If there's one thing Tiff doesn't want to do, it's going to school when there's a perfectly good mystery to unravel. She wants to pick at the threads until more information fruit falls out of the tree. That's a really botched metaphor, but she doesn't really care.

Sitting through physics (usually one of her favorite classes) is an unbearable exercise in trudging along and she's only about ten minutes into the class. She taps her pen against her chin when she isn't busy doodling circles and eyes in the margins of her notes.

Tiff glances at the door. What's stopping her from leaving right now? What's stopping her from skipping school to try to research things? There's really nothing.

She shouldn't. On some level, she knows that. She has exams she has to take later. It isn't a good idea.

Over the past year, her entire outlook on schooling has changed. It's almost like she's worse, somehow. She wouldn't have dreamed of skipping class before the rest of the Dream Team dragged her into it after gym so they could break into the hospital. Grades are important to her-- but not, apparently, as important as everything that is crashing down on her head.

She won't skip, then. She'll try to be good. Her intentions have to count for something, right? Even if her actions are morally reprehensible?

She thinks it over. She sketches it out in the margins of her notes. It's just prep for the AP test, anyway. She already knows everything she needs to know about electricity.

Maybe there's a way that she could figure out how to get back to that domain. Or maybe not. She doesn't think she has that kind of power. It would require some sort of magical ability. That's one thing that Tiff doesn't have.

She stops off at the bathroom between classes, just to take a second to try and get herself to focus. It's time to focus on school, not the supernatural-- on welding, not the water.

Welding is a fun enough class. She's glad she was forced into it for the CTE credit in her freshman year and decided to stick with it. Uncle Mike thought it was cool, even if her mother didn't agree; it's what prompted him to let her help out with his hobbyist motorcycle repair stuff.

Tiff splashes water on her face and pulls up the collar of her t-shirt to dry it. When she emerges, the lights overhead flicker.

That's unusual, even for the gross bathroom.

Tiff looks away from the mirror; she takes a half step back to take a better look.

Something moves in the glass.

Tiff turns her head slowly. Giving a backward glance to the still-flickering lights overhead, she turns her attention back to the mirror and takes a step toward it.

The surface of the mirror seems almost... liquid.

It shouldn't. That's not how mirrors work.

Tiff leans forward a little. She puts her face close enough to see, but far enough away that the tip of her nose doesn't touch it. Instead, she reaches out a tentative finger.

That's a mistake.

As soon as she touches it, the liquid mirror latches on to her skin, to her flesh, to her very being. It sucks her through, up to her wrist.

Tiff pulls. She grabs her arm and pulls on it, but it's hopeless. She's caught. She's stuck.

The liquid mirror sucks her through.

When she comes through on the other side, she is in an infinite eerie blue-green place. It's like the bottom of a clear lake where nobody has ever stirred up the silt. She pushes herself up and looks around, trying to figure out where the hell she is. For the longest time, there is nothing. There is just the emptiness of wherever she is.

There's only one way out, and that's through. She knows that. If there's no way to go back through the mirror (which has disappeared now that she is through it), then she's just going to have to find another route back to reality. Dead-set on finding it, she starts walking in a single direction.

Along the way, there are flickering glimpses of those same blue-violet apparitions as what she saw in the bathroom yesterday. If she tries to concentrate too hard, she can't see them. As it stands, she just sees images of everyday pain and misery. The specifics are missing, but the feeling is there. She rolls her shoulders under her sweater, trying to shake it.

After walking for what feels like an eternity and a half, Tiff spots a familiar sight. It's the trailer from the night before, with the same pink curtains and gentle light leaking from the interior.

Of course. That explains it. Dezzie brought her here through-- through what? Through the water she splashed on her face? Through the ectoplasm caked under her nails? Through the droplets that got on the mirror? Tiff isn't sure what it was, but she knows that she's here. There has to be some sort of link between those two things. None of this makes sense otherwise.

With a sigh, Tiff climbs the steps and walks into the trailer-- and then promptly trips over her own feet. That's one way to make an entrance. (Denny was right. She should have slept more and eaten breakfast.)

