refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

Thetis wings slow circles above the shore in the shape of a humble gull. Of all the many shapes she could take, this is the most unremarkable to mortals. They’re a common nuisance, curious and daring.

This isn’t the first time Thetis has watched her unexpected granddaughter play on the shore. She’s been a seal, watching from the safety of the surf, a keen-eyed osprey roosting at the top of a tree. In animal shape, her emotions are no less turbulent.

The girl’s hair shines like flax in the sun as she delights in the waves and warm sand. Thetis might as well be watching a memory: those peaceful, lazy days with her son, bookended by the pain of his conception and the grief of his death.

Every time she visits, she promises herself that this will be the last. The same as she did with Neoptolemus. But she finds herself gripped by guilt. She could have saved her grandson from the vile mortals who would use him like they used Achilles. She could have hidden him away again, perhaps this time in her father’s realm. But what would be the use? They would still find him. Neoptolemus is still mortal. He would still die.

What do the Fates have planned for this child? Lord Hermes’ divinity shines bright within her. She’ll be coveted by mortals, yes, but not as a weapon—as a beautiful lover and mother to powerful sons. Thetis knows the special agony of that life.

But for now, Lyra is a happy child, delighting in a beautiful day. Thetis pulls her wings in to stoop lower until she can hear the girl’s laughter on the breeze. Lower still and she can see her smile. Against her better judgement, the aching protest of her old wounds, she finally lights on the sand a few yards away.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Achilles breathes his thanks as Hermes draws away. He wishes there was something he could do himself—would that he could take a blade to the creeping spider’s silk that binds these tiny prisons together and usher this woman to her freedom.

At his approach, Patroclus raises his focus from Kelly to Hermes. His eyes are flinty, but more protective than mistrustful. He knows Hermes’ capacities as a psychopomp, and maybe that’s what he intends? Some deep wounds and wasting illnesses simply can’t be mended. Living only guarantees more agony. Death is the only way she can know peace.

“He’s right. He won’t hurt you.” Pat sees how her eyes reel and he finds her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Look at me if it’s more comfortable.”

She turns her eyes back to Patroclus, nodding, breathing heavily and unblinking. Yes, yes, it's more comfortable to look at him. "I like you," she manages. He's nice. He's gentle. He's safe.

She lets her free hand go, holding it out to the dizzying whirl of abstractions beyond her, and Hermes takes it gently.

And then there's just a little... nudge.

It smears the entire memory. A touch of creeping curiosity. The seed of learning something new. The world is so big, how frightening shifts to how exciting.

Kelly loosens her grip on Patroclus. She turns her gaze up to the sky, and as her eyes widen, the trembling fear melts away into thrilling awe. Past the bloated scars of the sky, she sees the stars. Endless, beautiful stars, cradles of creation, so many stories that the world will end before she knows a fraction. And the stars are so much greater than any eyes, any scars, anything here on the ground.

She lets out a trembling breath. She sobs, but it's more of a laugh this time, her lips turning up into a smile as her eyes start to stream once more.

"Look. Look. Do you see?" She squeezes Patroclus' hand, pointing up at the sky, at the endless vastness beyond their tiny pinprick existence. "It's beautiful."

Hermes lets her go, smiling as he backs away. Yes, this memory should be much more comfortable for her now.

Patroclus is used to this—being the steady one. Achilles inspired people, but people came to Pat for comfort. Someone who would listen quietly, even if he came off as a little grumpy about it at times. Pat doesn’t hate it when he can help people like this woman, or Briseis, or even Zagreus.

He sees the shift in Kelly’s face and feels her body relax. Pat relaxes in kind, now that her pain and confusion is lifted … and Hermes’ mercy didn’t involve easing the woman into death.

“I see it. I do,” he confirms with a smile. He’s less enamored with the stars than she is, but pleased all the same. “Will you be alright now? My friends and I need to find someone we’ve lost.”

Kelly squeezes Patroclus' hand affectionately, like he's a lifelong friend. And he is, isn't he? This moment seems to stretch out infinitely, and he's standing by her during it.

"Who did you lose?"

A flicker of awareness. A shift. This is a memory Kelly has, but it wasn't the last thing she remembers from Before. After this night, she quit business school and took all the inheritance from her grandmother to find answers. The people who she would have dismissed as insane or quacks earlier in life told her that she had traces of Sybil in her, just enough divine blood to see Truth every once in a while. She hadn't believed them, really, and she went to Ireland to find answers. But that was long ago.

