(Redux) Catalyst Quest Crossover

You are Charlotte Fawkins. You are at the Better Than Nothing, your favorite bar, by virtue of it being the only one in a 30-mile radius. You are sitting cross-legged on a tattered bar stool, nursing your third drink of the evening. It is a poisonous blue.

Someone sits next to you. Not just nearby-- *right* next to you. You stare down at the drink in the hopes they go away.

"Barkeep," says the person next to you, in a head-cold voice, "I'll have..." There, in your peripheral vision. They're *pointing.* At *your drink*.

You shoot Jacques a look. He shoots a familiar one back-- "they're paying."

Fine. “A *dozen* of these things, and you’ve got to pick…” You wipe your nose-- this is a strong drink-- and turn to stare at your new neighbor.

It's a weirdo. It's always got to be a weirdo, doesn't it? No normal people here, except you. This one's an extra special piece of work-- all limbs and neck and matted black hair, considerably taller than you are, thin as a stick. With a dress on. And a necklace.

You take a moment to process this. "...Who the hell are you?"

The weirdo stares down at the cocktail Jacques has placed in front of him. (It doesn't have the top-shelf rum, you can tell. You'll have to thank Jacques later.)  "fatheranscham, ma'am, if you- if you couldplease stop staring atme--"

There's too many possible things you could say to this. You settle on the most obvious. “Do I- do I look like a ‘ma’am’?”

You don't stop staring.

The weirdo-- Father whoever-- continues to mumble, but pulls his face out from his glass a little. “I-- I mean no offense. Your attire--” He stares at you. “If you hail from another land-- or have a preferred title, I-- I did not mean--”

You've got a live one! You never have a live one-- everyone here's so *coarse*. You smirk. “Oh, good, because I was going to say, uh, I think you’re more of a ma’am, here. What with the dress. But, you know, in civilized society one calls young women ‘miss’—” you sit up very straight— “and heiresses ‘my lady.’ Ma’am.”

“My lady, I am terribly sorry for any misunderstanding.” The weirdo downs his cocktail. You got him. “Perhaps in your society-- you have no experience with the Gods? With ceremonial dress-- with proper and civilized behavior?”

My lady! You were not expecting him to actually call you that-- you're not sure it's even proper.

<<'Gods.' It's a pagan.>>

Richard, in from behind you. You frown and glance over your shoulder. Nothing's there. But he is right, anyways. "Oh," you say dryly. "You're one of *those.*"

“One of what, my lady?” It's true! It's a genuine bumpkin!

“Oh, you know.” You rest your chin on one hand, and sprawl the other out across the bartop. “A saltlicker. A bleeder. A wet dog. A corpsef— well. A pagan.”

The weirdo gets all snarly. You're pleased. You've never had occasion to use all these insults at once. “I was unaware that I was speaking to a heathen. Perhaps you have another name? A title seems ill-fitting, for a woman-- and Mercy, this is a generous use of the term-- who seems so eager to debase another. You have no idea who you are even speaking to--” he mutters into his empty glass, though it's far more audible this time.

“Sure I do. A saltlicker.”You sip noisily at your drink. “With a big head, apparently. Don’t know why— you look like someone caved your face in with a rock.”

He grimaces, which does nothing to help the face, or really anything. “A rock would have been a mercy-- compared to everything I have endured to uphold my station. Do you think you can say the same for your own position, my lady?”

"What?" You genuinely have no idea what he's on about. You tug at a lock of hair. "Uh, no, it's hereditary?"

The pagan did not like this answer. “You must be unaware, then-- how a young lady in such a position should be expected to speak. May all the gods have mercy on you, Miss…?”

"Charlotte." *Pagans*. "Fawkins, not that it'd mean anything to you, dog. I speak great. You--" you waggle your glass— "sound like you have a bug up your nose."

Back to speaking into the glass. “There--thereis nothingwrongwith the wayI speak.”

This ranks among the stupidest things you've ever heard. "'Th wAy OI speeek.'"

The pagan flushes and pulls at his collar. You begin to drum out the seconds on the bar top. It's a full 15 before he speaks. “Charlotte-- I could-- I never fathomed that I would have the displeasure of meeting such an abrasive-- mercy, are you always like this…?”

<<Absolutely.>>

You have to give this quite a lot of consideration. You're not always like this, you suppose, but ideally you would be. You've got to commit. "...Yes?" you say finally. "I suppose it helps if you order my drink."

