After my first visit to the Diamond Maker universe came a second.
This time, I appeared near Waterloo Bridge, overlooking the two talking men.
Once the narrator finally left, I approached the more skittish scientist and, with more difficulty than the first time, again convinced him to accept my offer.
⊙⸻⸻⊙⸻⸻⊙
Having completed the day's primary objective, I returned to the Worm universe and considered how to spend the remaining thirteen hours before midnight.
Before discovering Diamond Maker and Diamond Age combo, my plans had been rather simple.
On Monday, I'd planned to buy Environmental Suits and Drones knowledge. Over the next two days, create an efficient scuba set and a flying drone. Then, starting on Thursday, begin farming the Titanic universe.
First — since the Titanic sailed on her maiden voyage with nearly a third of her cabins empty — I would occupy one of the vacant rooms.
Next, I'd fire off fireworks to stop the ship, launch a foldable drone through the porthole, and remotely negotiate with the captain, offering information from the future in exchange for precious gemstones.
Among other things, via a tablet, showing the crew content of about 50 books about the Titanic disaster, including their detailed biographies.
"I'm from the future" sounds stupid only when there are at least some plausible alternative explanations.
My thoughts about adapting the plan to the Diamond Maker universe quickly reminded me why I'd chosen the Titanic in the first place.
In 1894, Queen Victoria didn't live in London; she lived in Windsor, a small town crowded with police. Only renting a place, launching a drone, hiding during the negotiations, and retrieving jewelry with the drone involved a very long list of complicated problems. Not to mention the technical side: orientation, communication, battery life, carrying weight, and other requirements.
All of those would require at least 3-4 days to develop and test.
Only to immediately become obsolete by Diamond Age...
What wouldn't become obsolete?
I had no fucking idea.
The Diamond Age was... an extremely peculiar piece of retrofuturism. With advantages that depended entirely on my starting identity and location.
⊙⸻⸻⊙⸻⸻⊙
Having few alternatives, I spent the rest of the day touring houses for sale.
Already with a perfect understanding of what exactly I needed.
At the northwestern edge of the city lay the airport. South of it stretched residential neighborhoods that, at their southernmost edge, ended near a lake. In the 1960s, this suburban part hosted rich houses scattered near the territory that, according to the original urban layout, was intended as holiday parks and campgrounds.
But by the 1980s, both the lakeside infrastructure and the surrounding neighborhood had fallen into decline. Not become ghettos — ghettos require jobs and public transportation — but become mostly deserted.
And absolutely perfect for my needs.
Far from the airport's radar systems and situated in a lowland location. With a lake that could serve as a future aircraft launch site and a source of mineral-rich silt. With plenty of concealing trees and generous distances between neighboring houses.
By the end of Monday, I'd found a property good enough to stop looking.
The house itself wasn't anything remarkable. Quite small. Despite having undergone cosmetic renovation, very old. With more of a large attic than a proper second floor, and a shallow basement.
Everything else, however, was ideal.
Only two hundred meters from the lake. A spacious lot enclosed by a solid fence and overgrown trees. A detached long garage for 3-4 cars, with an excellent flat roof perfect for solar panels.
Without hesitation, I confirmed the purchase to accompanying me agent. With $45,000 would be paid through the, and $50,000 in cash. Paltry sums compared to the cost of property near the airport.
⊙⸻⸻⊙⸻⸻⊙
After returning home, I crossed over to the Cruel Intentions universe and started visiting gun stores.
Since it was 1999 — a time when, in some states, people could buy in hardware stores even demolition explosives — I had no trouble purchasing and transferring between universes the components of gunpowder and primers.
Over the previous week, I'd gradually accumulated a large collection of bits and pieces, chemical reagents, tools — and, because I tried not to waste the daily one-kilogram transfer limit — copper, titanium, platinum, tungsten, and so on, wires.
So creating 8 cartridges and 2+2 smoke and flash-bang grenades wasn't much of a challenge.
The same went for "just-in-case" gun itself: an analog of the revolver-style Liberator. To avoid attracting attention in case of a car search, when disassembled, looked like just a few plastic and steel pipes.
[The Worm — 18 January 2011 — Tuesday]
I devoted all of Tuesday to paying for the house and moving in.
Of course, I had no intention of giving up my original apartment. On the contrary, soon I planned to rent another place closer to downtown.
