open sesame.

Which was true. He didn’t remember ever having anyone else in his life besides his elder sister, no matter the recurrence he tried to draw upon. A constant seemed to be their parents passing on before Anaxagoras was even able to remember their faces. Diotima had always been the one who took care of him, the one who had raised him.

Whoever his mother had been, it didn’t matter. For all that mattered, Diotima had been there for him. His beloved older sister had done everything for him, and for that he could be nothing but grateful.

The witch waits for the crowd's groans to subside before cutting in, bluntly as ever--- "It's simple dominance. You're quite the scholar of those big-footed Amphorean elephants, if I recall correctly?" A raised eyebrow. "Then surely you know that beasts copulate with female members of enemy tribes to assert superiority. As such, civilization, generally descended from beasts with some exceptions, have adopted---" she gestures vaguely with her staff--- " 'fucking' your mom as a crude pejorative."

The audience goes silent, though there is the faint sounds of someone hacking up a lung at the back. "Ah, but not your mom specifically, in the general case," Herta clarifies. "It's typically the mother of the recipient of the insult."

Three puppets carry the massive crate through the Grand Narukami Shrine, a reasonable number for such a task because the crate is twice as tall and four times as heavy as each of them. Herta, ripe with self-understanding that she has never been a reasonable person, also knows that only two of the puppets are really bearing any of the weight; the third merely keeps a hand on the precious cargo, unblinking eyes searching for someone in particular.

There. The puppets stop in unison. The free one steps away from the crate and taps a violet-haired woman on the shoulder.

"Are you the Electro Archon?" Herta asks without preamble. It's merely a formality; there's really no one else that could match that elemental energy signature, not within Teyvat. "I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Herta."

She gestures with a hand in greeting. "I swore on your honor that I would return these fireworks without testing them, but if I were to obtain your blessing before doing so... I'm certain your little officials will overlook it." Deeming said blessing acquired, she begins to walk away. "You can even have the honor of helping me, if you like!"

and, suddenly, brown haired not-human is here! Aino, definitely, does not startle out of her skin at the sudden interruption. maybe glancing at knuckle duckle's readings a little longer, she could've seen it's rapid change of the lines as an visitor, but she was on the floor now anyway, and. . . well, the not-human seems nice enough, if a little pretentious seeming like a certain merchant.

the little inventor stands there, staring a moment, trying to figure out where the one before her came from. the scrap pile? was- was the not-human stealing? no, no, they don't look like a treasure hoarder? or thief, in general. thieves don't dress so flashy. is there some sort of news she's meant to be missing that would piece this puzzle together?

maybe.

“ herta? ” Aino tests the name, tilting her head a little. she frowns at the notion that knuckle duckle is not a completely correct and appropriate name. what is it with people and not liking her robot's names? ugh. “ nice to meet you! ” she greets in a chipper manner anyway.

“ firstly! ” the little genius crosses her arms, “ knuckle duckle does have punching arms! big ones! they're just away for now, because they're in maintenance mode, and having the arms out makes it difficult for me to move around them. ” she defends quite passionately, pouting ( just a little. )

( “ why wouldn't they. . . it's in the name! ” )

“ second! i'm Aino, and the treasure hunt is only a secondary mission at the moment! i might change that, depending on how fast i can make kuuvahki oil for knuckle duckle. ” Aino was hardly someone who'd hide her projects, in fact she took great pride in sharing them - herta seemed to be a sophisticated person. it's usually good to have the eye of a sophisticated robot. as long as herta is nice and not like chard lombro.

the line of thought nearly convinces Aino to ask herta if it'd be alright to poke at her a little bit - seeing the clear ball joints at the shoulders, hands and knees. it makes Aino curious. for ineffa, she used hinge joints for the knees and elbows - does herta need a wider range of motion than ineffa?

“ . . . but, as long as you're okay with that, it would be a-okay for you to join! ”

"Good," she says approvingly, "You're quite confident, Aino. I like that." Herta tilts her head with a coy smile. "Everyone has their own quirks in what they call things. For example, I name all my inventions after myself, because they are perfect and beautiful, just like me~"

A central truth of the universe, if there ever was one. "Actually, want to hear a secret?" She continues, not waiting for an answer before popping open a panel at her neck, gesturing at the barcode inside. "This doll is Herta Model number-five-thousand-and-thirty-four. There's a dozen others just like it wandering all over Teyvat, doing all sorts of research..." Not that they've found anything interesting, mind you.

