9/22/1005:

Went home early today. I started feeling sick again—just more of the usual, nothing critical. Mr. Varg clucked at me and said something about girls having "too much air in the head and blood in the sack to hold up to a man's job." Dirty old bastard. I flipped him the finger once I was outside (and he couldn't see me. Okay, so I'm the most cowardly rebel ever.)

Did some sketchy math lately, concerning the blight. I don't like to call my affliction that because it's based on a groundless accusation from a duly unreliable source, but at least it's a pretty wicked name. It makes me sound hardcore—not that there's anyone to talk to about it, besides the shadows. ...I shouldn't be writing about this. I also promised Alfador III I wouldn't talk to myself so much (that is, as the old Medinan philosopher Tai Bon would say, the first sign of insanity.) I feel bad for lying to him, but it's not very professional to feel remorse towards one's lab gerbil. I have a scientist's facade to maintain, after all.

Anyway, about the blight (which it isn't, but allowing the benefit of the doubt...) It used to be localized around the snake bite, but now the marks burn all up my right leg and side, now. The veins are turning black, too, as if they're scorched, although when it doesn't hurt I still have full mobility. I've roughly measured the rate of growth at one-to-two centimeters per month, so if the infection continues to spread radially at this rate, in another three years it'll cover most of my body—although to be brutally honest, I doubt I'll make it that long. Every time I get the notion to go see a doctor, they—the shadows, that is—tell me it's pointless. I'm not sure whether to believe them. If it's all in my head, that would be like not listening to myself, and how crazy is that?

I still can't bring it to Marle, either. I don't want to burden her and Crono with this. If what the shadows and Mishu said is true, curative magic won't help, anyway. It's my problem, and I have to handle it on my own.

Speaking of the shadows, I thought I caught one of their names while they were whispering to each other—or maybe they were just talking about a barn. I've read that knowing a spirit's name will enable you to control it, if you know the right spell. Maybe that's why they won't ever tell me theirs. ...I can't believe I'm actually acknowledging those little jerks now.

Perhaps insanity is all in the perspective. I perceive I'm sane, but if I'm lying to myself, does that make me insane?

Good grief, this entry is morbid, but I can't help it. I won't shy away from the facts, and I won't let the prospect of dying or losing my mind scare me. If anything, it tells me that I need to work harder, before I run out of time.

First though, I need a nap. My leg is killing me, and sitting in this stiff wooden chair doesn't help. Going to lie down for a while, hopefully until tomorrow (ugh, it's only Wednesday. Two more days of work before the weekend.)

-3-

'I'm starting to see why they call it a work box: because it's a load of work just moving it around.'

Her mad, invisible companions continued to make odd quips while Lucca tried to clear a space for the cumbersome wooden chest she was just ordered to stow away. It wasn't often that Mr. Varg put a loan on a tool box, yet whenever he did, it was a doozy. It was big enough to make an ogan's coffin, with heavy oaken slats and iron latches. The customer had brought it in as far as the back counter, and once he left it was suddenly Lucca's problem (when she complained, "What am I supposed to do with this?" Varg's reply was, "You're supposed to be smart, aren'tchya? Figure it out.") Luckily it had been emptied of tools, else she would never be able to push it—although even that was becoming more of a herculean chore by the minute.

"Would it kill you... old man... to invest in a cart?" she huffed between each step, the box grating against the floor hard enough to leave dusty streaks. "Or a... dolly, or... any sort of... simple machine? Mankind's greatest invention... is still considered... the wheel! It's like working for a... damn caveman."

She took that thought back; it was insulting to cavemen, and she knew some very nice ones. Varg was just a stingy old crab.

Overhearing her frustration, Varg shouted through the curtain, shouted through the curtain, "Bitch, bitch, Ashtear. If you spent less time flappin' your gums and more time moving, you might get some damn work done."

Lucca grumbled some sour retort and then braced against the other side of the box, angling to push it around another shelf. Her palms bit into a wreath of rust and cobwebs, and she had to whine again, "Geez, if a spider jumps out of this thing I'm going to die..."

'There aren't any spiders in there.'
'Damnit, I wasn't about to tell her that! Quit spoiling my fun.'

She secretly thanked the other brother for being a spoilsport and resumed her effort. After barely making any more headway, Lucca decided to turn on the other half of her brain and apply some grease to the box's feet, forging a slick railway all the way to the back corner. "Hah! Work smarter, not har-" The box reached a puddle of spilled oil and spurted ahead, letting her fall face-first to the floor. "-ooaf!"

