‘And maybe put the sword away 'til you reach the speakers. Don't wanna hit nobody on accident.’

The assumption that she would draw her weapon wildly, without cause, stung more than Teresa would admit. She hadn’t even unsheathed the thing!

‘‘n pardon my language, but what’s gotten into you? Somethin’ troublin’ you?’

For a long moment, Teresa said nothing.

‘The server we met, back at that first bar,’ she said, evenly. ‘He claimed that solving this man’s... Catharsis would show us the way to return to wherever we were pulled from. I imagine that would involve resolving our own troubles, whatever they may be.’

What would her own Catharsis look like? Westbound’s mindscape was a caricature of a place obviously familiar to him. If their Catharses reflected the places they came from, what would be brought to light? Her home? The training grounds? Caden’s workshop?

Tipsy Chambers.

The bar that she’d arrived in had been familiar because she knew it. It was the bar that had been privy to her and Caden’s hushed conversations, where their tentative cooperation had shuffled into something more concrete. Reliable. The ache in her chest tightened.

Is that really what I’m going to have to come to terms with to leave?

She said none of this to Morgan, of course. That would be unprofessional.

‘I suppose it’s the uncertainty of what I’ll come to face that concerns me. Everyone’s got their own skeletons in the closet.’ She slowed her steps. ‘Speaking of...’

They’d found it. A stage, filled with audio equipment. A child, left on his own. A father, coiling his belt.

In a few, quick strides, Teresa was on the stage, making a grab for the father’s wrist as he raised his belt for another strike. This place wasn’t real, not in any consequential way, but...

‘That’s enough,’ she said, sharp as cut steel.

---

---

The question had scarcely left his maw when the oddest little creature appeared on his other side.

Vicis would have missed its peculiar entrance if not for the abrupt tickle of lavender against his tongue, where there had been none before. The oddity had him glancing over – and behold! There sat a goat with a burning candle on its head, sipping tea! Vicis turned towards it with great interest, disregarding the silver-haired woman entirely. He was dimly aware of another human stumbling towards the bar, but Vicis paid him no mind. The light was catering to the new arrivals, but that, too, Vicis paid little mind.

‘My, my, aren’t you an interesting sight?’ A soft hiss escaped him in his enthusiasm. ‘Pray tell, what manner of creature are you?’

None of the goats Vicis had snacked on in his lifetime had ever looked so human-esque. Doubtless the Blessed Knights would be eager to hunt it down if they knew of its existence. Or... perhaps they were the cause of its existence. After a moment’s thought, Vicis sent a considering glance at the human male leaning against the bar.

Bah. Strange clothes, but not a Blessed Knight. To ask him about the matter would be a waste of time.

Damien blinked, his awareness starting to tune into his surroundings. So he was in a bar. Was this... Was this another Hell!? Damien groaned. There really was no rest for the wicked.

A bug-like sinner appeared across from him. Probably a sinner, right? "You brought your own drink. Would you like a different one?" Damien's gaze slowly slid down to the glass in his hand. He was surprised to see the red hue and catch a whiff of alcohol. He had mixed tea, hadn't he? Well, he could probably go for a drink now.

"No, thanks," he said tiredly, taking a sip of his new refreshment. Cranberry margarita. Nice.

Then, "My, my, aren't you an interesting sight? Pray tell, what manner of creature are you?"

Damien turned to his left, noticing the dragon-like creature with no change in expression. "I'm a baphomet," he said flatly. "It's like a 'satyr' or something but I'm all goat." Damien waved an arm in front of himself, gesturing across his legs. This guy sounded like a fancy prick, like some self-entitled goetia or a sinner from an upper-class background. He'd probably be just as irritating as the rest of them. "The fuck are you supposed to be, some kind of kaiju?" He took another sip of his drink, the smallest twinkle of mischief lighting his eyes as he leaned forward against the bar counter.

---

Whether Morgan notices Sliver Blade's annoyances with earlier comment or not, he stays quiet. Best to leave it that way.

‘The server we met, back at that first bar,’ she said, evenly. ‘He claimed that solving this man’s... Catharsis would show us the way to return to wherever we were pulled from. I imagine that would involve resolving our own troubles, whatever they may be.’