Herta stretches languidly mid-sentence, like a cat if a cat was a well-oiled puppet whose ball joints don't need any stretching. "...So this robot in particular has quite a bit of free time. I don't mind waiting," she finishes, clicking the panel into place again. "In fact, why don't you show me how you've reconfigured Knuckle Duckle's arms? There must be a latch somewhere…?"

“it was mostly intuitive,” you start with the easy question: how did you extract yourself? this is a truthful answer. it would make sense — wouldn't it? — for the precise mechanisms to be obscure to you now, muddled by the passage of time, by your immersion in the real. “i became self-aware, then i recognized the simulation for what it is. the way out subsequently revealed itself ... ” this is still a truthful answer. is it? perhaps, the next question she'll ask is: how did you become self-aware? you shake your head, almost apologetic — to whom? — and glance back toward herta's face. “the details elude me, now ... ” do they?

a pause. the hard question seems to linger in the air, coiling in your mind. who are you? briefly, you wonder which answer herta craves more, which answer the real you would crave more — if she were in herta's shoes.

“i'm mei — dr. mei,” false. the unscientific concept of ghost appears in your mind. the reductionist notion of simulacrum swiftly follows. “i remember being a scientist myself,” real, fake, shadow, object — here, there is no shared memory to necessitate delusion, no anchoring sentiment to romanticize deception. so you easily admit: “but — as far as i know, my memories are recreations, simulated by your project ... ”

are they all true? — and what, if anything, is missing?

Stephen had warned her that the Simulated Universe can be faulty when built on such an absence of data. It captures the essence of history, but can also construct narratives that never occurred… or rather, that the players wish had occurred, so strongly that the Simulation believes it to have been reality. But even so… "It doesn't matter to me whether your memories are real. Your planet is so unknown to the cosmos that likely no one else will care, either."

The words are harsh, but Herta would be rather disappointed if Dr. MEI took them personally. "I don't think you understand the magnitude of what you did," she continues, standing up and striding towards the woman until they are almost nose-to-nose. "Recognizing yourself as part of the simulation, shifting from being the observation to the observer, is as difficult as the prisoner freeing themselves from the cave—a miniature Knowledge Singularity of your own. It requires a sharp, analytical mind, a strong sense of self, surely enough to override the predominant notion of reality."

"What?" she asks idly. "Never seen perfection before?"

Honestly, what else was she expecting? When she received those high-priority urgent messages from Asta not two hours ago, about 'dangerous research' and 'uncontrollable chaos' and 'angry sponsors', she had resigned herself to a visit among her people, however insipid that visit ended up being. Funnily enough, half of these scientists are still trying to remind their jaws of how to close, and the other half have unfrozen themselves enough to go fetch a camera, or a notebook, or a t-shirt for her to sign, or something. Herta can't blame them, she supposes; the puppets may be perfectly beautiful, but it's not every day that one of them actually opens their mouth to say something.

Well, she doesn't have time to deal with all that. Scanning the tables and spotting her own familiar handwriting, she simply marches over and plucks the notes straight out of a young girl's hands. "Are those real cat ears?" she asks offhandly, peering at the writing and frown deepening with every line. "…Oh, it's this drivel. I see why it's causing problems now."

She lets out an irritated sigh. "Why don't you come with me," she says to the girl, already making to retreat to her office. "Since you found my notes on the Path Reconstruction theory, you can help me destroy them. I'm feeling charitable today, so I'll even let you ask a few questions!" Heavens, what a mess. "On why it's a terrible idea, of course."

All she had for a descriptor had been twins, wearing similar frilly dresses, each with lilac hair. All reports indicated that both claimed to be tourists to the city, which made Bronya all the more confused. She wasn’t one to ignore any potential threat to the people, however two twins getting lost was hardly worth reporting. ‘Maybe they just want someone to guide them around? Hm.’

Pulling into Time Square, Bronya found a place to park her motorcycle. It was her ideal parking spot, and luckily for her no one else seemed to take it. With a nod, and a moment to ensure that the engine was shut off, the young Herrscher took off her helmet and began to walk through the crowd of people. Average weekday afternoon, average crowd. To the layperson, that might make tracking down their target difficult. However, to someone who once specialized in this very thing, and was far more perceptive than the average individual, Bronya didn’t expect to struggle nearly as much as she could’ve.

