Joanne did not lose control. She wouldn't allow herself to do so for a piece of trash like Art's former girlfriend. Instead, she walked primly and properly over to the woman, her footsteps precise and her body ramrod straight, and said, in the most sugary of sickly sweet voices, “my my, what a pleasure it is to see you again.”

The woman's smile, which until then had been plain if a little bland, slipped slightly. “Indeed. It's a pleasure to see you, miss…”

Joanne snorted internally. It was one thing for Art to forget someone's name - he'd have forgotten his own if it wasn't necessary for the casting of spells - but for Bertha to do so was simply unacceptable. Still, far be it from Joanne to deny a gift when it came her way.

She bowed down in a formal curtsy, low enough to show respect but not low enough to show deference. “Miss Jonesby, miss Brianne Jonesby. We’re old friends, or have you forgotten your bosom buddy already?”

Hank snorted. “‘Bosom buddy,’ indeed.”

Art’s ex-girlfriend, however, simply looked distressed at ‘Brianne’s’ remark. She also bowed in a curtsey, low enough not only to show respect, but also deference. “Oh? You’ll have to excuse me; I’ve been having memory problems lately.”

‘Brianne’ put one hand up to her mouth in shock, her eyes widening in sympathy. “Oh dear, you poor thing. I am so sorry to hear that, Bertha - we’ll have to go out sometime, and I can tell you about all the wonderful memories we once made together.”

The anxiety clouding the face of Art’s ex vanished, the clear sky of relief dawning on her features. “Thank you so much, I’ll make sure to take- wait a moment, Bertha?”

She looked at Hank. “I thought you said my name was Terry.”

Hank winced. Truth be told, Bertha was her name - she’d simply hated it with an undying passion, and had preferred (some might say demanded) to be called Terry. But he had chosen to skip that in his initial explanation - he thought she would have gotten her memory back soon - and now it would take too long to correct himself, and be too disgraceful to his character. Instead, he’d just have to dig down.

“No, it isn’t. I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what ‘Brianne’ here is talking about,” he said, trying to make his tone as acerbic as possible.

‘Brianne’s’ eyebrows drew together. The plain looking woman mouthed something, expression thoughtful, as if she was seeking to digest what Hank had said. Finally she looked up, her form the epitome of confusion. “But that doesn’t make any sense - it was Bertha, and always Bertha, as can easily be proven from her birth certificate.”

Hank winced again. He had no clue if Terry as she was now could even figure out what a birth certificate was, nevermind find one - she seemed to have lost all knowledge of this world - but he couldn’t risk her making the attempt. In the absence of any viable arguments for his position - beyond a full and rather lengthy explanation that would discredit him in the eyes of his beloved - he decided to go for an alternative rhetorical gambit: insulting his opponent.

“I would be wary of accepting any statements from that woman - she’s the sister of the man who attacked you.”

‘Brianne’ gasped. “You were the subject of a vicious attack, Bertha? Ohh, the tragedy grows deeper and deeper - but that’s strange. How could it be my brother who attacked you? He just died last week; suffered a heart attack, you know.”

One long, slow tear dripped down her cheek, falling with a plop on the floor. Bertha felt a pang of heartfelt sympathy, but said nothing, Hank’s expression giving her pause.

“Dead? Dead? How could he possibly be dead! We saw Edward Brittleby, your brother, only a few days ago.”

‘Brianne’ gasped again. “I never! To think, you’d accuse me of being the sister of that man - the one who I have spent decades fighting with, and have even attempted to shoot dead.”

Bertha gasped. What a horrible backstory - a true tragedy.

“What?” Said Hank, agog. “That’s a horrible backstory - you can’t possibly expect anyone to believe such a ridiculous tragedy.”

“Do you have anything better to say for yourself than to accuse me of lying?” ‘Briane’ snapped, her tone actually acerbic, and not just a feeble attempt. “I can assure you, everything I have spoken today is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

***

“You’ll never take me alive!” Cried six year old Art, waving a toy sword around in the air. Nine year old Joanne merely sneered, striking a dramatic pose.

“Of course I won’t - and why would I, when I want only to take you dead?” And she pointed a wooden pistol at Art’s head and made pew pew noises. Art gave a great scream and fell back, hands in the air, playing dead.

“Blech,” he said.

***

“Indeed, and I hesitate to say this - for I know you’re the beloved of dearest Bertha - the only thing I can think, Hank, is that it’s you who are lying,” ‘Brianne’ finished, pointing one carefully manicured finger at Hank. The latter’s jaw dropped.

