Chapter 3: The Art of Making It Up as You Go

"Ever been to D.C.?" the driver asked as we passed the Washington Monument.

I leaned back against the seat, watching the blurred cityscape roll by. "Yeah. Been here a few times."

"Business?"

"Something like that," I replied, eyeing the black leather bag resting between my boots.

The Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History wasn't far now. And tucked inside my bag, wrapped carefully like it might shatter if I even thought too hard about it, was the statuette—weathered, ancient-looking, and freshly conjured into reality just a few days ago.

I had made strangers read parts of my journal all week—tourists, barflies, a guy at a vape shop who had way too many conspiracy theories. But I was careful. I only let them read the more grounded parts: the existence of the statuettes, the medallion I always wore, the fragments of a forgotten map. Nothing that screamed supernatural. Nothing that would scare off belief.

And now it was real. The statuette was in my possession, and Lara Croft had apparently stumbled across another.

"I'm actually meeting someone at the museum," I added, trying to sound casual. "She might have found something similar to mine."

The driver glanced at me through the mirror. "Let me guess. Treasure hunters?"

"Let's just say we both have an eye for unusual artifacts."

He chuckled, clearly not buying it. "You archaeologists always have the best stories."

Archaeologist. That was generous.

My fingers brushed the journal in my coat pocket. The rewritten version. The "I've been keeping this since high school" version. I had started it with a note about how everything before a certain page was just my teenage imagination. Then I crafted a two-year-long diary, carefully dated, with strange but subtle events linked to the sea—fish reacting weirdly to me at aquariums, dreams of drowning in places I'd never visited, salt crust appearing on my skin for no reason.

And the medallion? It came with a vague origin story. I wrote that it had been in my stuff since I was a kid in the orphanage. No note. No name. Just a weird object I never threw away. A few people read that part and believed it. That was all I needed.

Maybe it was family. Maybe not.

But it worked.

Now I had a key. A key that unlocked a hollow statuette revealing part of a map—just like I wrote. A map that led to more pieces. And apparently, now, Lara had one. And she didn't know it yet.

And if things went right—or very, very wrong—she'd believe whatever I will write in my 'dairy' in the future. Especially since I thought about something interesting.

If I write something in my writable dairy, she will see words appearing magically in the dairy I will give her. When confronting against something so magical, she will start to believe more in what I write in the dairy.

Suddenly, I felt more confident about all of this operation.

The driver turned down Constitution Avenue, nodding toward the cluster of grand buildings lining the Mall.

"You know, I once dropped off a guy at the museum who swore he found Cleopatra's toothbrush in a tomb somewhere."

I smirked. "Did he keep it in a display case next to her shampoo bottle?"

The driver laughed. "Nah, said it was cursed. Gave him gingivitis in five different languages."

"That's rough. I hope he flossed in Latin."

We both chuckled, and I let myself relax just a little. The kind of harmless banter that filled space without giving away anything real. I liked that.

"You ever work with the museum folks before?" he asked.

"Not exactly. I dabble."

"Dabble?" He raised a brow in the mirror. "That's a rich guy word for 'I don't really work but I make more money than you anyway.'"

I gave him a grin. "Hey, don't knock it. Dabbling is an art. I spend hours carefully choosing what not to do every day."

"Oh man," he said, shaking his head, "I knew it. You're one of those philosophical types. Probably got a degree in underwater basket weaving."

"Three, actually," I replied, deadpan. "One from Yale, one from Atlantis, and one I found in a cereal box."

"Impressive," he said. "You must be a hit on Tinder."

I snorted. "Only when I post photos with endangered species. Helps with the mysterious aura."

We passed the last crosswalk before the museum came into view. The big dome of the Smithsonian rose ahead like the crown of a temple, full of secrets and tax-deductible relics.

"You know," I added, glancing back at my bag, "some people spend their whole lives searching for meaning. I just wrote mine into a notebook."

"Deep," he said. "Real deep. You some kinda writer?"