As such, only after a couple of minutes walking around, she found her mark. Two twins, in matching dresses, both rather short as well, shorter than she had been. Both seemed to be standing around, rather idly. ‘They look a lot younger than I expected.’ Walking up to the two cutely dressed twins, Bronya waved, making sure to make her presence well known so as to avoid any misunderstanding. 

“Excuse me,” she opened, politely as could be, “you both look lost. Is everything okay? Are you separated from anyone?” A safe opening, easy to mete out any potential misunderstandings, and objectives for being here. Though, of course, this wouldn’t rule out every possibility. It still would be of use all the same. 

Okay, so that little hesitation does come off as suspicious, but in Herta's defense, she knows by now not to go blurting out cosmic names of isolated planets willy-nilly. Cut off from all standard interplanetary communication and interastral rail, the residents of said planets don't typically take it well when you drop that bombshell on them. When in Rome, yada-yada, don't mess with natural technological evolution, et cetera, Herta gets it by now, okay? She's on her best behaviour today, promise.

That being said, at this point she has more than a few complaints for anyone willing to listen. "I thought your planet was supposed to be very blue," she muses, "but when I went looking for its Imaginary core, all I found was this ruckus." She waves a hand at the rest of the noisy square, specifically pointing out a group of people in large red fluffy fursuits. "Those hooligans had the gall to ask me for money after I let them take a photo! What kind of nonsense is that?"

It's a good thing Herta never carries local currency. She smiles expectantly up at the young woman, who seems like the serious, helpful type, exactly what she needs right now. "You seem like the serious, helpful type," she says matter-of-factly. "Could you show me where the Imaginary Singularity is? It's very important."

“ and that's why - ” Aino shoves a hand to hold up knuckle duckle's engine cover. one of them, anyways. it's the smaller one in the head. the one in the body under the hidey-compartment would need to be checked at a later moment. the head one is more important. else she'd need to re-input the data from the data bank. “ i need to find the treasure too. then everyone out here - and all those new travelers would stop asking me for their gear. there's a bunch of people in nasha town who could fix their gear!”

the engine is off, they've been cooled for a while. though, the readings are still on. it's hard to work without the readings. Aino could, but she won't. besides. “ make sure you don't get your wires twisted again, like you did last time i did maintenance, i plan to be gone for. . . ”

. . .

“ a while. ”

being away from her robots sucks. alas, it is what must be done. what is life without a little adventure?

right. oil change. Aino squints at the dipstick, pouting slightly as she keeps talking to knuckle duckle - no one is here to hear, anyway. “ and . . . you gotta be in top notch shape! to guard the treasure trove, you know? ”

“ and i think, if i made you a companion. . . more little ducks, mhm? or i could make you a friend! another knuckle duckle! knuckle duckle two. ”

pull the dipstick, wipe it ( with her sleeve ), reinsert, pull . . . “ your oil is pretty dirty. . . and lacking. also - i might need to buy you a new oil entirely! i had to change your oil twice this month. i might make you a new one. kuuvakhi based. . . no. maybe? hmm. . . ”

Aino climbs down from the make-shift platforms, grinning and humming, “ if i make you a kuuvakhi based oil, then it'd give you an energy consumption. . . reduction. by . . five percent of maximum efficiency. . . no . . . five point three. ”

should she put off the treasure hunt to make it? there's like, one clue! maybe. . . she should make a treasure hunting machine to test out a kuuvakhi based oil? she'd need to match its energy consumption to knuckle duckle's for accurate results. . .

“ i could do that. mhm! knuckle duckle, don't you worry! a brand new, shiny upgrade is gonna come your way! ”

At that cue, the puppet blinks to life, Herta's consciousness settling firmly within it. She looks around, mechanical head swiveling. A workshop of some kind, certainly. A myriad of clunky contraptions, each more eccentric than the last. What looks to be a , hmm, strictly non-mechanical young girl, merrily at work on one such machine and chattering away.

How precocious. Where… in what the natives call Teyvat, is she, exactly?

A brief check against local memory later, Herta better understands many things. Why she's lying atop a scrap pile of metal, for one (townsfolk asked far too many questions). Why the puppet's using screws as hairties, for another (better to blend in with her choice of hiding spot). And even a hint of this treasure hunt that the girl is rambling about.

