The conversation then meandered into a lengthy discussion of the merits of artistic appropriation. Some tedious ‘but what is Art, really?’ semantics. The concept of originality entered again; they decided that while originality isn’t necessary for art, something original always has the potential to be artistic. Dirk’s text was, yes, original. It lay on the border between collage and décollage and, though hardly a human monument, it was still, by their definition, “art,” appropriative though it was. Not that this was relevant. Being art didn’t make it significantly less worthy of destruction. But it wasn’t worthless, was the point. There were a few things that made this a special case, though. The first one being that the three of them were, you know, sentient beings inside this thing. And really, that should overrule all of this: people were being hurt, and they could undo that suffering, “artistic” though it may be. But they wanted to be more objective. The second unique thing about Dirk’s edits was how they interacted with the original text, how nebulous yet sinister and controlling this interaction was. His edits commented on the text from a point of detachment, but in other places, acted as if they were the “real” text. There was something inherently violent about it. Even the physical product was aggressive: covering the original, erasing/replacing it. And considering that this perverse thing had been a wholesome book for young readers… it was more than a little disturbing. Destroying it would be a loss, they decided. They would be destroying something of value. But the value of what they recovered would be greater. Boom. Decided. Now the matter was whether to destroy it themselves or to let Anna try to reset it on her own terms. Acorn estimated that Anna’s plan had maybe an eighty percent chance of success. They agreed yeah, Anna probably should be the one to destroy it on her own terms. But was it worth the risk? Was the chance that the girls might fail or that Anna might fuck it up with her attempt to live through the reset an acceptable one? Or was it more important that the book was destroyed no matter what? They had their Three Ideas. Minos gave his verdict first. He was still lying in his sunbeam, swishing his tail idly. “Let’s just chuck it in the river,” he said. “It’s what we want anyway. And, frankly, I’m bored. I enjoyed being mysterious and cryptic and showing up to whisper a riddle and disappear into the dark. But now… Nothing interesting is happening. This book is a failed experiment. And I’m really not inclined to go through all of it again. Justify the decision with morality or art or ethics or whatever, but we’ve decided; now the responsible thing is to follow through.” Now it was Jeanne Betancourt’s turn. “I think that this text shouldn’t exist,” she said. “Let’s begin there. I think it’s offensive and crude and not-so-subtly misogynistic and, most importantly, cruel. I defend Dirk’s artistic license to do offensive and crude things; but once he realized that these characters are real people, continuing with his little project and justifying the suffering because it was ‘interesting’ is unconscionable. That said, I don’t think the three of us should destroy the text. Anna, Pam, and Lulu deserve to choose. Even if they choose suffering. Depriving them of that would also be cruel. Clear the final page for them, but leave the rest so they may make their own choice.” “It seems you have the deciding vote, Acorn,” Minos said. “Unsurprisingly. So tell us the Third Idea.” Acorn fidgeted. He did have a Third Idea. But it wouldn’t break the tie. He couldn’t bring himself to say it; how could he tell them that he didn’t want to change the text at all? That he (selfishly, he knew) wanted it to stay this way, even if he agreed that it was wrong. But there was one thing that remained constant through all permutations of the story, through all trials, through all universes. Acorn fucking loved Anna. How could he condone something that would destroy the one thing in this world towards which he felt any hint of emotion? Even if she herself wanted this destruction, he couldn’t allow it. No. He wanted to leave the book as it was. “‘No. He wanted to leave the book as it was’? Really?” Jeanne Betancourt said incredulously. Acorn snapped out of his internal monologue and looked at the author. She was, of course, holding the book open, reading Acorn’s narrated thoughts as he thought them. The jig was up. “Yeah,” Acorn said with a petulant little whinny, “there it is. I vote for the third option. The option that fucks over everyone except me and my rider. Too bad, fuckers; hung jury.” [“Not necessarily.”] “What the hell?” Jeanne Betancourt exclaimed, recoiling in shock and revulsion from the book she was holding. [“Hi, guys. Did you miss me?”] ——— The three girls (who had previously been the two girls and the town) walked wordlessly through a vast, empty wasteland. There were no landmarks, there was no sun, there was no way to establish any direction. But Pam knew where to go. And the girls followed. This was the dead land. This was the cactus land. Death’s other kingdom. “We’ll be there soon,” Pam said over her shoulder to the other two girls. “Soon…” Pam slowed her walk, #DetectivePony