Cold. Wet. The tunnel was many things, none of them particularly enjoyable - but It was more logical than his counterpart, and ice would be a handy tool for practice. Booker was quieter these days, more tame, almost completely silent. But not as angry. More resigned. Bordering on accepting. Good. It didn't want to hurt him, not at all; after all, he was meant to help. Sighing, It shrugged the thought off, focusing on the nigh untapped power that lay within. Booker had always been so afraid. They had never been without fear. Everything they did was tinged with it. Fear of losing family, friends, of watching more daughters and sisters die, of defending the man who slaughtered so many - enough. It had had enough, and Booker had as well, even if he didn't want to accept it. Time for a change. It closed his eye, breathing deep. The herbs Diot insisted on him using, the ones that kept his mind hazy and unclear, were stowed in his teacup. He needed a clear mind for this - and that meant accepting Booker's help. Though it seemed that the more they blended, the less they remembered... no matter. It was covering up the gaps, anyway, this shared experience, when they'd always been so separated. A gentle sigh, and It allowed Booker control for a moment, just enough to coax the flames from his chest into his palms. post roll: But the flames were uncontrolled, not helped by their fractured existence, and flared out of control, racing from the center of his breast down his arms, through veins and muscle, erupting to engulf his paws. It winced, sticking them onto the ice nearby, watching as it slowly put the fire out. "Well that didn't work."

A few minutes later, and the pain had subsided to a mild stinging. It simply shook it off, backed up from the ice, and took a moment to breathe. You need to relax and let me do this, Booker. The more you fight, the longer we're gonna have to stay separate, and the longer we stay separate, the weaker our concentration. Just... chill, hm? The only answer from the scribe was a tiny, amused snort, and so It grinned and went back to work. Their mind was strange, misshapen. He had a vague impression of what it used to look like - a smooth opal floor, a tall dark ceiling, walls alive with fog and smoke and fire, a tunnel full of light. Now, the floor and the ceiling both were cracked and peeling, revealing bloody flesh underneath. The air was clear but cold, void of any warmth or light, the tunnel long gone, leaving a smooth wall in its place. All that was left was him, Booker, who lay in a corner and tried to look disinterested, and a massive plume of flame. It only flared stronger when he approached, and It stared at it, awed and annoyed. Seriously? This much fire, and you only use it to make tea? Do you know how much destruction you could seed? That forest would go down in a day, maybe two. No one would know who did it. The scribe uncurled from his corner just enough to glare at It, who shrugged, chattering. What? It's not like I'm saying anything you haven't thought yourself. We're an us, remember? Booker just snorted, apparently offended by the words, and It turned back to the fire, focusing both inwards and outwards, trying to bring the embers back to a manageable level. post roll: This time, the flame traveled slowly, tiny tendrils creeping down his arms, warming rather than burning, pooling in his paws like obedient serpents. It opened his eye, blinking down at his hands, alight in flame but not burning, hovering off of skin and fur, brightening the tunnel. He let out a chuckle, then another, and before long he was giggling unrelentingly, tickled beyond belief, waving the flames about like a child who'd just discovered a new toy. "We did it! Hah! Sweet, sweet success." Booker issued a soft hum from somewhere within, unhappy to agree, but unable not to. "By the way, you really gotta work on that accent. It's drivin' me nuts." A wave of annoyance, and the scribe went back to... whatever he was doing, leaving It to snicker in amusement.

A few hours later, and he was curled up near one of the tunnel's walls, thinking. So, wait. I think I'm lost, here. We got Diot. We got Dove. Weren't there more? Booker shrugged from his seat in the mindspace, and It's brow furrowed, uncharacteristically worried. I didn't think we'd lose memories... wait. This is that thing you were talking about. The fog. The scribe opened his eye lazily, peering at It with what seemed like endless patience, and nodded. Yup. You wanna rejoin, you get all the bad shit too. It snorted, fur bristling, twitching his ears in a mix of stress and amusement. You really got a lot of your... brother's... mannerisms. Wait. Why can't we remember that? Booker's eye widened from his place, and he struggled to stand, trotting over to the smooth wall that once held a bright, beautiful chain. There used ta be somethin'... here. Somethin' important. Maybe we lost it? It shrugged both internally and externally, fretting too much to notice that he exhaled smoke instead of carbon dioxide. This is getting us nowhere. It doesn't matter anyways; I can't find a single positive emotion from Before that's not overshadowed by negatives. Makes the most sense to just let it go. Booker didn't agree, but then again, he didn't disagree. It dropped from the subconscious to the waking world, centering their body once more, focusing on that bright pillar of flame, hoping to keep the embers dancing on his paws in control. post roll: Unfortunately, his slip in concentration had cost him control, and the flames burned bright than they had, biting into flesh and filling the tunnel with the rank scent of burning fur. It skittered over to a sheet of ice, patting down the flames until the pain receded. They're getting number, slowly. Won't it be beautiful, not to feel anything at all? Booker scoffed, seeming to take that in another way, but It was too focused on the brilliant red welts that trailed from shoulders to paws, grooming them experimentally.

It blinked awake, sleepily, curled up and shivering, vision blurry and burn welts swollen. He didn't remember falling asleep, but then again, he didn't really need to. Booker was less calm. Seri'sly? What if somethin' came through the tunnel? We were jus' out in the open! Yeesh, Books, would you relax? So what if something came through? We could either outrun it, or I could take care of it. Before It could get too smug about that, the scribe was butting back in, presence stronger from It's relaxation. Take care of it? An' how do ya fancy doin' that, huh? With the body ya won't let me control? I won't let you control it because you don't need to, you aren't stable enough to, and, quite frankly, you don't want to. Booker went silent again, before a deep, rattling sigh tumbled through their shared consciousness. I... yer right. I'm tired. Real tired. Cain't 'member most things, anymore. I remember Diot, an' Dove, but... everyone else, everythin' else is... frag-ment-ed. But I can tell there's somethin' missin', somethin' important that I ain't rememberin'. Friends, or family, or somethin' even bigger than that... ah dunno. Another pause, and the scribe chuckled softly, wearily, curling up into a tired ball of fluff. Ah s'pose ah deserve the name of who's runnin' my body? It snorted, getting up from the cold tunnel ground and stretching with a smirk. Considering we're sharing a brain, I would've assumed you'd know. The name's Barnett. Booker mumbled the name, as if committing it to memory - who's memory It wasn't sure, considering they both had the same one. You can call me Barn if that's easier, It offered, tone coming dangerously close to gentle. The scribe went silent once more, apparently satisfied, and Barnett shook himself free of the wet debris of the tunnel, trying one last time to channel the fire within - this time to warm up his absolutely freezing shared vessel. post roll: Weak flames licked up the numbat's paws, warming them just enough to be useful, and he grimaced, making do before heading out towards the white, snowy end of the tunnel, eye narrow and ears back, wary of any more surprises. One blood-scented multi-eyed hellbeast was enough for one week, thank you very much. [ exit barnett ]