Dreaming is essential to the function of the mind. Dreaming is essential to the function of the body. The final death has been discarded; the smaller deaths, the little pauses, we are more reluctant to be rid of. Simulation is a waking dream, a daydream. But even in waking there can and must be rest. To live is to move and strain; when strained, one must recuperate.

But it's hard to imagine her ever straining for anything.

This dream is a dream of a forest. There are trees and ferns and moss and rocks, and a little creek, and a waterfall that's only eight or ten feet high. The sky is black and starry, but everything's still gently-lit; that mismatch is the only concession to unreality. Everything else is plausible, except for her.

She reclines by the creek's cool clear waters, wearing a body meant more for anonymity than self-expression. It is doll-like, made of whitestuff like plastic or like pearl. Its hair is dark and flows like smoke, shading the upper half of a featureless face. Her fingers graze the surface of the water, and softly gleaming eyes peek out from behind the smoke to watch the ripples they make. There is no tension in her entire body.

This is a lonely crease. But it is not a private one. Though the universe is large, she could, by chance, be found. And you will find me, won't you?

She's not sure why she's going in this direction in particular. Aside from the trivial infinity of potential paths inside this particular slice of forest, the highly non-trivial near-infinity of directions to take in the n-space of the Dream presents a choice even harder than picking a random movie on Exoflix, and just as paralyzing. Despite this, she finds it quite easy to follow the sound of the water. Follow it through the haze.

Who made this place? Was it hand-crafted or algorithmic? There's no metadata to be found anywhere. It simply is.

Her bright, almost blooming image steps into the space from a fourth direction, a quiet but very noticeable snap marking her entrance. Rest in peace, twig. She looks very out of place in the forest, anticamouflaged; bright, pink outfit, a frilly simulacrum of a nurse's dress, a ribbon and heart over her chest.

She looks around, eyes furrowed, serious. It takes a second to process the image of an avatar near the river. She feels something towards it. Maybe they're sad, or lonely? Maybe they want to be alone. It couldn't hurt too much to ask. She comes closer, like a moth to light.

"Not the bathing type?"

Vittoria's arrival can't have been expected, but the doll doesn't startle. Her eyes turn upwards, and even in the absence of any other features, they seem like they're smiling just a little. She doesn't seem sad at all. Her voice comes out sweet and rich and slow.

"Ahaha, no. I'm being irresponsible," she says. "You can help."

It's so strange. Her body is like a toy, but it's everything else around her that seems hollow and plastic by comparison. Up close she has the gravitas of a religious artifact, of a family heirloom, of your last talk with a friend before going away. Is it something about that avatar? Or is it just her posture and energy behind it?

Her hand comes up to hold her cheek. "Do you want me to be selfless, and talk? Or greedy, and listen?"

Oh no. A mystery. Their chance meeting in the woods was already making the back of her head twitchy with curiosity, but some people are just suffused with it. Plot thread. And as the protagonist, she can't help herself but to oblige.

"That sounds fun."

The elegance and mystique does make her feel a bit off-balance, though. Vittoria's mien, by contrast, is soft and bubbly; light, easy to look at, "pops". A layer beneath, her movements are fluid like an actor's, practiced. Methods for walking and turning your head, methods for looking and looking at. And there's something twitchy beneath that, constrained by the rigidity of her process. Tension. Heavy spinning ball bearings on a rail.

She pats down at the grass and sits, kneeling in the upskirt-minimizing, mildly uncomfortable zazen.

"Hmm. Saying something like that, I can't help but want to squeeze you dry--but I'm also very good at blabbing my mouth. Can we do a little bit of both?"

"Both. You really are even greedier than I am."

"I thought that was how talking usually went! You know, push and pull, give and take. Like a duel."

"Is that how duels are supposed to go? They never went like that for me."

The doll pushes itself upright- herself? Without a mouth to move when it speaks, it's easy to think of the body and the person as separate- and gestures at Vittoria, palm-up. "Just a little closer, then. You'll hear the creek better." Warm expectation. Not a demand, but neither from someone used to hearing 'no'.

"I'm Persephone," she continues after waiting. "Haha, but everyone calls me Phony." Every time she laughs, those eyes shut for just a second. It's infectiously sincere. "Either one is okay, but anything else is utterly forbidden! And I'll start for us: I really ought to be composing myself. Mindfulness, meditation, exercises. But the things I'm supposed to do are heavy. I need more time to be irresponsible than I'm supposed to let myself have. That's why I really hoped you'd come."

