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"You're making excuses," you say, getting more into the rhythm of things. "You're a coward. You're a- you're a pussy bitch."
Madrigal flushes. "I am n- ooh! You fucking c- my spear is in your arm!"

"Interesting," you say. "So?"

"S-so I could make things a lot fucking worse for you, Charlotte! I could ram this through your— I could wrench this out and let you bleed? Would you like that? Is that a fucking coward thing to do?!-"

Here's the truth: you are in considerable distress. Your shoulder was killing you before, but Madrigal's been yanking on the spear knowingly or unknowingly and it's like paroxysms of knives— you don't know what the thrice-damned tooth on the end came from but it must've been a holy terror. So there's the pain, there's Madrigal— she's got a vein very visibly pulsing on her neck and you can't tear your gaze away— there's the whole suddenness of the thing— you were just goading her, that was all, you weren't expecting a scene. Is it because you called her a pussy bitch? Was the swearing too much? "Wash your mouth out with lye, I will," Auntie always said—

You could defuse the situation. You probably ought to: her spear is in your arm, and the blood's running down your side, now. And if nothing else, Madrigal might choke on her own spittle and die if you didn't.

On the other hand, you're a Fawkins, God-damnit. You do not end fights. You start fights, usually while drunk, and you win fights. And you're still a little sore over an encounter with Madrigal earlier today…

"It's not a coward thing to do, no." You're having a difficult time keeping your voice even. Madrigal relaxes. (Ha!) "It is a psychopath thing to do."

You were expecting her to tense back up, but if anything she goes limper— a guppy in the jaws of a snake, you hate thinking, because long ago you promised yourself you would not do snake metaphors.

«There's nothing wrong with snake metaphors.»

"Fuck you," Madrigal mutters almost inaudibly. You threw a proper sockdolager— there's nothing else she can say. "Fuck you. Let's go… let's go get ourselves killed."

(2/3ish)

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The corridor is empty. The corridor appears empty, rather— you can't bring yourself to believe there's nothing lurking. Madrigal traipses along ahead of you, balancing the shaft of the spear on her shoulder. The light on the wall continues to flash red. You bleed.

The two of you turn left. If anything is following you, it's impossible to hear it over the low rumble that pervades the… building? (Surely a building?) The rumble, and the slorp of pipes, and—

You need to breathe. You just need to take a deep breath, and… ooh. You take that back. Bad plan. You need to think while moving your shoulder as little as possible. What happened? This place was hidden behind the wall of the sewer. It took your blood samples and coughed up a mangled goo-replica of Madrigal. (Is there one of you, somewhere?) You broke into the maintenance room—

«You tripped the alarm.»

Yes, thank you, Richard. You tripped the alarm, you found gloves and notices and a five-foot snakeskin which promptly tried to suffocate you. And then you got stabbed. It has not been one of your better days.
But there's always a way for things to get worse! You're scarcely ten steps around the corner before a ruckus erupts from overhead. You clutch your shoulder as Madrigal stares up into the pipes. "There's something-"

"You don't say, Madame Obvious." You don't have time for this. You're also unarmed, and bleeding, but you don't have time for this. "Move! Come on!"

One rubber boot emerges, then the next— Madrigal hauls you down the corridor in a stumbling fast-walk. "I'm moving!" she spits. "But there's nowhere to go. It's a fucking empty—"

The only thing ahead is a "DO NOT SLIP" sign on a dry floor. There's no doors, no alcoves, no— you glance behind you. An anonymous yellow jumpsuit has followed the boots.

"Of course there's somewhere to go," you scoff. "You're such a wet blanket, Madrigal."

"I'm- I'm looking! I wish there was! There is literally nowhere—"

A hood follows the jumpsuit, and gloves, and a person has clambered down from the ceiling. Oh, you think, a person. That's good. Better a person than… You spot the harpoon gun.

«Oh, interesting. That's not a real gun, but it looks fairly close to a Beuit 22. Just barely adequate for whales, unfortunately, but works fine for squishier-»

"There!" You point to a door up on your right. "There! Take a—"

Madrigal doesn't need telling twice. She rushes to it, your shoulder is nearly torn off, it feels like, she tries the door, it's locked, a word bubbles in your throat, it's not locked, you barrel through— you slam it behind you just as a weighty thunk shakes, but doesn't splinter, the wood.

(3/4)

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You slump down and breathe again. Madrigal props the spear against the wall and joins you.

"There was no door," she says.

You don't say anything.

"The hallway was a fuckin'— a straight shot, I would've seen a door. There was no door."

You notice how every beat of your heart makes your shoulder writhe and crawl. Could be maggots in, for all you know. Worms.

"Charlotte? Hello? That wasn't incompetence, there was just no— hello? And then there was a door, but only after there wasn't a, a door—"

"I have a spear in my arm," you say.

