[Yes, I'm entirely aware that this starts the same as the night I tapped out on. I'm doing this because people who missed that night can actually know what the hell is going on]


You make your way back to the first floor to avoid any further struggles. You seriously considered leaving the spirit level where you found it- it's a dangerous weapon and you could kill yourself or one of your Buns with it quite easily. On the other hand, you could hurt people who were trying to hurt the Buns in the first place. And that sort of terrible person does not deserve any flavour of mercy.

Of course, you don't use the elevator. You've yet to try it. Mummy and Daddy were very big about using stairs. It's good exercise, and if you climb ten flights of stairs a day, you'll grow up to be strong, fast, and beautiful young lady. This is something that you want to become. In any case, the only way that stairs can hurt you is if you slip and fall. You've been super-careful when going down and upstairs since you hurt yourself...when was it? Last night? You don't know. When you were first going up these stairs after your Buns vanishing. That time. The stairs is the best illuminated area you've been in for a while. The light is soft and bluish, giving everything an undersea note. When you push open the double-doors to the atrium, you've made up your mind.

You're going to go right the way up and show these meanies what it is to mess with you! You're going to beat them at their own game. Literally! And you will win. You have to. There is no other option.

Since you're in the area, you might as well check your mailbox. The mailroom is inviting and quiet. You unlock your box. At first, you don't think anything's there. There are the usual adult-maily-banking dull things that normally go in the mailbox, but you never know. There could be something there for you.

Please roll 1d6 for an item.

Rolled 3 (1d6)

>>36748881

Rolled 3 (1d6)

>>36748881

>>36748919
At the very back of your mailbox is what appears to be a rectangle of card, about four by six inches long. It's a picture of a woman, about the same age as Daddy's secretary. You decide that she's quite pretty. She wears hoop earrings and an elated, innocent smile that wouldn't be out of place on the face of a girl your age. Her teeth are very large and very white. On the back of it is written 22F, and then a series of markings that you can't quite understand. Perhaps when you've got a little less on your mind, you'll take a look. You tuck it into your skirt pocket and freeze. There's someone watching you. You can feel it. Like the softest of fingers running down your spine. Like the whispering of the wind. In the corners of your eyes, the shadows dance madly, like bears. You don't want to know who's there. All you want them to do is to go away. You huff in a breath, and hug your chest in place of Cookie. You do not want to consider what the person watching you is thinking about. Then, you fall to the floor and begin, ever so slowly, to crawl.

Arm over arm. If you're lucky, you'll make it to the stairs' doors and they won't notice you. Well, that clearly isn't happening. Anyone with half a brain will have noticed a small girl fall out of sight, and then slowly crawl away. You take a deep breath in of the carpet. It smells of cigarette ash and cheap perfume. You resist the urge to cough, but only just. You could be mistaken, but you thought you just saw someone leave the security stand on the other side of the room, in a bit of a hurry. All you managed to catch sight of is the twirl of someone's shoulder-length hair. You couldn't even distinguish the colour. Even in the brightness of the atrium, things still look dark, desaturated, dull. You gaze up at the vaulted angels that hold up the ceiling. And then you hear a footstep.

Oh poop.
>Hide! (Stealth check; d20+1)
>Flee! (Athletics check; d20+2)
>Fight!
>Diplomacy!
>[Other!]

Rolled 4 + 1 (1d20 + 1)

>>36749189

>Hide!

Rolled 8 + 1 (1d20 + 1)

>>36749189
>Hide! (Stealth check; d20+1)
Normally this quiet?

>>36749236
Yes, indeed. It's s a shame.
>>36749218
Since you two rolled for the same thing, and we have 3 unique IPs ITT, I'm going to take the highest score you guys rolled. Writing.