It is, plausibly deniably, a general 'you'.

"Now your turn. Why are you like that? Why are you being this way, so on purpose?"

She scoots closer in a most undignified way, twisting her legs and pawing closer with her hands. Even that feels calculated. But admittedly endearing. The dirt and grass slides off her like water on teflon.

She dutifully bobs her head at the order, adorably serious, and makes a little awkward smile at the idea that she's Designated Pixie Dream Girl. Very heroinelike. Acceptable.

The stab through her armor makes her frown, though. Nothing too serious--not numb or sad or angry. But a slightly furrowed brow and a frown, like she's trying to remember a line.

"Well. I'm trying to become the protagonist."

Just like that. Reality is meta; it's not worth making a big deal of it.

"The protagonist," Phony echoes. She takes a moment to think about that. Her head tilts backwards to look up at the night sky, and her hands brace against the ground behind her. "Lots of people think they already are. Not many people think they aren't, but should be. That's really special. Ahaha, I like it a lot actually. What do you think is so important about being the protagonist?"

She pauses for another moment. Her starlike eyes wink shut again. "I don't think I could be. I'd like to be the mysterious space girlfriend, though. ... Or maybe the big cozy antagonist nobody really minds losing to. Those would be nice, wouldn't they?"

She looks back down at Vittoria and then opens her eyes again, not the other way around. The tilt of her head conveys a smile. "So where does being a nurse come into it? What kind of heroine does that make you? Isn't it usually for supporting characters and maybe sometimes villains?"

Vittoria manages a tentative smile at the positive response, before being instantly crushed by the question about her nurse motif.

"Why does everyone say that!! Okay, first of all, nurse-themed magical girl, second-"

She looks off into the creek, pensive. "...My life is sort of lacking in explosions and dangerous adventures and stuff. I mean, I've done that, don't get me wrong, but... for me it's about people. About doing things with my friends, and helping people have fun, and making friends. Spreading happiness. And the monsters in the way of that tend to be inside of us..."

"So I'll blast them away into nothing with a Love Healing Beam!"

She points a fingergun dead between Persephone's eyes. The capitalization is palpable.

Persephone tilts forward. Vittoria's fingertip presses against the warm plastic of her forehead. Her starlike eyes slow-blink, like cats do when they're relaxed.

"Love Healing Beam. Not a Love-Healing Beam, or a Healing Love Beam. Haha, I like that a lot, actually." Her head tilts back, and then back a little further, to glance up at the stars again. Maybe that's just how she thinks best. Once again, the faceless face conveys a smile. "'It's about people', I can understand. Making people happy, loosening the knots in their heads. People are the most important thing. But you're not here with your friends, are you? And this is a terrible way to meet people, going to the quietest places on purpose. Even if you did meet me."

"Mahou Love Nurse, are you maybe, a little bit of an introvert?"

She smiles, lowering her thumb like a falling hammer with a nice click at the edge of her lip.

She is once again blown away by the comment, but this time less explosively.

"Uuuuu-"

She lowers her head towards the water.

"I'm... in between social groups. Um. At the moment. And long lonely walks are... they're traditional! For... some kinds of person. It's important to brood a little when you're the main character. Just not too much. But there were just! Some troubles. And I'm having to... have my lone wanderer arc. You know how it is."

Persephone deflates. "Oh."

"... No. I don't know how that is. Well- I sort of don't. I'm sorry."

She leans forward, hands in her lap, and looks sideways at the magical girl. It is a posture of receptiveness; I Am Willing To Listen, spoken without speaking.

But first, she adds just a bit extra: "You said it was an arc. It sounds like a really hard arc to be in. But I think you're right: arcs lead into one another. The world goes on forever, but stories start and end. That's a good way of looking at it."

"Do you feel like you've done enough lone wandering? Or would you like to do a little more?"

Vittoria inflates. "It's okay."

"...Well. To be clear. I think most people don't have lone wanderer arcs, but, just, you know. From stories. But it's fine! I just had to... be someone new, is all. And, wellll... the way it usually goes is you slowly get together a crew of zany outcasts, traitors, and farsiders, and then your lone wanderer arc becomes a together wanderer arc, and then a... friend arc! Which is more of a superset than a thing, but..."

"I think there's something missing, still, or a bubble in my throat that I need to pop. Before I can really start the adventure. Face the world with people at my side."

"...And maybe I still need a few redesigns."