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah. Fuck. Uh…" Madrigal stands. "Did we decide… where are we? I need to… I'll be right back."

You sit on the floor. She is right back. "I think— it looks safe. It's like an office, I guess, except there's a big wall of… pictures. I don't know, I didn't- are you listening?"

It's difficult to move your head. "Yes."

"Okay. Okay! So it should be okay to deal with…" Madrigal gestures broadly at your wound. "…that."

"…Yes."


>You need to do something to treat your wound, or you'll never be able to wash the stain out! Good thing you're not in reality, so you can make things happen… kind of? With enough blind optimism?
>[ID: 3/11]

>[1] Convince Madrigal to snap the spear so the serrated spearhead remains in the wound. Medically safe-ish. Your preference. Madrigal is not a fan of the idea. [Tough roll to convince her.]
>[2] Allow Madrigal to remove the spearhead. Her preference. It'll be fine, probably, as long as you procure something to stanch the profuse bleeding. (What do you use? Special plans?) [Possible roll.]
>[3] Work out some kind of compromise. Can you snap it but give her another weapon? Fix the spear, somehow? (What?) [Likely roll.]
>[4] Hold on, don't you have a magic snake who solves all your problems? (-1 ID will stanch the bleeding. Madrigal will ask uncomfortable questions.)
>[5] Write-in.

File: IF YOU'RE NEW READ THIS.png (5.66 MB, 3840x6524)

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>Previously On: Drowned Quest Redux
You set off to locate a snake, found some monster tracks, fell several hundred feet through the seafloor, and got yourself briefly possessed to rescue Madrigal. You found yourself in an ancient sewer system, where you lost your light, met some native teenage fish-people, accidentally tore the wall off, had a spooky flashback, and dealt with a bad clone of Madrigal. Eventually, you discovered a facility behind the wall… and so on and so forth.

>TO DO
-> find the other snake
-> find out what the hell's going on with all the clones and so on
-> uncover source of mystery flashback
-> pay off tab
-> buy new clothes
-> get The Sword
-> get/steal radio
-> get recommendation letters (???)
-> blackmail margo
-> weird business card? RSVP? tomorrow evening? ?
-> don't get shot by margo
-> illegal(?) courier thing?
-> get stolen model back
-> finish new model
-> TELL MONTY MODEL THIEF IS HERE
-> tell monty he might get assassinated (maybe)
-> madrigal servant thing
-> figure out why ellery un-died
-> get truth from ellery
-> ???
-> Fill crown (?????)

>Schedule
On one hand, I'm quarantined and have nothing to do. On the other hand, it's been like 3 weeks since the last thread, so who knows. Minimum of one update/day, maybe two or three.

>Archive
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=drowned%20quest%20redux

>Twitter (I update this when I remember it exists)
https://twitter.com/BathicQM

>Pastebins
https://pastebin.com/u/BathicQM

>"Redux"?
This quest is a sort of sequel/reboot of the original Drowned Quest, which ran for eight threads in 2019. Reading the original isn't required. Check out the attached image instead.

>I have a question/comment/concern?
Tell me!

>>4167407
>>[3] Work out some kind of compromise. Can you snap it but give her another weapon? Fix the spear, somehow? (What?) [Likely roll.]
Spearheads are pretty simple, let's imagine her one.

>>4167485
Seconding, but also make it to her preference. We really gotta sell this.

>>4167407
4

>>4167407
>Hold on, don't you have a magic snake who solves all your problems
*coughs*

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>4167485
>>4167561
>3

>>4167764
#4168020
>4

Rolling...

>>4168056
And writing. We'll have to rely on IDs until April Fools Day is over.

>>4168020
Hello fellow virus

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>Surely this will have no consequences whatsoever

"…So," Madrigal says. "Do you need a stick to bite down on, or…"

You blink. "What?"

"So you don't scream when I take it out, Charlotte." She folds her arms.

"You're not taking it out, though?" You scratch your chin with your good arm. "Not unless you packed a tourniquet. I am not going to bleed to death— I absolutely refuse."

She sounds tired. "Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic, I just feel like- it's not dignified, is what it's not. Would you like to die in a puddle of your own blood, Madrigal? Sitting on— cheap carpeting?" (It's rough under your fingers and pukey brown and you're at a loss as to why it exists?)

"Nobody would fucking like that, Charlotte, the point is that you're not gonna bleed—"

«Enough. This is childish.»
«You won't bleed out.»

Really! You won't bleed out when you shred your shoulder wide open. You won't bleed out without bandages or poultices or antiseptics. Interesting proposition.

«I see your positive thinking is out the window.»
«…»
«Nonetheless, you're correct. You won't. Stitching it back together is a simple matter.»

Oh.

Wait, you don't like this. It might be simple for Richard, but how about you? Where's the catch? There's never not a catch with him, it's always something like— like "oh yeah, you're never coming back." Is your arm going to fall off later?

