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VICTIM:  Amita Ramirez AKA: TIME

TIME OF ANNOUNCEMENT: A short time after dawn, but not quite midmorning.

LOCATION OF BODY: Sonya, by the Ferris Wheel

For more information, please visit the crime scene for details.

As you approach Sonya – and then… looking over to the beckoning wings of the owl: the ferris wheel… for the second time–

–now with this same dread in the pit of your stomach, you note that—without all the fire and fresh destruction in the way—the stench of blood is much more noticeable this time.

You circle around, and eventually you spot it, slumped against the metal. The corpse isn’t difficult at all to discern from a distance. This time—

Ah.

Everything happens, and Time…

What does Time do?

She can’t find the strength to do a thing at all. She just watches, stupefied, as Pip is dragged below, as Ivey joins him, as a creature bats its heavy wings around them all, only to leave again—

And in a moment of sudden clarity, she realizes something.

She has done a piss-poor fucking job of doing what she told herself she’d do at the very beginning.

Because as everyone scrambles to tend to Ivey and Pip’s wounds, or scrambles to leave, or scrambles in some way other than just sitting there in a trance like the one she’s found herself in—they are all victims. Every last one of them. They are victims of a game terribly familiar to Time. Not the same, but familiar enough.

She was going to protect them.

She hasn’t protected squat.

The question, then—is it because she can’t or because she won’t?

… Time doesn’t have the energy to think about it. She just wants to (see her friend) (see who she thought was her friend) (just go home) (where is home)—

—go to sleep.

So she quietly leaves—easy to do in the background of the chaos—and she returns to her room.

Ah. It’s like that, huh.

The thought had occurred to Time, but she’d shoved it down. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, even as it became likelier and likelier. It had been a long time, but she’d known him. He had been her friend. He wouldn’t have done something so terrible, he…

He is never going to breathe again.

And as everything escalates around her, she finds herself… fixated.

Until she can’t hold it back anymore.

“We’re really doing this right now?”

Maverick, Pip—there’s been some damn bullshit going on, she can tell that much. She rubs at her face, glasses smudging from her careless touch.

“Seriously… ? Someone’s dead and we’re back on this—this grudge nonsense? We’re really doing the same damn thing as last time… ?”

Hypocritical, she knows—where was all this sentiment when Runa died?—but her voice breaks all the same.

“I don’t wanna hear a word about who knew Val better than who, he’s—he’s dead! He got himself killed! H-He did something stupid and awful and got himself killed and who the hell’s gonna take care of his dad now, huh?! He can’t do squat if he’s a ghost stuck in a shitty little ball!”

It’s not the same broken sobbing as before. But it’s more than enough to hurt. She slumps into her seat.

“God, Val, why’d you have to go and… you idiot… !”

There’s been some damn bullshit going on, but she doesn’t care.

Time has been eerily quiet this entire trial, an unbearable weariness in her eyes as she glances from person to person. She’s hardly processing anything—she’d hardly processed the investigation, after all, so all this talk of Ferris wheels and mirror houses and funny little pills just slips right through the cracks of her brain.

Sorry, Val. You deserve better than this tired old lady who replaced your friend.

(She would’ve cracked this wide open from the get-go, but I—)

Still, she has to try. Feeble as her efforts are, weak as she feels, she just knows she won’t be able to walk awayfrom this if she doesn’t say something.

Anything.

One word.

“… He’s… Val’s… the picture… that was him and his dad. I… I won’t get into it because that’s his business, but… Val would’ve moved mountains for his dad. I think it’s absolutely fair to consider that he might’ve been lured into this whole thing because of him.”

She runs a bony hand through her already messy hair. She looks and feels a rotten mess.

“My hearing’s not what it used to be, so forgive me if I’m wrong. I’ve heard a hell of a lot of talk about Val’s motivations, but not much about the killer’s. We’re… mostly in agreement that this was planned, right? Most folks knew Val had supernatural strength. But if they knew about his dad, too? I think it’s fair to assume the killer would’ve had to know Val pretty damn well, because they would’ve had to know for sure they could take him down in a fight. They’d have to be confident enough to single him out as a target.”

