(1.0) [Vignette] Chat

>|Mind: -/-|
>|Blood: -/-|

You are having a beer with Madrigal Fitzgerald.

None of these things are true. Take them in backwards order.

This is not Madrigal Fitzgerald. Madrigal, you assume, is several hours south. She is not here.

This is not a beer. It tastes and feels like a beer, to be sure, but though you've slugged maybe six (*a* beer? another lie) you're still disgustingly sober. You'd rather not be.

And, of course, there's no such thing as you. You aren't real.

"Remind me. Did we give you a name?" Madrigal sprawls languorously over a patchwork muss of what might be blankets. Twelve empty bottles lie next to her. She's uncorking the thirteenth with her teeth.

"No, but seriously. I like Ellery. I don't need something else." It's the closest thing to a self you have left.

"Doesn't work that way." She points with the neck of the bottle. "I can't call you that. It's taken."

"Stolen."

"Given. You wanted this, remember. Was it me?"

It would've been bad enough to find yourself the hollow figment of your own imagination. It would've been a tasteful level of psychological horror. Taste never seems to factor into these things, though, and so you were also bludgeoned with the knowledge of your last visit. 'You're the worst part of you,' she'd said...

You run a hand backwards through your hair. It refuses to stick up like it's supposed to. "Maybe a little," you admit. "Subconsciously. Is this what *you* wanted?"

"No." She sighs. "No. I think you needed a wake-up call. This isn't a wake-up call, this is-- I don't know, this is your house on fire. It's overkill, you're gonna leave burned, you might die. You know."

"I don't think I can die." There's nothing to kill.

"Oh, sure. Not, like, you..." She indicates you in broad circles. "...but, like, *you*. Whoever you were. You have expectations you're not living up to, dude."

And that is an issue when you're made from expectations. Conform or perish. Change or be changed irreparably.

"Maybe."

Maybe. Maybe you'll be warped into a humorless bastard. Maybe.

You down your seventh beer.