Even though Connie had spent so much time acquiring the perfect flat, whenever she invited people over she couldn't stop wondering if they disliked it. She hadn't had a moment to apply enough makeup to hide her blush. Sure, Faust was enjoying the tiger as he awkwardly shared it with Eirlys, and he seemed grateful for the cup of coffee, but would it have killed him to comment on it? There was only one thing for it. She needed to become the ultimate host. Happy thoughts.

Round the corner she came, feet caressed by fluffy carpet as she said, "Wow! Looks like you two are making friends. That's the second time you've hugged today."

"Nobody respects my personal space," said Faust, rubbing his eyes. "I thought you were showering."

"That, my dear Fausty, can wait. What I want right now is for you two to relax. Feel at home. Forget about the words for the moment and get to know each other." Connie buzzed around the flat, idly tidying up by shoving loose items into drawers before pausing in front of her record player. What kind of music did these guys like? Would they think she was too boring if she played RnB?

"How can I relax when you're calling me things like Fausty, or a 'fucking snail'?" he said. "If you're really my teammate, why must you make a mockery of me?"

"I'm just trying to be endearing, man," she said, going bright red as she set the needle onto an ambient nineties beat. "I'm sorry for calling you a snail. I was stressing out."

The music rang out, her subwoofer humming deep bass under smooth yamaha strings from seven wall-mounted speakers around the flat. It froze her up completely, and a drop of sweat rolled down her arm. Why did this make her feel so anxious? She was sharing something she liked!

"Interesting music," commented Tarquin. When he saw her expression crumple, he added, "It's quite pleasant, isn't it? Especially with all the cracks and pops from the record."

She felt like a starved dog chained to a kennel waiting for passersby to chuck her scraps. It was embarrassing to admit, but she'd had nowhere near this level of adrenaline coursing through her when they faced down the ostrich.

"Thanks," she beamed, "You guys look a bit awkward perched on my bed. Why don't you come over and sit on the sofa?"

Faust might have whispered "I'll miss you" to the tiger before he went to plop himself down on the sofa. She showed him the button he could press to put up his legs.

"Thanks," he said. "Nice view."

"It's not quite the Barden skyline, but it's not bad. I could get used to it." Connie went to the fridge to get some bottles of lager out. They felt refreshingly cool as she held them, and the way they hissed as she popped off the caps made her mouth water.

"Isn't it a bit early to be drinking?" asked Tarquin, twisting around to undoubtedly see if he could help with anything.

She passed them round and shrugged. "Faust's just done a night shift and you and I have been through some shit. Please, let's just kick back and relax for awhile. I’ll get some nuts on the table, too."

Faust sipped the beer, frowning. "Look, it's nice and all, the hugs and the hospitality, but do you actually want me to feel at ease? Then stop glossing over everything and keep me in the loop. Having to glean everything from context doesn't really smell like team spirit."

Tarquin nodded his thanks to Connie then said, "Our apologies, Faust. We anticipated the audience would get bored of hearing the same rules repeated over and over — who knows how many times they've seen the other teams say it?"

"But I'm not the audience, I’m supposed to be your teammate. Tell me how you even figured this stuff out. Who told you we were going to die if we weren't interesting?"

"Some Italian woman, I think?" said Tarquin.

"No, it was a drunk Scotsman," said Connie. "Man, we listened to the same call, didn't we?"

They looked at each other. A woman had started singing on the track, meaning they kept having to raise their voice, but Connie didn't want to suffer the indignity of turning the music off. It would be like admitting her taste was bad — instead she took a big swig of lager.

"My god," said Faust, reclining in his seat to stare at the ceiling. "It's almost like when we take the time to properly explain things, we don't misunderstand each other!

Tarquin got his phone out. "Sorry, Connie, would you mind just turning the music down a tad so we can hear?"

"No," cried Connie, sprinting to the record player and yanking the needle up.

"Oh, you didn't have to turn it off! It was rather pleasant."

"Not to me," shrugged Connie. "I decided I don't really like it, anyway."

"Who was the artist?" asked Faust. "Sounded good to me."

"What does it matter?" she spat, launching herself onto the sofa between them. "Let's listen to this phone call."

Tarquin shrugged, and dialed his wife as he had before, putting it on speakerphone.

As before, the drunk scotsman basically chanted at her through the tinny speakers.

"Yer three of nine, Conneh! If ye want tae live, be interestin!"

"As I said." Tarquin reclined back into the deep nest of scatter cushions. "An Italian woman."

"No!" said Connie. "I heard a Scottish lout. I guess it makes sense that we each hear different recordings, but who are these fuckers? The writers? The audience?"

They sat for a while, idly sipping their drinks. Faust got up and put the record back on, an action that flooded Connie's body with dopamine. Then he properly settled down into the sofa. He looked to be nodding off. Seriously — she might be dead within the next hour, and she was worried about her taste in music being validated?

"I have an idea for what we could next achieve with the democratisation of reality, then," said Tarquin. "Why don't we try to meet these people?"

"Like, create a portal to them?" asked Connie. "Man, that's a neat idea. We could finally be free of this boring tower. It has literally no style, and I’d love to see a more interesting setting."

"You want to meet the people who made the recordings on the phone?" mumbled Faust, necking the bottle and letting it roll out of his hand onto the carpet. Kind of a dick move, but whatever, Connie would allow it. The dark recesses under his eyes seemed to set themselves back even further.

"Heh," he continued. "What the fuck. You've already made acquaintance."

"What do you mean?" asked Connie.

"I heard me, you lunatics. I heard my own fucking voice."

They stared at him, mouth agape, waiting for further explanation. But after that outburst, he lay back, resting his head on the sofa, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

Connie turned to see Tarquin settling down himself, tucking his head under his arm.

"May as well get a little bit of shut eye, too," he mumbled. "I never get brilliant sleep in the summerhouse, do I..."

"Feel free," she said. "Do like you're at home."

“Thank you for the drinks. You have a great flat, Connie,” he said, before entombing himself under the cushions.

And she sat there, sipping beer while they napped, feeling like the best host in the world.