A pause, and she sighs.

“That said, I promise I have nothing to do with it. I was cooped up sick in my room for the past couple days, and I had to leave that party early because I started feeling like garbage again. Not to mention I’m just not capable of causing… this.”

Great alibi there, Time. Her gaze hardens, though, and some of her old spark returns.

“Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know what’s going on. I don’t necessarily want the killer to die, but the way things stand now? You don’t get a shred of my sympathy.”

She thinks she’s fallen ill—to what, she’s not sure—but that’s the reason why Time has been so scarce over the past few days. Weeks? She’s not even sure herself. The passage of time (ha) feels surreal in this place, just as it did in the other.

By the time the storm breaks, she’s downright miserable, scarcely managing to drag herself out of bed and down to the circus. She catches glimpses of other faces along the way, searching for one in particular, pace quickening just a bit when she doesn’t see the person in question.

Eventually, she finds herself in a full-on sprint, taking her past the crowd, up to the wreckage of the ferris wheel, and—

[ ♫ ♫ ♫ ]

She doesn’t believe it.

But he’s there, right in front of her, undeniable and bloody and dead dead dead—

Her hoot barely manages to catch the coffee and croissant in an impressive stunt of gymnastics for a sentient grapefruit, still holding onto the case file. She doesn’t notice. She doesn’t care. All that she can think of is the mangled body before her, reeking of fire and metal and so much blood.

“V-Val… Val, c’mon, you can lift that thing easy, can’t you? You can get up, this isn’t… no, no, no… !”

She sinks to her knees, pain barely registering, overwhelmed by the agony of the grisly sight swimming before her eyes. She’s not even thinking of satisfying Gambit with the anguished cry tearing out of her throat—she couldn’t hold it back even if she tried.

Anyone. Anyone but him.

The knowledge that someone did this to him hangs hollow in her mind, but she can’t bring herself to even latch on to that as she reaches a trembling hand towards his. She’s exhausted, she’s heartbroken, and she’s so, so weak. A scared little girl in an old woman’s body.

He’d told her once that he was a protector, not a victim.

Ah. Her theory was wrong. On some level, Time had expected this outcome, but she can’t help the sting to her pride when the results are revealed. She should’ve done more. She should’ve pressed harder. She should’ve…

Next time, she tells herself. Because there will certainly be a next time.

She fixes her gaze on Pip, thoughts swirling in her mind about whether she should’ve pressed him harder (did he ever explain those injuries on his arm?) and she’s about to address him—

But then Orwell says something that gives her pause. She’s quiet, pondering… and then she nods.

“I agree with Orwell. Even with Gambit giving us such an obvious hint like multiple people voting correctly, there’s still no incentive for the murderer to come forward. All it’ll do for them is make them the most tempting target in the hotel. And if you’re naive enough to think that’s irrelevant because surely nobody else will kill after this? Then you’re foolish and incorrect.”

She exhales, running a hand through her hair.

“None of us were acting like ourselves. Even if our killer did hatch a plan from day one, by the time they acted on it, they would’ve been so far gone into whatever artificial personality Gambit cooked up that… well. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not about to condemn someone for something they did when they were effectively someone else.”

She almost wishes she was back there.

Time gives Ivey a small but genuine smile.

“Alright. Like I said, I don’t know you, so this is a lot of guesswork on my end, but I’m convinced for now.”

And then she’s quiet yet again, until another topic comes up:

“What if Ghost Dog is the one who used the knife on the killer?”

Wait, huh?

