Re:Boun Voyage

A man he encountered once said that murder is a profitless crime. In gambling terms, you might say that it’s a high risk, low reward endeavor. In other words: It’s what people who aren’t thinking do. It’s what stupid people do.

 -- The words of the man he’d encountered, not the professor’s, mind you, and it was said in such a bitter, self-admonishing manner, that really, this guy had to be speaking for himself. But it needed to be said in order to paint the picture, to get him to understand. Because he, in his inquisitiveness, with his endless string of questions, he’d asked this man if he understood -- why people kill at all.

‘Put it in a way that can be written in logical notation.’ ‘Alright then, let’s say that “p” stands for “motive.”’

The conversation wasn’t particularly interesting, nor was it particularly enlightening. He might say that the most notable thing about it was that it was disagreeable, but then, it wasn’t so disagreeable that he’d wiped it from memory. On the contrary, he thought about it a lot. He’d been given a corner piece of a puzzle, a building block. A life lesson parents passed down to their children, or a sutra given by a monk to his disciple.

‘We’ll join ‘p’ with a conjunction - “q.”’ ‘Which stands for...?’ ‘The culprit goes too far.’

The truth is, killing someone is “easy” if you think about it like flipping a switch -- or pulling a trigger, swinging a knife, serving up poison -- but “difficult” if you think about it like a job interview -- or public speaking, asking someone out on a date, reconciling with an enemy -- it’s why most culprits, he was told, don’t actually intend to kill their victim. 

They simply went too far. They crossed a line. Before they knew it -- the light went out. And they couldn’t take it back anymore.

Ah, but don’t mistake going too far as lacking full intent. Take the phrase as it is. There’s nothing inherently accidental about it. It just so happens that in most cases, that thing called ‘motive’ is actually just some compelling force. But there are cases where that isn’t the case. Every rule has its exceptions.

‘I’m assuming you want a biconditional here?’ ‘Smart kid. We’ll connect ‘r’ with a double arrow. You know what it stands for?’ ‘A crime is committed.’

Has he gotten too conceptual? Did he lose the thread a little - perhaps literally? Truthfully, he’s been making and unmaking shapes with the string in his hands, idly, playing a game of cat’s cradle by himself, the only thing running through his mind a rehash of that long-ago conversation with a man he’d encountered long ago -- no, it was more like that man encountered him, really. But that’s a matter of semantics unrelated to the matter at hand.

One piece of the statement has already been made true, but that’s a variable that exists -- always. Anything might constitute for a motive, really. He’s never denied that fact (he simply never let himself be bothered by it), but when presented with one so blatantly, when given a gift this good, when handed such a convenient excuse... 

He might have laughed if he could trust that the sound wouldn’t be cynical. 

“There are plenty of ways to get what you want. For example, if you kill someone for their wallet, then the end goal is money - and there are countless ways to make money that aren’t nearly as risky. The act itself is rarely ever worth the result. I guess that’s what they mean when they say that murder isn’t very logical.” “But you asked me to explain it logically anyway? Still, people kill things all the time. They just happen to stop and stare when we commit crimes against ourselves -- that’s the normal thing to do though, isn’t it?”

Possibilities -- are his bread and butter. Understanding how others process and react to information, he knows what a “rational” person is thinking, he knows what an “idealistic” person is thinking, and he knows what a “panicked” person is thinking as well, you know, speaking generally. 

But all he can do is wait. The daemon bound by a biconditional, he simply allows the string to fall limply in his palms as their host disappears, that ever-serene smile on his face unwavering despite the cold rain pelting his body, the sudden gloom which settles down upon them like a thick smog. 

He wonders how that man he’d encountered (the one who encountered him) would feel about these circumstances. He wishes he could ask him -- if the crime about to be committed here can truly be deemed ‘profitless,’ and whether he truly believes it something natural: like eating, like breathing. And if so -- ...

Think of it like a boat, this place.

It's like a boat, perched perfect on the water. There's little movement to disturb it; there's the occasional ripple, from the tide ebbing in and out, or perhaps from a fish or some other critter breaching the surface, or else from the boat itself bouncing gentle—but mostly, the boat sits still.

There are ways to make it rock: standing up, sudden and unpredictable and in anger or excitement; shifting, reaching for another beer or casting a fresh line; or with intent, with force, with a white knuckled grip on the boat's lip that pulls it closer and closer to the water until, with a splash, everything is ripples.

