A richly appointed room. A man clad all in white. A man clad all in red. They're lurid against the overriding shadow.
The man in white flicks open a brass lighter and holds its flame to the cigarette clenched in his teeth.
The man in red coughs. "For God's sake," he complains. "Why do you always smoke Shearwaters? They smell like burning asphalt, I'm sure they taste no better…"
"What?" The man in white takes a contemplative drag. "You don't like to flirt with death, Henry?"
"I'd like to offer death a better pack of cigs, is what I'd like to do. Why are we at your house on a weeknight? Aren't you worried about waking—"
"Clara? She's out. And the kid sleeps like a sack of rocks."
"If you say so." The man in red coughs again. "Ugh. How is she?"
"Clara? Or—"
"No, the kid. Haven't seen her in ages. Wish you'd bring her Uncle Henry around a little more often, huh?"
Another drag. "You're a liability, sorry. She's 5. I can't have her knowing."
"Yeah. Too much blood." The man in red kicks mournfully at the tile. He coughs a third time. "What have we ever seen out of this, huh? Decades of heartache and hassle for nothing. Jackshit."
"Please, Henry, there's a child in the house." The man in white considers his cigarette, then strides to a nearby ashtray (full, already, of discarded Shearwaters) and stubs it out. He lights another. "And it's not for us. You know that. It's for… the future."
"Yeah, I know." The man in red sighs and pushes aside the hem of his jacket. A tortoiseshell-handled knife glistens at his belt. "The future. Are you ready?"
"As ever," says the man in white. He has pulled on white silk gloves, so clean and shining there seems nothing else in the room.
NOW
There is almost nothing in the room. The room could be called white, but it would be an acrid, toxic white, the white of bleached woodpulp, the white of paint-thinnered drywall. A white to corrode steel. All there is to break it: an ashen wraith of a woman, and a man in a blue suit with a little rubber ball.
He bounces the ball as he walks, and he walks in a circle incessantly. Thock, goes the ball. Thud, go his footsteps. Thock-thud-thud-thock. "...it's getting along. That's the good news. Getting along nicely. Management got us over that little PR hassle, and we're back in business, Sophie. Got our best people on it. Now, I know it's not too good on you, but look: Sophie's doing fine. Sophie's great. Sophie should've read the fine print, I'm sorry to say. Because—"
The woman's eyes flick up and down, following the movement of the rubber ball. She pushes her bangs aside with emaciated fingers and whispers something inaudible.
"—that's business! That's business. Just ask Management." Thock-thud-thud-thock. "Wait, did you say something?"
Her voice crackles like aged paper. "...who..'r..you..."
"Aw, shucks." The man turns away and begins again to pace— faster, this time. "It's always the same thing with you, Sophie, isn't it? 'Who're you...' 'Where am I...' 'What am I doing here...' You'd think a broad would learn a little more conversationing than that, even in your condition but I guess you're the special type."
"...Sophie...?"
"Aw." The man examines the clipboard kept unconsciously clenched in his left hand. He bounces the ball unconsciously in his right. "Are you not... okay, Sophie's next up. Uh, lessee, Cora?"
The woman doesn't say anything.
"Probably right. Not like it makes any difference— none of you conversate worth a goddamn. I don't know why I do this stuff. I got people who can do it. But Management's on my ass about confidentiality, and I guess none of those sunglasses fucks will lift a finger to— eh— ack!"
The ball drops and rolls. The man presses his fingers to his forehead. "Shut up!" he says to nobody. "What, I'm not allowed to—? Fuck off! I— gah— disparagement clause? Shut up! I— sorry, Soph, or whoever you are. I gotta—"
He vanishes, all at once, except for the rubber ball, which rolls into the distance and out of sight.
The woman's bangs fall back into her face. She makes no move to correct them.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
LATER
You are tied up.
You are tied up in a chair at a little wrought-iron table, a café table. You are at a café, which is to say you're kidnapped at a café. Your captor, across the little table, is unfamiliar to you: a man, grown but not old, not terribly kempt, with shaggy black hair and week-old stubble and deep dark undereye circles behind owlish gold spectacles. It's possible his spectacles are meant to distract from his suit, which is tattersall and unflattering. At present, your captor is examining his face in the reflection of the metal platter sitting between you. The platter is empty.
You attempt to voice your displeasure, but discover that your mouth's been stuck shut. At length, your captor looks up. "Oh, Charlie, there you are."
He says it in Richard's voice. Your eyes go wide.
"My apologies for the... well, you know. I thought you'd run. Or scream." Richard(?) pushes his glasses up. "You're not known for clear thinking under pressure, let me tell you."