“Here’s a theory. Killer notices Ghost Dog’s been bruising easily. Killer determines she has some bloodborne disease and hatches a plan to take her out. Killer prepares the rope beforehand with the knife and takes a pair of gardening gloves to protect their hands. Killer and Ghost Dog meet up at the lake to start a bonfire. There’s a struggle. Ghost Dog gets strangled, but not before she grabs the knife and stabs the killer—not a deep one, but there’s a definite cut. Killer tries to set the boat and gloves on fire, goes back to the hotel, sets up a bunch of stuff to disinfect, cleans off their blood, and reintegrates with the rest of us.”

“I don’t think it matters who put the note on the knife. It’s more important to focus on who could’ve taken it. They didn’t want to use it to kill, because they thought Ghost Dog’s blood was contaminated—they just needed to cut the rope on the boat. And Pip… I think it actually makes some good sense for the killer to confess to having something to do with the way things were placed. Makes us think they’re honest enough to own up to it so we cross them the suspect list and disregard key evidence.”

And her gaze finally, inevitably… makes its way to Orwell.

“I’m not… trying to be mean. And I don’t doubt that you have a fear of blood under any other circumstance. But the motive did a number on all of us, and you didn’t seem too squeamish back when Duck was convinced she was a vampire who needed to drink our blood to survive.”

There’s nothing even remotely pleased about her tone or expression.

“Pip’s done nothing but try to help keep us all alive, even if it means covering for whoever he thinks the killer is, whether it’s Ivey or you. Orwell, unless you can prove you were never stabbed, you’re my main suspect right now. I’m sorry.”

There’s not much room for Time to say anything as the proceedings, well… proceed. She’s not sure why she was so worried about the lack of a show. Everyone seems to be performing in one way or another.

Everyone except herself.

“Christ, and I thought I was a windbag…”

(The comment is intended to be under her breath, but comes out perfectly audible.)

She casts a concerned glance in Orwell’s direction at his outburst, but it’s not as though she’s close enough to really do anything. Besides, Seattle’s been keeping an eye out for him this whole time—that much hasn’t escaped her notice. It’s nice to see all these small dynamics bloom, even in the midst of what could certainly be described as hell.

A tired exhale leaves her lungs, and she pushes her glasses further up her nose.

“Here’s my take on intent. The motive tampered with our memories, sure—but not to the same degree in every person. Some people developed new personalities, some people just lost their personalities. I was convinced for a while that I was still twenty-five and stuck in an old woman’s body for some reason. What I’m saying is the motive may not have completely erased any memories that certain people had with Ghost Dog.”

“I’m looking at you, Ivey. Sounds like everyone here had a good opinion of her except for you. You said you didn’t make the connection between Ghost Dog and that husky until the second day of the motive, which means you still remembered enough to make that connection then. I think you targeted Ghost Dog because you didn’t like her being associated with that witch.”

She doesn’t sound particularly happy about this.

“Gambit crafted this motive to push us to kill each other. Sure, the personality you got might’ve been the thing to push you over the edge, but if you already had the idea in your head to kill her? Even if you forgot the specifics by the third day, I have a hard time believing he’d make you forget the intent to kill.”

Arms crossed across her chest, she can feel her throat drying out. She wishes she’d thought to bring some water with her. Next time, she thinks.

“And that’s all on top of the whole shoe shindig. It’s like Orwell said. I was provided with a second pair of the shoes I normally wear here, and I’d bet it’s the same for most of y’all. Ivey could’ve been wearing another pair.”

A tilt of the head.

“… You’ve been acting real fishy. You want us to think it’s you, but the owl would think it’s boring to just confess, wouldn’t it? So you act suspicious. Hell, you play up the suspiciousness, playing into people’s theories whether they’re right or wrong, never telling them which one it is. Now, I don’t know you well personally, but if I had to guess, I’d say it has to do with that sense of justice you seem to have. Justice for the victim, justice for everyone, all while facilitating a show to keep Gambit entertained for days.”

For a moment, she seems impressed. Then she coughs, settling back into her seat.

“Anyway, there’s my theory. Tear it apart, point out the holes, fire away—I’d like to be wrong, and I’m no sleuth. But that’s where I’m at right now.”

