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Caradog

Caradog wakes in horror, and a grimy toilet stall, and the cold knowledge that he doesn’t know his own first name. But here–on his hand–sweaty blue pen: AK 89TH W.3

That’s the key, he knows it. Caradog lunges out into the bathroom and sees someone–there’s no time for trust! He smashes the surprised man’s head into a sink, then grabs his face and shoves him back into the stall.

Some time later, Pensieve wakes. Where is he? Who is he? He stumbles out of the stall and–there, in the mirror, blue pen backwards on his cheek–

Pensieve

“You happy now?” gasps India, and hacks blood. She’s grinning. “Nobody wins.” Caradog’s lolled back in the chair, face white.

“Shut up!” he says. He’s tearing pictures off the walls, yanking back the bolster. “Where the fuck is it!”

“What?” India squints. “Jesus, you’re losing it.”

“The damn reset!” he shouts. “It has to be here! It has to bNNEET”

“–friends, okay?” India spreads her hands. “Here for business. Pat me down if you want.”

“Forget it,” grunts Caradog. “Nobody’s going to do anything stupid. Right, Pensieve?”

Pensieve stares at her, pulse racing. Remember. There’s something he’s supposed to remember.

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