You're somewhere.

  (Well. You're always somewhere. But you don't like semantics— they feel like cheating.)

  You're somewhere different. There. You're sitting at a table, in the bright and salty air, and there's a hat on your head. Your chair is uncomfortable.

  Richard is perched across the table, looking like the cat that ate the canary. There is a glass of prosecco in his hand and something abnormally slack in his posture. He's unconcerned. He's—

  "Are you drunk?" you demand. The bottle on the table is near-empty. And he's smiling.

  "Well, hello to you too, sunshine." He's still smiling. You don't like this. "How are you doing?"

  "How am I— there's someone in my head, remember?" He's still smiling! It's uncanny. "And you're busy sitting here! Drinking! Shouldn't you be— why do I have a hat?"

  Richard examines his glass. "For fun? Look, you're going to have to loosen up. It's your party."

  "My what?"

  "Your party." He sets the glass down and produces a striped noisemaker from his pocket. "Phwewwwww— surprise! Silly Charlie. There was no invader."

  You feel stupid. Of course there was no invader. Of course Richard lied to your face. Of course you fell for it, again, as always. You kick the chair back and stand up in frustration.

  Richard, now frowning, stands up with you. "Settle down. Is this not good news?"

  This is worse than an honest-to-God trespasser. This is embarrassing. You clutch both hands to your chest and storm away from the table, away from Richard, and down the increasingly indistinct pavement.

  "That won't—"

  You're sitting at a table, in the bright and salty air, and there's a hat on your head. "—work," Richard finishes. "My condolences. Would you like a drink?"

  There is a drink in front of you. It's pink, and has a pink umbrella in it.

  Another joke at your expense, even if it does look good. You push it gingerly away from you. "I wouldn't."

  "Goodness, it's not poisoned."

  It takes a moment before you realize he's serious. Poison is the only reason he can find for you rejecting it. "I said I didn't want a drink. And I hate you, by the way. Richard."

  All the slackness is gone at once. "Typical," he snarls. (You like this Richard much better. This is known territory.) "I do something nice— I pay attention— and you throw it in my face. Typical, Charlotte. What crime did I commit? I misled you, briefly, so you'd be surprised? Lock me up and throw away the key, huh?"

  "I— this isn't even a party! It's just you! What are you even celebrating? Today was awful!"

  He's smiling again. Ugh! It's like flipping a switch. "Ah! I didn't even tell you. Is celebration not in order for your first kill?"

  Your stomach turns.

  "I do understand it wasn't hands-on, but there's no shame in that. You're learning subtlety. I thought it wasn't possible. It's still more than—"

  "Wait," you said. "In the cave, I, I stomped the guy's head in. Though I guess I don't know if he died."

  Richard waves it away cheerily. "Even if he did, it was under duress: doesn't count. Your first real kill. How did it feel?"

  How did it feel? You threw up, twice, and then tried to not think about it at all. You were successful until now. How did it feel?

  >[A1] Terrible. You didn't think it would be like that. You weren't serious about wanting Ellery dead. Well, you were a little serious. But not dead like that.

  >[A2] Terrible. But lie to Richard that it felt good. You don't want to disappoint him.

  >[A3] Fine, you guess. You're neither guilt-wracked nor all that happy about it. It is what it is.

  >[A4] Satisfying. You've got a glorious, blacklist-free future ahead of you. If you've got to break a couple eggs in the process, what does it matter to you? (You deny having thrown up.)

  >[A5] You don't want to think about this. Try to change the subject.

  >[A6] Write-in.

  >[B1] Sneak a sip of the drink while Richard isn't looking. You need it.

  >[B2] Stick to your principles.

  >[B3] Write-in.

  Your guts are all knotted up with disgust and fear and guilt. But Richard, bless his nasty shriveled heart, doesn't care how you feel. He cares how it felt.

  "Bad," you say shortly.

  The muscles in his neck tense, and you steel yourself for another litany of abuse— you sit up, fold your arms. But it never comes. He just takes a deliberate swallow of wine. "I know."

  Your defense triggers on automatic. "Look, it's just… I didn't expect it to be so… huh?"