Things haven’t just been heating up.

Things are in utter flames.

Time can only watch, flabbergasted, as her peers take full initiative in making the trial exciting as can be. Confessions! Half-assed confessions! Needling back and forth, theory after theory after theory, and through it all, those paying any attention to the older woman will notice her expression shifting into something… well…

What in the shitting fuck are these kids even on?

She doesn’t laugh, though—it’s more of a baffled huff here and there as things continue to escalate. Can she contribute? Sure. But it’s very entertaining to watch things play out like this. Runa’s death is there, of course, but—but—

(She knows how these things go, doesn’t she?)

Okay. Hold on. She can answer this, at least. She turns to Cowboy.

“I wouldn’t say anything jumped out to me about the trees having magical properties. Then again, I… didn’t think to check. I wasn’t at my best during the investigation…”

She shrugs, not really caring about the implications of alluding to being someone who would know about that kind of thing. Who gives a shit? Because that segues into her next point—

“But I think it’s asinine to narrow down suspects based on anti-supernatural sentiments. Hell, I’d bet good money that over half the people in this damn room are supernatural in one way or another. We already have a motive—kill before everyone’s personalities get replaced, or kill because your manufactured personality tells you to.”

Not that she has any ideas about how to narrow it down herself, but…

“Mm… You’re covering for someone, aren’t you, Pip? I’m won’t make you come out and say who, but can you at least give us some idea how you got all bloodied up? I doubt people will stop asking just because you said you didn’t kill Ghost Dog after all.”

At some point during the investigation, Time had… kind of just checked out mentally, following her designated group around until she vanished without a word to places unknown.

She is not proud of this.

At least no longer soaking wet, she casts apologetic glances to those she’d left behind when they all reconvene in the casino. Her focus is back, it seems, and she fixes Gambit with a hard look throughout his explanation. Anyone who looks at her throughout the whole fucking flying in the air nonsense will note that she seems… surprised, perhaps, eyes wide and lips parted, but for those who know her—

It’s all quite thrilling, she has to admit. And when Gambit alludes once again to his desire for entertainment, she gives him a solemn nod before breaking into a split-second grin.

She can’t do anything for Ghost Dog, but she can do something for the people still here.

At first, though, she’s quiet. She really didn’t pay much attention during the investigation, after all, so most of her efforts are directed towards connecting the others’ statements to what little she remembers. When she speaks up, there’s a small gleam in her eye as she glances at Anastasia.

“So we’ve all agreed to reject the codenames our host provided us? In that case, call me Lena Vaswani.”

(… Okay.)

“Lena” taps the table, signaling that she’s not done talking.

“Whoever took the candles, I imagine they were taken to start the fire at the lakeside. Remember how much trouble we had starting a fire at our little get-together? Whether it was Ghost Dog or someone else, though… I can’t say for sure.”

A pause.

“Could Ghost Dog and the culprit have been working together to start the fire?”

She’s drenched, exhausted, confused—but when Gambit drags the boat to shore and she’s able to catch a glimpse of what’s inside—

This should feel more overwhelming, Time thinks amidst the deluge of memories—not flooding back, but simply reappearing in her periphery, like they’d never left at all. The same kind of reassuring feeling she gets when she wakes up from a dream and remembers that she’s not a princess or pilot or parrot. Relief. Her name is back, he’s back, and she’s about to shoot him a concerned glance and almost utters his real name in front of God and everyone, lips curved to form the words—

Then the corpse registers as a corpse.

(She’s never seen one before.)

“Oh my god, that’s Ghost Dog. Oh my god… Jesus fucking Christ, that’s Ghost Dog.”

Her tone is numb, and she’s cold all over—a shivering mess, really—but it’s worst in her chest and stomach, where the sensation of hard ice starts to settle. Piercing. More people show up, gathered to see the show, and she remembers what she’d said.

Those empty words she’d said, worth worse than nothing.