She tears her eyes from the stars. She looks at the man beside her. At his sad, get gentle eyes. So much kindness, borne of knowing pain. It almost makes her want to cry.

"Tell me. Maybe I can help you."

“His son.” Pat nods his head towards Achilles. “Neoptolemus … or Pyrrhus, to some.”

“Have you seen him?” Achilles eagerly chimes in. “He—” A pause, as he considers Kelly’s sequin dress, still limply glittering in his hand like fish scales. And about as wet.

Where or maybe when the woman is from is still beyond him. It’s a wonder they can understand one another, but maybe that’s an effect of this place. Or part of Lugh’s assistance. “Pyrrhus would have been dressed like us.“

“We’ve journeyed from Greece, if you know it?” Pat adds, taking his cloak pin to gently secure the cloth at her collar.

"Big name. Neo like the Matrix?" she says, allowing Patroclus to pin the cloak before leaning against him again, draping her arm around him. She can't seem to really stop touching him, not for any interest in him but because she's just so fixated on feeling. Why don't people pay more attention to touch? Human skin feels so nice. And so does cloth. Fabric. All sorts of things feel nice to touch.

But she turns her eyes to the stars. If Achilles and Patroclus pay close attention, they may notice that the stars look almost completely different than the ones they're used to in Greece.

"I know Greece. Went with my friends one summer. Don't know how they managed before cars--got out of breath just walking from the beach to that big temple everyone likes." The Parthenon. But the name quite escapes her right now. But oh, they're looking for someone, the pretty man's son, how sorry for him to go missing.

Kelly tips her eyes up to the stars. They swim. It's hard to tell if that's because they're actually moving, or the memory is from a woman not quite in her right mind.

"There's a blond man dressed like you. Curly hair like yours too," she mumbles, her words starting to slur as her eyes unfocus, still pointed at the sky. "He's part of the Wild Hunt."

Lugh, previously happy to just observe this exchange, perks suddenly. Hermes' feathers fluff in surprise before smoothing again. "It means the Morrígan keeps him in her hunting retinue. It foretells war when it appears in the mortal world," Hermes supplies, furrowing his brow. Oh, he doesn't want to think about the Morrígan picking him as one of her favorites. That means she'll drive a harder bargain.

Achilles feels a sudden, irrational tug of jealousy at the way Kelly touches Patroclus, and just as quickly feels ashamed. The woman is a tortured prisoner, not a rival lover.

Patroclus doesn’t dissuade Kelly, though, and guides her hands to more appropriate places if they absently wander too far. Her state of mind doesn’t seem to register boundaries right now.

Her words about Greece cause little sparks of memory—not his memory precisely, but the visions Apollo struck him with. Times, places, concepts far beyond his understanding. Among them is a “car,” sleek and shiny and fast. “Summer” too, in the way Kelly seems to think of it: a time for youthful freedom and travel.

Achilles looks from Kelly to Hermes, to Lugh. “Where can we find her hunting party? Does this change our plan?”

Kelly is indeed not able to register boundaries at the moment, but she’s very easy to guide and redirect. At one point she catches a lock of Pat’s hair between her fingers, and she rubs it contemplatively, just as fascinated by the texture of his hair against the pads of her fingers as anything else.

Lugh rests his spear on the ground, his eyes turning upwards as he considers. “Your choice. She has no claim to his body. You could take him and walk out.”

Hermes furrows his brow, pinning his wings tight against his skull. He looks down, frowning. “Lugh, what name does the Morrígan own?”

“Neoptolemus, King of Epirus,” Lugh says immediately.

Hermes takes a deep breath before looking at Achilles. He crosses his arms, eyes soft. “He still owns the name ‘Pyrrhus.’ If we take him, he’ll have that much. But anything of him that was part of the names he lost will be trapped here. Memories, skills, relationships, all of it. His shade would be split, and he’d never recover what he lost.”

“Shades can grow back,” Lugh says with a dismissive wave. “We could have him return as a child. Have him stay with a relative and grow up again. He’d make new parts to replace the old. And it’d be much easier for us all.” Lugh smiles at Achilles, but it’s a detached smile. One that is happy to allow Achilles to make his choices, whether to the benefit or detriment of others. “No need to risk your name or risk talking to her. No need for anyone you brought here to risk anything more. It’s the safest option.”