Dezzie sits on a stool off to the side, with a paintbrush in hand and a wilted grin splitting her lips. She is different than she was the night before-- as if the few hours between then and now have made her less human.

"Hey, Tiff," she says, voice waterlogged. "You ready to talk?"

"I don't want to. I don't want to talk to you. You're the one hurting people, and I don't want to negotiate with terrorists."

"How very patriotic of you. How very American."

"Don't insult me like that!" Tiff pushes herself up off the ground. "I'm ashamed of my government and terrified of their overreach. Now, I'll ask you: what do you want?"

"What do you mean, what do I want?"

"Why did you bring me here? What's the point of ripping me out of school to have me here, in your little water world?"

Dezzie looks around, amused. Her eyes meet the ceiling. "Is that what it looks like to you?"

"Yeah." Tiff pauses. "Why? What does it look like to you?"

"Like Hell. Like eternal death. Like I have been trapped all my life and just want out." Dezzie sighs, then looks back at Tiff. "To answer your other question, I didn't bring you here. You brought yourself here."

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'What?' I put it into very simple terms. I know you're a smart girl. Slutatorian and all."

"That was an inside joke between me and my brain. You don't get to participate in that."

"I'll do what I want."

"Damn. I can't argue with that."

Dezzie doesn't say anything. She just smiles and keeps painting. Tiff tries to get a peek at her canvas, but sees only blue.

"I know you're correct. So... If I'm the one who brought myself here, I should be able to make myself leave, right?" Tiff isn't actually asking. Thinking out loud is a bad habit of hers, and it isn't one that she's going to break any time soon.

Tiff pushes herself up off the ground and starts walking the lengths of the In-Between Trailer. There are clear limits to whatever tear in the spaces is allowing her to remain here. The only way out is through, and the only way through is to find a way to tear down all these walls.

Maybe all of this is related to the fairy circle out in the woods. After all, it was a portal to a different world. As someone who has visited other planes and spaces, both in flesh and consciousness, she should know how to get out based on those previous experiences.

What is the answer, then? Does she smash this thing wide open? Is this supposed to be more ritualistic? Or is it as simple as closing her eyes, counting up to ten, and calming herself down?

Tiff would punch her arm if she weren't already picking at her thumbs. It hurts, just like it always does. That's a sign that she's really here, then. That makes sense. She doesn't know why it didn't occur to her before.

"I have a question for you, while you're still here," Dezzie says, musing. She dips her paintbrush in water, then back into the watercolor palette.

That snaps her out of it enough that she briefly stops pacing. "Yeah?"

"When are you going to die?"

Tiff blinks, not sure what to say to that. "The hell does that mean?"

"I know you heard me. When are you going to die?"

"I-- I don't understand why you're asking that."

"Because we're all curious, Tiff. We're all waiting. We all know you're waiting, too."

"I don't-- You're wrong," Tiff protests. "I don't want to die."

It isn't enough. Dezzie raises her eyebrows. "Come on, Tiff. You can't lie to me. I can see every crack in your skull, remember? I can see the Spanish moss growing from the branches there. I can see the mold. We both know you're not wanted. We both know it would be better for everyone if you're gone forever. And we both know you're right."

"No, I'm not, and no, I don't," Tiff half-lies. Her lips curl. It's not disgust; it's fear. Like an animal about to lash out, she bares her teeth and tries to steel herself.

Just because she has thought about dying about once a week every week since she was twelve doesn't mean that she actually wants it to happen. Just because she thinks about disappearing all the time doesn't mean she wants to be gone. She repeats it in the back of her mind like a mantra: moving to Kansas isn't going to help anyone.

Dezzie knows she hit a nerve, though. It shows in the cocky little grin she gives. "I told you, we're two peas in a pod."

"I don't want to die."

"Your mind says otherwise. Your behavior says otherwise. You throw yourself in front of everything and for what? Because-- say it with me-- you want to die!"

"No, it's more like I just don't care if I do. Don't you dare misinterpret my motives."

"Once you're dead, you could join me. And we could get things done together. You said you hate your government. What if I could help you get rid of them?"

"And what's in it for you?"

"Everything."

Tiff considers it. She considers it for longer than she would like to admit. "No," she decides. "No, fuck you."