'Gwahaha! You're pretty klutzy for a so-called genius, you know that?'

"Oi! You break anything?" Varg barked at the racket.

Lucca peeled herself off the ground, examined the grime around her freshly-scraped elbows and peevishly answered, "Ugh, no... Just my dignity."

Varg responded with gravelly nonchalance, "Well I didn't pay for that. Quit goofin' around back there, you clumsy dyke."

"I hate this damn job..." Lucca muttered, meeting her quota of disgust for the day as she finished relocating the tool box and cleaning up the oil slick.

("What the hell? You think we call it a dime bag because that's how much it costs? You ain't gettin' shit for those peanuts.")
("Com'on man, you know I'm good for it...")

Speaking of collateral loans, she could still overhear the gang in the alley next door, up to their usual gimmicks. They had a customer of their own, a regular by the sounds of him, and Haru was dealing him a hard bargain today.

("Oh don't even start, man. We're doin' some new management up in this joint. No more tabs. This ain't a bar.")

Charlie piped up, his tone slick with interest, ("Y'got a nice watch there, though.")

("Huh? Oh, yeah, my dad gave it to me... Oh no way, guys, I can't give you my watch.")

Haru played into it. ("You said you're good for it, right? You want some good stuff, you'll let us hold on to it. You can get it back when you pay for it. Sound fair?")

("...Alright, dude...")

Thus settled, the customer went on his way, and Lucca heard Charlie settling onto the lid of a trash can. ("The hell's this watch made of, anyway?")

("I dunno, but it looks nice. Think it's silver or what?") Haru guessed.

It lightly jingled as Charlie shook it on his wrist. ("No man, it's this weird-lookin' metal...")

Liquel's chirpy accent pitched in, ("Maybe it's like, aluminium. I hear they makin' all kinds of stuff outta that now.")

("What the hell did you just say...?") Gary broke in, curiously aghast.

She imagined Liquel's confused shrug. ("What? Aluminium.")

("Are you talkin' about fuckin' aluminum?")

("Aluminum is what they're making tools and ladders and stuff out of now, right?") Haru tried to interject before Gary's voice rose to a fever pitch.

It was a wasted effort. ("I know, but he's sayin' it all fucked-up!")

Liquel fired back, ("You guys are the ones saying it fucked up! It's al-u-min-i-um.")

Charlie threw in a mollifying, ("Just forget it, man. He went to school in Choras, remember?")

Gary blew up on a tangent, regardless. ("Cripes, Liquel, I know you learned your ABC's off the side of a cow, but here in Truce we teach the fuckin' language proper n' shit, not no throwin' all extra letters and sounds in there for the fuck of it.")

Liquel's tone turned indignant. ("Hey hey, I ain't just gonna sit here and listen t'you dissin' my home town.")

("What'do you want, a fuckin' apology?") Gary spat back. ("I'm sorry your mamma lives in a toilet town that don't know how to read. How's that?")

("You son of a-")

Haru's ("Whoa!") was too late to break up the brawl that ensued. Tin cans and milk crates were battered against the walls as the two scuffled over the sparse pavement. There was a nearly a minute of discordant thrashing, punctuated by the hard smack of flesh and shoes against brick.

"Oh my gawd, I can't take it anymore..." Lucca slammed her hands on the workbench, got up and strode over to the corner transmitting all the clamour.

'You're finally gonna cram this job up that old man's ass?' the black voice asked with a thread of hope.

"No! I mean these ignorant clowns..."

Lucca crouched before the cubbyhole, drew a testy breath and then paused. She hadn't considered it before—talking back through the wall. She never had anything to say to those goons, and she didn't want to give them a reason to think somebody was eavesdropping on their 'business.' Surely sound could conduct through the stovepipe both ways, but just because it was feasible didn't make it a good idea.

("Agh-ah!")
("Geez Gary let him go!")
("Say it! Say 'aluminum,' bitch!")
("Ahhh... alufuckyoum...!")

...Oh, to hell with it. "Aluminium is an acceptable alternate spelling, and is actually more commonplace in literature from the last century."

The fight ground to a swift halt. Lucca could have dropped a pin in the lull and gotten a louder report than the response she was getting from that alley, and she bit her lip, suddenly nervous.