I paused. "Something like that."

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History.

"Here we are," the driver announced. "Good luck with your… dabbling."

I offered a faint smile as I reached for the door handle. "Thanks. Let's hope today's discovery doesn't come with gingivitis."

He laughed again, but I was already stepping out into the light drizzle. I pulled my leather jacket tighter and adjusted the strap of my bag, feeling the reassuring weight of the small statuette inside. Cold, solid. Real.

For now.

I took a long breath as I faced the museum's grand entrance. The columns towered like silent judges, and behind them, knowledge waited—alongside a certain archaeologist who, if things went right, could become the key to everything.

This was it. No more tests. No more improvisation.

If I played my cards right, by the end of this, I wouldn't just be pretending to have a connection to the ocean. I may even become it king.

And for that, I'd need more than clever words in a journal. Albeit a magic one. I needed some real facts. As long as someone believes in it enough, everything else will be becoming convincing enough. And Lara Croft? She believed in facts. So I was about to give her a few. Just twisted enough to make the rest sounding true.

Thinking about it, there were three things I've learned so far since arriving in this version of reality:

1. Rich people get away with a lot.

2. Nobody questions you if you walk like you belong.

3. And most importantly: if you want to meet Lara freaking Croft, you need more than charm and a killer smile—you need an actual plan.

I didn't have a plan. I had a notebook and a dangerously low tolerance for awkward encounters.

But hey, in this reality? That never stopped me before.

The automatic doors of the National Museum of Natural History whooshed open like they'd been waiting for me specifically—which, I decided, was the exact level of narcissism I needed today. I walked in, head held high, trying not to look like someone who rewrote reality on the fly using suspiciously convenient fiction. Even though, that exactly what I was right now.

As I crossed the marble floor, memories from the plane ride replayed in my head like a movie montage, complete with dramatic music and emotional lighting.

I'd scribbled a last-minute journal entry mid-flight, right as the seatbelt sign lit up and the guy next to me started monologuing about his gluten-free spiritual awakening.

In the entry, I wrote that I had been contacted by someone working with Lara Croft, and that we'd arranged to meet today, in D.C., about a strange statuette with unusual carvings. Just vague enough to let reality fill in the blanks. I added a line about how 'she'd been looking for someone who might understand the artifact's origins.'

Then I'd let the journal fall open on that page.

Then I pretended to sleep.

Like a total creep.

But bless that guy's nosy soul. He read it. I know he did. He even took a photo when he thought I wasn't breathing.

And the moment he believed it—like, really believed it—the magic kicked in. I could almost feel the timeline adjusting mid-flight. Little reality gears turning in the background.

Which is how I ended up here.

Standing in the museum lobby, holding a satchel containing the same [ancient artifact] I made up in the journal, about to lie my way into an actual meeting with a legendary tomb raider.

"Hello!" chirped the woman at the front desk. She had the kind of perky smile that said she either genuinely loved her job or had mastered the art of caffeine-based survival. "Welcome to the Smithsonian. How can I help you today?"

I plastered on my best 'I'm a rich and harmless' smile.

"Yes, hi. I have an appointment with someone from the private acquisitions department? My name's Arthur Curry." I said it like it was the most normal thing in the world and not something I'd stolen from a fictional king of the sea.

She blinked, then typed something into her computer like she was trying to find a polite way to say, Who the hell are you? or maybe Is this a joke?

I resisted the urge to sweat.

"Oh!" she said, perking up like a dog who just heard the word walk. "You're here about the South American artifact, right? Ms. Croft was notified you'd arrived. She'll meet you in the east wing."

I tried not to show the full-body relief that washed over me.

"Perfect." I said, as casually as if I hadn't just gaslighted the fabric of the universe into making this appointment real.

"She should be there already. You can take the elevator down the hall and follow the signs to the research room."

"Thank you." I said, giving her the kind of charming nod I hoped screamed I definitely didn't alter space-time to be here.