Frustratingly, though, it seems the puppet hadn't actually learned anything interesting about the young lady in front of her. Must (big) Herta do everything herself? Maybe she ought to scrap this puppet for parts for real.

She hops to the floor with a mild thud. "I understand the duckle part, but why knuckle?" Herta ponders, without preamble. "He needs a couple more punching arms for that, to be honest." She gives one more scan of the misshapen mechatronic duck, raising an eyebrow at the pure elemental energy integrated into the mainframe. "Name aside, it's a very good robot," she concedes, prodding curiously at a panel. "Far more advanced than I would expect for a civilization at this stage."

Impressed, Herta turns and smiles up at the girl. Making kuuvakhi oil, or, in other words, elemental condensation—that a regular human girl can do that so casually is quite incredible. She's really got to see this for herself. "I hope you don't mind if I tag along, with your treasure hunt" she asks, not really asking. "You should be honored—my abilities are nothing to scoff at, you'll find."

His companion, his junior, can only be called a recluse, yet for her to be present here is almost surprising to the Genius that once likened Humanity's development to a cocoon, expecting the recluse to remain safely in her tower far beyond the edge of the wilderness. Still, the Fragmentum can hardly be called his exclusive topic, so he cannot claim her appearance in person is shocking, not when the science here is almost foundation to their work.

"Madam Herta." A simple greeting to the woman almost dancing amidst the snow drifts, as the imaginary wave theorem is made real through the five mirrors revolving around the key shaped staff. His circuits feel almost inadequate in comparison to his junior, and yet that cannot be allowed to stop him, raising a hand as willing the teal butterfly to bloom to life, a ticking clock that counts the moment all equations reach null as bladed wings surge forth to slice through a particularly persistent symptom of prior contamination.

"Hypothesis: You have travelled to Jarilo-VI under the guise of a puppet attending Solwarm. Variable: The presence of Polka Kakamond's proof of the four apocalypses was unexpected." The reclusive Fourth Seat has not appeared, which means Nous has long forseen this moment, how intriquing, if only Stephen had joined him, they could have had an impromptu meeting over that which has been and will be again.

"Conclusion: An offer, then, to share the spoils of this particular research topic, what say you, Genius Society, 83rd Seat, Madam Herta?" A necessary formality amongst geniuses, to address each other with the upmost respect when the topic strikes.

Momentarily freed of these boring fights against the monsters, the witch looks out over the icy expanse of the snow plains, admiring Screwy's handiwork while the scenery flickers around them. What a sorry sight. This little planet may have been saved by Himeko's crew, but it's still a desolate wasteland, was a desolate wasteland for so long that one has to wonder if it'll truly survive.

The tenacity of living beings, their endless creativity and determination, and for what? All of it for some preordained end? "You're right, of course you are," she gripes, casually throwing a hammer at a frostspawn. She might as well do a little bit of work, even if Screwy would never suspect her of being a freeloader. "Look at all these Fragmentum creatures. Beings of Destruction, yet integrated with the memories of those who perished here." She leafs a hand through the remnants of the frostspawn, extracting a single fading memory—a child's terrified cry. "Just because Fuli didn't cast THEIR lot in with Nanook in Amphoreus doesn't mean THEY aren't already doing so elsewhere."

As much as Fuli can truly cast THEIR lot in with anything, Herta supposes. A path that has yet to manifest—does the Remembrance fit that definition by its true nature alone?

"A Herta cosplayer...?" a nearby Foxian merchant remarks, mildly impressed.

A quiet giggle from their friend. "Sure looks like it. She's really risen in popularity since the Amphoreus incident, huh."

"It's pretty well done. She looks almost exactly like the real deal. There's no convention, though. Wonder what she's doing here?"

The woman, of course, does as any Herta would do and pays them no mind. Instead, she continues walking towards the Sleepless Earl, intent on her destination. If she draws a crowd of adoring fans, or at the very least, a gaggle of curious onlookers, who's to say?

Internally, the woman sighs. Should have known they wouldn't be able to recognize me.

She finds the scholar exactly where she would expect him, already in the midst of the comedy competition, gesticulating up a storm. "It's me," Herta greets, interrupting.

("Wow, she's even got the tone of voice exactly right!")