It takes a moment to process this information—or, indeed, to understand it at all. Names have a certain power and value to them, but surely they can’t be taken? Nor could they uproot a person’s being?

If it’s true, though, isn’t this an opportunity? A second chance? Shedding ‘Neoptolemus’ could spare Pyrrhus from all of his pain and suffering—of Troy, of his rejection and loss and abandonment.

But that would only leave a fraction of his son. Would Pyrrhus alone remember Ophelia and Molossus? Would he love them the same way? His family is a hard-earned treasure.

Achilles closes his eyes and scrubs a hand over his face. Behind his lids, he can see Pyrrhus, bloody and betrayed on the deck of the trireme. You never had a son. And I never had a father.

No, it’s not his place to decide which—if any—parts of his son are worth cleaving away and which are worth saving.

“This is not a decision I can make for him.” His eyes open, calm and resolved. “I will bring him back whole or not at all.”

Lugh nods. Hermes' wings relax. He hadn't wanted to say it in mixed company, but he was sure that Achilles would regret it if he split Pyrrhus from himself.

"Very well. Then we ought to make our way to river, hmm?" Lugh gestures out of the memory, which at the moment just seems like a black void. "If you're finished with the young lady, that is?"

"Oh!" Kelly is roused from her pensive hair touching. She lets Patroclus go, wobbling. "Wait, before you go..."

She wobbles to the curb of the sidewalk. Dropped carelessly there is a purse, shiny and pink. She clicks it open, swaying as she digs through it. "Not a tampon, not chapstick, not my keys... here!"

She holds out what looks like a a weird red metal bar with a cross and shield stamped on. She offers it to Patroclus, smiling. It shines in the neon lights, polished like the finest silver without any sign of tarnish.

"Take this. It's saved me from a lot of jams, and maybe it'll save your friend's son too. I don't need it anymore."

This place has subjected him a lot of perplexing things and here’s yet another. Patroclus takes the offering—some kind of amulet?—and turns it over in his hands with unguarded curiosity. Apollo’s madness-inducing knowledge isn’t of any help here beyond a stray word: “Swiss.”

“Thank you,” Pat says with a grateful nod. He adjusts the woolen fabric around her shoulders. “I’m sorry to leave you here, but my cloak is yours to keep. I hope it brings you comfort.”

Achilles drapes Kelly’s dress over the back of a bench, should she need it again. It doesn’t look as comfortable as Pat’s cloak, though. “Thank you for your help,” he echoes, before turning to Lugh and the void beyond the memory. His mother is already waiting at the edge, anxious to be on their way.

"Thanks. It's warm." Kelly smiles, then goes on her tiptoes to kiss Pat on the cheek. She leaves a red lipstick mark. Behind her, the club's music changes to a more upbeat tune.

Lugh gestures for everyone to follow him, and Kelly waves, holding the cloak cozy and close. "Bye! Good luck finding your son!"

Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young!

And then Lugh and Hermes pull them out of the memory. It's like slipping through a tight tunnel, out of a pocket and into the open air. Suddenly, there's no Kelly, no club, no music--just a fork in the woods. Woods that seem almost too vivid, like all the colors are more saturated than they ought to be, and the air is thick with a verdant smell. It's twilight, casting a moody glow over the sky, and at the three roads crossing each other, there are three humans facing away from each other.

One is a white-haired man with closely cropped hair and a bushy mustache wearing a tweed suit, sitting at a desk and typing noisily on a typewriter, a stack of freshly printed pages on one side and blank papers on the other.

The second is a young man wearing a red doublet with puffy sleeves and tights, long brown hair pulled in a loose ponytail as he delicately paints an illuminated page on a desk with an angled stand like an easel. His work station is covered in different inks and quills and a stack of parchment already illuminated.

The third is a woman with a half shaven head and bright blue and green hair, bobbing in a tight T-shirt and jeans as she works at a desk with incomprehensible contraptions.

All three people are affixed to the ground, roots and wood growing around their legs until they're half tree and person, but they don't seem to mind, absorbed as they are in their work. The typist are swallowed up to the waist by the tree, but the woman is only swallowed to the calves, moving and bobbing at her work station.

