Inspired by a certain Harry Ludvig Donovan, I raised the tip of the dagger (which was more of a chef's knife) towards Richard, whom I did not share memories with.
Though I did not intend it, a string of blond hair was split in half in the process.
The others, besides for a light-brown-haired girl, gasped even further.
"So it was true. It's always the quiet ones, ya know," he said, grinning and looking for approval from the others as a bead of sweat formed near his hairline. "What you did in your first year of college—"
"It's not, but believe what you want," I retorted calmly.
I only wanted to monger fear.
He bit his bottom lip which was dry and cracked, putting his hands up in surrender.
I dropped my knife.
Every one of them looked at me in genuine shock, in fear of what I might do next.
George sighed, "Let's go inside."
-
As we walked further through the entrance, the dirt walls became stone bricks.
Most of them walked with Chris and Richard who walked on one side, while I was walking beside a girl with light brown hair and George Hamilton. Not even Justin walked with me, which made me think that he really was not the Justin I knew of.
I did not strike a conversation with said light haired girl in fear that I might let out the truth: that I was not meant to be part of this group. She kept staring at me, still.
But she started one anyway.
"Reverie," she said, in a voice that could not be heard by George or the others. "You don't know any of us, right?"
I stopped in my tracks, so did the girl, but the others walked along anyway.
Now that she has raised suspicion on me, I could not lie.
Smart girl.
"That is true."
"I had a feeling." She sighed. "Do you know who I am?"
"I think I do but at the same time I don't quite remember."
She groaned and scowled.
"What a long way to say you have no idea," she ruffled her light hair which was layered, reminding me of a raccoon. "I'm Harriet. Is Reverie your real name? People call me Harry, sometimes."
"Is it or is it not?" Then I frowned. "No way I'm calling you that, the fuck."
I did not expect to think of someone like The Federation's Harry at a time like this.
"Be serious, for angel's sake."
I chuckled internally, erasing the thought of Harry Donovan, then pointed to the direction of the empty darkness at the end of the dungeon we were now in.
"Oh," I said in a joking and dramatic manner. "They have left us."
"Yeah, they've been doing their best to avoid you. I heard them talk."
"Damn, what did they say?"
"That the quiet ones are mostly the ones with a few screws loose."
"How rude."
She let out a laugh that was more of a squeak akin to a mouse.
I burst out laughing at her hilarious attempt at a laugh. Loud enough that it echoed and bounced off the dungeon's hallway.
Glaring at me, though I wasn't sure if it was in the way pick-me girls would do or if she was sincerely pissed off, she slapped my shoulder.
Though, even if it was either of the two, I would have still laughed.
Oh, I thought, she's the type to stomp her foot when she's playfully mad.
Her appearance reminded me of someone—I'm not sure who, though.
But that can't be, for she was a fictional character written by me. I didn't even mention her appearance once in the novel. She was meant to have died somewhere along the way.
In other words, an extra.
And yet, she had this much personality.
At that point, I raised a hypothesis in my mind.
What were the chances she was inspired by someone I knew once upon a time?
Had my novel become reality or was my novel reality all along?
What happens to a fictional character if they realize they are fictional?
-
The two of us walked further down the cobblestoned hallway.
While it was quiet for the most part, it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was unlike the silence I have been experiencing for a while now.
I felt somber around her.
She spoke:
"For what reason would you need to feign murder?"
I stopped, thinking. "I only did that to cause fear."
"Why?"
"Easy," I said. "They have no idea where the nephilim reside. Do you?"
She shook her head, her brown doe eyes glimmering.
"If I had showed them that I was able to read the hieroglyphics—"
"So you could read them!" said Harriet with a snap.
"—and knew where the nephilim slept, they would rely on me." I shrugged. "In other words, I'll be used."
"In other words, weaponized incompetence," she retorted.
I grinned and she rolled her eyes, but I could not miss the small yet pretty grin she made.
After a few more moments of walking, we got tired and sat with our backs on the stone-bricked walls, with a fiery lit torch from above.
She gave me a canteen of water and I accepted it, taking a swig.
"Shall I request this lady's full name?" I said, cringing slightly at my attempt at conversation. I wasn't used to this, but, hey, if I was going to be an outcast, a comrade in arms wouldn't hurt.
She cringed as well, giving me another slap on my shoulder as she sat next to me.
"It's Harriet van Gogh."
"Any dreams?"
I gave her time to think.
"I wanted to be an artist. Never ended up doing anything about it, though. And maybe an astro—"
"And I, a writer," I said, raising a toast with the canteen of water she gave me. I didn't mean to interrupt her. "What a pair of failures we are."
She giggled slightly, but I could tell how much she regretted not pursuing her dreams.
Truth be told, I could not tell if she was an actual person or a fictional character, at that point.
I remember writing her as one of the members of Lucifer-180, but never going any further than that.
Strangely, for a fictional character, I could converse with her quite well.
She was very…human, for a fictional character.
Right.
A fictional character.
"I'm curious about one thing, Harriet," I said, turning to face her.
Not Harry, fuck that.
"How did you find out that I'm not a part of your circle of astronauts? I mean, Lucifer-180?"
"Astronauts?" She looked at me in pure confusion. "I'm a girl from the countryside. I work as a baker."