#trafficseries

Here's the thing -- he'd know if this was a ghost. He really, really would. He's gotten used to the way they cue themselves in, the way they sound, the way they flit around just out of sight all session. The flickers of familiarity in the back of his head when he says something odd. The quality of their voices, fuzzy and distant.

So this is not a ghost. Because he has not seen or heard any ghosts all session.

Whatever is here and is not a ghost laughs quietly, and Impulse winces. That voice is loud and crisp. Distant, sure, but he gets the feeling that distance doesn't exactly mean much to them.

You can keep thinking it over if you want, the non-ghost says. There's plenty of time for that. But I doubt you'll figure it out on your own.

Yeah. Point two. The ghosts don't generally read his mind.

"Where were you all session?" he says under his breath, in case the sharp tone bearing down on him isn't a mind-reader and is just good at reading his body language.

Observing. Another sharp hmph sort of laugh. It's taking me quite a bit of effort to reach you, you know. I can't make these sorts of connections at random.

"Any reason why?"

I needed to be... subtle. You are solidly within my domain, of course, but I really prefer to not be bothered while I'm working.

Impulse thinks this over for a few seconds. Impulse opens his mouth.

Not Watchers, comes a sharp reply. Although I am capable of sharing. But they don't need to know that.

"You," Impulse says, "are up to no good."

It's a death game, Impulse. One echoing the very past itself. Nobody here is up to any good, and anyone who tells you so is lying.

Impulse considers this for a bit as well, then stands up from where he wasn't actually sitting, because, well, you can't just sit on the ground anywhere in modern Minecraft, let alone an old beta version of the game.

"Yeah. I know it's a death game. That's what I signed up for. And you missed a bunch of great moments to chime in with commentary during the session, so what's the point in talking to me now?"

He regrets changing his tone immediately. Not because he's unsure how far he can push that invisible wall with whatever this thing is, but because they sound so insufferably smug when they respond that he knows they were waiting for him to do exactly that.

Plausible deniability, the presence says. Anything I tell you is something you could simply have gleaned from other sources.

Smug? Proud? Maybe both.

"Okay, go on, make the pitch," Impulse says.

Help me help you. That's all.

"That is the least trustworthy thing I have ever heard anyone say," Impulse responds immediately, just in case they add anything else first. "You know that, right?"

I don't need you to find me trustworthy. When has that kind of thing ever helped you?

Oh, that's... okay. The non-ghost is straight up evil. Great to know.

Evil is a relative term, Impulse. Surely you know that by now. Moral alignment is a fickle thing largely in the eye of the beholder -- ah, I'm getting ahead of myself.

"You're not a Watcher, whatever those are," Impulse says. It's technically a question, but they both technically know the answer. "But you're something. So what do you actually want?"

I told you the truth. I won't mince words further. You want to win? Come find us.

"Us," Impulse repeats. "There's more than one of you."

Of course. History is written by the victors, you know.