>Put the pieces together.

Looks like that blue witch lady has uh, things handled down there, you guess? Maybe her orange friend can help her too. Unknowingly, you begin to enjoy the esoteric effects of the Death of the Reader: you suddenly feel empowered to do sensible, plot-forward things again, like putting the pieces together. She's probably fine, right? You'll totally remember to come back here and revive her later.

As the fog of narrative aimlessness lifts, a soup of information floats its alphabet noodles to you in the form of drifting thoughts.

You use your mental spoon to coax them into place, causing the relevant and irrelevant to dance and mingle. You don't know what it is, but your sleuth's intuition has started to tug your sleeve about something.

In the void, you saw a cherub. In the black hole where lie the dead, the Nannasprites said there was a ripple of terrifying power. What other cherub than the alternate Calliope? Who else could cause such a power fluctuation by presence or absence alone? A few pieces fit together: it's hard to imagine you won't find her today.

Yaldabaoth's name came up too, during your hallucinogenic liquor fugue. A red, red stare fixed on a fresh blue planet. Roxy went to the void to find out why items are becoming guns. Connection? You recall Dirk and Callie, telling you about Yaldabaoth at a party some months ago; something about how he hardly ever does his own dirty work. Hence the archons, the apprentice demiurges, and the hordes of monsters. But even still, something about the whole plan strikes you as a little bit too kooky to fit the modus operandi of the rogue master denizen.

Guns, items, monsters, cosmic tyrants, a sad Calliope in the land of the living, a sad Calliope in the land of the dead. What parts fit together? What do they connect to? What does it all mean? Where does it lead to?

And what parts are you still missing?

You don't have enough for a conclusion yet, but as you coax the viscous broth of thought with your spoon, hypotheses churn and turn.

And something else nags at you even more strongly. Something deep down, not quite as tangible as a hypothesis. Just a stomach-deep feeling that what felt like peace was only the beginning of a long and harrowing siege.

>Message her.