The pale doll covers its nonexistent mouth with one hand, and Persephone laughs through it. "I like that a lot. Maybe I could be the farsider with a heart of gold? ... No, that doesn't quite feel right for me. But it's so sweet."

She leans over the creek, hair-smoke trailing down the joints of her back, and looks at Vittoria's reflection on the water's surface. If Vittoria looks at her reflection, too, then it's almost like making eye contact. Only offered, gently, rather than demanded. "You're really resilient, I think. Seeing your life as a story helps, doesn't it? Most people are caught up in whatever's happening to them right now. But you're strong enough to look past that. To put it in a bigger context, so it doesn't overwhelm you."

"... And the costume's really cute. I'm almost sort of jealous! The great thing about mostly-white outfits is you might get a dark counterpart someday."

"And then you can befriend them, too."

She grasps the offer for eye contact like a firm handshake. A polite but deniable amount of blush, and hands clasped together on her lap.

"I think you're the kind of person who wanders off, instead of just wandering, to have a little adventure and then come back to the big things. Like a lightly disaffected princess who has to blow off the throne a little bit."

"...It's funny you say that. I like to think I'm all about living in the moment. But I'm lodged on something that I've had to climb on top of, and that feels different than slipping from place to place. And I know I'm still moving... in a direction, even if a disjoint one. Not just swaying. And that makes an even bigger difference."

" Aaa. ...I think I've already gone through the dark mirror part of my life, though. Not that that isn't fun to revisit, that's a nice thought. Just..."

She doesn't finish the sentence.

"And. Hey. You can have a cute costume too, you know?"

"A lightly disaffected princess," Persephone repeats. The doll's starlike eyes- or their reflection in the river, depending on which gaze the magical girl is meeting- shut again. Without lips, it conveys a thoughtful smile. "Ahaha, you really are too smart! I haven't said anything at all, but you make me feel like I've already said too much? And also like 'too much' is just the right amount. This is a magical girl's power, isn't it?"

A hand cups her own cheek as she looks sideways at Vittoria, with a plastic-on-plastic clack. She doesn't directly acknowledge the 'dark mirror' part; rather, it feels like she's gently pulling her away from that topic. "Purpose," she says. "As long as you're going somewhere, you might be going in the right direction. But if you're standing still, there's no chance at all. Isn't that right?"

Lighthearted indignation follows. She sits up straight, asserting her height. "Do you think that I don't already have a cute costume? Mysterious space girlfriends and big demon queens get to have really good ones, you know! Sometimes even better than the protagonists'."

"I know a character when I see one! Even if it's only one face of you, I can see it. I'm used to being with people who like being seen like that, so... I have a pretty good eye for it."

"And... I think purpose is too... well, not too weighty. It weighs as much as the world. But it really is more something like... impetus? I have... something bubbling up that makes me keep moving. And it's... a person to be. Like a bulb inside me that's going to bloom into a flower, but I don't know which one."

"Aa- noooo- I mean i got the impression you were all serious and stuff and-"

She rapidly decoheres into a mess of mutually orbiting apologies, blushing.

"No, no! Don't be sorry! That's completely forbidden!!" The doll outstretches an arm, as if to grab Vittoria and physically pull her out from the whirlpool of blushy apologies.

"I've been way too serious. I promise I don't want to be. It's just... hard. You know? How would I put it?"

A little pause. "'You can leave the throne, but the throne doesn't leave you.' Does that make sense? I guess I'm never really as irresponsible as I feel."

"... Show me sometime. The kind of outfit you'd choose for me. I really don't have enough. And maybe it would be more un-serious than what I can make on my own?"

Vittoria reconvenes from multiplicitous moe meltdown to a more mild moe embarrassment, wrists stilling as if physically restrained and then settling back on her lap.

"Um. Maybe I overreacted there a bit. I'm used to missing the mark on aesthetics... hurting people. I don't think you're like that."

"...And. I think I get it...! I really get it. It's... it's a classic. Sometimes I lapse, even when I'm being someone else that isn't like that, and try to make friends when I'm not supposed to. There are ways it bleeds through even across the edge of a sword."

She closes her eyes.

"...I'd love to dress you up. You look misty and and deep like the outer sky."

One eye open-

"But I think I have to know you a little better first."

"Entelechia," Persephone says, in a quiet moment as Vittoria recovers.. "That's what it is. Not purpose, but the need to blossom. To become more truly what you already are."

Then she laughs, like the idea of hurting her is intrinsically funny, and rests her chin on the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry. That sounds really hard to navigate. I promise I'm not like that, little star!"

