The Post-Mortem Post-Twain Support Group Club

A few days after Greg’s second passing, Tarry comes to you with a look of determination you haven’t seen since the garden.

“I’m startin’ a club,” ey declare. “I’m callin’ it Twain Survivors Anonymous.”

You have to convince em that it’s an awful name—there’s no anonymity, words mean things—but there’s otherwise no stopping em, and The Club is born. You call it The Club, because Tarry’s names for it get progressively worse—Make Worms Pests Again, Home for Hive Victims, Twain Survivors Identified—and, well… It's a pretty good bit, but you can’t keep track of it anymore.

It’s just the two of you for a while, checking in every week or so in what passes for a common area (actually one of Helm’s rooms). No one really bothers you; Shoal stops by occasionally, up until The Beetlearch gets bored enough to dig a new room into The Beetlearch’s domain and offers you the space, the filth of which Shoal can no longer cope with enough to visit. You’re secretly glad for it—as much as you like Shoal (and as much as Tarry definitely likes them), it felt weird to have them around.

However, with a consistent, private location (“The Clubhouse!” Tarry immediately names it, which—okay, sure), it starts to feel like a Thing, a designated time and place to put it all, instead of just the two of you hanging out. And maybe that's what brings in the first newcomer.

It’s eight weeks in, three after the move—you’re not keeping track, but Tarry is—and when you get to The Clubhouse, you’re a little caught off guard to actually find someone new. They’re a slip of a thing (by halfling standards, only mildly undernourished by yours) with big hazel eyes that remind you of Fina’s for their mischief, if not their colour. The clothes strike you as third cycle, maybe, and they’re falling apart. Though, not by enough to ditch upon entering Deus, apparently—handmade, then? Already, they’re looking at you like a threat, though you get the feeling it’s learned, not personal.

And they’re in the middle of being chatted up by your co-founder.

It takes a moment for Tarry to notice you’ve come in, which you’re a little proud of, actually; it's an improvement on how jumpy ey used to be. “Oh, lemme introduce you to Ja’lin!” Ey turn to you, beaming. “Ja’lin, this is Naia, she’s our first new member!” Ey gesture  theatrically at Naia, apparently a good enough sport to roll with it.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, still instinctually cautious after all this time. “Out of curiosity, what did Tarry tell you this was called?”

Naia snickers, which does not get your hopes up. “Tarry invited me to I Got Fucked Up By The Hive Cult And All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt.”

Tarry gives you a thumbs up.

After a short, not-very-serious argument (“We don’t have T-shirts!” “We don’t have anything except dirt, really. Doesn’t look great on a poster.” “…You did not make posters.”), you finally sit down and get Naia’s story. She never joined Twain herself, but her husband got dragged in; when he tried to have her Hived, she got herself killed rather than go through it.

In Tarry’s words: “Yikes.”

After a brief recap of your experiences, Naia insists that you win this particular game of misery poker, and mercifully shuts down Tarry’s half-joking suggestion of a leaderboard before you have to do it. Naia’s alright, then.

After Naia, people drift in more often—mostly new Keepers, but occasionally someone you’ve already seen around the place. Most of the new people don’t stay for very long, getting caught up with Keeper business or moving onto an afterlife.

(There’s a version of Annelise who shows up, once—in your arms, she confesses to being tired, so tired, but she became a keeper because the receptionist mentioned the group, which you only assume is Tarry’s doing—and you tell her she can move on whenever she likes, but that you’re glad she’s here—she only shows up once, then moves on without a single mission, but once is all you need.)

Occasionally, Keepers die in the line of duty. You mourn them. Tarry writes their names on the wall.

A few months in, your Keeper duties finally clash with The Club. Honestly, you’re surprised it took this long—privately, you suspect it’s Shar’s doing—but there's enough people to sustain it that you can justify your absence. You’re closing up another lost timeline, which isn’t fun, but it’s something to do; it gives you the opportunity to check in on your party on the way back. 

They’re still on that ship—Rafina must be pleased.

Your good mood is immediately ruined when you get back to Deus, because you immediately spot Adra. You brace yourself for a snide comment, but he just walks past you.

“Nothing funny to say, Adra?”

He doesn’t even turn around. “What, you think my life revolves around you?”

“You’re dead, dipshit,” you say, but he’s already gone. Bastard. Acrid smoke fills your nostrils; you smell it all the way to The Beetlearch’s domain. You run into a few people on their way out, but The Clubhouse is empty when you arrive, save for Tarry and the stench of mud and char.

“What was Adra doing here?”

“He wasn’t.”

“You’re a shit liar.”

“Am not.”

“I know he was here, Tarry!” You don’t mean to shout.

“Look, we do actually have anonymity!” Tarry snaps, folding eir arms and scowling at you. “Nothin’ leaves the meeting. If you’re not here, you don’t get to know!”

You’re a little taken aback—ey’re not the type to get cross so easily. “You really don’t want me to know, huh?”