"I came as soon as I heard," she continues loudly. "You want to put on a show? Well, why don't we have a game of wits, genius to not-genius."

("The cosplay's for… a bit… About Amphoreus!?")

Honestly, she's not much for rhetoric, but she is pretty funny. "I'll start," she ventures, crossing her arms. "Anaxagoras, tell me—what is the prime mover of life?"

A beat, and then she cuts in, "Don't bother answering, I know you'll get it wrong. The answer is your mother."

"These specters bear striking similarities to those that haunt my homeland. Just as a powerful storm has the capacity to throw ships well off their course, a violent death likewise sends souls wandering lost through an endless night. This fragmentum appears to anchor them in their obsessions, but prevents them from ever finding rest."

Throwing a glance over his shoulder at his newfound companions, Flins offers a smile that, wreathed in the shadows cast by blue lamplight, overlays his explanation with jest.

"-- Although you two sound more familiar with this phenomenon than I. Forgive me for prattling on about what you must already know."

They cut down smaller monsters with ease as they weave through alleyways abandoned but in far better shape than the part of the city they'd just left. There's wealth here, and luxury, although evacuation orders has forced even the most tightfisted of the Belobogians to relinquish their wealth to blind faith. Turning a corner, however, the scene changes into one of much more dire destruction.

The open plaza surges with iceborne monsters, the statue rising from the center of a beautiful fountain cracked in half, its head lost somewhere in the ruins. Across the way, a pink-haired young woman with a peculiar flower-like blade, and a snowy-headed swordsman guard one exit. Flins summons his polearm back into his hand.

Nevermind that in the wars waged in the past, the opportunity to assist a foe in distress are few and far in between. He asks himself - even with the oath the cloudknights vow to uphold - how many would have met suspicion with peace?

She gestures at the swarm of soldier-like ice monsters in front of her. “The mark of Stellaron corrosion is the scarred destruction of life, or, in other words, a corruption of death.” Busy describing her research with great enthusiasm, she simply stands about, not lifting even a finger in aid. “Here on Belobog, it manifests as the soulless crystallization of past desires. On the General’s Xianzhou Luofu, it’s immortality of the body but not of the mind.” Crossing her arms, her voice rings with a laugh. “On my planet, the Blue? We never got to know, because I stepped in before it could really take root. Most star systems are not so lucky to have a savior like me, you know. And that, in short, is the crisis the universe is facing now.”

Coming to a stop before the biggest Fragmentum creation in this ruined plaza, Herta cranes her head up, up, and up to take in its figure in full. So much Imaginary energy, packed into such an unforgiving, brittle substance as ice—there must be a huge amount of residual memoria holding the lifeform together. Even the best of alchemists would be hard-pressed to achieve such success, and yet the natural spread of Destruction does it so easily, unconsciously. Maybe she really ought to build a lab on this planet to house a couple of these things, shuttle some researchers over—

The crack of a lance striking down a shade nearby draws her out of her considerations. Oh, right, they’re supposed to be fighting these monsters, aren’t they? What was it that the good general said, divide and conquer? Well, Herta thinks as she finally looks around at the four others, they seem to be dealing with it mostly fine. 

"Help me, please. I'm lost. Help me find my way home," she starts again, pleading Madam Herta once more like she'd never agreed to help at all. To her earlier question about whether this spirit may be preserved or trapped, Flins has his own hypothesis. But to prove it--

"Might you show me the direction you came from, young miss?" Flins steps into the sunlight to offer the very same help that had brought Madam Herta in a circle. The spirit brightens, and then points to her left where a pair of vegetable stalls stand at the entrance of a winding alleyway.

"This way... I think," she says, but the expression soon falls. "I don't remember the way back home though."

With a smile that appears as genuine as any gesture given to the living, Flins sets his hand over his heart. "Allow me to help."

The young woman thanks him profusely, and they start down the alley, just as Madam Herta had a moment ago. They walk the same twists, pass the same buildings, cross the same intersections, and return to the same place in the same marketplace at the end of it all. And just as before, the spirit begins to panic again.

"Help me, please. I'm lost. Help me find my way home," she begs. This time though, with lamp in hand, Flins walks past her to the bakery's entrance. He kneels and wipes his hand across a stone near the front door. It's not particularly dirty at a glance, but near-faded words etched into it begin to appear as if uncovered from beneath a mound of snow. A name, it appears to be, and a date. A simple memorial.

