I left Scarecrow Alley and the Myr followed behind me, abandoning his haphazard arm-waving for an altogether spasmodic arm-waving. It stared up as if expecting the missing Pili-Pala to fly overhead at the mention of their name.
Pili-Palas were curious; they could unbend themselves and recapture a moment in time. It’s natural that someone would want to capitalize on that ability—I cast a glance at the metallic creature by my side—or copy it, but it was a losing game, requiring more energy in than it put out. The classic cold fusion question of The Boxes and The Chosen.
As if the heavens themselves had heard my thoughts about The Chosen, the twilight of sky wedged open revealing a sun with rays that bathed the little myr in pure light before drawing it into the giant orb. Its task complete, the sphere settled below the horizon, sealed the sky, and restored The Boxes back to it comfortable, half-lit evening.
“That explains that,” I thought. The myr was on a mission from the highest authority, which meant that this missing Pili-Pala was more important than a simple two card combo or reorganization; it went all the way up to The Decks. My head was spinning from the implications, the scale, and the difficulties implied. Mostly, it was spinning at how my empathy for a little, limping myr had landed me in the middle of a deckbuilding nightmare.
I called The Marshal in his row. He wasn’t happy to be woken up, but he understood. He was less happy about the case, but there was nothing we could do until we’d both had some time to untap and had our abilities about us again. I admitted he was right. And tiredly wove my way through the boxes back to my own row.