As I walked away, my heart pounding like it was auditioning for a rock band, I muttered under my breath:

"Okay, Croft. Let's see if you believe in fairy tales." Because if she did?

I had a whole kingdom waiting underwater.

-----------------------------------

The east wing of the museum was quieter than I expected. The kind of quiet that made you wonder if ancient gods were judging you from behind the walls.

Which, considering what I'd done lately, wasn't entirely out of the question.

I moved down the corridor like I belonged there—shoulders back, confidence dialed up to eleven, heart doing cartwheels in my chest. The satchel felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the artifact. Maybe it was the lie.

Same weight, really.

Then I saw her.

Lara Croft.

No dramatic reveal. No wind machine. Just her, standing in front of a wide display table, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail, focused on an artifact like it might whisper a secret if she stared hard enough. Her posture was relaxed, but you could tell—every muscle in her body was ready to react. She looked like someone who could disarm a trap and a man with equal precision.

I tried not to trip over my own feet.

"Ms. Croft?" I asked, pitching my voice as if I was more confident than I really was.

She turned, measured, slow. Her eyes landed on me with the quiet intensity of someone who's seen too many people lie and gotten very good at spotting it.

"You're Arthur Curry."

Not a question.

"That's me," I said with a half-smile. "And you're exactly as terrifying as the blogs say."

Nothing. Not even a twitch. Just a subtle shift in her stance. Evaluating. Waiting.

"I'm not here to waste your time." I added quickly. "I came across something strange up north. In Bar Harbor. Something old. Something that—well, reminded me of something you recently uncovered."

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. "How do you know what I uncovered?"

'Gotcha.'

"I read a lot of weird blogs." I admitted. "And one of them mentioned your team was analyzing a South American statuette with unusual geometric carvings. When I saw it… well, I recognized the pattern."

I reached into my satchel and slowly unwrapped the cloth, revealing the artifact I'd conveniently 'found.' Same material, same aged finish, similar markings. My fingers brushed the surface like I was still trying to understand it myself.

"I thought maybe we were looking at parts of the same puzzle."

She moved closer, her footsteps quiet, measured. Her eyes flicked from the statuette to my face and back, like she was comparing data points.

"How did you find it?"

"In a cave wall. North of the coast. I... wasn't looking for it—obviously, I just sort of… found it." I gave a little shrug. "the cave crumble though because of...some reasons but you may still be able to find something there."

"You don't strike me as an archeologist." she said evenly after some silence.

"I'm not." I replied. "Just someone who's been following a trail I shouldn't have started."

That got a faint reaction. A muscle twitched at the corner of her jaw. Maybe curiosity. Maybe annoyance. Hard to tell with her.

"You said you recognized the patterns?"

I handed her a photocopies and several pictures I supposedly took of the different ruins I 'visited'. A drawing of the carvings, alongside some messy handwritten notes of the photocopy coming from my journal. With obvious traces of erasure on the photocopy itself. As if I was trying to hide things. Not too perfect. Just believable enough to pass.

"I kept a journal" I said. "Notes, sketches… theories. None of what I found made much sense but, then I saw that post about your find. And I thought about teaming up with you to find the answers."

She examined the paper in silence, then looked back at the artifact. Her fingers hovered above it but didn't touch—not yet.

"You think these are connected?"

I gave a careful nod. "I think we've got two pieces of the same story. And if that's true… maybe we should compare notes."

She didn't answer right away. Just studied me. Weighed my words like she was measuring them on some invisible scale.

Then: "I don't share notes with people who lie."

Ouch. Right in the ego.

"I'm not lying." I said—technically true, depending on your definition of the 'reality' that will become.

She finally touched the artifact. Her fingers were steady, precise. Not afraid. Just… careful.

"You're hiding something."

I opened my mouth to deny it—then thought better. Instead, I just smiled.

"Maybe. But only the good parts."

She looked at me again, sharper this time. And I knew, right then, she was going to figure it out what I wanted her to find.

I just had to make sure she didn't figure it out too fast.