Let's go

>>36749363
>>36749236
>>36749218

Your eyes watch the bare feet make their way out from around the tree. You wish you had taken your spirit level out of your backpack. You could've defended yourself. There's still time, there's still. Time. Yes. You feel your ankles slowly get cold. You're staying as still as possible, just in case that the person who is about to come around the tree can't see little girls who clash violently with the décor colour choices. You take in a brief huff of air. In two three out. The person takes a second step. A determined, directioned step. One that doesn't even pretend not to notice you. Whoever owns that foot is going to cross the room and kick you in the head until you can't move.

The owner of the foot has a small scar, as though someone had speared their flesh with a fork, and dragged downwards, so that it flaked, like tuna, from a can. A third. You make brief apologies to Coco, and Pillule and all the others. You imagine their soft ears wiggling. At least they'll let you leave with a happy memory. N-no. You're not going to cry now. You're not! A fourth. You closely examine the patterning on the carpet. It's a number of....whassatword, where shapes fit together and make patterns? It's that, but with hexagons. You think how difficult it would be to draw it all out neatly. You murmur, voice hoarse, scratchy from held-back tears. “Goodbye, Mummy, Daddy,”

You flinch. Waiting for a warcry, a scrabbling of feet, blow after blow in your face and body. But there isn't any of that. A marble rolls across the floor to you. Seated, facing you, her legs cross-legged, is a girl. You can't see her face behind the bunny mask, but it's definitely there. She waves, slowly, like a reed in the breeze. In her other hand is a bloodstained hammer. The splatter goes all the way up her arm to her elbow. She doesn't seem to mind. Her body moves slowly, as though it's made of clockwork. It reminds you of how cranes move. When you look up, she's gone.

>>36749604
I've seen a creepy ass film about people wearing rabbit masks but I can't remember it. Had no plot. Weird overtones. What the hell was it..

>>36749604
>>36749655
Found it!

This is what your quest reminds me of. Creepy as hell.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GxKPBLjHAEA

>>36749655
>>36749671
Wonderful. I'll give it a looksie and see if I can inhale some of that Lynchian goodness. But meanwhile, writing.

You resist the urge to vomit. Barely. You taste the rush of bile in your mouth and make a horrible coughing, choking sound. Like someone during an asthma attack. You sit, back against the stairwell door, and exhale. Now isn't the time to take stock, or to relax. You should be powering up those stairs all the way to the eighth floor and demanding the return of Cookie in your brave and unafraid voice. You should play any game they suggest, be it Monopoly, chess, or even darts. You breathe slowly, until you don't feel like death stuck his hand down your throat and squeezed your guts. You shoulder your backpack. It weights a good bit, but not enough to floor you. While you would probably have to drop it, if you were intending to run away from a monster, you can get used to its pressing weight upon your back. You sigh as it presses you down. Seven flights of stairs should be easy. You can make it. You will make it. At last, you find the source of the lighting in the stairs. At the end of each step, on its side, the side that would be facing towards the opposite wall, there is an LED about the size of a cherry pit. Every step has this. It feels like you're walking up to Heaven. Or down a vertical catwalk. Or you're going to be married. Will there be men with long beards when you reach the eighth floor? You feel that it would be great if they did have beards, but would be okay if they didn't. A beard is just a beard, after all. You don't have one. You sing to yourself under your breath. You're not even sure why, but the lyrics just come into your mind and out your tongue before you can catch yourself
>A night of ruckus!
>They think they'll outluck us
>We'll destroy their every wish
>They'll find grizzly bears in their beds!
You're not sure why the Clocktower would have grizzly bears, and even if they did, how difficult it would be to get one into the bed of someone you didn't like.

>>36749882
>We'll destroy their every wish

>>36749945
Um. That's not an option, Anon. It's simply Miko singing to herself. sorry if I made it look like one. To make it up for you, I'll see if I can insta-write a song about destroying wishes

"We'll destroy their every wish
We'll loop-the-loop and hunt some fish
Under the grave stars of night
IT'S THIRTEEN O CLOCK!
Seek what she wants~!
Wake her up make her look gaunt~!
Drive a pill stake into her eye!
Punish her for taking Cook-eye!
Thisiswhatwillhappen!
Thisishwatwillhappen!"