Eventually, her hoot hands her a piece of paper, and she squints—real names, huh? Interesting, she thinks, finding herself able to push past the chill in her core so she can focus on the task at hand.

The owl wants a show?

It has been three days – more or less – and it’s soon going to turn into a fourth.

Just how badly off you are is a personal grievance, but it’s clear that the group as a whole hasn’t exactly been doing well.  From aggravated demands for favors out of the chandelier, to threatening the mascot, to becoming a man of the wilds looking to keep himself protected – the whole lot of you have found some… interesting ways to go feral.

And, knowing this, it’s probably not too surprising that three of your ‘classmates,’ – ROOKIE, TIME, and CONVOY – seem to be in some kind of dire, stupid circumstance for a little while by the lake’s shore.  

Someone takes notice of a weakly burning fire in the fire pit, another wades out to the water for a time, demanding to be thrown closer to–

Closer to….

What seems like… some kind of boat.

Just drifting off in the middle of the lake.

….

But before CONVOY can just launch an old woman towards the middle of a 150ft deep lake – possibly causing yet another body drop – and before ROOKIE can test his swimming skills and actually get to the finish line (all while screaming bloody murder??  apparently??  boi quiet DOWN–) – a loud hooting seems to draw them back.

Gambit swoops on the scene, dragging them all back to shore midflight using his ‘talons,’ and then, panting, says:

“Gracious me!  Don’t you lot know when to ask for assistance!  I’ve been right here all along!”

….

A long pause, though.  Before he looks out at the boat.

The person who taught him… yes, that wasn’t a bad thing to fixate on! Actually, it was probably essential, at that moment.

“Yes, yes! He was very knowledgeable, although the usefulness of his knowledge was considered debatable by others on our team. For example, he also taught me … this!”

He’s… striking another pose although…-

“I do not think it as as universal as ‘dabbing.’ But I quite like it nonetheless.“

He lets out a soft laugh, at last deciding that he’s done with the ridiculous poses for the time being. 

“You’re correct. I enjoy many things about this planet. It… is too early for me to lose memory of it despite my knowledge that once I return home, it will likely be wiped anyway. You.. also discussed not knowing much about, ah, ‘modern’ culture. May I ask why that is? Are you also from some distant star system?”

Amazing! Time claps!

“Hah! I don’t think I know that one. Is that some superhero thing? Like… Kachow!”

She mimics the pose with a fierce look on her face, but lets it go after a couple seconds, arms crossed.

“They’ll really wipe your memory? That’s… they really think your time here is that expendable, Orwell?”

She lets the question hang for a bit before answering the one he presented her—an unspoken invitation, but not a command.

“That’s, well… I’m not from another planet or dimension or anything like that, but I did spend a fair chunk of my life in one. Guess there’s no point in hiding it, I expect I’ll forget soon anyway—“

(And it scares her—)

Friends and family? He lowers his arms slowly.

“… It is okay. Those things are already gone as per my planet’s protocol. Really, it would be worse if I lost knowledge regarding how I do my job. Then I would truly be in a dire predicament aha. Ha. … Second only to that would be… forgetting everything I was taught about this planet. I have only been here for two, short years after all and I am already having trouble keeping up as it is.”

He pauses and seems to recall that that line of discussion had previously been labeled as ‘sad’ by someone else. Terrestrials are fairly sentimental, are they not?

Hm… something to take the edge off … 

“Ah! Miss Time, what about this?”

Orwell hits the dab – seems like he’s still intent on quizzing Time.

Those things are already gone—

(She… wants to think she could understand. A little. Not a lot. But a little.)

“Oh? You know about dabbing, too? Hah, whoever taught you about human culture did a good job!”

Time hits the dab right back at him, grinning.

“You’re right, I am out of the loop. Things like dabbing and T-posing and Fortnite dancing and all that… I’d nearly forgotten all about them. Our planet, it’s full of so many trivial things, little things that don’t really matter at all…”

Her smile softens.

“It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”