Interrogator F: Santa, the Old World folktale about a man who delivers presents—why would she call you that? You're not particularly jolly.
Nadia T.: Fuck yourself to the Underside and back. Besides, she wasn't calling 'Santa.' She was addressing soone else—a mory from a long ti ago.
Interrogator F: The Cradle you describe her talking about so much?
Nadia T.: Mmm, couldn't say. I don't want to speculate or lay down so impression about her that's just an imagination.
Interrogator F: I'm sorry, but you'd said, "soft, so our lips wouldn't touch," didn't you? What part about that isn't so horny girl's imagination?
Nadia T.: Are you saying I'm lying?
Interrogator F: You're the one who said you're a liar. Is it ti to admit you lied about that?
Nadia T.: Now why would I lie to you?
Interrogator F: Maybe for the sa reason you lie to yourself—
Nadia T.: I'm not lying to myself! About anything. I've thought a long ti about who I am and what I've done. I'm…
Interrogator F: Ready to own it and move on, or perhaps you have already—proven yourself sothing different than you think.
Nadia T.: I know who I am.
Interrogator F: But do you rember who you are? What you've done? Or shall we walk down the joys of narration—I really have been enjoying your story.
Nadia T.: We walk, so I can show you you're full of shit.
Interrogator F: Then spin a story, and think about soone that's not you for a mont. Who was Nesis talking to?
Nadia T.: A person…a man if we go by the na. Soone who'd use a lie for a child to visit a child when they're sleeping—alls below. If Cradle wasn't already destroyed…
Interrogator F: These Black Wombs seem to carry a lot on their shoulders.
Nadia T.: You say that like it wasn't the Nine who ordered all of them killed just because of who made them. All you did was punish victims, and prove their abusers right—they'd never be human enough for you assholes.
Interrogator F: What's done is done, and it can't be taken back or put back together. Your words, paraphrased admittedly. Santa, funny to think our ancestors had distilled a transcendent sensation into sothing so material. I much prefer our Lady Gracemourne—do you know the story?
Nadia T.: Never been to the palaces. Wouldn't be welco, rember.
Interrogator F: Apologies, but morial instability makes victis of us all. In cases like yours, amnesiacs, it's the crumbling of the path behind you, leaving you at the beginning of an end. For soone like her, it's the disappearance of the present causing you to tumble into a world long abandoned.
Nadia T.: And you?
Interrogator F: Excuse ?
Nadia T.: You said it makes victims of all of us—how does it affect you?
Interrogator F: It steals my future, leaving to traipse about the past until I find a way out. Vicious litle thing—mory. Nadia, do you rember what happened when you died?
Nadia T.: It's a lot like the world falling out beneath you, that's for sure, and when you fall it's to a place deep..dark…a place of Tragic lancholy, and Masked Monsters run amok. I Rember…
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