted, the seas will always part. And if for some reason his strategy doesn't pan out, then he can just become another Yuugi instead. Fresh perspective on an ever evolving board.

(Yuugi can be as many of himself as he needs to be.)

Adoration sluices through them like ice water down their throats. Rinsing, refreshing, renewing. Feverishly gulping, bottoms up, like it's the last drop they'll ever drink. They'll gladly drown like this, drown in each other, swaddled in the plush veil of encroaching dark, innate synchronous motions, conjoined at the marrow. Oh god, how he loves himself dearly from the crinkle in his nose all the way down to the curl of his own toes.

(Yuugi, who talks cool and talks like a girl and for heaven's sake walks like he forgot how legs work. Yuugi, who gets back up and wipes the bloody nose and knows better than to kickbox the floor.)

This can't possibly be how every similar dream unfolds. He's dreamt it for weeks, months, eons now, and every time, without fail, he wakes up feeling stripped of something vital. Lost, severed. Soul burnt to a crisp. Or maybe this is precisely why. If he had a say in the matter, perhaps he would never leave, fully enveloped by his other self for all of eternity, he'd call this beauty-beholder's worry-laced labyrinth a home. But he knows that Yuugi deserves better than this damnation, even if it meant cutting the mesh and breaking free of its blanketing hold.

(He wants to show the real Yuugi to someone.)

They can do this. They can find love in the world of the living, surely. They'll find it climbing through their bedroom window on clear nights, or in the form of perceptive probing questions, or as inconsequential things like koosh balls and water wigglers, or incorrectly arranged around their dining table, or even as just a smudge on the wall. But you know what? All of that can wait. It'll be there when they wake up. For now, for however long this will last, this is their dream and they can do whatever they want.

(Offer his lover a hammer.)

"Take me with you," Yuugi begs. No one responds. Everything in his peripherals bends and blurs out of control. The headache is here, fiery and torrential, the tiredness is unbearable, the light behind his eyelids searing hotter than ever before. It's alright, he's definitely been through worse. He knows he can manage because the Puzzle is safe, cupped gently in his hands like a glittering golden bird, and because the Other Yuugi is with him still. He's made peace with his fate; he'll hardly remember a thing about this dream, go on bravely through the waking world, unknowingly carrying this self within him, and then tomorrow night start all over again anew. 

(There really is something there,)

It'll be over soon. The dream's selvedge is done, it's time to remove it from the loom, and then the weight of his exhaustion will fill the fabric like a sail and he'll drift aimlessly into the morning sun alone.

(,something you can show but cannot see.)