(And he knows about rocking the boat; he knows about pushing it until it flips.)

Now certainly, without help, there's been standing and shifting plenty on this boat. There's been the confrontational words exchanged, there's been anxiety spreading like a plague, there's been reminders of where they are and what the intention of the place is, and all of that made it rock from side to side.

But that's not rocking with intent. That's not willing the boat to flip.

Who knew that you don't have to flip the boat if you fill it up with water, bucket by bucket by a hundred thousand buckets worth of a downpour? If you keep flooding the boat, there's no need to make it rock. You don't even have to be in the boat then, do you? You can watch from the wayside, as slowly but surely—

It'll sink, all on its own.

(Does he know that too? That eventually, one drop at a time will creep up until you're neck deep?)

So Duke stands there, freezing rain crawling down his spine, and he listens, and he watches, and he's unreadable, that man. His jaw doesn't work; his hands don't flex. He doesn't sneer, or spit, or cry out in anguish and fear. He, at most, frowns at their gamemaster's words, but guessing what plays behind his eyes and through his mind is a gamble likely not worth making.

But it's like a boat, this place.

This concept -- a game of life and death -- has been shockingly easy for Domino to accept.

The thing is: Domino woke up here, under a sky that was more like a void and gaps in his memory and with new clothes on his body, and he’d had a sinking feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Call it his paranoia, his worst-case-scenario’ing. Nothing in this place made sense, aligned with what he would consider reality, and it only got more disconcerting the more he peered into its mysteries.

( Another thing: Domino is used to having bad feelings. )

So, from the second Domino woke up on that stone platform, he had been walking on the edge of a knife, convinced he was one step away from death. It wasn’t hard to accept what was actually happening; it was just a confirmation that his aimless fears weren’t unfounded, that he wasn’t being a worrywort -- a downer -- a bother.

( Truthfully, the idea of having relationships with strangers was far scarier to him than the idea of dying at any of their hands. )

Domino has yet another bad feeling when he wakes up, when an instinct he can’t explain draws him out of bed and out of the safety of his lodge, out of the penetrating snow that so few seem to be willing to trek through. The urge doesn’t feel like it belongs to him -- instead, like he’s being pulled along on a string, but it’s not something he feels compelled to question either. Somehow, that's the most concerning part.

He steps into the center area, cold and now damp, only to be greeted with his fellow captives arriving just the same. In a tree, Atlas speaks down to them like pawns on a chessboard that aren’t performing -- they’re pawns who haven’t moved forward, who haven’t served their purposes of being cannon fodder so the more important pieces can find the resulting weaknesses.

A chill sneaks down the collar of Domino’s overcoat, and the anxiety written across his features, at first glance, seems little different than normal. His worried expression, withdrawn posture, restless body language. Silently, his eyes scan the group.

( And maybe it’s that same pessimism, fatalism, worst-case-scenario’ing that results the possibility that there’s traitors in the midst being just as easy to accept. He doesn’t trust a single being here, whether or not they’re an owl. )

Still.

This is bad.

It sinks in quickly, the severity of it. He’s heard plenty of times how differently people act when cornered, when threatened, when given the choice of them versus you. They cry, bargain, curse, sacrifice, lash out -- they get desperate, act ways they never would normally. Those awful things just behind a glass case that says break in case of emergency. No matter how esoteric, this is a direct, pressing threat; it’s more than just an order to appease some gods they’re told to love despite not having any real reason to. 

( And don’t let Mother hear him thinking such things, please. He’s sure She’s already disappointed in him plenty. )

As much as Domino had accepted the looming possibility of death, fear and discomfort pools inside of him regardless. It catches in his throat and beats at the inside of his ribcage. Idly, he scratches at his left forearm as his mind wanders without his permission upon being given a prompt, imagining the very scenarios Atlas had painted and more. He squeezes his eyes shut at how vivid they are, as if that’ll help, and he lets a slow breath out through his nose.

Atlas lets them go, and he might as well have pressed knives into their hands, locked ticking timebombs around their necks, on his way out. Domino’s gaze goes back towards the tundra, thinking of the whipping chill he felt on the walk here, before he was dampened with rain. He wonders, if on the walk back to his lodge, water will crystallize to ice in his hair. 

( Domino has never, for a second, thought himself to be above any powers -- nature or otherwise. 

It’s cold.

(It's 85 degrees ((farenheit!)), but it’s cold.)

