Cold black ink surrounded me.
I felt like I was standing in a puddle of thick black oil instead of a wet surface like water. I could feel the black ink pull on my boots and drag me into the ground.
Whenever I tried to lift one of my legs, hundreds of hands would come up from the black ink and hold me back so I couldn't leave.
"Ethan! Eyes closed!" Silas shouted as if he were far away. I could hear him but the sound was very muffled and sounded almost like it was coming from a very long distance. "The text is rewriting your world! Do not allow the script to be completed!"
I turned my head to see the woman sitting on the bench—the Script-Doll. Her face had become a shiny green screen. The words on the screen were scrolling much faster than before.
I shouted "No," My waist now had the ink rising. The weight of the cuff is unbearable. It's like the weight of a mountain is tied to my wrist.
I look down at my hands, they are starting to turn gray. I am losing my real color, I am becoming part of the paper — part of some other person's story.
I remembered the Bridge in London. The memory was distorted. I wasn't on the edge; I jumped in my memory. I remember the cold water hitting me, being swallowed by the darkness.
It's easier this way, the voice said to me at the back of my mind, the Script-Doll's voice. Just let it all go. No more running. No more pain. Just live as a character in the story.
"Ethan! Look at me!" Silas was suddenly pulling at my collar. He was leaning over the edge of the ink pit, and he was flushed from the effort. No weapon in his hands — he held a small, crumpled piece of paper, which was a photo.
"Can you believe what we're seeing? This isn't a draft!" He yelled again . .
I blinked a couple times trying to clear the static that had suddenly appeared in my eyes, but yeah. That picture of me and Sophie at the carnival was, by far, my most favorite picture. I was holding a huge blue cotton candy as Sophie was laughing so hard with a red face due to excitement. The photo wasn't a "Script" – it was simply a moment that was real, even though it looked fuzzy and messy .
Suddenly, the green text on the Script-Doll's face started to flicker and jumble up .
"Error." The display flashed on the screen of the Script-Doll. "Unscripted Information Detected. Re-routing Narrative."
I felt the ink around my waist begin to boil as heat came off the iron around my wrist; the "Weight" of the real moment I had just seen was greater than the weight of the artificial ending being displayed on the screen .
"I'm not …a Character…" I gasped.
With my iron hand, I reached for the bench's edge and brought my iron to rest on it like when I had first sat at that bench with the Script-Doll on it. I didn't attempt to get up from the bench; in fact, I did the opposite. Instead of pulling myself up and off the Doll, I pushed my "weight" down into the Doll.
"Rewrite this!" I hissed.
Into the Doll's logic, I poured memories of the carnival; the scent of sugar, the sound of Sophie's laugh, and the heat of the sun into it.
The Script-Doll's head snapped backward and the green screen on her face turned bright red and began to scramble into nonsensical language.
"Sophie... carnival... blue... NOT DEAD..."
The Doll started shaking and her green sweater ripped itself apart into long strings of code. Finally, the screen emitted one loud high-pitched beep and shattered.
The ink pit disappeared. I was pitched forward onto the cold stone floor, struggling to breathe. Gone forever were the woman, the bench, and the green text. The only remains of that moment were small, burned scraps of paper that drifted away on the blowing winds.
I glared at my hands and noticed the grey ash was gone from them. The tan color and strength of my hands had returned.
Silas suddenly dropped to the ground beside me, gasping for air like an exhausted runner. He reached back into his pocket and got out an old photograph; it was only then that I found out how close we had come to losing everything and getting the words "The End" written on the paper he had.
"How did you get that photo?" I asked, staring down at the photograph in his hand.
"It's in your flat in London," he said.
Without answering me, he stared at the huge gate to the Archive. "I told you before, Ethan. I've been keeping track of the Council for a long time, and I collect the items they wish to discard."
As he stood and offered me his hand to help me up, he said "The Doll is dead; however, the alarm has gone off. There is no more time for us to be quiet and undetected. We have to get into the Archive immediately, before we disappear from existence when the sun rises this morning, assuming this place will have a sun to rise above it."
I helped myself off the ground with his assistance, and the iron bracelet that had been so painfully warm on my wrist felt cool to the touch, but there was still a new pulse beating within it.
"I'm with you," I said, and followed Silas into the Archive to learn what else was written regarding me.