He's on his fourth, somehow. Did Jacques ever deliver the last three? “My drink, you mean. It-- I cannot believe that a woman of your stature-- a human woman, besides, would be able to handle so much liquor. It is terribly unbecoming--”

Not a lot of education, here. "Of what, my station? The Fawkins have a long—" you sniff-- "and honorable tradition of drinking. And this is, what, two and a half? You a prude?"

“I would prefer-- I would rather be called a prude than to disgrace my title, or-- or--”

What a nonce. You sip your drink. "Fine with me, prude. What title?"

The pagan sits up straight. “I-- I already told you. The father of mercy. If you are unfamiliar-- of course, you must be--”

The *father of mercy*? You wrinkle your nose. "Is that, like, a sex thing? Please don't tell me about—"

“Mercy, no. I am the leader of my church. Our church. I would never-- I mean, I couldn’t--”

"Our? No. No. Uh uh. I am a…" You brush the hair from your face. You can't be associated with this, even in passing. "...respectable, God-fearing woman, not a member of your sex church. I've always heard this kind of thing about shadies, but I didn't think—"

The pagan's brow assumes its natural resting state of 'furrowed.' “Excuse me…? S- no-- shadies? Pardon?”

"You know, low-level… you're pagan, it's a reasonable assumption."

“I-- I can scarcely understand anything you are saying, Charlotte.”

This strikes you as funny. "Oii cahn scayrcely— me either, pal." You down the remainder of your glass and slam it on the bar top. "*Jacques*, can I get a different— pink, please? Put it on the tab."

Any color but blue. The pagan's been drinking nothing but blue.

The pagan gestures wildly for Jacques, who you stare down the whole time. He looks generally resigned, but proceeds to deliver a fifth glass (yellow) to the pagan.

He raises the glass, smirking. You're thouroughly disgusted. “It may be a blessing. That we can hardly understand one another. What do you say, Charlotte? Your-- your family’s tradition-- perhaps you could demonstrate something a little more decent through their principles--”

Is this the game he wants to play? You smile broadly and raise your glass in turn. "Oh, sure, I'd love to! I'll even tell you a traditional family saying, how's that?"

“Certainly.”

"Assumptions…" You wink. "...make an ass of you and me. What do you suppose my family's principles are?"

It's like you whipped him! “I-- I have no idea, Charlotte.”

"No, I don't suppose you would." You lower the glass. "You wouldn't know high society if it hit you in— well, maybe it did. Anyhow, suppose you had a lot of cats and dogs. Yeah? And you throw them in a room. What happens?"

The pagan doesn't say anything.

"Well," you continue, "they fight. That's all it is, really, a lot of cats and dogs locked in a room." For extra effect, you knock him lightly on the shoulder. "And I don't like losing, huh, saltlicker?"

You think his eyelid twitches. “Let’s go, then. Out back. I-- I could use a good fight. No matter what your family says about assumptions, Charlotte-- I am willing to bet you’ve been wanting for one all evening, too. The way you’ve been talking to me.”

YOu know empty threats when you hear them. "You can't punch a girl," you scoff. "'Less you're another girl. And you're not, even if you've got a dress."

The pagan stands abruptly and slams a handful of-- gold coins?-- onto the bartop. They can't possibly be legal tender. Jacques attempts to hide his horror.

“For the lady,” the pagan sneers, and storms out to the back door. He lingers by it for a second. “Well? Who is the one making assumptions, Charlotte--”

Oh, thank God. "Bye," you call. "Nice meeting you."

Damn! Damn! He's coming back. He sits in the exact same stool, right next to you, and scowls unattractively. “I wish I could say the same. What-- what is wrong with you? Why are you being so abrasive? I haven’t done anything to you. I-- mercy, I can’t even properly speak with you, can I…?”

"Why? Uh…" You stroke your chin and decide on the honest answer. "It's fun. There's not a lot of easy targets here, right? You think they're easy, and they turn around and… you know, they're not human, or whatever. You're, uh, human, yeah?"

It's a reasonable question, but the man is never satisfied. “Yes. I could have mistaken you for a demon, too, Charlotte, for how atrocious your behavior has been towards me. Honestly, an easy target…? You speak of men-- humans-- like we’re some sort of enemy.”