It’s a phantom kind of cold, the kind that gets in your bones and stays there long after the winter’s passed. Like when you lose someone, and sometimes you still feel it - aching, sore, unaware that the pain is over.

There’s a girl in the city who wears a scarf in the dead of August.

-x-

A bell clangs as the door to a tiny coffee shop at the edge of Central Park swings open, bringing with it a gust of hot air and a blur of pink and white.  It’s an odd sight for some, but the barista doesn’t even look up. The smell of the new arrival’s citrus perfume is as familiar as the precise time she shows up every day.

4:18 a.m. Long before the sun rises.

“Hey, ▇▇▇,” calls the college student working the register. “Drink’s getting cold. You’re late.”

The girl makes a big show of checking her watch, naturally theatrical. “By thirty seconds. Blame the rats.”

“Why, I never,” says the barista, putting his hand to his heart in mock offense. “Now you’re dragging the good citizens of the A train down with you?”

“The good citizens of the A train ate the ends of my shoelaces three days in a row.”

“Aglets.” The barista grins and slides her drink across the counter with a flirtatious wink and more flair than necessary. “And hey, they probably want to sell them on eBay or something. I bet people would pay good money for aglets belonging to the pride of New York.”

Pink eyes roll in a practiced orbit as the girl stirs her latte, snorting. “I don’t think I’ve been the 'pride of New York' in like, three years. They moved on to that Russian girl. Nikolaev. The one with the lutz combos.”

Register girl comes to join them at the end of the bar, hopping up to sit on the counter. “She can’t do the quad, though.”

Shaking her head, ▇▇▇ shoots her an odd look. “…Uh, neither can I?”

“I mean, you probably could. That could be your big comeback - ▇▇▇, the incredible flying girl, landing a quad axel.”

“A quad axel?” ▇▇▇ says incredulously, pausing her stirring. “What, and fuck up my knees for the rest of my life? No.”

“Well, you gotta give them something new to talk about,” register girl says, turning to wave at a new customer but otherwise ignoring them. “Your program from the Olympics went viral again. Like clockwork. It’s been eight months, when’s your next competition?”

“I…” The girl hesitates, but only for a split second. “I’m not really thinking about that right now.”

“Come on, ▇▇▇. You know we know your seeeecret~.” The girl leans in and whispers conspiratorially. “You've never cared about winning or losing. So why now?”

“Lay off, Kim,” the barista cuts in, as ▇▇▇ takes a grateful sip of her drink, reveling in elective silence. “She’s got all that other stuff going on. Besides, aren’t you, like, a hundred years old in figure skating years by now?”

The girl calmly removes the lid from her coffee just to flick a minuscule amount of foam at him. “I’m twenty five. So yeah. I may as well have turned to dust in the wind.” Quieting again, she looks out the window, distracted, muttering under her breath. The barista raises an eyebrow, concerned.

“…You good, ice princess?”

“What?” She seems startled out of a trance. “I- yeah, sorry. I was just thinking it’s kind of…”

“Cold?” He finishes, worry heightening. “You say that more and more these days. It’s summer. Are you sure you didn’t -“

“I’m fine,” she sighs, waving him off and starting to back away from the counter. “It’s probably just a mental thing.”

Let me explain to you the physics of convection.

Energy can be transferred in many different ways. It moves through the air, carried along by forces unseen, and the process of transferring heat is called convection. It occurs when particles with a lot of heat energy move and take the place of those with less. Liquids, and gases too, expand when heated because the particles move faster. In summary, convection occurs when heat is moved by the air around you, warming it slightly in your place. You are never quite given cold, rather, heat is simply taken away from you.

When the air that surrounds you is freezing cold, oppressively so, you can barely move forward. You, just like the particles, have difficulty moving in those temperatures. If your world is an endless, frozen expanse, with no heat in sight, naturally, you’ll lose the heat that’s in you.

You’re never quite given the cold. It’s just all that’s left when you lose the warmth.

-x-

There’s a girl who wears scarves in August, who still feels the ghost of frostbite on her skin.

Motive explanation: there are now weather conditions in the three areas, which will get worse over time.

HEARTH: Not as bad, but it’s still raining at increasing strength so not great. 

BEACH: Strong winds and then rain, a storm crackling on the horizon, with the threat of a hurricane.

JUNGLE: Rain, which gets stronger and stronger to the point of a torrential rain with the threat of flood.

BLIZZARD: Heavier snow and wind, eventually ramping up to the threat of blizzard.

