r/HFY•8 mo. ago

[The Shotgun Girl] Chapter 8 of 17

OC-Series

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That delicate black eyebrow arched again. "I doubt that question is the non-sequitur it appears to be. But if it worries you, Brown, you needn't let it. You are aware that when we die in this place, we are diminished. We lose bits, fragments of ourselves, shards of memory and personhood each time we pass through oblivion. No doubt the memory of my most recent death is but one of so many that you've left behind in the cold nothingness."

I shook my head. Still calm. A little tight deep in my chest, but in control of myself. "That's not what I mean. Why can I remember the rest of us dying so many times, but not you? Never you. Not ever."

She just blinked at me for a long moment, then, "But I have."

"So you say." I toyed with one of my pawns, just to keep my fingers occupied. "But I don't remember it. Not one single time, Blackie. I die. A lot. Not as often these days, but a lot. Same with Red. Blondie, even, catches a bad break and dies sometimes. But never you. Never lucky, lucky Blackie." I was calm. My voice didn't rise. But I doubt I kept all the tension out of it.

Blackie just stared at me for a while, smirk fading to almost nothing. "Was that why you had your hand on the shotgun, earlier? Thinking about proving some point to yourself?"

"You aren't answering my question, Blackie."

"Nor you, mine."

"I asked first."

She did that thing where her mouth smiled, but the rest of her face didn't. "And I'm sure there's a place somewhere in the universe where asking first makes all the difference."

The only reason I kept my temper at that remark was the memory of a blood-clotted brass ashtray clenched in my hand, pounding and pounding and pounding. "I wasn't thinking about killing you, earlier," I ground out. Just the slightest hint of emphasis on the 'earlier'. "I was just being cautious."

Blackie sighed and leaned back in her chair, eyes closed. One hand rubbed at the injured spot on her ribs. "You've had your hand on that pawn for a while, Brown," she said at last. "You need to move it."

It took me a moment to remember that we were still playing chess. Playing for stakes. Playing for the chance to demand answers. I did need to move. I slid my pawn ahead, one step closer to that end goal.

Blackie barely looked at the board as she immediately moved her queen to take advantage of the opening I'd just inadvertently provided. "Check," she said. She didn't sound triumphant, or even particularly interested. There was none of the typical irony or melodious charm or vaguely amused little chuckling that usually characterized Blackie's voice. Just a statement, flat and tight.

And as I focused my attention to the board, dismayed at having fallen for her trap and trying to find a way to get my king out of it without sacrificing a rook, she spoke again in that same empty, declarative voice. "It was the gaslamps."

She met my puzzled look straight-on, stony-faced. "That was the last time I died, Brown. That house where the gas turned itself on and we all suffocated in our sleep because we somehow forgot to open a window. I dozed off in a nice, fluffy bed with satin sheets. Red and Blondie were in the rooms across from mine and you were on a divan you'd put in the middle of the corridor. Your paranoia was in full form and you had a 'bad feeling' and wanted to be right in the middle of us, ready to meet any threats. I went to sleep feeling as safe as I've ever felt... and sometime during the night the gas turned itself on and filled up the house and I died.

"And then I woke up. Shaky and sick and crying, because I'd just come back from having my mind dangled over the precipice of oblivion. Held just before the point of non-existence, feeling bits of myself, memories, pieces of my identity, flake away and dissolve in the void. I woke up weak and sobbing and worst of all, alone. I was on a cold floor in a dark room and none of you were there. All I could do was sit with my head down and my arms around my knees, trying to figure out whether I was still me and reminding myself that I needed to get up and find you, the three of you. But I couldn't, because I was alone and weak and I hurt too much deep inside where pieces of me were missing.

"The only reason I wasn't still sitting in a useless ball of self-pity when Red found me was that I heard her stumbling around the foyer first. That gave me the strength to raise my head. I'd reconstituted in the downstairs parlor and I used the nearest doily to dry my tears and get myself presentable before I called out to her. We paired up and found Blondie at the foot of the stairs, and then you, stalking around the front lawn.

"And that's it." Only now did Blackie's gaze leave my face and cast itself back down to the chessboard. "That's the last time I died, Brown."

I chewed my lip and rested my fingers on that rook that I really didn't want to sacrifice. "That was quite a while ago," I said.

"To you, perhaps. To me, it was all too recent."

I rocked that rook back and forth on his square a few times. "And I didn't see it happen," I said after a bit.

"You're calling me a liar?"

"I'm saying I didn't see you die. I'm saying I don't remember ever seeing you die."

Blackie leaned forward, elbow on the table, and propped her chin in one pale, delicate hand. This time it was me who looked away first, ostensibly pondering my options on the board.

"The mirrored ballroom," she said once the silence was just about tensed to breaking. "Surely you remember that fiasco? We blundered in there while running from a clockwork soldier. The walls were covered with mirrors that reflected each other over and over and over. Dozens of mirror-clones swarmed us before we could even react. They jumped you and Blondie first. Red got her back to the door and fought for a moment, but they dragged her down. I got tackled by two copies of Red and three of myself, then a clone of you drove a broken chair leg through my throat. I died in a press of bodies with my screams locked inside me, choking on my own blood."