Oh, good. "Yeah, I was about to say I'm equal-opportunity. I'm not some kinda, uh, man-hating doxy…" You swallow your drink. "And who're you, some kind of hold-hands-sing-psalms type? Brotherhood of men, yeah? Give me a break."

“Better to make an attempt at compassion-- or empathy-- or any sort of decency. I would prefer to be called a prude-- or be marked as an easy target than to belittle an absolute stranger for the sport of it.” He's *angry*! It's the second best thing to him leaving entirely.

"Ha." You're sure you look pleased. You don't care. "Sucker."

“Sucker…?” He jerks his head. “Excuse me?”

"Sucker."

“You-- you have the audacity-- as a heathen, some heiress to a position you obviously have no merit in holding-- who won’t even put up a respectable fight or do anything more than sit there and belittle me? You have the nerve to call me a sucker, of all things?”

What a strange thing to say. "Is this a rhetorical question?"

“No. It is not.”

"Oh." You weren't expecting that. "Yes? Sorry, I'm a little drunk. I think I'm out of more creative—"

“No-- don’t. Stop. There is absolutely-- you can’t possibly be this--" The pagan takes a deep breath. “You can’t be this terrible, Charlotte. You must be drunk. This is-- this is fine. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong--”

You're not sure he realizes there was never a right foot. You nod chummily. "Right. So your name is what? And you're not pagan? And you're not wearing a dress?"

He scowls, though his brow is knitted as earnestly as he can manage. “Richard--" You inhale half your drink. "I have no idea what you are talking about-- but this is perfectly acceptable dress--”

You're sent into a coughing fit. "R-" you manage, "Richard?"

<<...Ask him again. Please.>>

“Are-- are you alright…?” The pagan looks concerned. It's about as unattractive as everything else.

"That's your name?"

“Y-"

<<*WHAT.*>>

It's like a gunshot to your ears. You flinch, splashing the remainder of your drink down your front. Richard-- your Richard, proper Richard, not weirdo Richard-- has shimmered into your peripheral vision. You try not to glance at him, but can't help it: he's oddly lit, sort of statick-y around the edges, and in a polo shirt. And khakis. And not a snake, despite his voice.

Your confusion is trumped by the sticky pink gin all over your coat. "God blessed," you hiss to him, "was that really--"

“Really what, now?”

"Wh—" You cough. "Nothing. Nothing. I'm… fine. Your name's fine."

Proper Richard checks his wristwatch. <<I really can't-- I'm on break, Charlie, I don't want to hang around this dump. Nobody else is allowed to be named Richard, though, so kindly go for his throat. Have fun and so on.>>

He vanishes. Typical.

“N-no. This is not fine.” Fake Richard holds the tackiest handkerchief you've ever seen out to you. “I can tolerate plenty of debasement, Charlotte, but I won’t stand for petty secrets--”

You do not want Fake Richard's tacky handkerchief. “I’ve got this— I’ve got a napkin. It’s really not— I just know someone else named Richard, that’s all. That’s it.”

“He must have set quite the precedent.”

You attempt to mop up your front with napkins. “I— yes.”

Fake Richard gives you a look like you shot his dog.

You rub the back of your neck. “Uh, sorry. Sorry for the— your handkerchief’s tacky, you know. Gold thread?”

“It was a gift. I prefer black, honestly--”

*Pagans*. “And have all your mucus show? For what purpose? That’s worse, almost.”

“I-- I hadn’t really thought about it, if I’m to be entirely honest-- I meant more--”

“And it’d be more expensive, too, with the dyes and all. More expensive to have your mucus shown to the world. I guess you’d like that, though, freak—”

Fake Richard is beginning to slur. “You have no idea-- what would you know, about what I like--”

“Well.” You sit up straight. “You like wearing dresses.”

“Robes. They are robes, Charlotte. Not that you would-- I have trousers on, not that you really-- Jacques, do you have anything stronger than this?”

Looks like a dress to you. “Potato, potato. Uh, you like sitting here and being insulted—”

Fake Richard flushes.

“Yeah, see? Look at you enjoying this.”

“I would be lying-- if I said it wasn’t nice-- to-- to actually get to speak with someone, for a change. Even if it’s nothing but insults.”

Is it your birthday? Who dropped this gift in your lap? “Not a lot of conversation at the sex church?”