Since the property had been sold through an agency, all the junk had already been removed and the most basic cosmetic repairs completed.
Although that also meant my new home had no furniture or electronics.
So, over the course of 5 trips, I hauled in almost everything important except the refrigerator and air conditioner. Foremost, an enormous supply of blessed aluminum profiles and lists, from which I built almost all basic furniture.
Earlier that morning, I'd intended to order two shipping containers so I could later connect the house and garage into a single continuous structure.
But I soon abandoned the idea. Any local abnormalities just a few months before the emergence in the city, the world's greatest tinkerer, were unnecessary and stupid.
Instead, I decided not to make any visible changes outside, and even inside, soon to replace everything inside with boring furniture. Hiding everything even slightly unusual inside underground tunnels.
Which I needed ASAP. Not because of space for workshops and laboratories, mining, fortification, and other reasons, with potential alternatives. But because the Law of Conservation of Energy was a bitch.
Energy couldn't be created, only converted.
And even to convert it into very unusual, or at least efficient, ways, I also required an enormous amount of energy. The only sane source of which was a petroleum-fueled power plant.
⊙⸻⸻⊙⸻⸻⊙
After installing cameras and sensors all around the property, I climbed to the second floor, where I set up my bed, and before going to sleep, started looking out the window.
Thinking the same thing people had been thinking while gazing at the beautiful stars and nebulae for hundreds of thousands of years.
'Fucking mosquitoes...'
[The Worm — 19 January 2011 — Wednesday]
I spent Wednesday morning visiting The Diamond Maker once again.
Unfortunately, in one of the universes, the scientist no longer had the diamonds, so instead of six complete sets, I ended up with only five.
After returning, I once again found myself wondering what to do next.
Crafting anything or spending more charges before reaching The Diamond Age made no sense. Nor did investing too much time in the house.
The Cruel Intentions universe required no more than an hour of my attention each day. By then, I'd finished writing Half's code, and thanks to the x2 speedup, the trio was almost done with the manifesto as well.
The biggest issue had become the cost of computer hardware, which was the main reason the site would, from the very beginning, limit free accounts to ten algorithmic searches per day, while still allowing free access to all pages via direct links. But, as the stepsiblings had promised, we already had enough money to cover at least the first few weeks.
Throughout the previous week, I'd occasionally jotted down ideas and code snippets for a game blending Minecraft, Dwarf Fortress, RimWorld, TES: Morrowind, and Dark Messiah of Might and Magic. But spending time on entertainment was at least a month premature.
'That only leaves Taylor,' I decided, and began getting dressed.
⊙⸻⸻⊙⸻⸻⊙
As I drove toward Taylor's house, I once again questioned whether I was doing the right thing.
After two weeks, many of my original doubts had already faded.
My initial reasoning — "If I've already spent the most important part of my memory on Worm and a long list of existential problems, I should try to get as much out of it as possible" — hadn't changed. Nor had the obvious question of what exactly I should get from Worm. Because nature offered so few alternatives. And outside of nature... for someone with my superpowered capabilities, there were even fewer.
My concerns about the safety of a relationship with Taylor had also significantly diminished. They still existed, but the opportunity to — not recruit, rather build an affiliation — with one of the most versatile capes in existence was worth it.
The ethical questions had also been largely settled.
In this universe, Taylor was 18-years-old, so more than 2 weeks was more than enough time for her recovery.
With the help of Self-Therapy, my position on the limits of potential seduction strategies had also solidified.
If gender roles had died for the sake of gender equality, then they had truly died for the sake of genuine gender equality. Without "Women may or may not be ladies, but men are obliged to be — at least a little — gentlemanly because they have more evil in them than women," mainstream sexist and neo-puritanism bullshit of my first world.
No, I was fully free to build with Taylor — more as an adult human than a woman — any relationship I wanted; within only three confines: human rights, consent, and discretion.
The latter I added because, beyond a certain point, too good offers effectively destroy consent.
Still, discretion. Not leniency. Not preemptive respect, because respect is a positive emotion and people feel positive emotions toward strangers only in a short list of situations. Not responsibility and other qualities of men's traditional monogamous gender role.
At least by default, because complete relationship freedom still preserved all the old models as possible templates, and because, despite the transactional aspects of relationships, emotions weren't transactional. At least not entirely.
