The Appraisal

The atmosphere in the Conservatory shifted. The bioluminescent plants seemed to dim, casting long, jagged shadows across the frozen faces of the warriors.

"Appraisal?" Arthur repeated. He took a step back, his hand drifting toward his jacket lapel.

"Every collection requires a viewer," Vane said, walking slowly toward him. "Art does not exist in a vacuum, Mr. Pendelton. Without an observer to witness the grandeur, the value depreciates. The narrative energy stagnates."

Vane stopped ten feet away. He looked at Arthur with the critical eye of a butcher inspecting a cut of meat.

"I brought you here because this world is unstable. It needs an anchor. A fresh consciousness to bind the reality together. A storyteller."

"You want me to write about this?" Arthur asked, playing for time.

"I want you to be *part* of it," Vane said. "A permanent fixture. A monument to curiosity."

Arthur didn't hesitate. He drew the pistol. It was a compact 9mm, loaded with hollow points. He leveled it at Vane’s chest.

"Open the door, Alistair. Now."

Vane didn't flinch. He didn't even stop smiling. "How crude. I expected better from a man of letters."

"Open it!" Arthur shouted. His finger tightened on the trigger.

* Bang.*

The gunshot shattered the silence of the twilight world. The muzzle flash was bright and violent.

The bullet sped toward Vane’s heart.

But a foot from his vest, the lead projectile unraveled. It didn't flatten or drop. It dissolved. The metal shards sprouted wings. They turned soft, dusty, and grey.

Before the bullet could hit Vane, it transformed into a moth.

The grey moth fluttered harmlessly against Vane’s lapel. Vane brushed it away with a look of mild distaste.

"Physics are negotiable here, Arthur. I own the laws of nature in this zip code."

Arthur pulled the trigger again. *Click.* The gun had turned into a heavy, dead weight in his hand. He looked down. The steel barrel was fusing with his hand, turning into cold, grey stone.

"No," Arthur gasped. He tried to drop the gun, but his fingers wouldn't move. The sensation of cold was spreading up his wrist, past his elbow, racing toward his shoulder.

"Panic ruins the composition," Vane chided gently. "Try to look defiant. It plays better with the lighting."

Arthur turned to run, but his legs were heavy, sluggish. His knees locked. The fabric of his trousers hardened into marble folds.

"Please," Arthur choked out. The stiffness reached his neck. His vocal cords felt like they were coating in concrete.

Vane stepped forward. He reached out and tilted Arthur’s chin up slightly.

"There," Vane whispered. "The seeker of truth, frozen at the moment of realization. Poetic."