"I do remember the ballroom," I replied, quiet but firm. "And I didn't see you die there, either."

"Because you were rather busy being murdered, yourself, as I believe I mentioned." There was a hint of the habitual irony back in Blackie's voice.

I nodded. "A convenient explanation."

Her sigh in response had just a hint of a growl to it and she ran the hand she wasn't propped on through her long hair. "Move the damn rook, Brown," she said after a moment.

I did, interposing it between her queen and my vulnerable king. I hadn't wanted to do that, but was out of options. And, sure enough, the moment I did, a black bishop darted over and took it. "Mate in four, I think," Blackie said.

I snarled out something profane but not very intelligible and started to rise from the table, only to find Blackie's hand on my wrist. Despite my mood, I didn't snatch it away because, frankly, Blackie put her hand on me a lot and while it wasn't always something I necessarily wanted, it was something I was used to. She glanced from my face to my pieces and said, "Finish the game."

"Why?" I demanded. "It's a foregone conclusion."

"So? Most conclusions are foregone. Especially around here. That's why you have to learn to enjoy the process, instead. If you can't win, you can still have fun playing the game. Especially if you can't win."

"I'm not having fun playing this one."

"You aren't now, but since it isn't over, you still have time to."

I reached over with the hand she'd grabbed and brusquely moved a random pawn forward. Meaningless progress toward a now unreachable goal.

Blackie regarded the board for a moment, then reached over to her king. She placed a single delicate finger atop his crown, then looked up at me, right square in the eyes. They crinkled just a little at the corners as her little half-smirk lost its irony and spread into a genuine, though not unguarded, smile. A little nudge, and the black king was lying on his side, cast down right on the cusp of a triumph that should have been inevitable.

"I concede," she said. "Congratulations on your victory. You may now claim your prize."

******

Blackie claimed to find the study 'unbearable' for polite conversation. There was a sitting-room, salon, whatever you called it, a few doors down that she considered much more conducive to civilized discussion. So she said. The study was 'adversarial'. We'd been competing in there and it had tainted the atmosphere of the room. Plus, the surrounding disorder I had created in my ransacking would make it difficult to order our thoughts. A fresh start in a fresh room, she said. Feeling no particular attachment to the place, I went along with that. Although I was pretty sure she was just wanting an excuse to play around with the gramophone that was on the sitting-room table.

"I would have suggested a walk around the grounds," she said as she cranked the music-player's handle, "but the rain will be here soon." A few turns of the crank, and the tinkling of a piano started from the gramophone's brass horn. A moment later, a slightly nasal voice was warbling some nonsense about a girl's eyes along with it.

I picked out a big, plush armchair and gave it some hard knocks with my foot, watching for the disgusting dead-white of bone spiders fleeing from underneath. Seeing none, I sank into it, propping the shotgun against the armrest. Blackie took a matching chair catty-cornered across from mine, giving it a thorough shake first, for the same reason I did. Likewise seeing none of the little eight-legged horrors, she seated herself primly, ladylike, smoothing her dress behind her and then crossing those long legs of hers.

"Have you decided on your demands?" she asked.

"I want answers."

"Don't we all?" She sighed, but not really in an exasperated way. Most of the tension that had characterized our conversation over the chessboard was gone from her. And, to my surprise, much of it from myself, as well. Oh, those dark ponderings and suspicions were still there, make no mistake, but I was no longer on-edge about them. Focused rather than anxious. Maybe Blackie had a point about changing the venue for our talk? Regardless, I was no less determined to wring some facts from her.

"But I've been giving you answers for a while now," she went on. "You just don't seem very adept at hearing them." She shook her head. "You are an effective person, Brown, but not a subtle one. And while you may think I'm insulting you by saying so, it's a quality I find genuinely endearing. If, at times, inconvenient."

"I'm not hearing any answers, Blackie."

"Because you haven't asked a question, my dear." She held up a finger to forestall the outburst I was about to let out. "You are entitled to make demands of me, and I am obliged to comply with them as best I can. Those are our rules for demands, are they not? You are a direct person. So, tell me in a plain and direct way what it is you want from me. Do that, and I promise I'll reply in-kind."

I closed my mouth and sat thinking about that. In the background, the singer went on about their lady and how great it was that they'd met, a distraction that I mostly but couldn't entirely tune out. One thought kept repeating in the back of my mind, that you don't win arguments with Blackie. She would twist and turn and divert and obfuscate until you almost lost track of whatever point you were trying to make in the first place. If I wanted to get information out of her, I had to leave her with no way to duck or evade or re-interpret. But if I was too narrow in my questioning, she would -- I mean, could -- provide just a minimal, literalist answer and I would be little better off than before. And demands were a precious resource. I couldn't waste them.