Then came the most awestruck curse she'd ever heard. ("Holy shit, what was that?")

Her compulsion to correct people was going to get the better of her one of these days, but she couldn't resist the urge to follow-up, "As a matter of fact, the Library of Choras is becoming one of the most reputable authorities on language in the world, so before long we might all be taught to say al-u-min-i-um in school."

Gary sounded suitably dumbfounded. ("What. The hell.")

She heard Liquel jump up and cheer, ("You see? Holy shit thank you, weird talking voice lady.")

Haru began to sniff around the skirt of the alley, his suspicion piqued. ("Where is that coming from?")

("I dunno, it sounds like it's coming from everywhere.") Liquel didn't have a clue.

("I'm freakin' out, man...") Charlie said timorously.

Gary stood up to the wall and shouted boldly, ("Hey lady! Who the hell are you?")

Lucca stifled a wily grin, flushed with relief and perverse delight. It was fortunate that her voice was distorted and amplified through the pipe beyond recognition. She decided on a whim to be mysterious—she was having too much fun. "I am she, the one who speaks through walls."

-3-

'I think it's time.'
'Today?'

Lucca was much more resolute about not acknowledging the voices in public than she was in private, for obvious reasons. When the brothers were together, their cryptic discourse seemed to be as pointless as it was ceaseless, anyway.

'Indeed.'
'Heh! This is gonna be good.'

She tucked her tool pouch under her arm, pressed her helmet snugly over her head and ducked through the stream of evening commuters. The main avenues of Truce were busiest before sundown, and if a pedestrian made a wrong turn, the law favored the speeding carriage. She didn't enjoy fighting traffic, much less crowds, and that was another reason she rarely left work on time. She could have stomached the alleyway banter for another hour or two (even if it made her feel like an illicit accessory) and waited until the workers and wives were home and the sailors and drunks were at the taverns, but a headache had snuck up on her (probably from all the unnecessary heavy moving), and she was feeling a little sick and tired. The sooner she got home, the better.

At least the walk was refreshingly scenic. The cobblestone streets and cast iron lampposts were dusted with rosy gold in the autumn sunset, and the clouds played through a kaleidoscope of pinks and blues.

'Watch your step.'

Right, not getting run over in broad daylight would be nice, too. She was watching the sidewalk a little too closely when she bumped into a tall man walking the other way. "Whoa! Hey there-" he started, barely breaking stride to lift his arm and let her pass. Lucca glimpsed a faded brown trench coat and an affable smirk beneath the brim of a fedora (he had a clean, smart, young face, one she didn't recognize—not that she studied a lot of faces. She was trying to watch her damn step) before belting out an apology and dashing away.

'I think that was a policeman.'
'Seriously?'
'Did you see the badge under his coat?'
'Hah! Nice going, klutz.'

"Shut up," Lucca hissed, scrambling around the corner and onto a dirt path that would take her out of town and to her home island. No, she didn't see any badge—how could she if it was under his coat? The voices always noticed little things like that, all the same. Why should a police officer make her nervous, anyway? She wasn't a criminal or anything, even if the way she squeaked and rushed off just then was a mite suspicious. Maybe tuning in to Gary's gang was already making her conscience itch—she had heard way too much about the things one could buy around the wrong corner.

'Oh, don't run away, now. We've got a surprise for you.'
'Heheheh.'

She didn't wait to hear any more about it. Sure, trying to outrun the voices was crazy and fruitless (not to mention exacerbated her headache), but if the clattering wooden planks of the bridge could drown them out for just a minute, it was worth it. For better or for worse, by the time she reached the island, cleared the unkempt yard, skipped over the transformer box she meant to move out of the grass three months ago, and kicked in the jammed latch to the front door of her house, all she could hear was the pounding between her ears.

Lucca dropped her tools, tossed her helmet into a chair and fell straight onto the couch, never minding the grease on her gloves and overalls. No piece of furniture in her house had seen its original colors since she was a little kid. The couch used to be red, maybe, but she couldn't be sure anymore. Maybe if she rubbed in enough dirt, the stains would at least look uniform.