>>36750034
Ah so.. that's not a vote then? My bad.

You open the door to the eighth floor, and are greeted by almost complete darkness, and the muffled, far-off sound of a steam shooting out of...whatever part steam comes out of in a train, how do you know? Great, you think. This is just great. The light that you do see is twisted, muffled, and slightly red. Out of the darkness wafts a smothering, deep scent, a foreign one, like rose petals mixed with cinnamon. Dots of licorice. Strange spices you have no name for. A mixture of earthy, floral, and spicy. Like the inside of a church. You inhale deeply. It makes a pleasant change from rotten food and bleach. The first thing you notice is that the floor is a pearlesecent white, veined thickly in cracks. It's cold and hard, but doesn't have the smoothness of well-sanded stone, nor the flakiness of something more fragile. You feel that if you jump up and down on the spot, you'll be like Rumplestiltskin and fall through the floor. The ceiling here is low hanging, in a wavelike pattern, lazily going up and down all the way along the hallway. The colour of the ceiling changes in the light. When you shine your torch on it, it's crimson, a rich, deep and bloody red, red like tomatoes or red like grapefruit and wine. In the darkness, it becomes a slow-moving purple, like a rich man's shroud, endlessly luxurious. You don't want to touch it. Something about it profoundly unnerves you.

>>36750097
Yeah, sorry m8. I'll mark out votes clearer next time.

Yet here she is and this is what she is doing. Or rather, here you are. You're not sure how many shots left you have with the spirit level. You could have fifty, you could have three. What you don't have is more nails. You make a mental note to look out for all nailboxes. Cookie floofs, and starts trying to furiously dig into the floor. The squeaking of his nails on the tiles is piercing. Not like fingernails on a blackboard, but rather, the sound of a coin being quickly drawn across a metal surface. When you pick him up, his eyes have rolled back into his skull.
“C-cookie?”
Nothing. You can feel his frantic heartbeat through your shirt. He makes a lunge for your fingers, and nicks it. The pain of the bite isn't like any other bunny bite you've experienced. When you were about eight, Daddy was moving his desk and stuff into his new office, and you'd volunteered to open doors for him. Because it was easier for you, you opened them closer to the wall than anything else. You had just learned how to play the Surprise Symphony on the piano and so were twinkling your fingers and pressing the invisible keys in mid air. Thinking about the paino going doo doo doo doo in the way that only sounds right in your head and if you sound it out people give you weird looks.
"Mi, would you mind opening the door a little faster?" But you were still in your dreamland. Sat on a piano stool, in schoolboy clothes and a tie, piano in front of you.
"Mi, this is really heavy, please hurry up!" You put your fingers on the keys and begin to play.
"Mi, I'm going to-" Just as you were reaching the surprise chord, Daddy pushed the door open a little too fast. He was going to drop whatever he was carrying, anyway. The front joints of your ring and middle fingers got caught in the door. It hurt so bad you couldn't even cry. It hurt so bad you just wanted your fingers to fall off. Cookie bit you like that. The pain is so bad that you close your eyes.

>>36750326
Wut? Did we skip ahead or something?

>>36750397
Oh god, yes, you're right. Silly me. Thanks for noticing!

There isn't a map or any indication as to where you're on the eighth floor to speak of. You're probably going to have to do that one yourself. There's something about this place that sets you on edge. Your finger curls around the trigger of the spirit level. You set out. You wished that you'd found a way to attach your torch to the item that's most likely going to save your life. Instead, you hug the level to your chest and quickly scan the door numbers for entrance. Something moves above your head. You barely catch sight of it. If there are spiders that live in the ceiling, you're probably going to cry. Things shouldn't be like that. You're only eleven. An eleven year old girl shouldn't be armed, alone and terrified in a floor she may have visited once before at absolute maximum.

