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She sits on the beach, day in, day out. She misses boundaries -- gravity and rules. There's too much freedom, nothing to challenge her, and she thinks of that old adage about buying gifts for the man who has it all. She has it all now and so much more besides, but none of it's real. There's nothing tangible, nothing she can touch, and she dreamed of a beautiful twisting city in her personal limbo, and now she's dreaming of nothing at all.
(Apart from the beach. She can't erase it even if she tries.)
Ariadne wonders if she could drown, if she'd breathe through the water or if it would close over her head, beautiful hazy freedom. She wonders if it'd suffocate her, swallowing up her breaths, or if she'd feel like drowning. She feels the sand under her skin and imagines sinking slowly through waters. She doesn't try it, though, terrified of sinking too far into her own consciousness. She's learned what happens when she breaks the rules.
Days change into months into years, and the time passes around her, unmoving, on the beach. She can create buildings and worlds but not food; it all tastes like ashes in her mouth and that's another part of reality she misses. She thinks she misses the company, but it's getting harder and harder to project anything outside of herself. The waves wash up and down the shore, hypnotic and unchanging, and she wonders if it ever ends. She wonders if she's become old and wrinkled, and mourns the fact that she never got to experience anything in reality. It's a lesson learned too late.
When Arthur washes up onto the shore, she wonders if he's a projection and whether she's gone crazy, in that order. She gave up on projections a while ago -- her subconscious retreated further inside her, and it felt strangely incestuous being surrounded by images from her own mind. Surely, she couldn't create him, not like this. Nothing this imperfect. Leaning forward on her knees, she brushes a strand of hair away from his eyes and notes his flaws with a fascination she hasn't felt in a while.
The waves lap in and out, in and out, and she's staring at the sun by the time he wakes up, rolls over, coughs salt water into the sand.
The first thing he does is brush down his suit, straighten his tie and slick back his hair and she feels a stirring of an emotion that she's never felt.
The second thing he does is kneel in front of her and take her hand and say, "I thought I'd never find you." He stands up after that, as though embarrassed by his own emotions, but he doesn't drop her hand. "We have to get out of here." He glances up and does an almost imperceptible double take, glances back down to her face. "Ariadne. Where are the buildings?"
"It's not like it's real," she tells him, trying to express the thoughts that have taken her six years to create (and maybe her thoughts are fragments of something real, and maybe they aren't). "It's -- Arthur, it's, we need rules, something to push against."
"Okay," he says, and he's listening to her so at least that's something. "Philosophical as this is, do you think we could get at least a level up before we have this discussion?"
She grasps his hand, pulls him forward so he can hear her urgency. "I can't get out."
"I know you can't," he says, and his grip on her hand is firm and real above all else. "That's why I came to get you."