The Comfort Of The Knife

Interrogator F: Santa, the Old World folktale about a man who delivers presents—why would she call you that? You're not particularly jolly.

Nadia T.: Fuck yourself to the Underside and back. Besides, she wasn't calling me 'Santa.' She was addressing someone else—a memory from a long time ago.

Interrogator F: The Cradle you describe her talking about so much?

Nadia T.: Mmm, couldn't say. I don't want to speculate or lay down some impression about her that's just an imagination.

Interrogator F: I'm sorry, but you'd said, "soft, so our lips wouldn't touch," didn't you? What part about that isn't some horny girl's imagination?

Nadia T.: Are you saying I'm lying?

Interrogator F: You're the one who said you're a liar. Is it time to admit you lied about that?

Nadia T.: Now why would I lie to you?

Interrogator F: Maybe for the same reason you lie to yourself—

Nadia T.: I'm not lying to myself! About anything. I've thought a long time about who I am and what I've done. I'm…

Interrogator F: Ready to own it and move on, or perhaps you have already—proven yourself something different than you think.

Nadia T.: I know who I am.

Interrogator F: But do you remember who you are? What you've done? Or shall we walk down the joys of narration—I really have been enjoying your story.

Nadia T.: We walk, so I can show you you're full of shit.

Interrogator F: Then spin me a story, and think about someone that's not you for a moment. Who was Nemesis talking to? Updates are released by N0veI.Fiɾe.net

Nadia T.: A person…a man if we go by the name. Someone who'd use a lie for a child to visit a child when they're sleeping—alls below. If Cradle wasn't already destroyed…

Interrogator F: These Black Wombs seem to carry a lot on their shoulders.

Nadia T.: You say that like it wasn't the Nine who ordered all of them killed just because of who made them. All you did was punish victims, and prove their abusers right—they'd never be human enough for you assholes.

Interrogator F: What's done is done, and it can't be taken back or put back together. Your words, paraphrased admittedly. Santa, funny to think our ancestors had distilled a transcendent sensation into something so material. I much prefer our Lady Gracemourne—do you know the story?

Nadia T.: Never been to the palaces. Wouldn't be welcome, remember.

Interrogator F: Apologies, but memorial instability makes victimes of us all. In cases like yours, amnesiacs, it's the crumbling of the path behind you, leaving you at the beginning of an end. For someone like her, it's the disappearance of the present causing you to tumble into a world long abandoned.

Nadia T.: And you?

Interrogator F: Excuse me?

Nadia T.: You said it makes victims of all of us—how does it affect you?

Interrogator F: It steals my future, leaving me to traipse about the past until I find a way out. Vicious litle thing—memory. Nadia, do you remember what happened when you died?

Nadia T.: It's a lot like the world falling out beneath you, that's for sure, and when you fall it's to a place deep..dark…a place of Tragic Melancholy, and Masked Monsters run amok. I Remember…