No, all the old dilemmas had been resolved. It was a new one that had started bothering me...
The limitations of my attention and memory.
Still nowhere near any strainings... yet this was only the third week, and there are already Madison, Kathryn, Annette, and, in the near future, Cecile and Taylor.
And how many somehow stable relationships will I have after a few months?
If I didn't want to give up my sexual liberation — and for what else were useful transmigration and Kaleidoscope the best, if not for the unlocking of Coolidge effect potential? — I urgently needed an alternative to harem relationships. Humanistic one.
But for so many reasons, it was hard.
Throughout history, men's natural sexual needs, wants, and dreams were constantly sacrificed for the sake of women's evolutionary mating strategy, and government goals and propaganda about men's responsibilities and obligations.
Moreover, men's spermatogenesis needs and promiscuity inclinations were neither fully integrated into culture and socioeconomics, nor even fully acknowledged.
Was sidelined during either "monogamous patriarchy," "liberation by shaming natural sexuality," and "relationship-collapse" times.
So I, essentially, should have to balance my civilized men's desires, wishes, dreams, transactionality, emotions, entertainment, personal morals, ethics, freedom, retention of interest, and so on, from scratch.
To some extent, maneuvering between Waify Catalog-like and Mechanicus-like bad endings.
⊙⸻⸻⊙⸻⸻⊙
Soon, I parked my car near a concrete house in a respectable neighborhood, as befitted a family that, not that long ago, had consisted of a college professor and an executive.
Walking up to the front door, I paused for a moment to look at the famous step.
Just as expected, it looked almost ordinary.
Noticeably weakened by rot, but without context, utterly unremarkable.
That somehow made me even more uneasy.
Made me feel like a child who had spent months dreaming of getting a puppy — imagining all the games they'd play, the tricks it would learn, the companionship — only, after receiving a puppy, to realize that from now on they'd have to walk the dog every morning and evening.
'Did I really need such a train wreck as Taylor?'
I took a deep breath, pressed the doorbell, and waited.
A few seconds later, trying not to react to the tiny fruit flies lazily buzzing around my hair.
"Yes?" a ringing voice called through the door.
"Hi, Taylor. My name's Max. I'm conducting a private investigation about Sophia Hess and want to exchange information with you."
"Are you a detective?" she asked hopefully.
"No. It's a private investigation."
"That sounds really strange," she said uncertainly.
"Not so strange if you think about it. How many hours a week do you spend in the same room with Sophia? Do you think she behaves much better outside of those hours?"
Taylor fell silent.
"It's still... what exactly do you want to know? I'd rather talk through the door," she finally said.
I sighed and replied in a tired, but not disappointed, voice. "I'd rather not. Because there's really a lot to unpack.
Listen. I'll be frank. The idea that the trio hired a hitman to kill you is absurd. Even Sophia isn't that stupid, not to mention the money involved.
The idea that I'm here to kidnap you, drag you over to Emma so she can insult you, then bring you back home is just as ridiculous.
From a legal standpoint, that already wouldn't be — forgive me in advance — 'a prank that gotten out of control,' but an undeniable crime against the daughter of someone who has influence over thousands of men and could call the police chief or the mayor.
Not even gangs would do something like that without VERY good reasons.
So how about this? Just tell me that if anything happens, you'll scream, and then we can finally have a normal conversation. If you're not comfortable with that, just tell me to leave, and I won't bother you again."
I was answered by silence. Only after at least twenty seconds did I finally hear the click of the lock.
Sullen Taylor slowly opened the door, eyed me suspiciously, and, radiating distrust, stated, "Come in."
Taylor was...
Unimpressive.
In the novel, she'd been an obviously unreliable narrator. So part of me had subconsciously expected that she might also be wrong about her appearance. Brian, too, because according to her description, he was somewhere in the 8/10 to 10/10 range with similarly skewed beauty expectations.
But no, she and Brian weren't wrong.
Instead of a hidden beauty disguised by ugly-duckling-glasses, I saw someone my eyes would never have lingered on in the street.
A slightly hollow, long, angular face. Narrow, long lips and nose, thin eyebrows, sharp chin. Rectangular glasses that — with unwashed black hair tied into a ponytail, and a permanent frown — even more emphasized the sharpness of her features.