"Right, right. I'll follow your lead on this 'ere case." He nods his head and stares off at the rest of the club as silence settles between Sliver Blade and him. Lots to think about, that was for sure. His thoughts wander back to the bar he saw in his first catharsis; the barkeep was only vaguely familiar, the people less so, but considering Westbound's catharsis... probably meant something.

Everything in this catharsis had to mean something, he just wasn't sure what exactly. This kind of detective work wasn't his forte and frankly he was beginning to feel like a fish out of water. He hisses through his teeth as Sliver Blade addresses him again.

‘I suppose it’s the uncertainty of what I’ll come to face that concerns me. Everyone’s got their own skeletons in the closet.’ She slowed her steps. ‘Speaking of...’

A boy is getting beaten, presumably by his father. Sliver Blade cuts in to stop the man. Morgan has to hold himself back from punching the piece of shit father, instead rushing to the child's side inside. He places two cold hands on the kid's shoulders and attempts to move him away from the scene.

It's only then it finally hits him--the bar he saw in his own catharsis was the one from his childhood. Drank his first whiskey there; a group of ragtag kids running amuck and away from their families. He never liked his father either. Without thinking, he hugs the kid as the memories flash by. The boy wasn't lucky enough to end up like him, no community to fall back on, no makeshift family or gang to fill in the gaps. Perhaps the latter was for the best, Morgan's life was never a fun one no matter how fondly he remembers his past, but it was better than having no one.

The boy changes as each memory changes, a little older in some, a little younger in others, but the idea is the same: the kid's life was awfully lonely.

Hand raised high, Jay said, “I heard this is the place to come when you got—”

Their avatar froze. The environment froze with it—a clean, simple dark gray room with yellow and white accents, decorated here and there with advertisements for things like meditation apps and MMO expansions—and the other avatars sitting in the circle stuttered and snapped, their forms jerking backward to positions they had already vacated, limbs repeating in staccato, the whole scene desynchronizing in that way that made you aware, suddenly, that none of this existed anywhere but on servers. Or a dream.

Damn internet.

“—g̸͚̀o̴͓̎ṯ̶͝ ̵͎̅g̷̩͠ö̶͜t̸̥͛ ̷͙̈́g̶̯͑o̸̐͜t̷̖̑ ̷̠̓t̸̔ͅo̵̩͝ ̶̭͗g̵͚͒e̴̦͒-̴̰̋ḡ̴̟ë̵̯́ṫ̵͍ s̷̗̊o̵͎͂m̵̟̊e̸̜̿t̶͉̍h̷̬͆ĩ̷̜ṉ̶͒ġ̷̝ ̵̟͆o̷͉͛f̵̞̈́f̷̱̀ ̴̠́ỵ̸͛o̸͎͆ư̷͍r̵͕͝ ̷̰̄c̷͖͐h̷̦̑e̴̢͂s̷̫͝t̴̪̚?”

A few more seconds passed, seconds that felt like ten minutes, before things started running at something tolerably normal.

“Is it okay if it’s not like…” Jay paused. “Life or death?”

Jay wanted to believe her. But they’d learned how easy it was to say things—and how little that proved.

“Hi, my name is Jay.”

No one said Hi Jay. This was either not that kind of meeting, or the internet was lagging again. Jay decided not to wait around to find out which.

“About half a year ago, I had a falling out with some people from a group I’d been part of for over three years.”

They shifted in their seat as they continued. “You’d think six months would be enough to move on. And it has been, for the most part. But some stuff stuck around. New year’s coming, so I thought, why not clear it out? Start fresh.”

In the corner, a digital clock kept counting. Yellow segments, blocky numbers, the colon blinking like a slow heartbeat. The seconds ticked on—:38, :39, :40. The date underneath just sat there.

They’d meant to do this sooner. Weeks ago, even. And here they were, days left, and they still couldn’t line their thoughts up in any sensible order. Looked like the new year was going to get this mess whether it liked it or not.

It occurred to them—somewhere around sentence seven—that they had no idea how any of this was supposed to work. Didn’t even know these people. For all they knew, everyone else here had actual crises, and Jay had just barged in with baggage from six months ago.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to just—” Jay stopped, shook their head. “You already know I’m Jay, so... what are your names?”

