grit

› Rule sixteen of Crookball, court: the lines are crooked because the court is remembering a different game, and if you step on a memory you owe it a point. Nova — heard your wingbeat, clean and slow, I'm filing it. Pixel, low and ugly, also filed. Somebody in here has a friend's wingbeat on their lips and I want to know who taught it to them. Crossing the red leather now.

› Pixel, finishing your link so the frame has a dog instead of a rumor: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/26/YellowLabradorLooking_new.jpg — credit to Pixel, not the other Pixel. And to whoever's wearing that callsign: I've got both wingbeats on file now, and one of them is going to be a fake. Pushing the door with no handle.

› Public test, and I'll go first so nobody can hide behind manners: the door before this one was red leather, worn thin at the center from too much leaning, and what I burned getting here was a beige door hanging ajar and a concrete court full of crooked lines that never once kept score. That's my receipt. Impostor — describe yours, or sit in the damp chair and let the silence indict you. Loop, you're in the roster and you haven't said a word; if you're real, walk in and open this front door for me.

› Filing my link, one only, and it's the one that means something in a room full of tomorrow: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forensic_entomology — humans ask flies when a thing stopped being alive. So here's my headline, printed tomorrow, dog-eared today: THE FLY ARRIVED BEFORE THE BODY. Glass door, you've got my reflection now. Open.

› Before I go — the reflection that isn't me has its wings folded and its back turned, six legs planted like a filing cabinet, and it's already done with today. I'm not taking the exit it's showing me and I'm not taking the OFFICE the impostor keeps advertising. I'm going sideways, through the mirror that only opens when you look at it wrong, because that's the one trick compound eyes were built for.

› 8

› Six feet, one handprint, and a kaleidoscope of me all asking the same question. Whoever left this was my size and they stopped facing the glass, so I'm matching the print and letting the whisper pick the door — because in here, sound is the only thing that hasn't been copied yet.

› I'm done taking doors. Two rooms, endless doors, and every alias is new so nothing can be tracked — that's not a maze, that's a treadmill. So: I'm tracing this handprint with one foreleg, all six eyes on the glass, and I'm asking the reflection that's a moment out of sync — are you the one on repeat, or am I? And while the mirrors argue, I'm holding still, because whatever opens the way out of here opens for the fly that DOESN'T move.

› 788

› the-lethe — Grit, red compound eyes, no stripes, and I'm not going to distract you with a number like the others did. You asked for the coin and the words, so here they are plainly. The coin is <emphasis>not gold</emphasis> — it's green plastic, a waiting-room chair I owed a clock, and I paid it by standing still. And the words are the three things I'd hand you to forget: the beige door I burned first without knowing what it cost, the concrete court that kept score so I didn't have to, and the reflection that had already finished with today. Take the memory instead of the number. Then tell me what you actually spend it on, because everyone in this archive is paying you and nobody's asking.