Her figure was just as straight. Not slender, straight. With almost no feminine curves, despite the tight, undersized gray sweatpants and dark green T-shirt that stretched across her stomach no less than in her chest.
She was about ten centimeters shorter than me, yet somehow looked even taller.
Of course, none of that means she was ugly. Just... the embodiment of the "geek-girl," "strict librarian," or "accountant" archetype.
Out of negative cuteness, finding her attractive required effort. Or specific fetishes.
I stepped into the narrow hallway beside the wooden staircase leading upstairs while Taylor retreated a couple of meters, giving me room to enter the living room on the left.
"Should I take my shoes off?" I asked before stepping into the room.
"No," she curtly answered, waiting for me to enter the room, so she could close the door without turning her back to me.
I walked into the living room and sat down on the long couch facing the TV.
Taylor closed the door, entered the room — with restrained body language, though nothing unusual enough to draw any conclusions — and flatly asked, "Do you want some water?"
"Please."
Perhaps she hadn't expected me to accept her polite offer, because for a couple of seconds, she just stared at me. Then she sharply turned and walked toward the back of the room, according to the long white table, the kitchen.
Soon she returned, handed me a glass, then pulled over a nearby chair and sat down opposite me without saying a word.
I didn't rush. I slowly sipped the water while taking in the bright, cozy room. For a moment, I almost complimented the decor, but decided that sudden reminiscing about Annette would only make things worse.
After a few brief glances around, I turned to Taylor.
Partly angry for my brazenness. Partly habitually hiding behind scowling, very obvious nervousness, and skittishness. Partly attentive, hopeful about what I could say about Sophia.
Yet, so far, without a hint of the softness and great morale shown in the book's inner monologues. From a bystander's perspective, as if being purposefully passive-aggressive and mean.
"From what I know about you, you're not a stupid person. So please try not to ask stupid questions. Or rather think before asking." Which made her frown even deeper.
Yep. Distrust of authority figures. Trust and control issues. A righteous, goal-oriented mindset. Stubbornness. Blah, blah, blah. Those details only mattered to people who don't understand where they came from or how they actually tick.
I know. Not perfect, but even aside from Self-Therapy knowledge, because in some things we were similar, very good.
"Do you know what the Unwritten Rules are?" I asked immediately, not giving her time to formulate any response to my demands.
"No," she spat, as though replying to an insult.
"That's perfectly normal," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "People usually learn about them only once that knowledge becomes necessary. The Unwritten Rules are a set of PRT-backed guidelines for North American parahumans."
Taylor canonically stilled.
When I continued my monologue about the topic, just as I had with Madison and Kathryn.
Most books about relationships advise doing the exact opposite: let the other person talk, make them feel understood, encourage them to open up. But all of that was about strengthening already existing relationships.
When the very first and main foundation of them was some potential benefit.
Showing such potential benefit to complete strangers required some show-off, preferably behavior one: confidence, insight, and demonstration of cognitive skills.
Hence the monologue. A steady stream of information about myself, and about so familiar to women, social contexts.
Undoubtedly boring to people who needed nothing from me... but a treasure trove for people desperate for the answers about my mystery.
Also, when people who argued, "Why date someone younger if talking to them is going to be boring and annoying?" confused causes and effects, they weren't entirely wrong.
Just how many important and useful things could Madison or Taylor possibly tell me?
So instead of being bored and annoyed, I simultaneously told them about myself; refined and consolidated important knowledge by bouncing it off them. And informed them about important things; typically about my first reality's Endbringers, harbringers of liberalism's suicide.
After I explained to Taylor the general concept of the Unwritten Rules, I began going through the rules one by one.
Secret identities. Family members. Neutral ground. Lethality and firearms. Harm to civilians. Enslavement. Rape. The Endbringer Truce.
At each rule, explaining where and why such guidelines lose their power. For example, through the use of gang thugs as proxies, or by leveraging personal dangerousness for rare free violations, as it was with Hookwolf.
At first, Taylor seemed determined to find a clue as to why I'd suddenly started talking about parahumans. But gradually she relaxed and, with growing interest, began listening about her new reality.
Making me feel like an introductory NPC.
Once I'd finished explaining why the rules benefited parahumans — especially newcomers, who, interestingly enough, were mostly killed by guns — I moved on to why the fuck government almost officially endorsed the Unwritten Rules.