“I don’t think you want to,” ey admit, eir expression softening, and that’s where you decide to stop pushing it.

Time passes. You miss a few more meetings. Occasionally, Keepers die in the line of duty. You mourn Naia. Tarry writes her name on the wall.

It's almost a year, now, since Greg went and since the first Club meeting. Deus is finally on an official Code Red, but the whole plane has been on edge since you all found out about the ‘Twain-has-a-clone-on-the-loose’ thing. You really wish there was a different, unrelated catastrophe, just once; you’re sick of everyone assuming you want to give your two copper every time something goes wrong.

You’re not sure if there’s a new catastrophe or if Deus is just officially acknowledging everything, but either way it doesn’t surprise you all that much when Shar declares a state of emergency to Her Keepers. It does surprise you when She mentions a visitor.

“A… Colleague,” She explains, clarifying nothing. “You shouldn’t worry about It.” The way She enunciates the pronoun doesn’t do much to reassure you.

Someone braver or stupider than you pipes up. “But what is it?”

“The False Hydra. A dragon that completed Its hoard—that being, everything.”

Ah. You preferred not knowing.

You make it a personal mission to stay out of Its way as you leave Her domain, and a second mission to make sure Tarry does, too. As you find your way to The Beetlearch’s domain, you vaguely hear agitated conversation from far off, not quite an argument; you recognise a few voices, mainly Gods, but you run into Tarry before you can parse what anyone’s saying.

“You heard there's a visitor?” ey say immediately, and far too loudly for your preference of staying unnoticed.

“Yes. The False Hydra?” you ask, on the off chance that things have gotten bad enough that there’s a second interplanar visitor.

Tarry nods. “Mhm!” Ey grab your hand and start leading you both out from the dirt. “Let’s go to Helm’s. So, It’s like, kind of a God, but not really—”

“It’s a dragon that completed Its hoard,” you fill in.

“Right, and The Beetlearch told me It helps the Gods do Material stuff.”

“That explains why It’s a colleague. Shar didn’t seem to be too happy with It, I dunno if The Beetlearch likes It any more.”

“Not really, ‘specially since It’s got a person.”

You stop in your tracks. “What do you mean, a person?”

“Like, a Keeper or somethin’.” Ey stop for a moment to let you catch up, eir brow furrowed. 

“You reckon that's what they’re all fightin’ about?”

“Could be, where did It get a person?”

“Like I’m supposed to know? The Beetlearch didn’t, that's where I’m at.”

Deus feels a lot emptier than usual, and your voices echo loudly off the walls—details of Deus are usually a bit more down to individual perception, but Keepers seem to have collectively decided that whatever the plane is made of, it’s echoey as fuck. You also seem to have decided that every trip should take at least five minutes (except the walk to The Clubhouse, which has been getting shorter recently).

You think very hard about making it to Helm’s common space quickly, without running into anyone else, but apparently you still haven’t learned how any of this works. Either that, or Tarry was thinking very hard in the opposite direction, because you get to Helm’s common space after six minutes and there’s already somebody there.

“You alright?” Tarry asks him. (Them? You’re not sure why you feel qualified to guess.)

I don’t know my way around, he says.

His hair is paper white, with tufts of black falling in front of his eyes (raven-black, your mind supplies for some reason). If you stare—and with your eye situation, you can’t really help it—you see leftover smudges of what looks like paint on his hands. There's a sword that doesn’t suit him at his hip, and a leafy cloak that suits him even less around his shoulders. And then you stop staring, because your head hurts.

“Do you know where you’re supposed to be?” you ask.

Not really, he says. Out of trouble. (Something about his speech strikes you as old-fashioned, but you can’t place it with any kind of precision.)

“Did you, like, just die?” Tarry asks; then before, you can temper eir question: “Or are you the False Hydra’s person?”

He laughs, short and empty, but still genuine. Ha! No. Yes. The second thing, he says.

“I’m Ja’lin, this is Tarry,” you say, trying to get the small talk out of the way before ey can continue eir interrogation. “You are…?

Nothing, he says. Wait, scratch that—he says nothing, just stares at you.

You glance at Tarry; ey shrug unhelpfully. You try again. “Do you… Have a name?”

I… think so, he says. It’s been a while. I think I still have it. I hope so.

It takes you a second to process—because, what the fuck—and that’s just long enough for Tarry to decide it’s eir turn.

“Have you ever been personally victimised by Twain?” Then, counting off options on eir fingers: “Or the Hive, or the Wyrm King?”

“Tarry.”

“Oh, right, he’s goin’ by Daniel now, isn’t he?” ey clarify, which isn’t wrong, but—

That rings a bell. I remember Daniel. It was a long time ago, but we grew up together.

There’s a long silence as you try to figure out what to do with that. Tarry gets there first.

“We ought to have a meeting,” ey declare. “Calling together the Post-Mortem, Post-Twain… Support Group. Club.”