IC time is: Undecided, longer than five days.

The rain picks up.  

It’s cold.  Pricking at your skin and frosting over your hair.  You are reminded, too late, of how few of your rooms have any source of heat, of drying.

“You have guessed it by now, surely?  The weather has turned frightful – and there are few fires so delightful….”

“Ah.  Little holiday joke.  Surely you have no idea what time it is on the outside, no?  Hoo-hoo.”

“Even so… I have only given you a little, for now.  A little drizzle.  A sprinkling of snow.”

“As your days grow longer, I’ll be expanding.  Your world will soon be hurricanes and snowstorms.  A structure may eventually crumble.  And then you’ll be lost to the elements….”

“...Because, you may know, not only your peers can kill you.  But I may not allow you to die before one comes along – trapped, under a tree, broken bones and spluttering.  Begging someone to put you out of your misery, feeling your organs collapse.”

“So do take care.  It will happen.  Your kind loves to believe themselves so far above nature.  That is your choice.  But… your grave will look mighty tempting, no?”

“It is up to you.  Or, hey.  Reinforce what you like.  Make your plans.  Band together in one lodge and wait me out.  Eventually, I might tire of this.  You never know.”

He hoots, balefully. 

“Oh, I see.  Of course.  You believed that I, as your host, was the one behind this.  Not hardly….”

He flutters.

“It is by my path that you will see your salvation – at least a few of you.  Do you not see what you all are doing, by being so spineless – by waiting this out with fun and games and racing and so on?  Have you not comprehended just how dire your situation is?”

“You will die here, one way or another.  Either from old age – and please, take a glance at your peers, for they are who you are stuck with, there is no exit to see your family again – or by someone else’s hand.  And you would try for the first option?  But, ah….”

“...I really ought to have expected this.  No one leaps for this at the beginning.”

“Which, of course, is why I had to bother with an incentive.  Ho-hum.  You do realize how boring you have made this for me, no?  How I long for a day where I can have one group – any group – do this with no motive, to start….”

How long has it been, since last we spoke?

It must be so difficult for you to keep track of the time here – my seasons do not move like yours, my daylight hours are at random.  I have provided you with no clocks, or access to such.

The only pulse you might rely on is the pulse of your body.  Sleep.  Hunger.  Anxiety.

You are in a waiting pen.  It was no surprise to me that you did not jump at the call.

Which is why – perhaps – you wake up one day to the thrumming of something on your rooftop.  A gust of wind.  The slamming of a door.  The roars or whinnies of your mounts.

And there is a thrumming in your body, which compels you out of bed – as if you are in a trance.

Make your way out of your lodge, make your way to the center tree.

Pay no mind to how the rain might be pittering on your skin – to how cold the frost has become – how upset nature seems to be becoming.

Make your way to the owl perched – just out of reach.

“Oh, you’re all here.”

Rain drips from his beak.  He extends his wings.

“You have angered me greatly, my friends.  Why must we dilly-dally?  Do you not wish to leave?”

A beat, then.

WELCOME TO BOUN ANIMA: VOYAGE, CHAPTER ONE.

The only hard deadline we can give for sure is that on WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 9, you will be released from your faction quarters and allowed to freely RP again.

Casers will be contacted on Wednesday.  The gacha will also be open on Wednesday.

Maps have been updated with the new areas.

You will receive dorm descriptions in your faction servers.

Please do not solicit for outside threads until Wednesday.  Moreover, you may not use the main chatbox while in the dorm area.

When you are released, you will be able to send private chats and use the faction chatbox at any time.  However, in character, please know that all chats appear on the same portion of your vision, you cannot tab to make it ‘private’ or ‘faction’ only (though, if you are in your living quarters, you can only see the faction chat).  Any mind-thoughts default to being sent to the main chat.  So be careful!  There should be errors if you are private thinking often.

This portion of the game is to get you acclimated to your factions.  Your factions are public knowledge. 

Your OCs will be trapped with their factions for the first four hours of norm days.

Your OCs now have their mounts available to them.  It is encouraged that you spend at least some of your faction roleplay time with your mounts!  An explanation of mounts is provided here.

ATLAS is now available for questions.  You may reach him, generally, through the chatbox, or by roleplaying in your faction’s living space and rubbing the shrine, as he described.  OOC, please @/ellie to summon him if Ellie doesn’t seem around.

Your OCs may begin investigating in their factions.