  "I know." Richard leans back. "Charlie, it's patently obvious. I'm in your head. Really, would you like a drink?"

  The drink is still there. (You would like a drink.) "No," you say.

  "Don't be a bitch, Charlie."

  "No." The stupid drink is the only thing that's getting Richard properly angry, like how he's supposed to be. You're frightened by how decent he's being, moreso because it doesn't feel like a put-on. You suspect he is actually drunk, a little.

  Richard downs the rest of the glass. "Then be a bitch, Charlie. I suppose nobody ever raised you differently."

  Maybe decent is the wrong word. You don't say anything.

  "…I'm not worried by how it felt. You'll come around." He never sets the glass down— it's been replaced by a lighter. "But the act itself is still worth celebrating," he mumbles around a cigarette clenched in his teeth.

  "I guess." You unfold your arms a little. "Since when have you smoked?"

  "I don't have much opportunity as a snake, you'll be shocked to learn. As for when I acquired the human compulsion..." He lights the cigarette before checking his wristwatch. (You didn't think he was wearing a wristwatch.) "...Now? It's your fault, by the way."

  "I suppose you'll say I made you."

  He smirks to himself. "You did."

  You can't think of anything to say to this. Richard can't either, apparently, because he contents himself with blowing smoke rings in your general direction. You shift restlessly.

  "Is this it?" you say.

  "Is what?"

  Is it not obvious? "Did you think I'd just ignore that you lied to me? Did you think I'd actually want to talk to you? Because I don't."

  He handles the cigarette like he's been doing it for decades, rather than five minutes. He's frowning a little. "...I did anticipate a greater degree of cooperation. I got that ridiculous drink you like, and I..."

  You guffaw. "You can't be serious! Richard's genius plan. Give her a horrible day, then lie to her about life-threatening danger. That'll set the mood. And then we'll hold hands— forget you've only had hands for a day— and we'll do a jig, and if I get too tired of jigging maybe you can drug me, or shock me, and that'll restore a greater degree of cooperation. Are there drugs in here, by the way?"

  You click your fingers against your still-untouched glass. Richard frowns a little more. "Only ethanol."

  "Oh, right. Because I don't need to drink anything for you to drug me. You can do it whenever you want, and I can't do a single thing about it. Why didn't you drug me before I came? Then you'd have exactly the stupid party you wanted. Or do it right now! Use your snake powers! Hypnotize me! Make me like this! Watch, I'll look into your eyes."

  You look into Richard's eyes. Richard's eyes are pale blue and weary-looking. "Please stop."

  It's not a hypnotist's command. He sounds weary. He looks kind of weary, too, and old: eyebagged, greying. His cigarette is limp between his knuckles. There's a stain on his bow tie from the wine. He's a snake, an evil, imaginary snake, assuming a convenient, imaginary disguise. You know this. But if you let yourself forget, he looks so baldly, pathetically, sweatily... human.

  Is he drunk? What did you do to him?

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  "I thought this would be nice," he says, upset. "You did something right, for once, so I thought that warranted something nice. Less hostility."

  Surely this isn't an actual attempt. "You just called me a bitch. Twice."

  "No I didn't. I told you not to be one. Though, frankly, Charlie, you were... I mean, you were being a bitch. That's just a fact. You came in here and you screwed everything up, as you always do. It was supposed to be nice."

  He rubs his eyes. You take the opportunity to lean over the table and suck down a little of the pink drink. It's fruity, but tastes of no fruit of particular; the aftertaste is fiery with unmasked alcohol. It is extraordinarily pink. In other words, it's exactly to your taste.

  "That's all," Richard says. "That's it."

  God, he's serious. He thought this would be nice. He doesn't know what 'nice' is, but he did try.

  Quite against your will, you are feeling a measure of compassion.

  >[1] It's a sorry excuse for a party, but that doesn't mean you can't work to salvage it? You're going to have fun, because you deserve to, and it will be God-damn spectacular.

  >[2] Can you actually muster the will to enjoy yourself? Not under these circumstances. But you can fake it, for Richard's sake, and a few of these pink drinks (do they have a name? you're not good at remembering that sort of thing) will probably help.

