You don't like to think about it.
Richard needs to do the thinking for you, or the talking, or something. You wish he'd say something, even if it were something mean about your dry-heaving. It makes you feel better to know he's with you. More secure. You're sorry you made him angry before.
?I appreciate it.? He's wrapped around your shoulders. ?I'm proud of you.?
He's proud of you? He's never been proud of you before, even in the good old days. You've never been good enough to be proud of. He's proud of you!
?You made the rational choice, which I understand you've struggled with in the past. Of course I'm proud. Start walking.?
You start walking. It's a little unsteady.
?I wish we could have a look at the body, but you are in no condition to follow that woman. We should consider coming back here tonight to obtain some samples, at least. That's not natural blood.?
You make it back to the side trail, but not before dodging some idiot's pitfall trap. What native game can't swim?
?We'll have to consider how to break the news. It's the faster the better, in my opinion. You'll look guilty if you sit too long.?
(But you're not guilty! You didn't do anything!)
?
You are grateful to find that the trail has leveled out considerably.
?Wouldn't want to jump the gun on it. I use 'jump the gun' figuratively. It is not referencing anything. I can't tell if you're listening or not. Charlie. Charlotte.?
You've got a dull ache in your jaw, and the sting of stomach acid in your throat, and a ringing in your ears, and you really don't want to start crying for the third time today. So you're not listening, really.
Finally: camp. If anyone notices the state you're in, they're polite enough to not say anything. You locate your tent almost solely through muscle memory, reach to untie the knot—
There's no knot. The door is untied.
God, you're stupid, leaving your tent open like this. There's probably crabs and things all over your bed. People have probably been looking inside. But there's nothing to do about it now. You push open the tent flap.
There is a strange man inside.
No, not strange, but very nearly so. It's the man in the grey longcoat. The "be seeing you" one. Be seeing you indeed! He's leaning over your desk, looking at your miniatures. He starts at your entrance— but only very quickly, before covering it up.
"Sorry," he says glibly, and stands up straight. "It was open, and I was so fascinated by these! Be seeing you, Lottie."
You are stunned into silence as he brushes past you and is gone.
?One has to admire his confidence.?
>[1] Be seeing you?! Storm right back out and give the man a piece of your mind.
>[2] Make sure nothing is displaced or stolen. Your interior is minimalist, it shouldn't take too long.
>[3] Oh, damn him. Just do something to distract yourself from… everything. Finish the model you were working on.
>[4] Take a catnap. You're not tired, exactly, and it is broad daylight, but unconsciousness sounds very appealing.
>[5] Write-in.
You clench your fingers. ‘So fascinated by these?’ They're just stupid models you do in your free time, not some kind of art exhibit. His explanation reeks.
You're going to have to do a thorough examination of everything, now. Luckily, you keep things very neat, very decluttered, very minimalist…
?Yes. Because you're in debt, Charlie.?
Because you're ascetic. And you like the color white. The amount of time you spend scrubbing mud and sand and bits of algae off everything to keep it white is frankly obscene.
First: the right bookshelf. The top two shelves are knickknacks, most of which you have no memory of ever obtaining. Why is there a key fob in the shape of a starfish? Why is there a— you don't even know what this thing is. It's small and metal and has little grooves along the edge.
?Hm.?
But they're all in an orderly grid with no gaps between them, meaning they're exactly as you put them there. Both books ("" and "") are still there, too, wrapped in cloth in hopes they won't disintegrate totally.
On the next shelf down is your mechanical bank: if you put a coin in, the girl on top is supposed to skip rope. She has not skipped rope in years— not only do you have no coins, but it's rusting practically to pieces.
There's nothing below her in the bookcase. You do not like to stoop.
Above your cot is an aged photograph of yourself, your mother, and your Aunt Ruby. It is torn a bit on the left, and is very water-stained. You look at it for a while.
>[+1 ID: 2/11]
Underneath your cot (sometimes you must stoop, whether you like to or not) is a sharkskin portmanteau containing the rest of your clothing. There's not much left of it— it's mostly been lost or tattered— but nothing seems stolen.
You turn to your desk, where the man had been looking. The clay is still under it. Your research has been moved, but only slightly— was he reading it, or just shoving it aside to look at the models? The models themselves, all twenty or thirty, are still in order.
You slide open the desk drawer. Your tools are all still here. Your unfinished model—
Your unfinished model is gone! Stolen! It was barely sculpted, let alone hardened or painted. Why it, and not anything else? Did he break in to steal it, or was it a crime of opportunity?
Mother of a whore!
He's probably long-gone by now, too. You bite your sleeve in an attempt to keep from crying again. (It's salty.) Now what? Is it even worth trying to get it back? Would Richard—
You nearly jump out of your skin at a knock at the door. Monty pokes his head in.
"Hi, Charlotte," he says, and then takes in your bloodshot eyes and bruise. "Oh. Sorry, ah, the door was open. Should I come back later…?"
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You're not in much of a state to talk to Monty. But you'll look weak if you don't. And you might have things to ask him about.
>[1] Write-in.
"Uh," you say. "Did you happen to see a man leaving this tent? Just now?"
You've always found it difficult to get a read on Monty. He only looks a couple of years older than you, but between the patronization and the knit pullovers (dusty orange today) there's no way that can be right. He has the air of a tutor for small children.
He steps all the way in. He is carrying a thick stack of folders under one arm, and nothing under his other arm, because he doesn't have another arm. You've gotten very good at not staring. "A man? Any sort of man, or just…"
You sit on the edge of your cot. "I don't know. Grey longcoat, kind of drab… oh, horsey-looking. Very horsey-looking."
