Beach Day

20: Nothing

The unfamiliarity of the long, dark hall tickles her brain. She should know this; the universe told someone she loves long ago; but she doesn't know what it is or why.

She is familiar with silhouettes; with long, dark halls where women stand, imposing, backs turned; with lights on in rooms where she dares not tread, and yet knows she must. What is the choice here, then? There is no door behind her.

Her hand shifts on the weapon she holds. Handle clutched tight in anxious fingers, she looks down. It isn't Aunt Esther's sword. She doesn't know why she expects to see a spiked hilt and a barbed blade instead of a long, silvery one glowing gently with green light.

In front of her, a silhouette at the end of a hall and the top of some stairs. Behind her, only the wall.

This is bad. This is abysmal. She should turn back and retreat to the stardust of dreams she knows. It's a little late for that, though.

The silhouette, tall and thin, rubs the front of its face. It chews on its own cheek. Tiff can hear it from where she stands.

And, well— Tiff Sheridan has never been one to hold back. She steps forward, feeling the weight of the blade in her hand, then steps forward again.

Wonder of all wonders, it speaks. "Hey there, Tiffy. I've been waiting for you."

The voice is all around her; the voice is just in her head. Whatever the case, she doesn't like it. She doesn't like that there's something talking to her and she can't get a grip on what it is. The voice is too similar to her own.

Through snarls of laughter, Tiff snorts, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Cocky, aren't we?"

"I'm just getting Tiffed."

"Back to an earlier incarnation. Erasing development. Nice, nice. I like it."

"It's not 'erasing development' to keep being cocky in the face of things like you."

"Things like me? You don't even know what I am."

"Then what are you? And why have you been watching me?"

"Uh-uh-uh!" It waggles a finger. "Nice try. You have to figure that one out on your own! You can call me... Well, you can call me nothing. You can call me everything. What you call me won't really matter."

"Could I call you Tiff?"

"Why would you call me Tiff? That would muddy the narrative."

"Then maybe I will call you Nothing."

"And I will call you Nothing in turn."

"Wouldn't that muddy the narrative?"

"Oh no, oh no. You know exactly who you are."

"Why don't you stop it with the word games and tell me what you mean by 'the narrative.'" Talking like this to something that might be much older and much more powerful than a teen demigod holding someone else's sword is probably a horrible idea. She adjusts her grip again. Her bones and the muscles beneath her skin scream. How many times has she injured this shoulder?

"Too many to count."

Tiff starts, confused. Shaking her head a little to snap back to herself, she checks to make sure all those pesky mental defenses are still up. They should be, and they are— so what gives?

"Oh, Nothing. Honey, dear. Those won't work with me." It pouts, makes a motion like it pities her. "I'm in your head. I have always been in your head."