  >[3] Are you out of your ever-loving mind?! Richard shows one drop of something other than concentrated self-interest and you're falling all over yourself to assist?! You're pathetic. Make no concessions. Sit here in awkward, semi-antagonistic silence.

  >[4] Write-in.

  The players roll a 90 on a d100 for how much fun they're able to fake and accidentally actually have fun.

  The air in your mind smells of smoke and springtime: magnolias, rotting driftwood, the faint citrusy spritz of cleaning fluid. You run your finger over the ridged edge of the table.

  You should be happy. You're being thrown a party. So it's a party about you indirectly murdering someone, and so Richard doesn't really understand what a party is. Should that matter? Pull yourself together! It's selfish of you not to be happy. You're being selfish. He's trying so hard not to be a jerk, and you're just stomping all over it, like a complete and total bitch.

  You should at least fake it for him. It's the right thing to do.

  "Fine. I'll try the drink."

  Richard brightens. "Will you?"

  Actually, you've already tried it, but you're ignoring this fact entirely. Instead, you make a great show of taking a mouthful, swishing it around, thinking hard about it, and swallowing. It burns as it goes down.

  Richard stubs out the cigarette on the table's ashtray. "How is it?"

  "It's really good," you say honestly, and rub at your watering eyes. "...What's the alcohol content, though?"

  He waves off the question. "It isn't real, Charlotte. Technically it contains nothing at all. Practically, it will have whatever effect you anticipate."

  Really? Because you anticipate getting really, really drunk. If you get drunk, it'll be easier to pretend you're having fun. It'll also be easier to ignore the awful feelings in your gut.

  "Ehm. I'd go slow, though. Altering your mental state when you're inside that mental state…"

  You ignore him. The rest of the glass goes down easy.

  Richard seems mollified by your cooperation, and becomes neither uncomfortably affable nor typically sociopathic; he has settled into a glossy passive-aggressiveness you vastly prefer. He has another glass of prosecco in his left hand, a telescopic pointer in his right, and a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He is gesturing at a board with strings on it.

  "Look, Charlie," he's saying. "I don't think— I'm telling you, this is still relevant."

  "Ellery's dead!"

  "Perhaps he's dead." He twiddles the pointer. "But it hardly matters, Charlie. It's still entirely unnatural, and it's worthy of our—"

  "He's dead! It can't get more closed than that! And anyways—" You rub your face. "—why do you care? You yelled at me today for wasting time investigating—"

  "That's all on you, Charlie," he says airily. "Why do you trust a single thing I say when I'm that way? You'd think you'd have learned, but you're like… I don't know, something that never learns. You're like you."

  "I learn," you grouse. "When I want to. Pick something else that doesn't learn. Like a— a shadie."

  "Very well. You're like a shadie."

  "No I'm not. And you're not making any sense, by the way. I shouldn't listen to you when you're like that? You're always like that."

  Richard tugs at his bow tie. "Yes."

  "So I should never listen to you?"

  "No. Always listen to me. Forget that. Back to this. You realize that man wasn't supposed to be in his manse? He couldn't be there. He was sleeping, Charlie, he wasn't vacant like you are now— even if he did wind up in the manse, he wouldn't be lucid. It's all wrong."

  This is too many words for you right now. "Uh-huh. So why do you care about this?"

  "It's interesting. Do you not find it interesting? And, as I keep telling you, it could very much be relevant to—"

  You are two-thirds through your third glass. Your mouth tastes like fruit. Your head feels like nothing. You are giggling uncontrollably. "It, it, it does what?"

  "It penetrates… the… body." Richard has his hands to his temples. "This is the fourth time, Charlie. I don't know how much clearer I can make it. It enters the body. It goes into the body."

  "What does. What pen— what does that."

  "The shaft." He blinks. "Of the key. Charlie."

  "Right. Right. The key." You take a sip in an attempt to stifle your giggles. "The shaft of the key."

  "The main length, yes. The part that sticks out is the bit, or tooth. The part you hold is the bow. Look, do I need to show you again?"

