Play of Shadows

2.20: Needle to Thread

Frances turned around swinging.

The shadow man was a step faster, moving out of reach as Frances punched at empty air. Instead of attacking, he nonchalantly fell back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"Quite the arm," he whistled.

Frances stared, the rush of adrenaline subsiding as he took stock of the scene. "Why is it you?" he asked, bewildered.

Across from him, a familiar man smiled placidly. "Why can't it be me?"

Frances narrowed his eyes. The butler of Cicada Manor had struck him as a singularly irritating NPC, but one of known purpose and therefore easy to dismiss. He was now hit with the sour suspicion that he had missed something of crucial importance by overlooking the man.

"You are the master of Cicada Manor?" Frances asked.

"Not at all," the butler said.

Frances glared at the man, then at the photograph that had until recently featured an unhappy couple. Only the woman in red remained in the picture.

"I don't believe you," he said.

"As well you shouldn't," the butler agreed. "Just as you should not pick up random items and attempt to fix what was destroyed for a reason."

Frances frowned. His eyes strayed to the photo again. If the butler was telling the truth and he was not the master of the manor, then where had the faceless man in the photograph gone?

"That's just right," the butler said. "Do you know how close you came to losing your head, dear guest?"

Frances ground his teeth at the familiar address. He had the strange feeling that the NPC was goading him on purpose. "Am I supposed to thank you for not killing me?"

The butler let out a surprised laugh. "Yes, in fact. But in this case, it is not me you should be worried about."

The creature that crawled out of the photograph was not the butler. Not at first. The missing piece of the photograph had been hidden for a reason. Players who brought items out of the fantasy version of Cicada Manor into what passed as reality in the game could expect a swift demise for their efforts.

The man spoke around a smug grin, enjoying the process of laying out Frances' failure. Frances listened expressionlessly and had only one question at the end.

"Who are you?"

The butler's smile widened. "Your friendly neighborhood mod. I have momentarily suspended the scene you triggered, but the game will revert to course in due time. Better hurry, Mr. Hound."

The door at Frances' back flew open. An invisible force gripped Frances and pulled him over the blackened threshold before he could attempt a struggle. The butler waved at him jovially as the door slammed shut between them.

Frances beat at the door once, questions burning in his throat. How did the butler know of his game moniker? It was not knowledge Frances thought reasonable for VR NPC to possess. There was neither a key nor a door handle to rattle. The door had molded into the wall so entirely it appeared a part of it, impossible to open. The butler did not reappear no matter how Frances shouted.

He found himself in a dank stairwell. A peeling staircase led up into the dark, made of metal and twisted in a tight spiral. The path forward was obvious. Frances considered the rusted frame with great doubt. The thin steps whined like an injured dog under his feet when he chanced a step. He did not fear heights, but tracking the same cramped, circular path left him light-headed and disorientated. One faulty move, and he would be threading on air.