“It is not-- oh, mercy. Never mind. No. No, Charlotte. Not-- I mean--” This is his fifth, or sixth, maybe. You've stopped at three-and-a-bit. Never outdrink the target, that's the trick. “Not for lack of trying,” he finishes lamely.

You nod. “I see. Do you try to hold the conversations during the sex, or— because I can understand why you’re not getting a lot of takers.”

“I am-- you know, Charlotte-- there really is no use--” Fake Richard takes another deep breath. “I see what you mean. No. No, Charlotte, there is no sex thing. The church of mercy-- my vows to her are entirely separate from any relationship I may have with any clergy. They have been my family.”

You see how it is. “Ahhhhh. You’ve got a lady. And you’re still hitting on me? I mean— I guess it’s a pagan—”

“I am not hitting on you, Charlotte. She is much more than a lady. She-- you really need to stop using that word. I am not criticizing your faith, even if ours differ, am I?”

You sniff and rub at your nose. You're losing your tact. "That's because you're a… you're a pussy."

“Your belittlement-- all of this incessant name calling-- you are the only coward here. To say nothing of your dismissal of the Gods--”

"Might be a coward—" another sniff— "but I'm not a pussy."

“I fail to see the distinction.”

It seems obvious to you. "A coward's a coward. A pussy's… smug about it."

“I am not smug.”

Right. "Sure you are. You're all… 'God, I'm such a good person.'"

“You couldn’t be further from the truth, Charlotte-- I’m simply trying.” He takes a sip, which only intensifies the smugness. “Perhaps-- is the concept so foreign to you-- that you cannot recognize when someone is at least attempting to be decent…?”

“Oh, I did recognize it, remember? And I called you a sucker.”

“Do you expect me to believe that-- that your gods permit for a woman to actively embrace so much sin, then? Is that right?”

*Pagans*. “Goddd. Single. One. And…” You scratch your chin. “Yeah? I don’t think he’s up in our business all that much. Probably busy doing god things, right?”

“You must be joking. You are joking-- oh, mercy, that does explain it.”

“Nnnnn...yeah?” What?

“By the way, Jacques, this drink is excellent." Jacques looks like he wants to die. You give him 'told you so' eyebrows. "Charlotte, who, precisely-- I do not mean to pry, but I get the impression you scarcely know your own god. What exactly is this deity, who does not even see fit to bless Their own worshipers…?”

“Alright, alright, look.” This is the last thing you want to discuss. You brush hair from your face. “Just because I went to Seventhsday School doesn’t mean I remember anything from Seventhsday School, you get me? Lives in the sky, not the ocean, uh, listen to your elders, uh— alive, is the important part. Unlike yours, which are verifiably dead.”

“Lives in…? Alive or dead has nothing to do with Them, Charlotte. You have no idea what you are talking about. This-- you are a heathen, Charlotte. I see now. Clearly. It is terribly obvious why you are so miserable.”

Miserable? You? “You’re a funny guy.” You trace the interior of your empty glass. “You’re the one downing seven cocktails in a row at a cruddy underwater speakeasy, ya know? If you’re not the miserable one now, you sure will be in the morning.”

“What…? Charlotte, I can hold my liquor just fine. You are the one who is too inebriated to recognize-- to behave properly, in a respectable establishment. Besides, you-- you are attempting to change the subject--”

“A respectable establishment? Have you been listening to Jacques? Don’t— don’t listen… I mean, the place is called the Better Than Nothing, yeah? And that’s what it is. God, I wish there was a respectable establishment—”

“Why would I listen to a barkeep-- that is besides the point." Jacques mouths 'barkeep' at you. "The name is far fairer than most taverns, Charlotte. This place-- we have indoor lighting! Sorcery! No blood or demons in sight. Women able to sit at the bar. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a respectable place that--”

“Indoor— I guess you guys really do have it bad, huh?” You've only heard vague tales of the lower levels. “No electricity, no anything. Not that this is electricity, exactly, but— you know. What do you mean, women at—”

“Electricity…? Oh-- I don’t suppose-- Charlotte. Your behavior is simply improper. For-- compared to what I am accustomed to. Far more befitting of a-- well, less of a human woman, to the best of my knowledge. Are you sure you are not--”

And with a flash, you realize: Fake Richard thinks you're a *slut*. “I think,” you say, “if you saw Madrigal, you might die.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know. She’s got a neckline allllll…” You run a hand halfway down your chest. “...the way to here. And she swears. So if you’re mad at me for, what, talking to you— I think she’d kill you flat out. It’d be pretty great, huh?”

