"Well, at least - " you're hesitant to jinx it...

... but, " I mean, think of it this way, at least the fire didn't get to the roots. Then we'd be naked and dead." You say nakedly and not-dead. The shirt is nothing but a crisp piece of ash. Maybe you can spin your own clothes sharing the same fate into a narrative of solidarity. Which role would the ash pile formerly recognized as a desk take on, then? You know which supporting role the stool would have. You can all ready hear the closed-captitioner calling it out during the credits. Introducing Stool as Self-combusting-asshole. Might also be a perfectly natural, flame-proof stool. No matter which it is, Mute and you are both keeping your distance. Sitting by the far, root-tangled dirt wall. Knees tucked underneath yourself and resting your chin on it.

"Buried," Mute corrects you. "We'd be buried alive. If those roots actually are holding back the dirt from swallowing this room."

"Buried, smuried, dead-uried. My point stands" you say, rolling your eyes, giving Mute a friendly nudge. "Also - " you gesture yourself, "only half naked! That's a success."

Mute presses his lips together in frustration, but his eyes are smiling. "I guess you're right. We could've been minus naked. I'd rather be showing skin than bones." He says, slapping your hand away.

"I guess fire would just kinda make your muscle bubble and burn all crisp like." You say, slapping his hand back.

"Please, talking about crispy corpses makes me hot. I don't need to be reminded of something I literally just experienced." He says, holding your hand.

"I'm glad you were there. I was hot all over and there you were, ready to turn me off, completely." You say, entwining your fingers with his.

You both sigh deeply and look into each others eyes. Glad to not have burnt or asphyxiated to ****. You break eye contact, not out of awkwardness or anything, just a mutual acknowledgement of appreciating not being dead. And - you assume, too afraid to point out it's still happening - enjoying the tender moment of holding hands.

Your brain is kicking back up, slowly. But for now you can keep almost that nervous wreck at bay. Instead of thinking about all the other places his hands could be exploring right now, you're here. Right now. Holding hands with Mute. In this moment.

You also pass down a compliment to past you. For some reason, you made it a point to only ever wear underwear you found cute or cool. It might be a ridiculous idea to some, but it made you feel confident. Like, as long as you had something amazing covering your shame no one could see it the same way as you. Mostly, you're appreciating this moment because - had you not had that idea - you'd probably be sitting in an ugly pair of grandma undies, instead of your cute teal, white rimmed panties.

Picturing yourself, shaking a fist at the heavens, you vow to one day press the button that add frills to your undies. Tremble and despair, for when that day comes, you'll finally feel confident enough to speak words without being spoken to! Your body a radiant beacon of glorious self-confidence, you'll walk right up to Mute and go, Hey, wanna - i don't know - do something later?

How does Mute feel? Is his eyes coyly stealing away a breathless moment at the sight of your body? Does his eyes wander down your neck, slowly tracing the outline of your bre--

Nope! Feeling confident right now, so, could we not, brain. Cute undies, yay! Thinking about your gross body, nay. Focus. Damn. A random thought hits you- what if Mute is more of a grandma undies kind of guy? What if he hates teal? No one has ever seen your underwear on you. Which makes you the only one to hold the opinion that they're cute. Just because you like them doesn't mean everyone else does. In fact, if everyone else hated your underwear, you'd be the wrong one. You'd be the freak with teal undies. Crap! They're white rimmed! Who combines teal and white!? Crazy people, that's who!

Apropos people who think you're crazy, Emalie and Jorrel are going to see you in your undies. You bathe in your jumper. Unlike the boiler suit scenario, this is going to be a problem.

Wait, where's your jacket? Judging by the ash pile that used to be your clothes, you weren't wearing it. God, for once your idiot brain actually did something good. Unintentionally, sure, but now you can at least cover your freakish boobs. It hurts to think about, but you're only being honest here. Come on, who has differently sized boobs!?

Sure, you treat them to a bra that matches your undies, but they don't really deserve it. If you had a big pair of honkers, nobody would even care to notice how uneven they are, guaranteed. They'd just look and go, wow, they're huge! Aren't they causing a lot of back-pain? Not, eugh, what's wrong with your left boob? Did a bee swarm sting it swollen and gross?

Right boob is teal panties with frills. Left boob... left boob is a pair of plain, white panties. Everything else dirty or to wash? Guess I'll wear white panties. Feeling like I don't deserve to feel confident today? Guess I'll wear white panties. Is this person unworthy of attention? Guess they'll grow a plain panty boob! You've made a habit of standing and leaning towards people with your good boob, so bad boob is less in focus. No one has pointed anything out so far, so that's at least one thing you've succeeded at.

Now, wearing only your underwear, you realise that it's only a matter of time before everyone notices your bad boob. Great.

Having had enough of your own pep-talk, you disengaging from Mute, and make your way to the imposter stool, giving it a hard look. Round. Entirely black. Weird indents with small LED displays. Spontaneously combusting for no reason? Yep, that's a robot.

"So, what are you doing?" Mute says from behind you. Glancing back - purely instinctively, not like you were trying to see anything - you manage to catch a glimpse of his boxers. Printed on them is a series of cartoonish cat faces sticking out their tongue. You make a mental note of this. It is very, very important. That's why you looked. Crucial, one might even say.

"I was wondering if this was some sort of... Clothes spitting McGuffin. By the way, I'm sorry I set fire to your pants."

"What?"

"Sorry I set fire to your pants," you repeat half questioningly. "If I had told you about all the flammable stains on my clothes, you wouldn't have gotten it all over you when I sat down. So, I'm sorry about your pants."

Mute doesn't react for a moment. Propably trying to process how he could ever forgive you for doing something stupid like that. With a single shoulder shrug he says, "I forgive you? I guess? Not really a thing that... Anyway, asshole here," he says, gesturing to the stool, "Is it a robot?"

"Definitely a robot. Look at these tiny displays here. Also, some sort of retractable device, stored, here in this crevice. It's slight, but definably something in there. Maybe--" Something blinks on the tiny LED displays, all showing the same words. They flash in a sequence, a pause, then flash again.

You focus, trying to single out the words, but they flash too fast for you to catch them all. "There's a message on it. Six words in succession. I think it's: Competitor. Prodded? Something I don't know. Initiate. Industrial. Another word I don't know."

"Competitor prodded. How does prodding cause industry to initiate... I can't make sense of that. Did it view us as competitors? " Mute speculates.

"Maybe," you concede. "Maybe it liked your butt and viewed me as a competitor? Could be literally anything. I'd need some context for these words. If we get it back to base camp, I might be able to use the stuff notes I found to make some sense of it?"

"Great," Mute says with finality, "I'll work on rolling this thing back. You can go check on the others, okay?"

"Sure, I'll do that," half-naked, you try not to sigh. Maybe if you ask nicely, he'll settle for more holding hands instead? He probably would. Are you brave enough to ask?

Ha ha, nope!