"The land has a way of changing where things are," Lugh says as way of explanation. "So it's always best to consult those who live at crossroads before making your way to a goal."

Pat isn’t used to the idea of kisses leaving lipstick, so that will definitely stay on his cheek, entirely unnoticed, until Achilles can’t stand it anymore.

The mortal Greeks and Thetis are all relieved to leave the thump of bass and the smell of wet pavement behind. The forest is more to their liking, even with its garish palette.

First, Achilles takes in each of the three humans through the hole in the river stone. The older man’s contraption reminds him of something out of Hephaestus’ workshop and the woman looks like she would be more at home in the memory they just left behind. The man at the desk is the only one performing a task Achilles recognizes, even if he’s still dressed strangely.

This is reason enough to address the scribe first. He pockets the stone and steps up to the desk. “Forgive the interruption, my friend, but we could use your assistance.”

The river stone reveals a reality that's similar, but less polished than what's visible to the naked eye. The trees growing up their legs have torn through the flesh and bone. If they were to be separated, it could only be through amputation. Their bodies through the stone are withered, atrophied from an unknown amount off time without food or drink or movement, leaving them skeletal and wispy. All three are alive, but only because the land keeps them alive.

Tiny humanoid creatures, invisible to the naked eye, scurry across the humans' desks or bodies. One giggles as it pulls the pages of the typist's pages out of order. Another sits on its belly, kicking its legs in the air as it watches the artist paint. Yet another dangles playfully from the musician's hair, climbing it like rope.

The artist glances up from the page he's painting, putting a brush aside and picking one with a thinner tip. He delicately dips the bristles in a pot of vivid blue paint. "God bless you, stranger."

"Stop blessing people when they talk to you," the typist grunts impatiently, slamming away at his machine. "You sound like a fanatic."

"Oh mind your own business, he's not hurting anyone," the musician says, keeping her eyes on her work. "...But Andreas, it does make you sound a little pompous. Maybe hello instead?"

The artist--Andreas--sighs through his nose in the resigned way of someone who knows he's stuck with current company and has had this exchange many times. "How may I be of service, stranger?"

Hermes, for his part, is fascinated. He starts hovering, zipping between the different craftspeople, peering over their shoulders at their work, feathers fluffed with curious delight.

Blessings are a perfectly valid greeting to Achilles. The singular ‘god’ throws Achilles, but he’s not sure if he simply misheard.

“May the gods bless you as well, my friend,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back. Hermes’ sudden joy sets him at ease, even knowing what the stone revealed about the truth of the situation.

“I understand that this land is mutable … but we seek two things within it. The first is the river of knowledge, and the second is my son, who I’ve learned is among the Morrígan’s hunting party.” Achilles pauses, admiring Andreas’ work for a moment. He’s never seen text treated so lavishly. “Anything you—or your compatriots—know about either of those goals is greatly appreciated.”

The plural 'gods' throws Andreas for a moment, but the musician spares him from responding immediately.

"Oh, did they steal your son and replace him with a changeling?" The musician does her best to twist to face Achilles, or as well as she can with her feet fused to the ground. "You need to take the changeling and throw it into a fire. And do it fast, or else they'll cut your son's thumbs off and keep him as a pet."

"They only do that to babes and toddlers," the typist says, not even bothering with trying to turn to face anyone he's speaking to. "No one's bringing toddlers to a hunting party."

"How would I know?" The musician scowls at the typist's back, but it's the sort of scowl worn by someone used to this kind of friction. The banter has familiar equilibrium to it. "When I come from, no one hunts except weirdos who think it's fun to kill animals and put their heads on walls."

"They do hunt when I come from, and no one brings a child who is too small to know where they are," Andreas says patiently, readjusting himself as best he can to allow Achilles to see his work. It's always nice to have his art appreciated. "They'd scare the game crying, and who could hunt if they're thinking of cleaning and feeding them?"

"ANYWAY!" The musician shakes herself off, trying to remember the original question. "Yeah, the mouth of the river is down my road this time. You got a description of your son?"

Achilles watches the bickering unfold. He’s used to this sort of thing after standing guard at the house as long as he did. There was no end of arguments and ribbing among the various occupants. Who knows how long these three have been at it?