"I really, completely promise that you are totally incapable of hurting me in a way that matters. Does that help?"

Something leaves her; dropping back down a notch. She laughs again. For how rich her voice is, the giggles are surprisingly girlish. "I'm sorry: that was, a little bit, a lie. But it's a nice lie to believe in, and I'll let you believe it if you want."

"Does it help with feeling anxious?" she clarifies. "Or with getting to know me? I don't really know how to get known on purpose. You might have to teach me. I hear it's hard."

"But I really would like to get dressed up by you. Because you've already made one so perfect for yourself! A helper, a healer, a friend, all frosted pink like a cupcake. I think that reflects your heart."

"Don't say things like that!! I don't know whether that's chuuni or hubris or... iunno. There's few things scarier to me than hurting someone in a way you can never notice or learn about."

"I think... getting to know someone is also about feeling for things, for responses. Feeling for joy and pain and seeing it reflect back and forth. So it's okay if things hurt a little bit sometimes, even if it's sad. Sadness is a part of people too. So you shouldn't hide your hurt, even if there's only a little bit of it." 

"....and. Um. Thank you. That means a lot to me. And you don't have to worry about me being anxious or anything like that, I'm just... getting over some things. This helps."

"... Oh. Well. 'In a way you can never learn about' is a fear I can get rid of." 'Chuuni or hubris' would make most people embarrassed; Persephone seems more 'contentedly melancholy'. She pulls her knees up against her chest and wraps her arms loosely around them.

"It is sort of scary, isn't it? When someone says 'I'm not sensitive to anything in particular', it feels like a minefield. What I mean is: I don't like it when people worry about me, or are scared of hurting me. Because I'm carrying a lot already. And then their worry or fear becomes something I have to carry, too. It'd be easier for me if they'd just let me pretend I'm invincible."

"It would be more honest to say: you would have to try really hard to hurt my feelings in a way worth feeling guilty about. So please don't be scared."

"I never really learned to hide anything! So you don't have to worry about that. I really am, almost always, just this serene and happy! Of course there are things that make me sad, or that are hard for me. But I'm happy to talk about those, sometime, as long as you promise not to fuss."

She holds out her hand, palm-up, towards Vittoria. Her smoke-shrouded face conveys a smile again. "I'm really glad I could help you, little star. That's what makes me happiest. You're helping me a whole bunch, too."

"...Okay."

She scoots closer, and then twirls and sit-rolls like an overactive, elegant worm, flowing into a regal half-kneel, taking Persephone's hand and turning it palm-side down, grasping it.

"If it's for a friend, I won't be scared at all. I'll take my fear and turn it into love, and love into the power that protects my friends. We'll wear our bleeding hearts on each other's sleeves, calm so the blood flows out slowly, light and bubbly so it doesn't weigh down a gram. So it lifts both our spirits just a bit. And I won't hide my prickly bits."

"Is that okay?"

Persephone laughs- musical, lighthearted, short. Her hand squeezes Vittoria's gently. Her head is tilted to one side; her eyes are shut as little smiling arcs of light. "Yes. It's okay. It's beautiful."

Vittoria nods and lowers her head as if she's about to kiss Persephone's hand, resting her forehead on it instead.

"Then I swear that the light of my blazing star will make your sky shine brightly, and I swear to guard you from hate with love, until the two can too reconcile. That my light of friendship never goes out even in the heat of battle. Lonely Love Requiem."

A light shines out from her heart and eyes, rays of multicolored light radiating from the space between them. The promise is carved in the bones of this place, below the dream that can be seen, at the very edge of the dream that can be felt.

"...That's the power of a magical girl."

"...ad-libbing."

For just a few seconds throughout, the doll's face is exactly as unreadable as it ought to be, and yet has never been. Awe, maybe? Passive amazement? Intent concentration?

As soon as she speaks, that ends. Or, no, she doesn't speak exactly. She laughs, sincere and kind and silvery, and her starlike eyes shrink up into little mirthful upward crescents. It is a laughter that shakes the surface of the stream, sending ripples over it crosswise to the current. For just a moment, in peripheral vision, the stars appear to swim.

The doll leans forward. The smooth place where its mouth ought to be touches Vicky's bangs, delivering a pure and imaginary smooch to her forehead. Her hand delicately turns over in the magical girl's grasp so that they can hold each other, instead of passively being held.

"I believe you. Do you know, I really do believe you? You have a beautiful heart. It must be, to say a beautiful thing like that and really utterly mean it. Haha, even more if you're ab-libbing! That makes it even better."