“I see--” Fake Richard is staring very hard at his drink. You smirk. “I am-- I am not upset with you for attempting to speak with me, Charlotte. It’s simply a matter of your tone. I-- I imagine you could make for a far more upstanding young woman than this Madrigal. If you made the attempt.”

“Oh, see, there! You’re smug again. You try to tamp it down, and it comes right out.”

And now he's smirking. “You bring out the worst in me, Charlotte.”

Like it's a bad thing. “Neat.”

Fake Richard deflates. “You-- this is something of a hobby for you, isn’t it…?”

“Hell is other people, you know.” You frown. “Someone said that once. Not sure who.”

“A wiser man than either of us. To keep going back and forth like this.”

Is he under the impression this is an equal exchange? But it's getting late, surely. “Oh, I’m not breaking a— what time is it? I don’t suppose you have a wristwatch—”

Fake Richard rolls both of his sleeves down, but there's no wristwatch to be found. He attempts to peer out the darkened portholes. “I h-haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I mean, what time did you get here? It’s been, what, an hour— hour and a half, maybe? Two— something, anyways.” Your grip on the passage of time is fuzzy.

He's kind of grimacing. “It-- it’s as I said, I really have no idea. Perhaps Jacques might know--”

“We’re not really on the best of— why’d he let me in here?” You have faint memories of 'GET OUT!' But that's not-- “I don’t remember arriving… I should remember arriving, right? I’m not that drunk—”

Fake Richard beckons Jacques over, and now that you look it doesn't seem like Jacques, exactly. It looks like him, approximately, and acts like him, approximately, but it's not-- oh God. Fake Richard raises his new glass to you, but how did he get it? Jacques never made the drink. He always makes the drinks, he doesn't keep them prepared-- “I do hope that after this, I won’t remember coming in, either.”

You stare a him a little wildly. “Do you, though? Not walking in the doors, but coming into town— or leaving your house, I don’t know if you live here— or before that? What’d you do today?”

Fake Richard twitches, glances around. “Is he-- this is the lair of a demon, isn’t it? I-- I can’t remember a thing--”

You knew it. You knew it. You knew someone like this couldn't be an actual person. It's probably some kind of simulacrum, or whatever, some paper doll. You point square at Definitely Fake Richard's chest. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not real, is all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I-- this is just another attempt to upset me, isn’t it? I-- I am on to your games, Charlotte. If that-- if that really is your name--”

You're not listening. “You know, I was thinking— I can’t believe this guy actually exists. So this makes sense, because you don’t, right? I made you up.”

“That may be the most idiotic-- Charlotte. If what you are saying were true, are you telling me that-- that you would construct a man purely for the sake of insulting him?”

Obviously? “Yes? I guess I’ve been bored.”

“If I had a--” Definitely Fake Richard looks like he wants to stab you, then himself. “If I had a copper for every time someone has told me that they are merely-- keeping me around because they are bored--! I thought that it was no surprise that no one at the church wished to speak with me…?”

"I'm not keeping you around, though? You could walk right out those doors and never see me again…" If only, right? Wait, but-- "But you can't, right? Because this is the only place you exist— you can't leave! That's hilarious."

“Are you so miserable that-- that you sincerely think…?”

"Hey, I don't see you contesting." Again with the 'miserable.' You raise your eyebrows. "But if you're gonna be insistent, we can do the blood test. I've got a knife, surely—" You fish around in her pocket and retrieve your trusty pocketknife. "Aha. Stick out your hand, will you?"

“Fine.” Definitely Fake Richard sticks out his hand.

"Alright." You flick open the blade. "I'm gonna cut you, just a little. If you bleed, you're real. If you don't bleed, I'm right. Okay? Easy."

“Nnn-- I thought you said easy.”

You roll your eyes. "God, don't be a baby. It'll only hurt a little. Ready?"

“I didn’t mean-- just-- get on with it.”

"Okay." You take Definitely Fake Richard's wrist in your left hand and, moving quickly, make a small incision on the palm.

It bleeds. No bones about it.

But you- you drop his wrist and make a cut on your own hand. It also bleeds. So that's that.