"But you don't know his name?" Monty has propped a folder against his leg and is scribbling something down on it.
"Uh, no. Does he stay here?"
"If he is, he isn't authorized to. Sorry, no, I didn't see him leave. You're saying he was in your tent without permission…"
"And he stole something."
"Oh!" Monty underlines something. "Do you know what?"
Telling Monty about your hobby? You'd rather die. "It's none of your business."
"Was it something personal?"
"It's none of your business!"
"I'll put it down as personal." He does. "Thanks for the report, Charlotte, I'll look into it. Now, while I'm here, there was something else—"
"You can go now," you say.
"—It shouldn't take very long, it's just… Look, did you punch Madrigal today?"
?Remain calm.?
>[1] Deny it. Deny everything.
>[2] Okay, look, she punched you first. Surely there's a self-defense provision in the Rules and Procedures.
>[3] Maybe you did, but it wasn't on camp property, was it? It was out in the woods. There's nothing he can do about it.
>[4] She deserved it.
>[5] To be clear, you didn't just punch her— you knocked her out cold. And it was awesome.
>[6] Write-in.
You touch your bruise reflexively. "What's it to you?"
"I don't feel like I need to answer that question, Charlotte."
He doesn't. You capitulate. "Okay. But. But— did you know it was in self-defense? Because it was in self-defense. She punched me first. I am— in fact, I'm the victim here."
Monty raises his eyebrows.
You point vigorously at your jaw. "Look at this! This was Madrigal's knuckles. Shouldn't she be getting the lecture? And maybe she should be kicked out of camp? For viciously attacking—"
"Er, she did get the lecture. I knew all this already." Monty cracks an awkward smile. "I'm also under the impression it was mutually deserved?"
"She punched me! How is that mutual?"
"I'm not saying she didn't have it coming, Charlotte. I know she gets mouthy. As do you, by the way, so my surprise at this outcome is—"
You cross your arms.
Monty coughs. "Uh, yes. Anyhow. I was impressed you managed to coldcock her, actually— I didn't take you for a pugilist. No offense."
You don't say anything.
"I have a lot of knuckle tape if you'd like it. It's gone unused ever since… well…" The loose arm of his pullover dangles. "You know."
You tug pointedly at your collar.
"Alright, then. The point was, uh, the issue is not exactly you punching Madrigal. These things happen. The issue is that she's pissed, and she's on my case about it." He displays the folders. One is very thin. One is not. "And you have not left yourself a lot of wiggle room."
Despite not knowing what this means, you're still offended. "I have— I have lots of wiggle room. I have loads. Scads!"
"It would be a lot easier on me if you did. But— look, I trust you're familiar with our three strikes system?"
You are not.
?It's in the Rules and Guidelines handbook you threw away. Disputes are taken to the Overseer— that's him, I understand— and the party found to be in the wrong gets a strike. Three strikes gets you a review, where you're entitled to make a case for yourself as to why you're redeemable. If you fail, you're evicted.?
"Y…es," you say. You don't want to know how Richard knows this.
?I know many things.?
"Excellent. I keep all records in folders per person. This—" Monty shows you the thin folder. "This is what a normal folder looks like."
You have a horrible feeling about this. "So what's in the giant folder?"
"That's yours, Charlotte. Those are the complaints filed against you."
"No they aren't." The horrible feeling has not dimmed. "I understand I might be controversial with certain…"
Monty flips the giant folder over. "CHARLOTTE FRANCES FAWKINS" is printed in shaky black letters across the top.
"Oh."
"You're on your twelfth review or so, I believe."
You don't like seeing this. It's just the garbage awful capstone to a wholly calamitous day. "Oh."
"You might be asking yourself why you're still here?"
"…No?" you manage, though of course you are.
"I'll tell you anyway. It's because I've kept you around, Charlotte, despite my better judgment. You remind me of—"
The horrible feeling has gained so much mass it collapses in on itself all at once. You are left with a single diamond revelation. "Your wife?"
"What?"
"Your wife. The dead one. I bet I have her eyes, or something, so you project all your grief and whatnot on me. Which, I mean, I'm flattered, but it's also a little pathetic—"
Monty looks mildly horrified. "No. What? No. Constance had brown eyes— that's not the point. I was going to say ‘myself’."
?Nice work.?
You search for the right thing to say to this and come up empty. "You?"
He chuckles, which only increases your revulsion. "Younger me. I was a go-getter, you know, and I saw other people as obstacles on my road to success. It didn't win me a lot of friends."
This is so grossly incongruous with the current Monty that you simply choose not to believe it. "Oh yeah? Why'd you stop?"
His smile fades. "I succeeded."
"Oh." You also choose to discard this. "That's nothing like me, though. I have friends."
?Like whom.?
Um, like... Richard? Duh? You're ignoring him, by the way.
"Maybe so." Monty is less interested in asking questions. "In either case, that's why you've gotten off light. But Madrigal, you know— she doesn't exactly agree with that philosophy, and she's interested in doing something about it."
"Like…"
"Like undergoing the review process, which you will fail. I'm not interested in that either. So you are going to agree to a compromise."
This is bad news. "What is it?"
"You're going to help Madrigal with whatever she wants you to help with, until I tell you to stop."
You flop back onto the cot. "Evict me."
"No."
"Evict me!"
"No. I'll stop her if she does anything too humiliating, Charlotte." Monty tucks the folders back under his arm. "That's all."
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