The Charon was silent.

Not just mute. His pole slipped through the water without so much as a ripple on its dark surface.

And that suited Atlas just fine. He sat in the middle of the vast deck, surrounded by clutter and brandishing a small bone sewing needle at half a scavenged tablecloth.

He’d already fashioned himself a makeshift sling from the other half, adding a delightful floral motif to his already garish attire. Now he was busily working to fashion a holster for the small pile of throwing knives that he had fashioned from the Wife’s kitchen set, most of his Bird codes, and what little mana he’d managed to recover on his walk back.

Atlas sighed.

The idea was simple enough. If he could somehow get his bracers to think of the knives - and if it worked, potentially other weapons or tools - as clothing, he could use them without having to cycle through his inventory for each one.

It was proving somewhat difficult.

TOOL LOGGED

Atlas grunted in irritation as another knife vanished back into his inventory before he could even hold it up to measure.

The fabric was easy to work with. Like the burlap sack, he’d simply classified the whole material as “equipment” that he could then handle freely, but his plan to get his bracers to recognise the knives the same way was hindered by the fact that he couldn’t so much as hold “tools” for even a moment. As soon as he did, the supremely unhelpful reality warpers on his wrists whisked them away.

And every time it happened he had to recall his needle, switch to the knife, make the adjustments, switch back to the needle again, and resume work.

Atlas grunted. He’d just eyeball it. He gripped the fabric in the fingers of his holstered limb to hold it in place as he worked.

If it wasn’t for his borrowed expertise, which apparently applied equally to either hand, his progress would have been far slower. But he was already losing light, the setting sun cast long shadows across the deck, and so far he hadn’t even managed to do more than stitch some cloth together and give himself a sore shoulder. Even when he was using the knife as a tool he simply couldn’t release it inside the holster he’d made for it.

Maybe it was a case of mind over matter? Maybe it was that he thought of the tablecloth as clothing that his bracers into cooperating? There was certainly some kind of mental aspect to it. If he tried to drop the needle then his fingers simply ignored his brain entirely, but he was constantly letting go while sewing. He’d had no problem letting go of the pig’s bridle this morning either...

“You are clothing.” Atlas dragged his mind back on track by snatching another blade off the top of the pile, all the while trying his best to mentally categorise it as some manner of jewellery.

TOOL LOGGED

“Damnit.” Atlas glanced at the Charon, but it paid no more heed to his outburst than anything else as it steered between overgrown banks and rocky outcrops along the winding river. He reached out again.

“You are a… Part of this clothing.”

Blade in the harness. Blade in the harness. Blade in the-

TOOL LOGGED

Atlas sighed, the breath bubbling from his damaged lung. He was running out of knives.

And ideas.

Even the cloth fabric had been logged as “materials” first, before he’d jettisoned it and draped it over himself like a makeshift mummy. But for tools there was no way to eject them short of throwing them, they simply didn’t have that crucial grace period to work with. If he held it, he logged it, even if he’d just thrown it, even if he wrapped so much cloth around his hand he could barely move his fingers to pick it up.

The only time that he’d ever managed to hold anything without logging it had been when he’d pulled that shell out of his back in the cave, and he still didn’t know what had happened then. He’d had other things on his mind at the time. It could even have been a glitch, though from what he knew of the bracers that would make it a first. However bad they were, there had always been a certain approximation of logic to their behaviour. It was just a matter of finding a loophole, like he had with throwing to get rid of unwanted tools.

Atlas tapped cold finger to cold lips. Could it be that simple?

In one smooth motion he snatched a blade off the top of the pile, flicked his wrist and released. Metal sailed through the air, straight as an arrow. A perfect throw. Atlas raised his fist in triumph.

The knife landed in the river with a small “plop” and then was gone.

“... Shit.”

Still, proof of concept. If throwing worked then he had a means, however crude, of inserting the remaining knives into the material.

Bundling up a pile of scrap cloth his bracers had designated as a scarf, Atlas picked up a fresh blade from the pile and hurled it into its folds, metal piercing deep into the fabric with little resistance. He hurled another before lifting the fruit of his labour from the deck between finger and thumb, metal dangling from his grasp spinning slowly in midair.

So far so good. Time to check what his bracers thought. He twisted to elbow the scan button, green beam painting across its surface.

REFORMATTING

Uh oh.

The “scarf”, blades and all, vanished from his grasp, cold metal pressed sharp against his throat, while another scratched against his ribs. Atlas swallowed drily, adam’s apple bobbing along the edge of a blade. He’d just wanted a description text.

At least he’d worn it loose. Atlas teased the knife away from his neck, pulling it free from the fabric ready to-

TOOL LOGGED

If there had been any birds left in the woodlands on either side of the river, they would have been sent skywards by Atlas’ stream of invectives that didn’t cease until he collapsed into a fit of equally violent coughing. When it had eased, he lay there on the deck, dark blood staining his gauntlet as he stared at the half-finished holster, reinforced by tiny scraps of mismatched leather, only a single strap fixed to it so far.

Alright. Not the end of the world.

Atlas snorted grimly to himself. That probably wasn’t due for just over six days. He groaned upright, wiping his hand on his doublet as he thought. It hadn’t logged until it had cleared the fabric, which at least meant that the holster idea would work if he could somehow get the bloody, now literally, thing into the strap in the first place.

Wait.

Atlas reached over and picked up the holster, sliding it onto the knife while pinching the handle using the fabric of scarf, just in case.

A little tight, but… Atlas finally tugged the scarf free, leaving the throwing knife intact and unlogged in the pastel-toned straps stitched for that very purpose.

Perfect. It might take some manoeuvring but he was pretty sure he could throw the remaining knives into something sturdy enough to simply sew them into place without even touching them.

Now for the moment of truth.

Snap. Flick. Thok.

The blade bounced off the deck of the skiff without leaving a mark, skittering across the deck before coming to a halt a few inches from the Charon’s bony foot. Atlas grunted in satisfaction.

“And you doubted me.”

The Charon utterly ignored him, but Atlas didn’t care. He scanned the holster. Time to adjust the thing to make sure he could reach it with his limited scope of movement, then to get as many blades hooked into it as he could before the last sliver of sun dipped below the fog on the horizon.

REFORMATTING

Like the tattered scarf before it, the holster vanished and reappeared onto Atlas’ belt. He stared at it in surprise for a moment before breaking into a triumphant grin.

There in the strap sewn for that very purpose, reformatted like any other piece of clothing he’d removed and cast aside, was the knife he’d just thrown.

He’d found his loophole.

Now if he could only find two or three more he might actually survive tomorrow morning.