Meanwhile, back at the Seige of the House of Russell, Dabbler was trying desperately to figure things out. The scene continued to shatter regularly and go off on a new and directions, each invariably also aborted, but some variation of the police seige always reasserted itself. The seige was the default for indecision, it seemed.
Landis too was a study in abrupt contrasts. At times he spoke like the stage magician he had once been, and still resembled, at others like the Author he had become, and at yet others the tortured, self-aware penitant he had ultimately become on recovery of his buried past, in turn despairing, angry, contrite, or violent. It was far from clear just which he thought he was at any one time, was, if indeed he retained any clear notion of self at all. But at least he exhibited no new indications that his conscious mind might bubble to the fore again amid the chaotic fragments of his subconscious self, as had happened when he had attacked Dabbler earlier.
The notice Landis took of his barefoot companion fluctuated along with his mental state. Dabbler was never certain whether he would be addressed as a friend, enemy or stranger, barely acknowledged, or totally ignored. If Landis showed any consistency at all, it was in a sort of fascinated absorbtion in the continuous kalaidoscope of the Russell tragedy, which played out like a train wreck in slow motion, endlessly reprised. Occasionally he was involved by what was happening, at other moments detached; alternately vehemenent that events proceed in a particular direction or completely uncaring. His awareness of his own responsibility for the scenario was tentative at best. It was like he was an observer in the processes of his own mind.
Dabbler was tempted to just look on as Landis was doing, not feeling quite all present himself. Competing concepts of self were battling for recognition in his mind -- there was the Author Avatar he had long since come to see himself as, plus the teenaged dream-knockoff he had been merged with on entering D.J.'s dream (or was it Zorlond's?), plus the long-lost Character identity whose memories Landis' spell had dragged back into the light. Not to mention that disquieting virtual-Zorlond voice that continued to natter away in the background, kibitzing unhelpfully at random intervals. For if what it had "told" him was true, it was part of him as well, a compartment of his mind overwritten with the real Zorlond's knowledge and personality.
It wasn't enough to make him go bananas, as Zorlond had. But it was definitely giving him a headache. More than anything right now, Dabbler desperately wanted to just let the scenario of Landis and the Russells go where it would until he could get his own head straight.
The trouble was, that wouldn't be helping Landis. And that, if anything, was what he was here for.
I wonder, the barefoot Author thought to himself, if sorting out this shattered thread would help. Landis is obviously disturbed by it. Maybe this is one of the things his conscious self feels guilty about?
That would be my guess, the virtual-Zorlond happily chimed in.
Shouldn't you know? Dabbler responded.
Hey, there's a limit to how much of me your insignificant little mind could hold, was his gadfly's lofty reply. I had to be selective. How was I to know just what you'd be running into in my Avatar's subconscious?
Swell. If you can't be helpful, why don't you shut up?
You can't talk to me like that! I'm an Original, I am!
The hell you are! By your own account you're just a piece of my mind Zorlond's real Original warped. So get off my back and let me figure this out!
For a wonder, the virtual-Zorlond did.
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Sat Oct 02 12:02:30 2004
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