Bertha looked back and forth between the battling pair, her expression pained and uncertain. On the one hand, she wanted to trust the man who had taken her to the hospital and looked after her ever since. On the other hand, this Brianne woman looked like the pinnacle of respectability, her every word dripping with common sense and object rationality. Clearly, she wasn’t the type of person to go off and do something wild like worship an anime girl, so she must be telling the truth.

The prospect of deciding between them made her feel faint. “I… I… I don’t know who to believe. I need a drink.”

And she promptly went to get one. Hank watched her go, then wheeled about to face Joanne. His voice, when he spoke, was a bitter hiss. “Way to go. Do you have any idea how long I spent telling her everything she needed to know about who she was, after your brother’s new girlfriend violently assaulted her and destroyed her memory?”

“But my brother is dead, and does not presently have a girlfriend,” returned Joanne, in what were two contextually nonsensical but semantically true statements. Hank gnashed his teeth.

Joanne sniffed. “At any rate, so long as you’re here, perhaps you can do me a favour - the anomaly, where is it?”

Hank jumped, panic filling his eyes. Joanne smirked. She had him.

***

In fact, Hank and Joanne were speaking on two different wavelengths. Joanne was there because her divination had indicated that the hotel had hints concerning the qi anomaly Art had asked her to research. Hank was there on matters of business, waiting for a colleague. He had assumed - if the reader will pardon an equivocation - that Joanne’s presence was an anomaly, and the idea that she was there for an anomaly opened up other and altogether more disquieting roads in his mind.

Hank had thought he’d been going paranoid, when he first saw Art. The humiliated former partner of the wealthy Hank’s current girlfriend, back from his ignominious banishment to take revenge on those who had embarrassed and harmed him. It was like something from right out of one of Hank’s favourite manhuas, and Hank had tried to dismiss it as a coincidence accordingly.

But now here they were, in the hotel scene. The rich elite’s son who had stolen the trash protagonist’s girlfriend was at a fancy hotel trying to show off, and what would the main protagonist do but show up, and show off not only his superior martial arts, but also his superior wealth. It was Hank’s worst nightmare.

Sure, Art was nowhere to be seen - only his random, completely powerless sister - but if she had suddenly shown up it was clearly premeditated revenge on Art’s part. Hank felt another spike of panic.

“You… when’d you become wealthy? How? Who’s your investor?” Hank demanded, looking about in a panic for Art or his investor, painfully aware of how vulnerable he was with a broken arm. If only that truck hadn’t hit him.

Joanne’s jaw twisted in scorn.

“I study paint drying for a living. Precisely when and how would I have become a millionaire?” Joanne noted with bitter chagrin, properly sincere in her response for the first time in the conversation.

“Don’t lie. If you’re here, Art must also be here, watching, waiting, planning his revenge and rise to ultimate power. Now where is he?” Hank hissed, as Bertha began to wind her way back from the counter, tasty margarita in hand.

Joanne stared. She had no clue what Hank was going on about, but at any rate, it seemed entirely peripheral to her journey to explore the hotel. She vaguely considered continuing to troll Hank and Bertha, but honestly his replies were now so out there it was a waste of time.

She smiled melancholic, the picture of a sad but dull innocence. “Dead. I buried him only a couple days ago - and the memory is still painful to me. Given your impertinence and lack of tact in continuing to bring him up, I take it you’ll have no objections to telling me all you know about the history of this hotel, and any strange phenomena within it? It’s the least you can do as an apology.”

Hank’s brain was growing ever more clouded by fear and rage, but amid the mists of his mind it clicked that Joanne may, oddly, have had a purpose other than him in coming here, and that Art might be at that very moment engaged in deciphering whatever mysteries the hotel held.

“Strange phenomena?” Hank snapped. Bertha gave a start, and decided to sit at the table immediately behind him, which was out of his line of sight and presumably safer.

“What strange phenomena?” He repeated. Joanne sighed.

“We should continue this another time. You and I are not done - a sentiment I can see you share - but currently we’re at an impasse, and I don’t see that changing until you start making more sense.” She put on her sunglasses with a sniff. “If I were an English teacher and not a philosopher, I’d be giving you an F for fatuous.”

And she went to leave. Hank gave a small cry of rage and grabbed at her left hand with his good arm. Affronted, Joanne jerked it away, and went to slap him with her right hand, channelling her magical force into the blow.

Hank’s martial arts reflexes engaged, and he dodged to the side.

The slap continued unabated, going past where Hank’s face would have been and hitting the face behind it… and for the second time that week, Bertha went flying through the wall.