You know that saying, “Nobody knows you better than you know yourself?” Well, turns out it’s true. Too bad for Mira.
She steps, and it steps in turn. She dodges, and it dodges along. She makes a puff of smoke; it doesn’t, can’t, but it performs the same hand motions, moves its mouth to say the same words without sound. Its eyes, unblinking, stay locked on hers. There is no Sneak Attack, because she can’t sneak up on herself; no Evasion, because it knows what she’s going to do before she does it.
It’s starting to look pretty desperate. Until Mira brings down that Moonbeam.
The pillar of light bounces off of every mirrored surface, nearly blinding after so long in the dim. Caught in its beam, the doppelganger spasms and freezes entirely, its mouth opening in a silent scream. The edges of it go fuzzy and ill-defined, wrong, as it tries to change its shape and finds itself caught in place for the first time in its short life. And then—
The doppelganger opens.
That’s the only way to describe it. The space it takes up in the passageway peels back, revealing a hole — a window into something else. An inky, endless blackness with color sparking through. Shaped like a person. Shaped like Mira.
Within the shape, an eye opens. And another. And more.
Whatever action Mira is about to take, something else makes the decision for her. There’s a crash in the distance, the way she came, then a couple more smaller crashes before the source of the sound comes careening around the corner: a soaking wet red umbrella, zooming towards her at top speed. Once it’s close enough, it jabs her in the spine, hard. The message is loud and clear: MOVE, NOW.
This is a good time to use Cat Burglar, as it happens. With quick feet and the umbrella at her back, Mira runs past the chasm that was her doppelganger, that still bears her shape, into the chamber beyond this tunnel. Another turn left, then right, and the tunnel veers up — up — and there’s sunlight, and she’s out—
(And behind her, far enough back that she can neither see nor hear, there’s a soft yelp.
“Woops. Woops woops woops. Okay, just gonna clean . . . this up, and — there.”
The empty space full of eyes pixelates and then . . . sews up neatly, leaving only the mirrors behind.
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She steps, and it steps in turn. She dodges, and it dodges along. She makes a puff of smoke; it doesn’t, can’t, but it performs the same hand motions, moves its mouth to say the same words without sound. Its eyes, unblinking, stay locked on hers. There is no Sneak Attack, because she can’t sneak up on herself; no Evasion, because it knows what she’s going to do before she does it.
It’s starting to look pretty desperate. Until Mira brings down that Moonbeam.
The pillar of light bounces off of every mirrored surface, nearly blinding after so long in the dim. Caught in its beam, the doppelganger spasms and freezes entirely, its mouth opening in a silent scream. The edges of it go fuzzy and ill-defined, wrong, as it tries to change its shape and finds itself caught in place for the first time in its short life. And then—
The doppelganger opens.
That’s the only way to describe it. The space it takes up in the passageway peels back, revealing a hole — a window into something else. An inky, endless blackness with color sparking through. Shaped like a person. Shaped like Mira.
Within the shape, an eye opens. And another. And more.
Whatever action Mira is about to take, something else makes the decision for her. There’s a crash in the distance, the way she came, then a couple more smaller crashes before the source of the sound comes careening around the corner: a soaking wet red umbrella, zooming towards her at top speed. Once it’s close enough, it jabs her in the spine, hard. The message is loud and clear: MOVE, NOW.
This is a good time to use Cat Burglar, as it happens. With quick feet and the umbrella at her back, Mira runs past the chasm that was her doppelganger, that still bears her shape, into the chamber beyond this tunnel. Another turn left, then right, and the tunnel veers up — up — and there’s sunlight, and she’s out—
(And behind her, far enough back that she can neither see nor hear, there’s a soft yelp.
“Woops. Woops woops woops. Okay, just gonna clean . . . this up, and — there.”
The empty space full of eyes pixelates and then . . . sews up neatly, leaving only the mirrors behind.
“We don’t have time for you just yet. Not. Yet.”)