You're alone again in the hallway. Cookie is nowhere to be found. The only thing that seems different is that the spirit level feels slightly heavier, and there's the echoes of some long-passed pain in your fingers. Their tips feel a bit wet. That's strange. There aren't usually leaks this low on the building. Or rather, that's what the super would say. They know the Clocktower very well, and so would know at which floor wetness and leaks are of importance, and which floors they aren't. You instinctively touch your hands, and it stings, like getting lemon juice in an open cut. You hug your spirit level very tightly to yourself. If anyone jumps out at you, you're totally going to level their meanie spirit to the wall! The ends of your fingers, they don't feel even. Torn, a little. Jagged. You try not to think about pairs of scissors or cleavers. Daddy told you that a good cleaver can slice through almost all sorts of bones. You can't find your flashlight. When you were thinking about Cookie you must've dropped it. You clench your hands into fists, and immediately, tears start welling up. It hurts so bad to touch anything. You really want gloves right now. They feel rough, like someone cheese-grated your hands, and managed to do so without you noticing. You really don't want to be in this hallway any more.
>Attempt to enter a room off the hallway
>Take out your phone, photograph hands, or try to
>Get away from here.
>You're brave enough. Continue going on until you find room T.

>>36750641

>Take out your phone, photograph hands, or try to

>>36750641
>Take out your phone, photograph hands, or try to

>>36750641
>>Take out your phone, photograph hands, or try to

>>36750770
>>36750792
>>36750924
Trying to touch as few things as possible, you thrust your hand inside your coat. They scrape the bottom of the pocket, and some of the wool comes away. It tickles. You flick out your fingers and imagine yourself fishing, with a long, long line made of wool. You imagine it flying up, over your head, and plopping onto- you let out a low moan and stagger towards a wall. It hurts. You think you may have pilsners in your hands. You consider: what's less fun, pilsners or ground glass? You smash into one face first. It almost feels comforting. It's made of the same material that the ceiling is made out of. Like a velveteen bouncy castle. You just want to lie here forever. Maybe the pain, the throbbing, singing pain that crescendos every time you move your hand too quickly through the air, every time you touch an object that isn't smooth-textured.

Supporting your shaking camera hand on one knee, holding the phone with the second, rather than the first joints of each finger, you lean in, and press the button with your nose, but the phone slips away. You try to pick it up, but you can't. Well- without scrubbing your fingertips into the grubby floor, you can't. You don't think you could pick it up in your teeth. You press the button to turn around the camera with your knuckle, and hit it again, to phtogrpah. There's a brief flash of light. You avert your eyes. Mummy always said that looking directly into camera flashes was very unlucky. A clicking sound. You look back at the phone. In the light from the screen, and in the picture on it, you see the top quarter centimetre or so of each finger on your right hand is missing. Like someone held them against a sander, leaving each one round, wet, fleshy. If you squint, you can see bone peeking out of the tip of your index finger. The colour reminds you of ruby grapefruit.
Fort save, please.

Rolled 9 (1d20)

>>36751216

You may want to greentext save checks and the like.

Rolled 2 (1d20)

>>36751216
That's just mean.

Also, you probably should have highlighted that fort save request with greentext

>>36751313
>>36751349
FADE TO BLACK
You're not dead yet.

I think that's all I can do for tonight, friends.
Thanks for playing! Do you have any questions/comments/suggestions/requests?

>>36751651
Thanks for running. When do you think the next thread will be?

>>36751726
If everything checks out well, several hours on wednesday afternoon EST. I'll clarify sooner to the date. I really value your playing, anon <3

>>36751767
Thanks for running dude. Watch that video by the way. Messed up as hell and reminds me of that bunny girl with the hammer.

>>36751767
I'll keep playing as long as you keep running :)

>>36751804
I will! Thanks for playing! I'll archive now.

>>36751822
Aww