“My son looks rather like I do, with some small differences.” From what he’s seen so far, the Greek manner of dress should stick out like a sore thumb. Assuming the Morrígan hasn’t seen fit to give him a change of costume. “Neoptolemus is his name.”

Or at least the one the Morrígan has taken. He’s made it a point to avoid using “Pyrrhus” now that he knows it might give them some small leverage. Better it’s not spoken where fae ears can hear it.

While Achilles engages the three humans, Patroclus idly fiddles with Kelly’s gift. He manages to turn out the corkscrew and puzzles over what kind of use it might serve.

"I don't believe we've seen him, then. I'm sorry, stranger," Andreas says, seeming sincerely regretful they can't help more.

"No, no pretty blonde men in togas besides you." The musician leans, looking at Lugh, who's content to just observe and smile as the exchange takes place. "But looks like you got good company to find him!"

Her eyes drift, about to look back at her desk, when she spots Patroclus fiddling. It's hard to miss the vivid red of the utility knife in his hands. "Is that a Swiss Army knife? Where did you get that?"

Who's going around giving Swiss Army knives to men from toga times? That seems like a bad idea. Maybe? Well, hopefully it turns out okay. She should probably explain to him how it works so he doesn't cut himself and get some terrible Roman infection that kills him before he's forty. She gestures Patroclus closer so she can do so.

"Neoptolemus." The typist pauses his work, bushy brow furrowed as he stares at the paper in front of him. "Interesting name. 'New war.'" The typist finally turns from his work stiffly, peering at Achilles skeptically from the corner of his eye. He wears a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, and he adjusts so he can see Achilles through them. "I suppose that was intentional on your part?"

Swiss Army knife. Right. That’s the idea that only half-formed in the eternal afterimage of Apollo’s burning insight. The madness from that really has a long tail; like Pat is doomed to half-remember a million different things for eternity.

“A woman gave it to me. We found her in another place … One I can’t begin to describe.” Patroclus steps closer to the musician and offers the trinket for her inspection. The lipstick is still a bright red on his cheek, lending some credence to his story. “She said it might be useful.”

Meanwhile, Achilles gives a soft, disappointed ah when the humans admit to no knowledge of his son. Well. Kelly’s lead is still a good one, and they know the way to the river.

His expression turns bitter as he shifts his attention to the typist. “I didn’t— I don’t call him by that name. It was suggested by my former tutor, and it took hold.”

The musician looks at Patroclus' chest and waist, where there's the unmistakable glimmer of rubbed off body glitter. She's no history buff, but she's pretty sure they didn't have body glitter in Rome. She gives an amused smile. "Wherever you were seems like a party." She looks at his cheek, where the unmistakable kiss mark sits. "I can tell that lady liked you a lot."

She takes the knife from his hand, turning it to show the little divots on the side where one can pinch each attachment. "It's a multi-tool. You can unfold a bunch of things from it and each has its own use." She pulls each attachment out one by one. "Here's a knife, a wood saw, pliers, a metal file, scissors... oh hey, a magnifying glass, I bet they haven't invented that yet where you came from."

As she unfolds the magnifying glass, engraved around the edge are the words, To Kelly with love, from Dad. The musician ignores it as she levels the magnifying glass to look at the edge of her desk, highlighting all the little details of the woodgrain. "See? It makes little things look bigger."

Hermes is tempted to hover over this fascinating demonstration, but Achilles' change in mood pings him. He hovers closer, not reaching out or intervening yet, but keeping a careful eye. He doesn't want his lover to deal with more upset on top of everything.

The typist, for his part, arches a single bushy brow. "Seems you don't like the name. Didn't know there was ever a time when a tutor's chosen name held more authority than a father's."

Patroclus follows the musician’s eyes and grunts in surprise and embarrassment when he sees the sparkly dust Kelly left behind. He tries to brush it off, but he gets the sinking feeling that he’ll be finding bits of this on his clothes for weeks.

He quickly gives up on that and focuses on the musician’s demonstration, in awe of how perfect and delicate each of the tools is and how they fit together so smoothly. The impossibly tiny letters etched into the metal are familiar shapes, but he can’t understand the words they form. Maybe some kind of blessing?

He holds a glittery index finger under the magnifying glass, enchanted by its effect. “What about the curly one? What use is it?”

Like Hermes, Pat still keeps one eye on Achilles. The typist is clearly prodding some sore spots.

