“It’s a trance club, sir. Are you sure you want to go in there?” She looked him over, noted the dated clothes, the glassiness of his aging eyes. Might not make it out. Like a lot of them; like *most* of them. There’s a queue of carcasses out back still. Ready to be buried alive as if antiquated VHS tapes.
He knew he had to. For Shelley. Yet another door was opened that he possibly couldn’t walk back out of.
He stopped his simple walk in the midst of it all. Cold breath came out of his mouth. Must be 20 degrees below what it was in the foyer. Maybe 30, or even more. Moon indeed. And it could be getting colder ta boot. Yes: people, susceptible ones, could die in here, he thought. And he had some kind of lingering chest congestion he couldn’t get rid of.
He stared over at her, prepared to start her yoga routine on the green bamboo mat, turning green herself in the process. True center. He recalls the 108/108/108 spot in Perch-Mistletoe where he also stared at bamboo, a whole wall of it there, across the canal that evenly divides that most central of Nautilus’ sims in two. This is 108 as well, he realized. Moon itself.
She begins the motions.
Soon after our Wolvie, born oh so shortly before, was no more: absorbed.
Sunklands 