The singer wound down about the wonderfulness of their girl and the rattle of piano keys was replaced with staticky scratching. Then, even that cut out as the gramophone's spring motor spent itself and the turntable slowed to a stop.

Blackie just sat there, hands clasped on her knee, waiting patiently.

Finally, "You're keeping something from us. Something you know about..." I waved a hand around. "...all this. Our predicament, I guess. You never share theories of your own about where we are or why we're here. You're quick to poke holes in our ideas, but never offer up your own. You always have this knowing little smile and you always seem to catch the lucky breaks. So, that's my first demand. I want to know what you're keeping from us and how it all ties together."

Blackie nodded like none of what I'd just said surprised her. "I can and will answer that. But before I do, you need to be certain you really want to hear it. I say this for your own sake. You are an optimist at heart, and I should hate to take that away from you."

"I'm an optimist?" I had to laugh at that. "That's the first I've heard of it!"

"But you are. I know you subscribe to the belief that our existence in this place is a form of imprisonment. Like animals in a zoo, kept for the amusement of beings greater than themselves. And yet, a zoo animal has a chance, however small, of escaping its cage, no?"

"And it can maul the zookeepers in the process." I flashed my teeth at her.

Blackie chuckled, a quiet, rather captivating little sound. "Is the chance to do so an incentive for the animal to escape, I wonder? Does it escape to maul its keeper, or does it just maul its keeper incidentally in aid of its escape?"

I shrugged. "Either way, I think the zookeepers have got a bloody punishment coming. Especially if one of them is arrogant enough to go strutting around inside the cage with the exhibits." I made a point of looking her in the eye as I said that last part.

That brought Blackie up short. She stared at me with something between bemusement and respect. She raised a slender, pianist's finger and tapped it against her chin. "Ah. I think I see the point behind your questions earlier. Your hypothetical observers -- zookeepers or whatever -- if they observe us for their amusement, might they not also enjoy the view from within the cage?"

"Exactly." I shifted position to focus better on her. My elbow bumped against the shotgun propped beside me, its steel barrel cool and solid and reassuring. "And you still aren't giving me answers, Blackie. I want to know what you're keeping from us and why this world favors you."

The first drops of the afternoon rain began to patter against the window, right on schedule. Just like every single day before, for as far back as my admittedly patchy memory went. "Your optimism helps define who you are, Brown," Blackie sighed. "I admire your goal-oriented nature and I hate to take that from you."

"Answers," I pressed.

"Very well. Demands are owed and will be answered." She settled herself, leaning back and flipping her side-parted hair away from her face. She stared hard at a random point over my head, lips pursed, a habit of hers on those rare occasions that she needed to organize her thoughts before speaking. "Then let's start with the most basic of facts, which you are unlikely to want to hear from me right now. And that is that I know -- know -- not a whit more than you or Blondie or Red does about where we are, who we were, or why we are here. I have no secret knowledge, Brown. I'm keeping no solid facts or provable truths about our situation from any of you." She spread her hands. "If I'm your 'zookeeper' incognito, I'm not aware of it. Believe that or don't, it's all I can tell you regarding facts.

"However, I have a certain conjecture. A theory about ourselves and our world, a belief that time and experience have only strengthened in me. A sound enough theory that I've adopted it as a sort of... faith, if you will. And that faith or belief or acceptance of theory has led me to a certain mind-set that serves to get me through each day. It makes me inclined to smile, frankly. But I doubt that it will do as much for you, should you decide to put any stock in it."

I motioned for her to get on with it. I was telling myself to focus, to keep her talking and not let her derail or deflect. Because you don't win debates with Blackie.

"Very well. I think at this point, we have all come to accept the unreal nature of the environment in which we find ourselves, correct?" Blackie's voice and demeanor had taken on a vaguely schoolmarmish air which, much as I hate to admit it, suited her very well. "Whether this is all a spiritual nether realm, a simulation being fed directly into our senses, or an artificial pseudo-world created to contain us for observation, we all agree on its unreal and irrational nature. Further, we accept that this unreality extends to our own bodies. We die, yet do not stay dead. We awaken each day with neatly-styled hair, fresh-faced, teeth white and clean, without our doing anything to ensure this. We take in food and drink, but need make no trips to the toilet unless we've taken ill or been poisoned by sucker bait.

"And you, in the middle of all this unreality, think to yourself, 'I think. I feel. I experience and remember and anticipate. I do these things and am aware that I do these things. I have a mind, and a self, and an awareness of myself. So if nothing else, I, at least, am real.' That's what you believe in your heart of hearts, isn't it, Brown? That you're real. That you're a person. That you actually exist in some way, even if your surroundings and even your very body are mere illusion."

"Of course," I said, suddenly uneasy. "I mean, who doesn't believe in their own existence?"

Blackie leaned forward in her chair, dark eyes boring right into my own. Her smile broadened, a hint of something wild, something dangerous in it. "I don't."

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