Your OCs are now capable of feeling quadrant feelings.  This is not some thing that ATLAS is just forcing them into – it feels as if they now have an actual ‘drive’ to attain these things, much like people have a ‘drive’ to get into romantic relationships.  Your OC is free to be perplexed by this/manifest this desire in different ways, but know that we would prefer for you to engage in the quadrant system, and your OC will earn points for it.  Quadrants work differently in BOUN 3, so please read this guide.

….

“...That– that was more information than… oh, for pete’s sake….”

He seems like he’s starting to sweat.

“No!  No.  It is all fine, my friends.  But….”

“I believe it is time for us all to adjourn, and for you to finally meet your fellow factioned champions.”

He groans, after saying that.

“...Is that… really the best I can come up with…?  Come on, ATLAS, think….”

….

“Ah.  Well.  It’ll come out in the wash.  There is much still to explain.  But much more to do!  Please, spend some time in your homes with your faction.  I will release you again, when the time is better.  You may summon me at any time within your living quarters by stroking the forehead of the statue in your shrine.”

“...And have fun, my friends.  We will see each other again, soon.”

And with that, you blink again.

And have been teleported to….

….

A new room.  Sleeping quarters.  A bed. But when you leave, you may notice….

…Oh, god.  No one told you you had to share a common space….

There is another deafening silence.

Perhaps one of you wishes to speak up.  Perhaps you wish to get an explanation.  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps–

But ATLAS shuffles his feathers, awkwardly.

Muttering, his voice low:

“So… I introduced the stakes, the gods, the mounts, the suits… the factions… the trials… me… there’s something…”

….

“Oh!  No!  That’s it.”

A blink.

“I forgot to have you all introduce yourselves.  To your fellow champions.”

“Aye, yes, yay – the champions in your factions are your natural allies.  You will live together, train together, and – if all goes well – survive or die together.  Now, of course….”

“I feel it a folly to not mention that there have been exceptional cases, in these games.  As we have played them for longer than many stars have dared to twinkle.”

A wing flies up.

“I would be remiss not to say that, in some cases, the love – or deep-seeded rivalry – between two people of different factions has inspired pity and love from both gods.  It must be a true suit, a deep bond.  And this is solely up to both god’s discretion….”

“But, there have been cases where the love or hate between a god’s favored champion and their partner has led to the gods sparing the champion whose faction has lost.  For the benefit of their favored victor.”

“Of course, there are complications there, but it is surely one way to ensure your hide is saved – bond well with your own faction first, but get deeply intertwined with one from another.  Oh Romeo, oh Romeo–”

He seems to have gotten lost in thought, at a certain point.  And maybe–

You likely believe this is a joke.  That this is some jape.  Or maybe—

“What is it with those shocked looks on your faces?”

There is a long, long pause.  The owl cranes his neck, before:

“Oh!  That’s it!  You–”

“--I’ve never introduced myself, have I?  Oh dear, oh dear….”

(No, that is not nearly the issue, is it?) (Kill or be killed–)

“I got wrapped up in all of the excitement, you know!  It’s so much information to go over – I simply – I surely–”

“Well!  No matter.  For I am the host of this game of gods and bravery.  I, the one who holds this world up with nothing but my indescribable wings and the words from my beak–”

He poses, a little:

“I, am ATLAS!”

(This is a farce.)

“Yes – ATLAS!  You will find how thematic the name is.  I am no player or champion, but merely your overseer.  If you have any questions that you cannot trifle the gods with, I will be in constant contact and available for everyone’s disposal.”

“Of course, you understand, I am not your enemy.  I am merely your friend.  Let us all play along well together, surely?  I can help you, as you like.  But I can only do so much – I am so constrained by the mechanizations of this grand competition!”

“Ah, well.  It’s not all bad, surely?  Though perhaps I should explain….”

“I was not trying to be funny when I mentioned suits, or intense rivalries.  Surely you feel them now?  By the very nature of this place, the hold it has on you – you will find yourselves attaching strong bonds to others, things that are called being in Hearts, Diamonds, Spades, or Clubs.  The feelings, I find, are a little individual and not worth discussing in polite company.  But the effects….”

“Surely, you all realized the band that you arrived with?  How it slaps onto you like a little bracelet, or collar, or ring?  That is your suit band.”