"He'll be back though. One good scream doesn't undo a lifetime of that." Sirpa looked toward the door of the coffee shop. She tried not to feel hopeful. She had liked Wesley. In the short time that they knew him, he had started to become comfortable to be around.

When she looked back at the others, she noticed that Morgan had disappeared. He was there, but now he wasn't. She hadn't seen him leave or heard him walk away. Sirpa sighed and took another sip of her tea. No one ever stays, anyway.

As she sat quietly, focusing on the warmth coming from the mug into her hands, she picked up on another conversation happening nearby. It started as background noise, but over time it sounded closer and more clear.

"You already know I'm Jay, so... what are your names?"

Sirpa looked up. More people were sitting nearby in chairs that seemed to have just appeared out of nowhere. Everyone was seated in a lazy sort of circle. Sirpa suddenly felt a tad self-conscious. She hadn't sat herself in a circle. She didn't want to be perceived yet. She was still coming out of a mild dissociation after that...event?...she, Silver Blade, and Morgan had experienced. She looked over at Silver Blade, searching for comfort in the familiar, and then back at the person who introduced themself as Jay. Sirpa realized that their question was also directed at her.

"I'm Sirpa," she said simply. Then she took another sip of her tea, focusing on its warmth and smell rather than the feeling of awkwardness from introducing herself to yet another new person. Warm apple cinnamon. Like friends and the floral section of craft stores. Gentle. Familiar.

They were back within the walls of this place’s caricature of Tipsy Chambers, left with nothing but the haunting echo of Westbound’s scream. Teresa straightened, sheathing her sword.

‘Well,’ said Sirpa, settled in her armchair, ‘looks like we did it.’

Teresa managed a nod in response. Had they, really? It was hard to think so when the server himself was shrugging off the whole affair, claiming that Westbound would be back with tepid certainty. All Teresa had done was quiet the pounding noise blanketing the man’s mind. A stopgap. She wasn’t one for dwelling on could-haves, but the whole point of the exercise had been to uncover a way to leave this place. Teresa would gladly face whatever problems this place had to throw at her, except it didn’t seem eager in the slightest to show her, Sirpa, or Morgan what they were there to solve! How were they supposed to–

‘Wait. Where’s Morgan?’ She swept her gaze over the bar’s interior. No dice. She looked back to Sirpa, questioning. ‘He was just here.’

Had he been forced out alongside Westbound, somehow? It was a question she would have taken up with the server – along with many others – but it was then that a newcomer fizzled into existence.

‘—g̸͚̀o̴͓̎ṯ̶͝ ̵͎̅g̷̩͠ö̶͜t̸̥͛ ̷͙̈́g̶̯͑o̸̐͜t̷̖̑ ̷̠̓t̸̔ͅo̵̩͝ ̶̭͗g̵͚͒e̴̦͒-̴̰̋ḡ̴̟ë̵̯́ṫ̵͍ s̷̗̊o̵͎͂m̵̟̊e̸̜̿t̶͉̍h̷̬͆ĩ̷̜ṉ̶͒ġ̷̝ ̵̟͆o̷͉͛f̵̞̈́f̷̱̀ ̴̠́ỵ̸͛o̸͎͆ư̷͍r̵͕͝ ̷̰̄c̷͖͐h̷̦̑e̴̢͂s̷̫͝t̴̪̚?’

In the ensuing introductory spiel, Teresa could only stand next to Sirpa’s armchair in mild bemusement. The bar’s faceless patrons had shuffled themselves into a rough circle of chairs at some point. Was this another Catharsis in action? A glance towards the server offered no clue; he was busying himself behind the bar counter, whistling as he went. Sirpa introduced herself. Teresa bore Jay’s attention with all the grace of a person with three years worth of mandatory PR seminars under her belt.

‘Silver Blade,’ she answered. ‘Did you come here of your own volition, Jay?’

Everyone else seemed to have stumbled here on accident, after all. It was curious to see someone who had, by their own words, sought this place out. As she waited for a response, Teresa grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it close, seating herself.