Unhand me, villain! you think as hard as you can at him.
"No. You'll run. Actually, you'll try to stab me again, won't you? I told you it'd never work, Charlie. Idiot move. Not my real body. Still, clear thinking under pressure, etcetera." He sighs, pushes his glasses up again. "I wish I could say this was a new situation."
You utilize your mental energies to rain a thousandfold curses upon him.
"Frankly, though, it isn't. This has happened—" He tilts his head back, pulls a pen off his lapel. "—before. This has... eh..."
He stops. He squints.
Wait, did your thousandfold curses actually work? With effort, you pry your lips open. "Richard? This has what?"
He drops the pen, raises his thumb, and spits on it. Then he raises it to the air. "Shh."
"If you're going to act freaky, could you at least untie me?"
"You're not tied up," he says slowly.
"And you're not lying to my face. Look, we can both say things that aren't true." You were a little worried the ropes would miraculously loosen, but you are, in fact, still tied up. "But, hey, if you want to untie me, I'm not going to—"
"I can't untie you. You're not tied up. You're not even here, Charlotte. This isn't— we're eating ourselves."
"What?"
"You know how it goes. The Wyrm eats its tail? Or you don't, do you." He drags his finger across the table, his nail clattering against the uneven metal. "Not yet. Poor Charlie. You should probably wake up now."
"Richard?"
"Or do I need to wake you up? I suppose you haven't learned how." The man with Richard's voice gets up off his chair, comes around, and crouches down before you. "Hold still."
"Richard, I'm tied—" He's pressing his thumbs to your temples. One of the thumbs is wet. "Cut it out!"
"You should know that I apologize," he says. "In retrospect. Good night, Charlotte Fawkins."
He presses his thumbs through your temples. Your vision sparks, then goes black, and you know nothing else.
NOW
You awaken with a mild headache. You're on your cot. You've slept in your clothes again.
?Welcome back, sunshine.?
Richard— snake-Richard, frigid and dead-eyed, ribbon on— hovers lazily above you. ?I hope you enjoyed yourself, because you just wasted an extraordinary amount of time.?
"What?" It's too bright in here. Ribbon on?
?Don't be petulant: you heard what I said. All those hours and not a drop of Law. Pathetic.?
"But… you weren't…" You feel like you're missing something. It's too bright in here, and all the edges are too sharp. "You didn't even bring that up. You were fine with— I thought you wanted to know what was going on, too."
?I could not care less about trifling human concerns.?
You brush your hair out of your face. "You did, though. And you were making jokes."
?Prove it.?
With him, it's never worth it.
?You cannot prove it. And even if I
"Sure." He's called you worse. "So what, you want a do-over? Go back in there?"
Richard twists unhappily. ?It can't be done. The man is locked down, Charlie; getting back in will be difficult at best. We must occupy ourselves until he becomes distracted.?
Locked down? You didn't think you left on awful terms… sure, you demanded to know if Ellery's precious wallpaper was more valuable than his life, and that sparked a little argument. You may have called him some names. But not horrible names. You were evicted; you must've dragged yourself back to your tent… But what about the white and the red? And the wrought-iron table?
?Yes, that means you can do your little pet investigation. Just don't draw too much attention to yourself. I know that's difficult for you.?
"Any suggestions where to start?"
?None.?
>[1] Before you start on anything, you ought to figure out what you've already obtained. Sit down and go through the clues so far.
>[2] Report back to Madrigal. With all the stuff you have already, you might be able to negotiate for a raise.
>[3] Find someone who can help you with the mysterious coded letter. You didn't see anything like it in the manse, which makes it even stranger.
>[4] Hunt down "C". It might not be related, but Ellery's reaction is too interesting to pass up.
>[5] Ask Richard where the ribbon came from. You didn't think it was a permanent fixture.
>[6] Ask Richard what "eating ourselves" could possibly mean. It sounds a little concerning.
>[7] Write-in.
BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #4
Moonwalker, Earthbound, besides having a kickass title and author-drawn cover art (??!), is written mostly in 2nd person. It might be the only other active story in 2nd person on RR. This would be enough to recommend it on its own, except it's also REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY WELL-WRITTEN. REALLY WELL-WRITTEN. If you are a lover of excellent prose, click and read immediately. If you are indifferent to excellent prose, but "lesbian mech pilots" gets you excited, also click: it has those! I am personally neutral on lesbian mech pilots (nothing wrong with them, just not my genre), so this should tell you exactly how strong my recommendation is here. READ THIS.
Most ominous portent?