You badly suppress a snort. “Proud of that one?”

“It’s descriptive,” ey insist, dashing off to rally available members and leaving you to escort the new guy.

Post-mortem? I’m not dead.

That doesn’t seem likely, but you don’t question it. “Follow me. I hope you like dirt.”

When you finally make it to The Clubhouse—a longer walk than usual, maybe because the new guy doesn’t know it—Tarry’s gathered a small crowd. Given the short notice, you’re impressed ey managed to gather so many, even if it’s only six Keepers. You catch the tail end of eir explanation, though it gets cut off anyway when ey notice you.

“Okay, they’re here… This is everyone I could get,” ey tell you, before turning back to the group. “Everyone, meet—!” Ey make a vague noise, gesturing to the visitor.

He waves to the group awkwardly, but his gaze is fixed on the far wall and its names.

Can I…? Uh, may I? He looks to you, then to Tarry for approval, but he’s already moving when ey nod. You decide not to mention that everyone on the wall is gone.

You’re not sure if he had the dagger with him the whole time, or if he conjured it somehow, but he starts scoring lines into the terra with the tip of the blade.

“Sword, dagger…” one of your newer members pipes up. “Why do you even have those? I can’t imagine you’re getting much bloody use out of them.”

He furrows his brow. I dunno. Symbolism, I think. He counts out his shapes; they might be letters, if you're feeling generous.

“Velamon, don’t distract the poor guy,” Tarry calls from the doorway, where ey’re busy sealing up the entrance. It’s something you do, sometimes, when you really need the privacy. “He’s got enough to think about.”

I think it's easier if I’m not thinking, actually. He steps back from the wall, staring hard at his writing.

“Halliday?” you say; he turns around and grins at you.  

You can call me Hally, if you want. He says it like he’s telling you all a secret.

“Nice to meet you, Halliday!” Tarry chirps, echoed by a few other members.

“Halliday? That’s ancient, when are you from?” Velamon asks—you know they don’t mean to be snide, it just happens.

Luckily, Halliday doesn’t seem to notice or care enough to be annoyed. Last I checked, it was about five hundred years ago.

That's as good a time as any to start the meeting properly, so Tarry raises some blocks of soil from the floor to serve as chairs and you slowly, painfully, get through the opening motions.

You’re immediately stuck, because Halliday’s at least two hundred years earlier than the rest of you and getting personal information out of him is like pulling teeth, though you don’t think it's his fault. It’s okay, though; you find you don’t really care all that much, having already learned far too much about Twain already.

Instead, you learn that Halliday likes trees—always has, but his sense of time is weird now, and he can watch them grow, sapling to oak to compost—and he used to be an axe-wielder when he was alive, so he’s a bit useless with the sword because despite having all that time to learn, he didn’t have an opponent.

(“What about the Hydra?”

As if I’m going to fight the Hydra.)

Halliday is also very insistent that he is not dead, and gives himself a headache trying to recount the exact circumstances to prove it—which immediately sparks a full debate about whether simply being removed from one plane to Deus counts as death, necessarily, and didn’t you get stabbed a whole lot, so you were probably gonna die anyway—but no, Halliday insists that he was rescued from death, because the False Hydra has always kept Its promises, which you highly doubt—

Nobody wins, but the argument concludes with an agreement that it was, in Tarry’s words, “pretty fucked up”. Weirdly, it's one of the least chaotic death arguments you’ve ever had.

Occasionally, everything stops, all of you straining to hear if the Gods and Hydra are finished and if you have to cut everything short; you wonder, not for the first time today, why you’re even doing this. Odds are, he’ll be gone when the Hydra decides to leave, and you’ll die or move on before he can come back here—if he ever gets to—and all you’re doing is giving everyone a good thing to lose in the next couple hours.

But your eyes flick to the names on the wall, Halliday’s next to Naia’s next to the rest of the second dead, and you think about Annelise, and you know that’s not the point.

It’s about four hours after you started—probably shorter, you hope longer—before you all notice an abrupt quiet, the muffled voices of the Gods suddenly silenced. There’s a long, uncomfortable moment before you bite the bullet and stand.

“You should probably unseal the door,” you tell Tarry, who nods and doesn’t move. “Tarry,” you try again; ey stand this time, but throw eir arms around Halliday instead. Halliday slowly gets up, but makes no attempt to get out of the hug despite not seeming to know what to do with it. 

It’s the sort of moment where you expect a big group pile-on, but none of you are huggers, and you’re busy keep an ear out for an eerie quiet to approach The Beetlearch’s domain. You watch the door slowly unseal itself; even indirectly, it’s Tarry’s slowest work.

You feel your mind go staticky, tripling your existing headache, and that’s when Halliday finally extracts himself from Tarry’s arms.

I think I have to go. I’ll see you soon, he says, then steps into the hallway and vanishes. You think of him watching trees grow.

Time passes. The boy’s name erases itself from the wall. You rewrite it every meeting.