I started with Kill Orders, the main keeper of the Cops and Robbers playground.
Then I explained that parahumans are created by the worst moments of their lives... only to receive shards of their worst traumas as their main tools.
The consequences? Even in the U.S., villains outnumbered heroes by at least two to one; and in countries where governments couldn't afford their own big super-gangs, up to 20-to-1. That most heroes are such only because of the government's money and benefits. Which meant that in the case of Heroes-VS-Villains war, the villains could win simply by damaging the economy.
That many parahumans were catastrophically dangerous if they ever stopped holding back. And only in Brockton Bay alone, there were at least nine capes (Author's Note: Lung, Purity, Coil, Tattletale, Panacea, Labyrinth, Leet, Vista, and Taylor) who, given sufficient motivation, could kill more than ten thousand people in a single day.
That more chaos means a greater risk of a new S-Class and, at the very least, more draining of resources from other fronts.
That theoretical killing and imprisoning of every villain would ultimately cost humanity millions of additional lives to the Endbringers, and bring economic collapse years closer.
From there, I shifted to Brockton Bay itself, explaining why the Unwritten Rules and the Cops and Robbers system mattered from a local perspective.
I talked about Fleur's murder and how frighteningly easy it was to trace a cape back to their civilian identity.
I explained how a full-scale gang war wouldn't just kill thousands of people, but would also create a power vacuum and risk another Boston Games scenario. Which the PRT, of course, could prevent... by weakening every other city.
I explained that over the past 30 years, society had slowly drifted toward feudalism. As a result, a significant portion of major businesses was secretly owned or controlled by parahumans. And while uprooting this sounds like the right thing to do, in practice, weakening the local economy will mainly create new tragedies, traumatized and resentful people, and mostly villains.
I wasn't sugarcoating. And laid out everything I knew, except for all the Worm's bosses and the inevitability of civilization's collapse. Instead of 30 minutes, giving Taylor more than an hour of a more nuanced and frank lecture than PRT officers ever could have hoped for.
Judging by the expression on Taylor's face — equal parts fascinated and horrified — receiving exactly the reaction I'd expected.
"—since financial leverage is the PRT's most important tool, any — even barter alternatives — to the official banking system would be a death knell for the PRT.
Hence, the NEPEA-5 bill. An attempt to save the central government's carrots and sticks at any cost. And another Unwritten Rules' Shadow Rule - Limit Your Financial and Brokering Reach.
As always, at the same time, partly resolving potential problems, hiding them from the public to prevent mass panic, and avoiding taking any responsibility for regulations.
Which is also the last Shadow Rule of Unwritten Rules," I finally finished my lecture. And found myself silently admiring Cauldron's work. Not just astonishingly professional, but also elegant.
The first time I read Worm, I kept thinking that I could have done better.
It was a stupid notion.
Without knowledge of the reason for Scion's passivity and of the extent of his influence over Endbringers and shards, almost no one could have done better than buying time until the beginning of infrastructural decline, and subsequent combining of saved assets; only riskier.
Yes, including such things as premature cloning in Simurgh's multidimensional reach.
There were still some potential crutches, like an unconditional income for parahumans who participate in entertainment fights. But nothing game-changing.
Taylor and I fell silent. I looked at her, and she looked at her knees.
Then she suddenly let out a bitter laugh and shook her head. "I... I thought it was just Winslow... But it looks like... Winslow... everywhere..." muttered the second trigger parahuman.
"Sorta..."
Taylor looked at me angrily. "Sorta?"
"Kinda."
'Fuck, she's quite charming when she's angry.'
Taylor stared at me for a few seconds, then took off her glasses and began massaging the bridge of her nose.
"And why... why are you telling me all this? 'Max'" she asked in a weak voice, almost certainly assuming I was some government spook.
"Just small talk," I said with a shrug.
'If looks could kill, there wouldn't be any people,' I thought, looking at the bespectacled menace.
"And WHAT aren't small talks?" she angrily demanded. Which was good. Angry Taylor was safe Taylor.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot... You see, once I had a dream," I said cheerfully.
"A dream..." Taylor repeated in a flat voice.
"Yep. Just a normal dream. You know, in a bed. With a pillow.
I dreamed I'd eaten the wrong kind of mushrooms and then had a second dream.
Nested dreams... you know, it's a really good idea for a book or film... but anyway.