  "Yes, Richard, I'd love to see your dumb key collection again…"

  "Excellent." He pulls out his dumb key collection again. It clatters onto the table. "Now, look, there's skeleton keys and there's flat keys. Skeleton keys have a single tooth at the end of the blade. Flat keys have multiple sets of teeth, making the locks that much more secure."

  "Ah."

  "Unfortunately, also that much less interesting. It's the skeleton keys that get all the sorts of decoration on them, so they comprise most of the collection."

  "I, uh, I see that." You're losing grip on reality, probably. "Why do you know so much about keys? I mean, I don't know anything about keys, so…"

  "You're not the center of the universe, Charlie. I have interests too."

  You scratch the back of your head. "Uh, yeah, I— I just feel like there's a logistics issue? You don't have hands, I mean, in-in real life, as a snake, so I don't know how you even use these."

  He picks up a key. "Look, this one is antediluvian. Nickel silver, looks like, nice detailing on the bow…"

  You feel like you've ascended to a dimension where everything is the color pink. You have four paper umbrellas stuck in your hair. Richard has obligingly placed the fifth so it sticks out of his breast pocket. The table has become crowded with wine and cocktail glasses.

  "Oh… God," you say blearily. "Oh— oh God. Rich— Ricky. I'm gonna die here."

  "You can't die here, Charlie. It's your head. You're perfectly safe." Richard has one pair of sunglasses sliding off the bridge of his nose and an identical pair on top of his head. He's drunk and is trying to hide it, you've concluded.

  "No. Well… maybe. Maybe. But not, not, um, not here. I mean… underwater. I'm gonna die underwater."

  Richard reaches across the table and clasps your arm. You want to recoil, but his hand is warm and eerily reassuring. "We're not going to let that happen. You will return to the surface."

  "I don't… I still think…" You're having trouble putting your thoughts into words. "Why aren't you calling me stupid?"

  "I don't think it's stupid."

  "Well, that's… that's…" You stare at his hand on your arm. "That's stu… that's stupid. Why're you touching me?"

  He stares at it too. "I was also compelled to do that."

  "Do you get com— those a lot?"

  "Compulsions? Sometimes." Richard pushes his first pair of sunglasses up his nose. "I told you; you're the source. You have a certain idea of how I ought to behave, and it just… ema... emanates. Ripples out."

  "I can make you do things?"

  >[+ID: 8/11]

  "Not on purpose, Charlie. I know what you're thinking."

  You deflate a little. "Oh. So if I wasn't com... if I wasn't doing that, you'd just be normal. Snake, you know."

  He appears conflicted. "Not exactly."

  "…No?"

  "You have to understand, Charlie. What it's like." There's real, sudden desperation in his voice, enough to cut through your daze. You sit up. He's squeezing his hands shut. "It's like being in a tube. It's— look, snakes are the most efficient creature in existence. You understand? They're just a head and tail."

  "I'm, I'm not, uh, following…"

  "Just listen. They're efficient, as a fundamental part of their being."

  "Of… your being."

  "Do I look like a snake now, Charlie? And I mean fundamental— deeper than biology. Any kind of superfluity? Cut out."

  You're beginning to twig on. "Like…"

  "Empathy. Personality. Certainly a sense of humor. Positive emotion of any kind, really." Underneath the glasses, his eyes are glazed and bloodshot. He is drunk. He just doesn't sound it. "It's awful, Charlie. It's so... so cold. I hate it."

  You don't know what to say. You're not sober enough for this. "Is that… that's why I shouldn't trust…"

  "You can't trust me. I'm efficient." He downs the last of the wine. "The only thing I care about is the objective, Charlie, I don't have room for anything else. And I will trample on you again and again and again to get there."

  You're really not sober enough for this. "But I can trust you."

  "That's your decision. But after you come back, ask me if I like being that way. I'll say I like it."

  "You'll lie."

  "No. No, Charlie, I won't lie. I do like it. Capacity for dissent is excised. Charlie— at least I have feelings."

  You have steadily grown to hate the taste of fruit. You just want to wake up and not be drunk anymore. You want Richard to get some inhibitions back. You think he needed them. "But you're an… you're an asshole still."

  "Mmm. An asshole with feelings."

  You have to admit, he has a point.