"Belligerent as ever, I see," Dezzie sighs. She sets the paintbrush to the side, folds her hands, and looks at Tiff with eyes like the sky under the sea. "This would be so much easier if you would just cooperate. If you were less of a little bitch."

"Well. Anyone will tell you, I'm not exactly cooperative. Especially with people who are hurting other people."

"But you were cooperative with your parents?" Dezzie's voice is off, a little bit. Tiff doesn't know what to do or think about that-- but it doesn't sound like the girl she has been talking to. It's like someone else is talking through her.

Even so, Tiff reacts like she always does, even if she manages to tuck that information away for later. Defensiveness is the go-to. "That-- That was-- That was different."

"Was it?" Her voice is still different. Maybe Tiff's mind was picking up on nothing at all. "You could have told them to fuck off just like you tell everyone else."

"Are you blaming me for what they did to me, Dezzie? Are you really doing that? Fuck you. You know I didn't have a choice in the matter. It was their way or the highway, and they kicked me out anyway. I didn't choose how to act, not when I had to be a certain way or-- or she would-- or things would happen."

"It's not what I believe, Tiffany." Dezzie cocks her head to the side. She looks at Tiff like the answer is obvious. "It's what you think. I'm just telling you what lies in your mind. That you deserve what happened to you because of them and you deserve to die because there is some part of you that is broken and inherently unfixable."

"Okay, but I-- I don't."

"You don't believe that."

"No, I-- I don't." She isn't sure if it's a lie or not. "Not all the time, anyway!"

"You do. But I don't, Tiffany. I don't believe that at all. And I could help you to see that."

"Why do you want me on your side, Dezzie? What's the point of any of what you're doing?"

"I want what we all want. Control." Dezzie frowns, looks down at her hands. When she continues to speak, her voice is back to normal. "Control of myself, I think. And a chance for the truth to come out. For the narrative to change."

"Isn't there a way to get that done without hurting people? Come on, they're just kids, they don't deserve what you're doing to them."

"You're seventeen." Dezzie's face is steel; her voice is what it was before, all congested and unnatural. "Can you really call yourself a child? Can you even excuse your own actions?"

"I can try! Sometimes you have to kill an evil wizard to save your friend! It's not a crime!"

"Guess what, Tiffany? You and I both know that you're going to do it again. It's just a matter of time."

"Oh, please. I did what I had to do," she says, even though she doesn't believe that and both of them know it. "And there's no way for it to have gone better. It's not like I can go back and change it. Time travel isn't real."

There is nothing in her that thinks she was right to do what she did. Though she did what felt correct in the moment, regret reigns supreme. As opposed as she is to monarchies, Tiff can't find a way to topple its throne.

"I don't know what your issue is," Tiff says, facing Dezzie fully and not looking at the corner, "but you've got to quit this."

The ground turns to liquid. It's the same as before-- the same as the liquid mirror that brought her here. Tiff tries to hop to the side to avoid the proverbial quicksand, but she isn't even close enough to fast enough for that.

Dezzie grins, teeth sharp and dripping with algae. "Or what?"

"Or I'll-- I'll find you, and I'll tro-- trou--" She frowns, amends, "Stop you."

"Your threats are weak. Goodbye, Tiffany." Faux-pouting, Dezzie raises a hand in a near-royal wave. "It's so sad that you have to go."

As quickly as she appeared in this pocket domain, Tiff is back where she was before: crumpled in a heap on the floor of the gross bathroom. She shakes her head to clear if.

The bell is already ringing; she checks the time. Only five or so minutes have passed in real-world time. How interesting! Dezzie's domain must have the same time dilation side effect as the Fae World.

Tiff pushes herself off the ground again. There is blood that isn't hers on the left leg of her jeans. God, this bathroom sucks. There's something else, though. On her hands, on her leg, on her leg, on the mirror and the wall: the blue-violet ectoplasm. She isn't sure what it means, but she knows that its presence is important.

She rinses off her hands under the weak spray of the sink and, drying her hands on her shirt, sprints to a class she is definitely going to be late to. Maybe Denny was right. Maybe it was a great idea to come to school today.