2020-09-09 - 99 Red (Green? Blue? Yellow?!) Balloons Go By

August knew, when he and Isabella came up with the idea of poking around in the Veil, checking out the balloons, that the risk of things getting...well, weird. That there might be a price. And of course, there was. He can't be surprised, when he finds himself floating and yellow, TABLE THAI proudly scawled on himself. Itzhak, on the other hand...

"What the hell."

He cringes at his 'voice'; to add insult to injury, he sounds like he's sucked on a year's worth of helium.

Right. So.

The circus tent makes him wary, a sensation which is only compounded as the spikes come to his attention. He's thinking he needs to find a nice current to float away on when that siren call finds him. Just accept that you're wrong...it's Table Thai. It's Black Bear Diner. It's Poorhouse.

He doesn't care all that much about the location names, come to it. It makes for an amusing thing to argue with people about, but at the end of the day, he's not hurt by Grizzly Den Diner being Black Bear Diner now. (He would, of course, feel differently if Branch & Bole had become Trunk & Leaf. That wouldn't stand, oh hell no.) He didn't found these places, doesn't work at them. It's not that big of a deal.

But there's a larger problem: it's not just the place names. There's the other memories too. If this is all connected, if the place names are the start of a slippery slope that leads to the valley of those other changes, then there's a bigger problem than accepting 'Black Bear Diner' (which sounds bad) and Poorhouse (which makes no sense, Pourhouse is a PUN that's THE POINT): he has to accept that maybe he did jilt Eleanor.

His reaction to that is visceral and immediate. She circled him seven times ("...what is she doing?" "Hakafot. Makes a wall of protection around him." "From what?" "Evil spirits." "And the glances of other women." "Also men, I guess, in his case?" "...yeah, I guess?" "Knock it off, you two."), they exchanged vows and rings under the chuppah and had a wedding night to remember, and he will be stone cold and dead in the ground before he ever leaves her, so that memory can GO FUCK ITSELF, and so can anything that legitimizes it.

The yellow balloon plumets like a rock into the spikes. He has a terrfying split second of wondering if his refusal is going to cost him his life. Is he really willing to die knowing himself as true to Eleanor, rather than live with the possibility that he wasn't? Is he really?

*POP*

He wakes up with a shout, eyes wet. His heart pounds and his mind races. Is he alive? Is he? Did he just fuck everything up?

The pain hits him after a second; a huge, bloody gash in his right bicep, like he's been rent by some animal. "God, fuck," he groans, holding it against himself.

He's glad they're out in the greenbelt meadow, so no one can see him, bloody with tears running down his face. All because he wouldn't let Them tell him he'd hurt Eleanor. Such a simple thing.

But that's just it. That's how They win, by making him give up some part of himself. And They can't have that; he gave it to Eleanor. If that means he has to suffer to refuse Them, that's what it means. He's made his choice. Anyways, what's another scar? He can say he got it for love.

He climbs to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain and dizziness, starts looking around for Itzhak.

Alexander is blue, and there's nothing he can do.

He went with Isabella out of curiosity, and to try and make sure that she didn't get kidnapped or turned into Ophelia or something. He came prepared with an exploration kit, a sharp knife, and lightning.

None of which are remotely useful, or even available, while hovering as a balloon. A blue balloon. It's not actually a bad life, even with that horrible spike tent down below. But he sort of likes having arms. He bobs around looking for Isabella, and sees balloon-her, and balloon-others, as well. "Isabella! Itzhak! August!" He tries to call their names, but what comes out is more like the rubbery squeak of running your hands down a balloon's sides. And suddenly this isn't fun anymore.

He spins and notices the balloon with Poorhouse written on it. "That's not how it's written," he squeaks. Just accept that it IS, something pulls at him, tells him to just give up. Admit that he doesn't have a good grip on reality. Admit that sometimes he remembers things wrong, and maybe he's remembering everything wrong. Maybe this is all just a Dream, the cruelest Dream yet, one where he has someone to love, and friends to care for, and people who will talk to him and let him solve things and play games with him and not laugh or pull away or pity him.

Just accept it, Alexander. You don't know what real is. Other people need to tell you that. You can't trust yourself.

"No." As soft a whisper as the wind over the rubber of his balloon. "It's real. It's the Pourhouse." His balloon drops a little in the sky, floating towards those spikes and his imagined mouth goes dry. "P-" down, down, "O-", it bobs only a inch over the spikes, and he knows, he knows that if he insists there will be pain and terror.

But will it be worse than never trusting his own mind again? When he's worked so hard to build something that he could count on?

He takes a memory of a breath. Shouts. "P-O-U-R-H-"

He doesn't get any further than that before he goes POP! and shreds of plastic fall merrily towards the tent.

The moment they cross over, Isabella Reede can feel the wrongness of the shift - she's done this many times already, crossing in and out of the Veil in a variety of ill-advised misadventures. But when she suddenly finds herself as a balloon where everything is red, she gurgles out an exclamation immediately. The first thing she does is attempt to find her companions - and she does. Much like her, they've been transformed into balloons, and in different colors. Alexander's stands out immediately, because of course he would be the blue one. It's his favorite color.

She's suddenly reminded of the famous Daft Punk song in the 1990s, and she shakes her head to get rid of the thought: Focus, Reede. People are counting on you to help fix this.

There's a frown when the mistaken names waft past her and the tugging, visceral pull somewhere within her. This is wrong. This isn't right. And every part of her screaming to relent, which, as usual, only coaxes her to buckle down harder because that's just the way she is. It's the same tendency that nearly caused her to disappear in the strange memorial after crossing over in the cemetery, this absolute inability to let go of who and what she is and accept what's in front of her without questioning it. The pull is especially strong today, along with the siren's song lull of the promise she can taste at the back of her throat; she can reclaim her real body, only if she relents and believes.

Because what else would be erased if she did? The last year? Rediscovering Byron, meeting Alexander, friends who weren't friends before, and her hard-won doctorate?

"Like hell!" And her balloon self attempts to pinwheel across the sky in an attempt to get to the ground on her own power, nevermind that she has Veil physics and no small amount of helium against her. "I'm not going to risk that, damn you! So let me down! Let me down! MY NAME IS DOCTOR ISABELLA REEDE OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, GOD DAMN IT, AND I'M NOT A KINDERGARTEN TEACH--"

There is nothing else, because red latex explodes in tatters and...

....the crack of bone causes her green-and-gold eyes to fly open wide, lips parted in a scream of pain.

Itzhak is pretty confused for a while. His world is now green and latexy and what's up with that weird white-boy remake of Shazaam? Was Shaq not good enough?? Wait. ...wait that's not right. That's not right. None of this is right.

Accept this?

When has Itzhak ever accepted anything in his aggravated life?

A brokh tsu dir! Faln zolstu nit oyfshteyn, fuck you, FUCK YOU!--and his balloon self pops and Itzhak chose a most unfortunate curse, wishing that They would fall and not rise again. For he falls from that height and despite frantically thinking no no not my fretting hand NO he lands on his left arm.

Crunch.

Itzhak's violin will be silent for a while.