She lay across the cushions like a beached fish for nearly an hour, staring listlessly at the dust balls on the coffee table and trying to lose her aching mind. There was a dated newspaper on the ground that she had folded and wedged under the table's wobbly leg. The headline was chewed off by a mouse she never caught, and the paper was starting to turn yellow. Besides that, she knew it was old because the last person who brought newspapers into her house was her father. She could remember that much with stinging clarity—she just couldn't remember when she quit trying to legitimately fix things around the house. Eventually daylight slipped away and it grew so dark Lucca couldn't find the glasses on her nose, so she gave in, sat up and turned on a lamp.

And then shrieked and jumped over the back of the sofa.

'Why, hello.'
'Surprise! Hah.'

Lucca clung to the ragged upholstery for support, gaping at the visitors that had manifested out of thin air, right on her coffee table. Or... over it. Around it? They couldn't be sitting on her table if they didn't have any hindquarters with which to sit—they didn't have any solid substance at all, actually. They appeared as little more than plumes of grey smoke, hardly bigger than housecats, tangled in heavy coils around the edges of the table and staring up at her with two pairs of neon blue and red eyes, respectively.

What were these—monsters? Demons? Ghosts? She hated to admit that she now believed in ghosts, yet she was presented with irrefutable evidence on more than one occasion. That didn't mean she was about to jump and cry 'ghost' at every little shadow, but it was enough to give her pause. "What the-?" Her mind scrambled for the best response, although it was torn between setting the apparitions on fire and putting them out (running screaming from the house was a distant third option.) Her own recollection caught her, however.

Two years before, when she went hunting for her parents' killers, they nearly did her in, as well. That was when she first met them face-to-face—not the killers, per se, but these cloudy creatures with the reptilian masks and glowing eyes—although it all seemed like an elaborate near-death dream. When she awoke, the black voices kept speaking to her as if nothing had happened. She knew it was them, though, because they looked and sounded just the same as they did back then, every wispy detail burned into her photographic memory.

"You! I..." she stammered, the next step beyond her. What good did recognition do her?

The blue-eyed one spoke first, his oily tone eerily placating. 'Relax. Only you can see us.'

"Oh," she flatly said. The shadows seemed to wait for her to digest that. The red-eyed one cocked his brow impatiently, and she shook herself out of her dumb shock by turning around and marching up the stairs towards her room. "Okay, so now I'm visually hallucinating, too. That's great."

It was a worthless retreat; as soon as she turned on the light the twins were there, seeping out of the floorboards to meet her. The blue one corkscrewed up a bedpost to reach her at something closer to eye-level. 'Now, now. We've decided that since we're getting so well acquainted, we might as well quit lurking about and let you see our true forms.'

When Lucca last saw them, they had a brief and hardly revelatory conversation, although she did recall their every word regardless of whether or not they made sense. "You're rapiers. I already knew that."

'True,' the blue one granted with a congenial nod.

And she wouldn't dare forget a rapier if she saw one again—or two, in this instance. Her friends were once attacked by one named... "But you don't like to possess people, unlike Seth..."

'Very true.'
The red one shook his hazy muzzle and gagged. 'Ugh, humans, gross.'

"And you're after..." She hesitated to skim her memory for their motive. Over the years they had mentioned very little and yet a great deal about some ethereal magic demigods, ones she only knew from fairytales and a very old, arcane book. "...revenge, on the espers. Have I recapped everything so far?"

The red one perked up affirmatively. 'You're on the money.'

Lucca wasn't sure how deliberating with her hallucinations was going to help her, but she sure as hell wasn't about to entertain them with polite conversation. She had to approach this discursively, or not at all. "And you think I can somehow help you with this?"

The blue one's answer only confounded her. 'You're already helping us.'

"How?"

'It's no fun to tell you everything now, is it?' the red one chided.
The blue one's tone was much more conciliatory, if not much more helpful. 'Try to remember. We've met before.'

She scratched her temple, nonplussed. Her headache was coming back. "When? You mean back when we were fighting Ramezia?"

The red one shook his head again. 'Neh. Keep going.'

"Going where? When did we meet?" She thought back to when she first refused to concede insanity, to a snake in the grass and a dark whisper in the back of her every waking thought, like a demonic echo. They had just slain Lavos. She wasn't going to make that connection, because it was too insidious. She couldn't blame Lavos for every ill in her life—the only lasting impression that monster left was some post-traumatic stress. "If I started hearing you in my head right after the Millennial Fair, then we met... sometime during our quest to kill Lavos, wasn't it?"

'If you want to get technical about it, we met you thousands of years ago.'

She snapped her fingers. "In the past! So I did meet you while time-traveling."

To her vexation, the brothers merely sniggered.
'Eheheheheh.'
'Heheheh.'

"What's so funny?"

'You don't get it,' was all the red one would say.

She could have kicked one of these translucent monsters, but figured she would end up punting a book or chair across the room instead. She settled for grabbing a pillow and hurling it at the nearest foe. "No, I don't! That's why I'm asking, argh!"

The blue one hurdled over the flying object like a buoy over a slight wave. 'Come now, let's not be hostile. We'd like to give our relationship a fresh start.'

Lucca collapsed on the bed and buried the sight of her unwanted guests behind a sheet of quilted linen, like a child hiding under the covers from a ghost. "How about by leaving me alone?"

The blue one feigned injury, holding his tapering tail over the void of his heart. 'Tsk, so harsh. And we're just trying to be friends.'

The red one squatted at the foot of the bed and sneered, 'Yeah, how rude. How 'bout some damn courtesy?'

"I don't want to be your friend!" she railed at them, kicking the blanket away as if it were tainted. "I didn't ask to have anything to do with your revenge, whatever it is you're doing. I don't care about rapiers or espers or any of that!"

'We're not asking you to do anything, like we said. We're only trying to be open with you.'

"Except you won't tell me how I'm not doing anything to help you," she snipped, glowering at the blue one as it inched by her side.

'It's not relevant, is it?' he quibbled.

"It's relevant to everything! It's why you're here, bothering me!"

'Don't worry about it.'

'Yeah, we've taken care of it,' the red one backed him up. 'And what my brother is saying is that we're willing to do the same for you.'

Lucca screwed up a look of distrust. "What's that supposed to mean?"

'We mean that our friendship might be more valuable than you think. We have special skills, things you won't find anywhere else...' The blue one ghosted over her ankle, and this time she went for the kick—her foot passed clean through him. She won a sly grin for the effort. '...knowledge that can help you.'

"What makes you think I need help?"

'The blight.'

Lucca held her breath, and the blue one pounced on that flicker of anxiety.

'It still hurts, doesn't it? That nice, stinging, burning sensation, keeping you up at night...? We know how to manage it. We can make it easier for you.'

She frowned, determined not to take such soliciting from a couple of loose spirits. "I can handle it fine. It's not actually the blight, okay? It's just an old snake bite."

He lowered a true blue stare at her in return. 'You're a terrible liar. Ignoring it isn't the same as handling it. Stop deluding yourself.'

The red one crept up to her other side. 'You remember what that neiphiti whore told you. She said the darkness will consume you.'

'And she's right. The only chance you have to escape that fate is to trust us.'

Lucca rolled off the bed and to her feet, furiously pacing away from the madness. "The only delusion here is you! I don't have to buy any of this! You're not real."

'You'll admit that you're insane, then?'

She stopped and crossed her arms, fuming—more upset with herself than anything. Why was she letting this happen? Why was she being weak? Even as they mentioned it, those wretched scars seethed and ached, pulling her argument right from under her feet. She wanted to kick something again, anything—it was enough to make her feel ill. She just wanted to lie down and pretend this wasn't happening.

The blue one slithered close again, entreating suavely, 'Lucca, Lucca, please. Let's start over.' He then bowed, a tendril of his dusky mane brushing her hand. It was cold; she shivered. 'My name is Bairith.'

'Barnath,' the other one gruffly offered, nowhere near as eloquently as his brother.

Were they kidding? What kinds of names were those? She regarded them both with a glum snort. "Barnath and Bairith."

The spirits nodded earnestly. They were, sadly, serious.

It felt like signing her soul over to the devil. She could either take the word of a couple of ghosts and throw away the last of her sanity, or admit there was nothing left to throw away, after all. They were right about one thing: she couldn't handle what was happening to her alone. It was too easy to forget oneself, day after day of the same tiresome routine. She could tell herself she didn't need any companionship. She knew how to take solace in solitude, and was strong enough to support herself in every worldly way, but...

She wouldn't admit that the darkness scared her. It was the great, dreaded unknown—the one thing that knew how tinge her dreams with shades of doubt and rattle her nightmares to the core.

Lucca sealed the deal with a mirthless laugh, too sick and tired to resist, for once in her life. "Heh! Fine. Crazy must love company."