"Well, God-damn," you say. "Who *are* you?"

“M-mercy. I-- I tried telling you before, Charlotte-- is it much warmer in here--?”

"No, it's…" You flex your cut palm. You've come to a conclusion. "We're not in a bar, you realize? Do you understand that? This is not a bar."

“More of a dream, isn’t it…?”

"I…" There goes your thunder. "Well, yes, I think… yes. I'm asleep. You're… probably also asleep, wherever the hell you are."

Possibly Fake Richard looks a little aroused. You scoot your stool back. “That is a terribly exciting thought, Charlotte. But-- why-- why would Dream see fit to bless me with a vision of you? Of all people?”

"Dunno. Coincidence? Seems to me most things in the world happen by blind luck, really."

“No-- no, there must be a reason for this meeting. For all of your antagonism! Of course-- perhaps-- this may have been a test of faith, an opportunity! Charlotte, just-- think of the implications!”

This strikes you as supremely silly. "I'm thinking, I just don't- I don't really see them. Test of faith by who? My brain?"

“You-- you’re a heathen, Charlotte. From another land. This-- you must have needed this. To hear of them. There can’t possibly-- I cannot conceive of a more appropriate use of his blessing-- to share the gods with another--”

How many fake dream drinks? Nine? Ten? "Look, pal, you're pretty… you're pretty sloshed. So let's just think about this. Is this going to work?"

“I am not shloshed. Besides-- is what going to work?”

Duh. "Converting me to paganism. Or whatever."

“Converting you? Charlotte-- please, do not-- I can tolerate any other insult, but you must be joking. I do not need to convert you to anything. They are as real as you or I-- and-- well, I strongly suspect you scarcely hold any loyalty to your own God, as it is.”

*Pagans*. "Whatever. Whatever. Sharing. Is that gonna work?"

“I would never presume to impress them on another, Charlotte.” He's flushed again. You scoot your stool back a little farther. “You would need to tell me.”

"Oh, okay. Uh, no."

“You wouldn’t-- even knowing that dream has brought us together-- you sincerely have no desire to listen? To at least attempt to interpret his works…?”

"I think…" You pat Possibly Fake Richard's wrist. "I think you're reading too much into this."

He flinches. “You-- there is simply no way that we would have this meeting for the sole purpose of drunken banter, Charlotte. I-- I may be accused of abusing them on a regular basis, but this would be too much. Even for me.”

"Oh, it's not banter. Banter needs a back-and-forth. But anyways, uh, yeah. Sometimes I think there's meaning to things, too. And most of the time I don't think about it at all. But when I get right down to it, I think…" You shrug listlessly. "Sometimes things just happen. People get shot, you know. And it's not because of anything you did, it just— happens."

“That sort of thing is exactly what a Godless woman would say, Charlotte.” Smug. You hate Possibly Fake Richard.

"Ooooh." You wave one hand in a circle. "Spooky."

“You only fear what you do not understand--”

He's too drunk or too stupid to get it. "Sounds like me, yes."

“I know you are afraid, Charlotte-- but you do not have to be.”

His whole face is red. Your stool can't scoot back any farther. "Right. Okay, I think I'm going to… Any idea how to get out of here?"

“It-- it truly is a miracle that you stayed this long, isn’t it…?” Possibly Fake Definitely Lecherous Richard points at the door to the stairs.

"Yes, I've been— this is my bar, idiot. God. I mean the dream. Do I—" You attempt to close your eyes very hard. It doesn't work. "Damn."

“This-- this is rather embarrassing, but I honestly have no idea. These things usually resolve themselves.”

"Oh." You glance down at your knife. You're pretty sure you can't actually die in a dream, but you're not 100% on that. "What if I— no. I guess I'll try the door? Doors are meaningful, right?"

You don't wait for an answer. You leave Possibly Fake Definitely Lecherous Richard leering at the bar (who cares what happens to him) and go to examine the actual door to the outside. It's the door, all right-- kind of soft-looking, and the doorknob keeps shifting around when it thinks you aren't looking, but it's the door. You poise, catch the doorknob, and push open the door.

There's no outside-- you'd expected as much. It's just black. You step into it, shutting the door firmly-- *firmly*-- behind you.

Your lucidity evaporates like morning dew. You cease to be, and simply are.

And where you are is a dark room, with a man clad all in red, and a man clad all in white--