eighth draft || [written]

[poorneedyand]

[The handwriting is unrecognizable, having gone from this to something much closer to this; it's neat as a pin, like someone spent a lot of time working on her penmanship.]It seems like this book is getting messages from other people (or else I don't know where all the words are coming from on the other pages), so I'll try writing a message, too.

Comments

[written]

[kay_hunter]

How do you know my name?

[written]

[kay_hunter]

I think you must be mistaken; I don't know anyone by the name of Hiccup.

How did you make the book talk like that?

[written]

[kay_hunter]

Yes, my name is Kay Hunter, but you probably already know that. So what's your real name?

So if I was going to make the book talk, where would I talk into?

[written]/[voice]

[kay_hunter]

I'll try that.

[And after some fiddling, her voice comes through, rather higher than usual.]

Can you hear me, Hiccup? Is that really your name?

[voice]

[kay_hunter]

I dunno--it's somebody's bedroom, but not mine.

[And then a thought occurs to her, spurred on mostly by the wings.]

...We aren't dead, are we? I thought I was getting better.

[voice]

[kay_hunter]

A new world, huh?

[Exciiiiting! Excited voice is go. Also, justification voice, which is all lies--she totally thought she died, at least for a few minutes.]

I thought we couldn't really be in Heaven, because my wings're red. Is everyones'? And, uh--what's science fiction?

[voice]

[kay_hunter]

Everyone's got different wings? I guess I have red on account of my hair.

[Sigh. But, you know, she'll soldier on if she has to; she doesn't quite mind being a redhead, but it's not exactly her ideal state of being. Anyway, the question of science fiction is a little more foremost on her mind at the moment, so wing colours and the name of this place are squirreled away for future reference in her mind.]

Nuh-uh. What kind of books is it?