“You are all your god’s special champions, and thus their special gems.  Each of you has one associated with you.  When you get close enough to someone – and pray – you will receive their gem on your suit band.  This will have benefits for you untold.  So do conspire to attain as many as possible… for the favor, first, but for your benefit too….”

“Champions, I say!  Yay.  For you all have been chosen – selected! – powerful creatures you are.  Undeniably important.  For you are to play out the role of a devotee of a god most powerful.”

“You’ve met them already, but they are eager to meet you much more intimately.  Their effigies surround you – oh, those beautiful creatures–!  And they wish to spoil and anoint you, within reason.”

“Of course, that anointing comes at fair price.  You are also to be their – oh, what is the proper term…?’

“...Chess pieces.  May be the polite way to put it, surely?”

“For the three of them are locked in eternal warfare.  But a god cannot kill another god – so, of course, they turn to you, their champions.”

“You have been split into three factions – one for each god.  Their game is undeniably tense, and yet so wonderful.  You will have the honor of fighting – and dying! – for their cause.  But, say, there are yet more ways to distinguish yourselves in their eyes….”

“You see, the game is calculated – I suppose you could say, that it runs off of points.  Or favor.  One may earn favor for killing.  But it is not always that simple.”

“The gods are tricky.  They enjoy sport.  They enjoy cunning.  They enjoy compassion.  When they observe you linking together with another in this space intimately – when they see you feeling a suit for another; love, or deep rivalry, or platonic care – their own hearts soften, and you gain their favor.  The longer you feel that way about one person, the more favor you accrue.  But when you break it off – for sport, for drama! – and go with another anon, you gain their favor, too.”

He’s nodding, now.

“Favor may also be accrued by killing, yes.  But also in finding out killers.  You see, the gods believe it is not so fun to watch their champions just kill – we have an arena for that purpose, and watching those battles is not so fun.  Nay.  Instead, we like to see the tests of cunning.”

“So you will be tasked with finding out murderers, at a trial.  You will have to find out who, how, and why that particular person was killed.  The closer you get to the true answer – the more you shine in these trials – the more favor you may receive….”

“And as you gain, we will distribute unto you more perks and special treatment.  And eventually, the game will end – and one faction, crowned the winner.”

“The first faction to accrue around 300 points of favor will be deemed the champion of champions, and our game will be over.  Of course, the losing factions will be ritualistically slaughtered.  Barring some exceptions.  I suppose you understand, yes?”

The eyes stare at you.

And slowly, from the foliage – a creature emerges. He’s large.  A purple…. …. Well.  Your best guess is an owl. And he swoops, silently, onto a branch – placing himself in the limelight.  A cheery expression crosses his face.

“Ah, my gentlecreatures.  My… old friends…!”

His wings spread out, as if attempting to envelope you.  There is a mournful quality to his eyes.

“How I have been awaiting you. How I have toiled preparing this location for your arrival…!”

“...Now, of course, it is not nearly where I would like it to be.  Tut!  There is much too much alcohol – almost as if I would prefer you to release your inhibitions – and quite a lot of potable water, which, I have been informed, has not always been the case….”

“...Ah.  But you would know nothing of that.  Instead….”

“...Allow me to welcome you, my friends.  But much more importantly–”

What have you been doing with your time here?

How have you been managing?  How has this possibly been going for you?

Do you slake your thirst with water from the fountain?  Do you get into petty fights through the chat – which is always on your screen?  Do you explore?  Have you yet contracted frostbite?

Have you been sleeping?

I do hope you have been.  There will be precious little time to rest, anymore.

For we have begun.  Like champions, you have been awoken – not by a rhythm, not by daybreak, not by the telling of any kind of time–

No.

There is a small part of you mind, which wakes you.  Which torments you.  Which clasps around you and tells you.

It’s time.

We have barely begun.

And you will quite wish you hadn’t.

You might blink.

And when your eyes re-open, you are in front of the tree; in the hearth.

...But before you... realize where you are....

Or fail to....

....

You notice first....

On the left side of your vision is a....

...The best way to put it is “chatbox.”

....

And if you wonder -- if you think in just the correct way....

You can “write” (think) something in the bottom left corner....

And if you think about it in the just right way....

....

You can “send” it out.

But the name that is listed as yours isn’t yours.  It’s a....

Random ... word.

(Or maybe two).

....

You’re not too sure what to make of this, but you should probably be careful with your thoughts -- because you can’t get rid of anything you send, and you can’t make the “chatbox” go away.

....

Let’s... not think about it.