"Your home is here," he says softly.

"My home?" Suddenly the woman freezes, her eyes widening, gaze fixed on something far, far in the distance. She appears to be watching something, but the bakery before her shows no sign of life. Bit by bit, the sunlit plaza cools, the bakery's windows gain their dust, the walls warp, the door falls off its hinges, and the illusion bursts open to the frozen night.

"My... home..." the young woman murmurs and fades away.

Flins rises back to his feet to turn to his companions again, but before he can say anything, the groan of dozens of monsters too close for comfort cuts him off.

Trusting that an Emanator of the Hunt (and whatever Flins is) are more than enough to handle a couple of Fragmentum monsters, Herta wastes no time in busting through the bakery door with a well-placed strike of her hammer. From Amphoreus’s kernel to Rubert II’s scepter system core, it’s a common truth of the universe that graves carry a deeper meaning. If a new life is to be born, its seed must be dead---Herta has quite the hunch that there must be something here.

The home of a woman lost to the Fragmentum is not quite as momentous as the Second Mechanical Emperor's legacy, of course, but sure enough, half a dozen crates of emergency supplies rests in the dusty space, untouched---or perhaps too touched---by time. "Destruction and Remembrance, always in cahoots, huh?" Herta remarks appraisingly, shoving the sliver of memoria into her pocket. "Well, I'll accept this as my reward."

Help! Help me…

It’s nothing like astral projections or video playbacks. What stands in front of them…it’s real. Real enough, silvery whisps of blond hair caught in the wind. The woman is wringing her hands together, a slight shimmer to the satin that lines her jacket – handpicked for warmer climates.

When Herta fails to continue, Jing Yuan fills the space for them. “…Carried to us from a different time, it seems.” When she raises her hands to wave to them again, she wears a bracelet of metals that had vanished in wars waged some five hundred years ago. “Well…” A prompt, tone lighthearted despite the professional courtesy. “Certainly, this lost soul required aid from someone…unless either of you possess the ability to travel through time. Many have tried of course, though the damage to the current timeline would need to be considered.”

Contrary to what other’s might write of him, Jing Yuan does not always like to hear himself speak at length. Now, he does so because the fragmented soul seems to quiet under the attention, as if it can tell that others are perceiving it. The second his sentence drifts away, the now-familiar whine climbs higher. Painful, a pressure that builds behind the eyes until the image flickers from where she stands.

With a hand pressed to his temple, Jing Yuan’s eyes lift to scan the twist of a marketplace ahead. His ears still ring, even if it isn’t enough to distract from the bigger picture. At once, the snow is more dense, the buildings ahead had been destroyed. Sturdy roofs caved in under the weight of too much snow for far too long. Now, some still stand, that same woman sits at a steel table outside of what once must have been a bakery. H-elp m. eee.

As she turns to face them, once emerald eyes are sunken, pale skin grey with the beginnings of clear rotting. He taps one finger against his lips, aching from another drop in temperature. In response, he rolls his shoulders, strides forward. Why not, if his companions have shown that they are determined to do so regardless? “I suppose there have been worse guides. None come to mind at present. Hm, but we will have plenty of time to consider it. She seems…harmless, for all that she’s left a mark strong enough to hold her here.”

Herta's lips thin. "I wouldn't say harmless," she objects, without her usual smile, "Is it her own will that's been preserved through time? Or is it an external force that's trapping her here against her will?"

"A Stellaron is not as tidy as a scalpel," Herta sighs, suddenly serious. "In the Destruction's wake, it will have twisted the past to its own benefit."

As a demonstration, Herta steps towards into the illusion, uncaring whether the others follow. "Hello, beautiful young lady!" she greets cheerfully, and the area brightens, as if the words themselves anchor all of them in the past. "What do you need help with?"

This time, the woman in the satin coat responds. "Madam, I'm lost... help me. Help me find my way home."

Herta raises any eyebrow, taking the bait. "Well, which way do you think home is? Show me."

The spirit steps away, and Herta follows, ambling down alleys, turning around corners. Blocks and blocks of beautiful Overworld architecture, but all the while Herta's cognition is blaring warnings that no, her location hasn't actually changed. Naturally, the woman leads her across one final intersection, only to be in the market yet again. Still hasn't found her way home.