Day Five-Hundred-Eleven: Be kind to your platypus

On the first night, after the battle, I nearly killed Plato.

I was wet. Soaked. I can't imagine my clothes ever being any wetter than they were. I was exhausted. My mind, my brain, utterly erased by everything I'd seen and learned. My daughter, killed… and my daughter, resurrected. I'd spent months, months, with a stranger. A fake. A fucking copy.

Plato came with me that night. He led me to Libby, as if he'd known we were connected. We numbly embraced, both of us drenched. Then Plato brought us home, back to this house, where, over several nights, he told me as much as he could.

Plato told me that he'd found me, after being placed in the jury by Edmund, through pure luck. I believe him.

Plato told me that he'd followed me after the end of the trial, that he'd practically stalked me during the siege, and that he'd kept after me all the way to Pubtwon. I believe him.

Plato told me that he didn't announce his presence because he's bad at communicating. I believe him, because his vocabulary is… a bit… odd.

Plato told me that he knocked out Antonia so I could escape. He won't say how, but I believe him.

Plato told me that he transported us from Pubtwon to Pubton in a matter of seconds, using a device he doesn't want to discuss, and which, unfortunately, he can't replicate. I believe him (and so does my stomach).

Plato told me that he fled my side because he fears Kierkegaard. They were, says Plato, schoolmates - though definitely not friends. I believe him.

He told me that Iko was their teacher. I believe him.

He told me that Iko sent him to find me, though he doesn't really know why. He only embarked on this journey because he trusts his teacher. I believe him.

He told me that he knew nothing of the Eve copy. I believe him.

But I didn't believe him that night.

Plato's words were ill-timed. I was drenched, ripped apart, bleeding, heartbroken and confused. He should have waited a day or two. Instead, he decided to reveal the truth to me on the spot, while there was still so much rage penned up in me, only held back by the sorrow of my loss and the revelation that my Eve was not the real Eve.

Those gave way when the platypus spoke of Eve's copy, and of Iko's deception. The thing, the red power in my hands, burst forth again. I was holding that crimson cross-piece for a second time. And I nearly, I so very nearly, used it to cut Plato's head from his body.

I only stopped when I realized that he wasn't trying to duck away from responsibility. He remained firm, his eyes closed, tears rolling down his bill. Truthful or lying, he wasn't the one to blame. And when I realized that, the… weapon… the whatever it is… disappeared again.

I'm still not sure about Plato. I… think… he's one of them. He may have a hidden agenda. But he's been honest with me, and he believes that Iko can help me control this weapon hiding in my fingers. If this thing could… make me good enough…

To… take on…

…

Fuck.

I need it.

To defend Pubton, and maybe… maybe to get her back… I need it.

We're going on a trip to the Imperium. The Imperium, and beyond that, a big-ass desert.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Wanderer