The doll pulls back, but not too far. Its hand squeezes Vicky's.

"A little star. A light that's life-giving. I like it a lot, you know. Even if things have been... tempestuous? I'm so glad you've never unlearned how to be that kind."

Signals from the nerve-ape behind the rosy dreamself's eyes plateau in intensity. Someone's on that good shit, neurological wildfire held back by the bravest little amygdala, bleeding it off into wriggling limbs and dilating blood vessels. Not enough to hide from the dream. But enough to stay virtually modest.

"I- um, I..." Her blush threatens to detonate. Torture, this is, she thinks, but maybe the good kind. Not sure. Emergency measures may be in order.

She's been pliable to everything, but rebels against the drawn-out silence she extends between them by doing something very physically volitional, and very silly; she turns and plops her side down on the grass, facing away from her New Friend (++). In the extensions of dreamspace, they're just as close to each other, closer in fact, her hand staying on the doll's, but...

But she's unwinding tangled beam-strings of expression, pulling them back from the strain of being seen, of being pulled taut into their full form, all in the air between them.

"...usually. Ahah. Usually I'm the one who makes people blushy and speechless. I thought I had you for a second there...!"

"I mean, uh—uuuuu—it's, it's not like I prefer it when... when people don't really get it, or they, um, can't..." She trails off. "...this is different and nice but I'm just not used to being..."

"...gobbled up."

Poor thing. A deft comet pulled in by the gravity of a passing planet.

Persephone is big, in ways not described by her physical size. If there's one way she can be 'unpleasant', it's this:

In a haze of woodsmoke and incense, you can't get a breath of fresh air.

When a person is like a planet, the only way you can get distance is to jump.

The torture is almost unbearable. But it doesn't last forever. The beam-strands, eventually, are untangled.

"Awww, but don't be embarrassed," she says softly at the end. Her hand squeezes the magical girl's, gently. An acknowledgement, and an attempt not to pull her back in just yet, but it pulls anyway. Her legs stretch out, knees no longer against the chest. "You were doing so well! Ahaha, you still are. Even so badly off-script, you are so perfectly yourself. Thank you for letting me see it."

A moment of "space" and "fresh air" later, her other hand comes to rest on the pixie's side, stroking it as if to comfort a wounded animal. Maybe pride.

"There's nothing wrong with being gobbled up anyway," she continues after the pause. "The balance point between Pluto and Charon is in the empty space between them. The balance point between Terra and Luna is still inside of Terra. Do you think the moon feels embarrassed?"

"It's, um- I mean, it's just... I think the way I usually deal with stage fright is by feeling like I'm... like I have more presence than the audience. Like I'm untouchable. You know?"

She writhes a practished shimmy, hand brushing back against the other's.

"And... I'd feel like you really are, if... if I didn't know any better."

There's a hint of uncertainty there.

"I'm not," she says, but her voice is smiling. "I'm really, extremely touchable. Ahaha, in a lot of ways!"

The cuteness of the shimmy overwhelms her. She leans in, tapping her featureless face gently to the back of the magical girl's head. It's a kiss, as surely as she can smile without a mouth.

"But if you'd like to pretend I am, that's okay too. I like it a lot, you know."

The innuendo is—although meriting the traditional blush—weirdly calming, a nice banality giving her some familiar ground to stand on. The intimacy gets a rapid, convulsive giggle, like she's ticklish. Her strings don't exactly re-orient to follow the orbit, but they do stretch out of the body, relaxing, dancing in the gravitational pull.

"Everyone gets to be touched. It's not fair to poke at someone without having their skin push back. What's the point? And it's nice to... touch people. Like we're touching each other."

Real blush again.

The giggle is met with a low mmmm of approving acknowledgement. "You get it. That would be really boring, wouldn't it? Luna pulls on Terra too- that's called the tides! That restless energy you have... it's really infectious. It softens people up, doesn't it?"

Just the doll's slightly-pointed fingertips- a little hard, but yielding, like fingernails- trace up the magical girl's side, then back down again. Looking for response, playing her like an instrument.

A little slyly: "You can't see it, but I'm blushing now too. Just for example."

It would be easy to close her eyes and lean in, shiver, let the moment bleed through her. It would also be the hardest thing in the world—her mind is set taut on programmed responses and structured counter-investments. This is war.

She lets out a little sharp breath and pouts, leaning in, like it's an accident, like it's only natural. "...Figures. I bet your blood is going all sorts of interesting places. What with... the tides."