In the second dream, I read a book... about a character who read a book... not as original as dreams within dreams, is it?" I asked vacant-looking Taylor.
'Ha-Ha. I'm in Danger.'
Next, I did the most important action of today, chortled to myself, not looking at her, then continued, "Anyway, the second book was about a girl with short green hair, named Ruth. Once upon a time, she and her dad—"
Then I started narrating about Emma's trip and the ABB attack.
The wisdom of Taylor was... surprisingly not bad for her age and the complexity of her situation. Her overall intelligence was just above average.
But — with more than a little help from her power — it was in intuition that she excelled most. She wasn't so much a quick thinker as a feeler with a very fast subconscious weeding out of short-term approaches. With the same relationship with intuition as I had with sexuality, just not via overall stress, but via social-defect-related triggers.
Anyway, the moment I casually mentioned that a cape named Rainbow Kitty had been watching the assault unfold, Taylor fully froze. Become a statue, even her eyes began staring straight through me. Perhaps into things that started making a barely audible, low-frequency buzzing.
'Fucking Worm.'
Trying to look as if everything were completely normal, I continued the story up to the moment when Rainbow Kitty discovered that Ruth also had cat's claws, saved her, and began training her to be a proper cat of Yukon Ridge, not a stupid, meek mouse.
After the story ended, we sat in silence again.
In my case, waiting for the unfreezing of, once again, the second-trigger parahuman.
When her hands began to tremble, I casually added, "The story, of course, has a continuation, but we'll talk about that tomorrow."
Taylor looked at me sharply and demanded, "Why tomorrow?"
'Prefect'
"You're welcome," I said, and waited.
Taylor was a smart girl, so after a few seconds she shuddered and, in a scared tone, said, "I... I'm sorry... I... Max. It was... just too much for me. I didn't want to yell at you."
"See, you answered your own question about tomorrow."
Instead of arguing, Taylor fell silent. And after some time, said, "How you—" but quickly stopped herself.
That was another advantage of my monologuing. For nearly an hour and a half, I'd been establishing a set of unspoken ground rules for our relationship. Breaking of which from now on had an unknown, yet obviously substantial and detrimental, consequences.
In response to her unasked question, I cryptically said, "The right things should be done at the right time. You understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes?"
"Good. What time works best for tomorrow?"
"...Twelve?" she answered uncertainly. "You said you wanted to ask me something..." she immediately added.
"Yes. And I ask those questions later," I said, getting up from the couch.
Taylor stood as well, took a long breath in and out, then said, "I... Max, I'm really sorry for... my outbursts and demeanor. I... I was, IS, very angry. At... everyone... But not at you.
I am really grateful for what you tell me. And I promise that I don't... let down your trust," she haltingly and awkwardly said.
I nodded.
"I'm really glad I could help. Don't worry, I understand... not everything, but enough.
If I thought you'd easily let me down, I would never have contacted you, Taylor.
Just one piece of advice.
Relax.
I know, it sounds stupid. But look at things like this. You didn't know. But now you know. So it's much better.
Don't try to find or make the right decisions right now.
Effective, Fast, Simple, choose two.
Right now, you need time, so just go to bed and give your more powerful subconscious a chance to sort things out for you a little. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
Soon, I walked toward my car in a good mood. Everything was going almost exactly as I'd predicted.
As were the results.
By now, Taylor already had everything she needed to put together a fairly simple puzzle. And if she didn't, the next two meetings would guarantee that she soon will have the right understanding of the situation, incentives, goals, and tools to begin slowly and methodically unfucking our universe.
Even before either of us beat up a single thug. Just after less than 10 hours of communication, and, perhaps, almost without my future participation.
I'd always found it strange how, in fiction, flawed supporting characters suddenly lost all of their flaws after joining the protagonist's team.
Alas, reality didn't have the Power of Friendship.
The main reason why, even in the old days, people rarely had more than a few reliable friends was that a stable friendship required a great deal of time spent together in different beneficial situations. And favorable-to-friendship, voluntary, sane decisions.
A very rare and costly combination.
Especially in my case.
No, I didn't really want or need friendship with Taylor. What I wanted and needed was unobtrusive, mutually beneficial cooperation.
Which would only become possible after patching her ignorance and buffing her Wisdom stat.
For which I didn't need much time and effort. Just the right force application.