“My son was a newborn babe when I went off to war.” He shakes his head grimly. “I had little say in what men chose to call the lad when he took up arms after my death.”

Achilles twists the shell bracelet on his wrist. “Neoptolemus. The name has only brought him more suffering.”

The musician smiles at his clear awe and interest. This is one thing she does enjoy about being trapped at a crossroads like this. It's nice to show people from other times cool things from her own.

"The curly one is a corkscrew. Dunno how you deal with wine where you come from, but in my time, we keep it in these glass bottles with a narrow neck and a cork plugging them up, so you need something curly to drive into the cork and pull it out." The musician tugs Patroclus' hand gently, encouraging him to touch the blunt tip of the screw. "But they're good for untying knots. And a lot of these knives will have extra things that you can attach, so if something pops out while you're playing with it that isn't connected to anything, it's supposed to to be twisted onto your corkscrew."

She offers the Swiss Army knife back to Patroclus. "There's a bunch of things in there that's probably only intended to be used with stuff from my time, but I'm sure everything could be useful for you if you're creative. Just make sure to dry it off if it's wet and clean it up if it's dirty." The musician winks playfully. "If you see Kelly again, tell her she's right about it being useful."

She assumes, of course, that Patroclus knows the name of the woman who gave it to him already. It seems like a very meaningful gift to give before even exchanging names.

The typist scoffs. "So you left the boy when he was newborn, and by the time you died, he was old enough to go to war himself?" He twists as best as he can to face Achilles, face flinty. "What were you doing all that time? Having tea with the queen?"

"Hey, don't be an ass, Walter," the musician says, looking away from Patroclus to frown instead at the typist. "It's none of your business."

"Travel was much more difficult for those of us alive before machines could carry us," Andreas says, putting his brush aside to frown at Walter as well, or as best he can without twisting his body too much. "We couldn't just go back and forth if we were far apart. A man away at war could be gone for years before returning."

"Seems a stronger argument for staying with your family, then," Walter says, narrowing his eyes at Achilles. "Why are you here, if you're dead and gone to him already?"

"Walter, seriously?" the musician purses her lips before grimacing at Achilles and Patroclus. "Just ignore him. The river's down my end of the crossroads."

Kelly. The woman’s memory had whispers of that name, but it’s the first time Pat has heard it said aloud. He wonders how the musician knew this, but attributes it to her station at the crossroads. The three seem like some sort of oracles.

Pat nods his thanks and takes the knife back. He rubs his thumb over the bright red surface before placing it in his pocket with the iron ingot. Another tool in his arsenal.

But the old man with the annoying machine seems keen on pushing his lover’s buttons and it’s about time to intervene. As Achilles opens his mouth to respond, Pat grasps his hand and tugs him towards the musician’s road. “You don’t owe him any answers, Achilles. Let’s keep moving.”

Hermes is more than happy to usher Achilles onward with Patroclus, since nothing can be gained from having a fight with a half-man, half-tree. Walter grunts, looking back at his typewriter and pounding a few keys.

"I saw your son."

The musician and Andreas both pause, turning as best they can to frown at Walter. But as may be evident from how they twist, it's clear how he could see something that the other two don't.

The typist pushes the platen back in place over the typewriter, pulling his freshly typed page from it and laying it delicately on the pile besides him. "He was with Ember's gang."

Andreas and the musician react visibly to the name. Both cringe, the musician grimacing and Andreas making the sign of the cross over his body. Lugh, on the other hand, doesn't react at all, still smiling very slightly.

"If he's like the rest of them, the world is better off without him. And he's better off without the world." The typist takes a blank page and rolls it into the typewriter. "Go home."

“The world is not better off. His family needs him, and he needs his family.” Achilles breaks from Pat’s hold and returns to plant his hands on either side of the writer’s desk. He’s like an eagle being mobbed by a crow, proud and sharp but obviously ruffled.

Patroclus sighs and keeps close to Achilles, still ready to keep him from doing anything he’ll regret.

“What do you mean he’s with a gang? We were told he was among the Morrígan’s hunting party. Which is the truth?” Patroclus asks the writer in a more measured, if still mildly irritated tone. He’s not sure who is more credible: Kelly or this other trapped human. “How long ago did you see him? Where was he headed?”

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject