<dd>A night on the town. A bar for an aperitif. A light dinner at a modern restaurant, one of those places with default sensoria settings that turn up the taste inputs and turn down the visual inputs, so that you eat intensely delicious food amidst a thick, purple fog. Another bar, livelier and less painfully modern, for a digestif.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>And?</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Crowds. Crowds upon crowds. Your own crowd a cell within a supercrowd. Instances drifting, or perhaps forced by momentum — theirs or others’— along the thoroughfares of a nexus.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>And?</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>A low-slung building, a crowded foyer, fumbling for tickets.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>And?</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Waiting.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>And…</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Programs. Explanations. Elucidations. Errata. Words to chuckle over with your group of friends.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, of the Ode clade is pleased to welcome you to its gallery opening. Tonight, it has prepared for you a modest exhibition of its works within the realm of instance artistry. This is presented at the culmination of its tenure as Fellow, though the name rankles, of Instance Art in the Simien Fang School of Art and Design.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>And the sound of a door opening</p>
<p>A short, slight…thing, steps from the next room through one of the two doors on the far wall and calls for attention. To call it a person seems almost misleading. It’s a dog. A well-dressed dog? A glance further on in the program offers a glib explanation:</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>
<p><strong>The Artist</strong></p>
<p>This gallery exhibition serves as the capstone for Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, of the Ode clade in its role as fellow. The fellowship in instance art was created specifically for Dear in recognition of the excellence it brings to the field.</p>
<p>Dear’s instance is modeled after that of a now-extinct animal known as a fennec fox, a member of the vulpine family adapted to desert living. Dear has modified the original form to be more akin to that of humans. The iridescent white fur appears to have been a happy mistake.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Well. That’s a thing. Anyway.</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>
<p>If I may have your attention, folks. My signifier, or…ah, name is Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, or just Dear. I come from the Ode clade of Dispersionistas, and am a Fellow of Instance Art at the Simien Fang School of Art and Design.</p>
<p>An artist is, one might say, one who works with structured experience. A play is art, as is music, as both are means of structuring experience in a certain way.</p>
<p>So, also, is instance art. It is a way of using dissolution and merging in such a fashion that the experience of forking — or of witnessing forking…</p>
</dd>
</dl>
<p>DEAR nods (a slight pause).</p>
<dl>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>
<p>…becomes structured, becomes art.</p>
<p>Before we begin, I would like to take a small census of those present. This is for your own sakes as well as for that of the artworks, such as they are. We will let them know. Could you please raise your hand if you consider yourself a Tasker?</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>A scant few hands go up in the air, all huddled in one corner of the room. Perhaps a group? A group of their own?</p>
<p>Uncomfortable titters waft through the…the audience? The ticket holders, at least. Talking about dispersion strategies is not something one usually does.</p>
<p>Dear holds its face composed in a calm, polite expression.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>Trackers? Raise your hands, please.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Of those who remained minus the Taskers, perhaps a third raise their hands. Several individuals, a few distinct groups including your own. That leaves well more than half belonging to —</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>And dispersionistas?</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Sure enough, large numbers of hands lift into the air. The Dispersionistas are a vast majority, and surround most everyone else in the room, minus the Taskers, who remain off to their own side. The audience seems to be mostly fans of the work.</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>Thank you. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I will be happy to walk through the gallery with you.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>Dear turns adroitly on its heel and without a moment’s hesitation, forks. A second, identical instance appears to its left and finishes that turn in perfect synchrony.</p>
<p>A small wave of applause begins. To fork so casually and continue to move in lockstep bespeaks no small amount of practice with the procedure.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>It doesn’t last.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>One instance of Dear (the original? maybe?) heads through the left-hand door and the other (the fork? it’s so hard to keep track with all these people) steps through the right door.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>
<p>And here perhaps we must take a step back and acknowledge the fact that this is all very strange, because it certainly is. Because it’s confusing. Because it’s opaque. Because perhaps you aren’t even sure what these terms mean, even now. Because, like all love stories, it’s so very easy to get lost. Like all love stories it’s told from multiple angles. Like all love stories, despite time’s true arrow, it nevertheless is at its very core, nonlinear.</p>
<p>How do you remember it, these many years later? How do you take the fact that so much happened simultaneously that night and you merged so incautiously after that even your very own memories argue with you? How do you square <em>love story</em> with <em>corrupted memories</em> and still love the one you do?</p>
<p>You take a step back and acknowledge it.</p>
<p>You acknowledge it because you forked. You followed both Dears, damn the consequences.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>The room you wind up in is smaller even than the foyer, and the ticket-holders have to press even closer together. The audience that winds up here is the least diverse, containing none of the Taskers and very few of the Trackers who wound up at this (apparently primarily Dispersionista) event. As such, the press is met with uncomfortable silence: one doesn’t normally talk about dissolution strategies with strangers, but Dear has deftly forced it to be an issue.</p>
<p>There’s no sign on the fox’s face that it knows what it has done. Just that calm, polite smile. Curious. How can one know that a fox is smiling rather than snarling or something, much less that the smile is polite. Perhaps styled after those old cartoons of anthropomorphic animals, or simply just an impression.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>Thank you. Much cozier in here.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Many of the proclaimed Dispersionistas are grinning at the trick, and even several of the Trackers are smiling.</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>My only request is to not fork during the duration of the exhibition…</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Dear continues, giving a knowing glance to some of the Dispersionistas.</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>Exigencies aside, of course.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>A thought crosses your mind.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Perhaps it’s the drinks, those hip and strong aperitifs and too-sweet digestifs.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Well, hell. It’s hard to take a fox standing on two legs seriously when it gives you instructions.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>This all seems rather ridiculous, when you take a look at it. Instances as art?</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>You’re not as smooth as Dear, but you manage to step a little further away from one of your friends, leaving enough room for you to bring into existence your own second instance.</p>
<p>You’re not as smooth as Dear, but you manage to step a little further away from one of your friends, leaving enough room for you to bring into existence your own second instance.</p>
<p>For a moment, you aren’t sure quite what happens. After a second, things start to click into place, though.</p>
<p>A mere fraction of a second after you forked, Dear also forked, instructing its instance to come into existence in a space overlapping the space that your instance already occupied. This sort of thing is very much frowned upon and, in most public areas, impossible to even pull off.</p>
<p>As it is, collision detection algorithms whine in protest and force the two instances apart with some force, causing a cascading ripple of collisions, spreading complaints of personal space. The room has safe settings, at least, and the collision detection algos register a bump at least a centimeter before one body touches another.</p>
<p>The Dear at the front of the room is smiling beatifically, but the one confronting your instance has undergone strange transformations. Its eyes are bloodshot, almost to the point of glowing red. It’s mouth is gaping, lips pulled back in a snarl, muzzle flecked with froth. </p>
</dd>
<dt>You</dt>
<dd>Rabid…</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>…You think. It has lost most of its humanity, though it remains on two legs.</p>
<p>You let out a shout, but it’s drowned amid a chorus of other yells and screams.</p>
<p>Post-humanity, confronted with humanity regressed feels a special kind of fear, and as the feral Dear herds your instance toward the back of the room, back toward the foyer, the other ticket-holders…</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Though perhaps ‘audience members’ is the correct term once more</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>…surge forward toward the original instance of Dear.</dd>
</dl>
<p>The audience is shouting.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>It is still smiling</dd>
</dl>
<p>Shouting continues.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>It opens the next door.</p>
<p>The crush is far more intense than expected, as you find both halves of the audience rejoined and dumped back into a dark and already crowded room.</p>
<p>Already crowded with several instances.</p>
<p>Dear has forked itself several times and each of those instances are forking again, until there’s easily twice as many instances of Dear as there are audience members.</p>
<p>The noise doubles and then doubles again as the instances start charging at and pinning audience members against each other and the walls, herding and shouting, all with bloodshot eyes, bared fangs, inhuman snarls.</p>
<p>It’s loud and dark and panicky.</p>
<p>Some try forking. And the new instances are ganged up upon, charged at, with twice the intensity as the parent instances. Most quit.</p>
<p>You realize that these instances of Dear are not actually attacking to harm the audience. There are no syringes, no coercion to quit. Just exercising, violently, the collision detection algorithms in the room, which are still set safe.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>This makes you <em>furious</em>.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Without even thinking, you reach out a hand and grab one of the instances of Dear by the scruff of the neck and drag it to you, giving it a good shake as you do so.</dd>
<dt>You</dt>
<dd>(shouting) What the fuck do you think you’re doing?</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>The fennec snarls at you and, with surprising force, grabs your forearm and, using itself as a pivot, swings you around through about a quarter-circle’s arc. It keeps its paws on your arm, one on your elbow to keep it straight and one on your wrist, and shoves you back by lunging forward.</p>
<p>It lets you go and, in one complex motion, aims a swipe at your face with one paw while the other slams, palm flat, against its jacket pocket.</p>
</dd>
<dd>
<p>Something happens to the floor beneath your feet.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>You fall.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>The room into which you and this feral Dear fall is cylindrical. Walls of concrete, floor of packed dirt. The part of your mind still working on an intellectual level finds this funny, cliché.</p>
<p>That’s also the part of your mind that notices the default settings for sensoria and collision in this room are much, much different than the previous room. Full sensation, with collision detection algorithms turned way down.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>A room set for battle.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>You grin wildly.</dd>
<dt>You</dt>
<dd>(muttering) Good. Let it hurt. This ‘exhibition’ goes way beyond what it should.</dd>
</dl>
<p>DEAR growls, feral.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>Dear only growls.</p>
<p>There’s no circling, not yet. You two simply collide and have at each other. You with punching fists and knees attempting to find a groin . Dear with blunt, scratching claws and not-so-blunt teeth.</p>
</dd>
</dl>
<p>The sounds of a scuffle.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>The fox is without gender, you guess, but perhaps that still hurts.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>You have the advantage of size, and Dear has the advantage of speed. And teeth and claws worth wielding.</p>
<p>It leads to an even draw in the first match, until you fall back from each other and do the circling. Dear has lost all sense of humanity, to your eyes: hunched over like some werewolf out of a movie, fancy shirt torn, tail frizzed and lashing about, claws and teeth bared, slavering.</p>
<p>For your part, you fall back on what little you know of martial arts.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Mostly knowledge gleaned from fiction media, if you’re honest.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>You keep your back away from the fox, keep your fists up to guard your face, keep slightly turned to minimize your profile.</p>
<p>You lunge.</p>
<p>Dear lunges a heartbeat later, and you press your advantage with a kick. Your foot impacts the fox in the side, just above the pelvis.</p>
<p>Dear lets out a satisfying…</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>…and satisfyingly inhuman…</dd>
</dl>
<p>DEAR whines.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>…yelp of pain, collapsing on the dirt of the floor and whining for a moment.</p>
<p>You move to kick it again, but it rolls to the side and staggers back to its feet, landing a good swipe of its claws along your cheek and up over your ear, tearing flesh.</p>
<p>Shaking your head to try and dislodge the spinning sensation of jarred senses, you stumble back to press your back against the wall and gain yourself a moment.</p>
<p>Dear does not permit this. The fox scrambles after you, deceptively quick, and leaps toward you, aiming to land with both its feet…</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>…or footpaws?…</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>…and paws against you, mouth open wide to bite.</p>
<p>You try to roll to the left but don’t quite make it all the way away. Dear’s right paw catches on your shoulder while it’s left softens its landing against the concrete of the wall before latching up around your neck.</p>
<p>It’s an inopportune angle, but you feel it bite at you anyway, getting most of your shoulder at the base of your neck.</p>
<p>The pain of it’s teeth lodging in your skin is enough to make you cry out. Its got enough of your soft tissue in its muzzle that the contact is solid and, despite your attempts, you can’t swing it free.</p>
<p>You feel its right arm slip away and are too busy trying to gain the advantage to realize why until the paw swings back in front of you.</p>
<p>When you see the syringe…</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>…that symbol of death, a way to crash your instance…</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>…you panic and fork. As does Dear, and now there are two of you, two fights, two dances.</p>
<p>You scramble frantically to get away from the fennec, but its grip around your neck with its arm and its teeth is too strong.</p>
<p>You raise both hands to block the syringe as it darts inward, hoping to either knock it out of Dear’s paws or at least buy yourself some room to squirm away from the fox.</p>
<p>You’re too sluggish, too clumsy. After all, it doesn’t matter where the syringe lands. It’s only a sigil, an item holding a bunch of code.</p>
<p>A bunch of code that will attempt to crash your instance.</p>
<p>The syringe strikes you square in the sternum just as you force Dear’s arms away.</p>
<p>The fox immediately quits.</p>
<p>Fading, leaving you to crumple.</p>
<p>The world around you dissolves into voxels, each of which steadily gets larger and larger.</p>
<p>The voxels step down in intensity until they fade to a dull grey.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>
<p>Dying is no quiet affair. It’s loud, painful. Surprisingly so.</p>
<p>Your instance, this body, is crashing in spectacular fashion. Every last bit of your sensorium is lit up like a Christmas tree, but the pain goes beyond that. It’s a pain of existence, of the need to continue existing.</p>
<p>Those expanding rings of colored black speed up. The black somehow increases in brightness. You cry out into it.</p>
<p>Perhaps this is why you were instructed to send a forked instance.</p>
<p><em>Fin.</em></p>
</dd>
</dl>
<p>A silent pause.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd><em>Fin</em> for now. <em>Fin</em> for this you.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>
<p>But, but, always another but.</p>
<p>But there is more than that you.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>You forked, after all, yes?</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Yes.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Yes, and your heart falls as you see that you crumple.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>There is more than that one Dear, too. You see, this is the danger of love stories. This is the danger these days. Time is funny. Space is funny. Nonlinearity was always the warp and woof of the world, but now your face is rubbed in it, the multitudinous aspects of post-humanity ground up against your nose in some strange punishment.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>To your relief, that second Dear also quits.</p>
<p>Moving faster than you thought you could, as though some latent instinct had kicked in, you swing your arm up across your front and strike Dear’s forearm square on with the bony ridge of your own.</p>
<p>The syringe goes clattering. You tear away from Dear and leap after it.</p>
<p>Scrabbling on the ground, you catch sight of the syringe as it dematerializes.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Objects only do that when their owners quit.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>You whirl around just in time to see the hazy, ephemeral shadow of Dear fading away.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>The fox quit.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>You let out a yell of triumph.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>And now you’re alone</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>You stumble back to the wall and sag against it, breathing heavily and assessing the damage. A few minor scratching here and there, and then the two major wounds: the scratch up along your cheek and across your ear and the bite on your neck with its several small puncture wounds.</p>
<p>You set to work patching yourself. Forking and merging, again and again, each fork fixing another cut, another bruise.</p>
<p>This takes only a few seconds.</p>
<p>Once you’re finished, another instance of Dear appears. On closer inspection, it appears to be the original version of Dear. A less ferocious instance. Dear-prime, or something.</p>
<p>You’ve calmed down enough that you don’t immediately leap at it, though you do drop into a defensive stance.</p>
<p>It smiles kindly.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>You may calm down, now.</dd>
<dt>You</dt>
<dd>Like hell.</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>No, seriously. Remember where you are. This is an exhibition. This is an exhibit. You are an audience member, yes? Even audience members have roles to play.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>You furrow your brow. So wrong-footed are you, the rolling boil of your anger drops almost immediately to a simmer.</dd>
<dt>You</dt>
<dd>Like a play…</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>Like a play.</dd>
<dt>You</dt>
<dd>So you knew we’d fight?</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>I knew a fight <em>might</em> happen. I encouraged a fight to <em>actually</em> happen.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>You raise your fists again, but you feel the changes in the room. Collision algorithms back on conservative, sensoria turned down.</dd>
<dt>You</dt>
<dd>You encouraged a fight?</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>Yes. You did not — will not — make it to the unwinding room, so I will explain here. Stress is the easiest way to force decisions to be made. I forced you to decide, did I not? I forced you to interact with an instance, and I am forcing you to interact with me, now. Two instances, two interactions.</dd>
</dl>
<p>The sound of a door opening.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>There is more to it, but a good artist never explains. Artistry lies in the perception, and someone’s watching.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>At that, it quits.</p>
<p>You drop your arms and sigh, thinking for a moment before heading for the stairs.</p>
<dd>But now, we’re back at the beginning, aren’t we? We’re back to that first fork, when it all seemed so simple. We’re back to the choice of the two doors, and the other instance of yours, that one follows the other Dear through the door to the left.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>You, smirking, take the right.</p>
<p>The room you wind up in is smaller even than the foyer, and the ticket-holders have to press even closer together. The audience that winds up here is the most diverse, containing the entire group of Taskers who wound up at this (apparently primarily Dispersionista) event. As such, the press is met with uncomfortable silence: one doesn’t normally talk about dissolution strategies with strangers, but Dear has deftly forced it to be an issue.</p>
<p>There’s no sign on the fox’s face that it knows what it has done. Just that calm, polite smile. Curious. How can one know that a fox is smiling rather than snarling or something, much less that the smile is polite. Perhaps styled after those old cartoons of anthropomorphic animals, or simply just an impression.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>Thank you. Much cozier in here.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Right.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>The taskers do not look cozy.</p>
<p>You suppose it makes sense. There are bits of this that appeal to all: forking for a specific purpose, instances accomplishing goals. This was flagrant abuse of that in their eyes, however, given that these instances will likely move on and live their own lives. Independent, individual instances.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>I would like to elaborate on my previous point. This exhibition is about the idea of instance creation as art, and in that sense, it is the easiest job I have ever had. Instance creation <em>is</em> art.</dd>
</dl>
<p>Some muttering.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>(interrupting) All instance creation. This show is about utilizing that consciously, but all instance creation is art. It is structured experience. The Taskers, and I believe you are all here? The Taskers are the tightest adherents to structure. The most baroque.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled forks once more, an identical copy of itself appearing standing just next to the original. The instance quickly quits and dissipates. An example, perhaps.</dd>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>The goal of this exhibition is not to just talk about that, though, it is to explore the creative limits of forking as art.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>Dear forks once more, but this time into two additional instances. One short, stocky human, holding up her hand just as the original instance still holds up its paw. And on the other side of Dear, a small animal — smaller than you expected, the size of a small cat — that you suppose is the fennec mentioned in the program, colored in creamy tan fur. It becomes clear that the primary Dear is a synthesis between the two.</p>
<p>The human Dear reaches out to shake one of the audience members hands while the fox dashes toward the crowd, weaving its way between legs in a good simulacrum of an animal attempting to escape.</p>
<p>Something about the fennec catches your eye as it zips through the crowd. It doesn’t seem to be following any pattern, but its motions remain purposeful. It seems to be…perhaps, making eye contact with each person in the room?</p>
<p>And then it comes to you.</p>
<p>And it looks up to you.</p>
<p>And winks.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Can fennecs do that?</dd>
</dl>
<p>Narrator 1
The strange critter holds your gaze for longer than some wild animal should, or so it feels, but the moment is broken by the soft sound of Dear clearing its throat at the front of the room.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Dear</dt>
<dd>The next room is just through here. If you will follow me, please.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>
<p>It’s difficult to deny the tiny critter before you, to tear your eyes away from it. Easy enough to forget that its an instance of Dear as it leads the tour onwards. Perhaps if you could just dally a little and get a closer look before moving on.</p>
<p>And then the explosion happens.</p>
</dd>
</dl>
<p>An explosion. The audience shouts and scrambles.</p>
<dl>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>Cliché as it is, the lights go out. Perfect.</dd>
</dl>
<p>Narrator 1
You, daring, intrigued, perhaps a bit upset, fork. You follow. You keep heading left, where the fennec was going, pushing past scrambling attendees to get to the wall. The left wall, you reason, is a shared wall with the other room, the one which the other Dear had led the other half of the group through. There’s probably a door between the two, though you hadn’t had the chance to get a look, or perhaps you could break through.</p>
<divclass="codehilite"><pre><span></span><code><spanclass="n">The</span><spanclass="n">smoke</span><spanclass="n">thickens</span><spanclass="p">.</span><spanclass="n">It</span><spanclass="n">has</span><spanclass="n">a</span><spanclass="n">lemony</span><spanclass="p">,</span><spanclass="n">sulfurous</span><spanclass="n">smell</span><spanclass="n">that</span><spanclass="p">,</span><spanclass="n">although</span><spanclass="n">it</span><spanclass="s1">'s never something you'</span><spanclass="n">ve</span><spanclass="n">smelled</span><spanclass="k">before</span><spanclass="p">,</span><spanclass="n">makes</span><spanclass="n">you</span><spanclass="n">think</span><spanclass="k">of</span><spanclass="n">bullets</span><spanclass="p">,</span><spanclass="n">grenades</span><spanclass="p">,</span><spanclass="n">gunpowder</span><spanclass="p">.</span>
<spanclass="k">In</span><spanclass="n">the</span><spanclass="n">dim</span><spanclass="n">light</span><spanclass="k">and</span><spanclass="n">confusion</span><spanclass="p">,</span><spanclass="n">you</span><spanclass="n">find</span><spanclass="n">the</span><spanclass="n">wall</span><spanclass="k">by</span><spanclass="n">abruptly</span><spanclass="n">slamming</span><spanclass="k">into</span><spanclass="n">it</span><spanclass="p">.</span><spanclass="n">Indeed</span><spanclass="p">,</span><spanclass="n">there</span><spanclass="s1">'s a door a few hand-spans away, and a tiny critter with big ears scratching frantically at it.</span>
<spanclass="s1">You shuffle quickly over to the door, barely able to see for the smoke and dimness, and grab at the handle, praying that it'</span><spanclass="n">s</span><spanclass="n">unlocked</span><spanclass="p">.</span>
<p>It’s a strange sensation to step from a cramped, crowded, loud, dark, and smoky room into such a space as this.</p>
<p>The fall you took couldn’t have been more than a few feet, but even now, your senses still feel knocked slightly out of place. To have a space like this, one that’s bigger on the inside than on the outside, or outside when it should be indoors, underground, is certainly possible. It’s easy. It’s just also incredibly rude. In most sims, it’s even illegal. In this one, you vaguely remember hearing that it requires a permit.</p>
</dd>
<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
<dd>But here you are.</dd>
<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
<dd>You and a tiny fennec.</dd>
</dl>
<p>\phantom{You} {\footnotesize and a lapis sky.}</p>
<p>\phantom{You and}{\tiny endless green fields.}</p>