«I have a vested interest in keeping you on your feet. Charlie, it's a bad look when you're cranky.»
«Just take the spear out.»

…Yourself?

«I could not care less.»

Now that you're considering the topic, taking the spear out yourself is sounding more and more appealing. The look on Madrigal's face would be priceless, and… actually, that's all the justification you need. You grip the haft.

"Um," Madrigal says. "What are you-"

You yank the spear from your shoulder, and it makes a noise you can feel in your teeth. It also hurts, until it doesn't: a statick-y jolt to your neck reduces the whole thing to pins and needles.

>[-1 ID: 2/11]

Your hand shakes as you offer the spear to Madrigal. "……Here you go."

She looks sidelong at it. "Yeah."

"I told you I had a strong constitution."

"Yeah." She wipes her nose. "Gonna get the gore off?"

The spearhead and three inches of the haft are dripping with your blood. You stare at it for a moment, then wipe it on the awful carpet. (It's hard to get it much worse, you figure.) "Happy?"

Madrigal hesitates, then takes it. "Yeah."

"You're welcome," you say.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

It's the tone that makes it a gut punch. You'd prepared for this question, but as a chastisement or accusation. It should be angry— it's supposed to be angry. It's not. It's question as bone-dry statement of fact.

"Nothing," you say baldly.

"Have you looked at your shoulder?"

(1/~3)

You've been avoiding looking at your shoulder. This is writ plain enough on your face for Madrigal to sigh. "Okay, then. Blood's gone."

Surely not. But there it is: a white coat, an intact shoulder. You furrow your brow.

«It's not real blood, Charlie, so cause and effect are a smidge loose. Cause gets fixed, effect sees no reason to linger, things in that vein.»
«Don't get into trouble, I'm still occupied—»

"That's not normal," Madrigal says helpfully. "Also a super dick move, seeing how you made me carry that thing the whole way, but whatever. Not the point."

You don't have the energy for anything clever. "What is?"

"Something's wrong with you. Not your— not your attitude, or whatever, that's a whole other bucket of worms. I mean really wrong. I mean off. I mean—"

"Weird." It's funny, you think, how you can hear the same speech in so many different contexts. "You mean weird."

"Yeah."

"Okay." You can see where this is going, and you're powerless to stop it, as usual. "How so?"

You gain some small measure of satisfaction from Madrigal's face: in all her grand planning for this moment, she evidently was not expecting you to play along. "Um," she says. "There's this, obviously. There's- you had a lighter."

"So what?"

"You were underwater." She places her hands on her hips. "And it somehow didn't come up the moment we, you know, lost our light. AND there's the eyes."

You rub your forehead.

"At the start. In the tunnel. I looked at you, and your eyes were all- all gold. Which is really weird, because you don't even have two eyes, Charlotte! Much less two gold ones! Much less- and you talk to yourself all the goddamn time. Do you know that? Half the time I'll look over and you'll just be mumbling complete nonsense."

You wait, but that appears to be the end of it. She's breathing like she's been running wind sprints.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay?" She takes a deep breath. "That's it?"

"Yes."

"I—" Madrigal's faces seizes up. You have a good bead on her emotional state, you think, by virtue of often being in the same position. This is a reveal— a long-planned reveal— falling flat. "That can't be it."

You toy with your hair. "No?"

(2/3)

"N-no! Something's— something's objectively fucking wrong with you, Charlotte!"

"You've said that." Why is your hair in such a good state? You run your fingers through it. It should be in massive knots, you haven't conditioned it in— well, years— anyhow. "What do you want me to do about it?"

To her credit, Madrigal recovers quickly. She only gapes for a couple seconds. "I... um, admit it?"

You close your eyes.

"I'm not going to discriminate, Charlotte! You think I care? There were many things wrong with Ellery, and I still f— I dated the guy for a year! But, you know, I don't know if you're safe, I don't know if I need to take special precautions— it's about being practical, okay? That's it."

>[1] …Fine. Give her a very broad overview. Maybe she'll shut up about it after. (Write-in anything special you want to include/leave out, otherwise QM fiat.)
>[2] You've never told anybody. Three and a half years and you've never told anybody anything. It might be— it might be nice to lay it all out. And Madrigal's reliable. You don't like her, but she's reliable. (ID gain. You'd leave out anything too sensitive.)
>[3] Haha, no. You're not giving her squat. Continue your campaign of evasion. (Effective, but this'll just prolong the inevitable.)
>[4] Lie. (How?) [Roll based on quality.]
>[5] Write-in.

>>4168874
>[5] Kiss her to change subject

>>4168874
>[1] …Fine. Give her a very broad overview. Maybe she'll shut up about it after. (Write-in anything special you want to include/leave out, otherwise QM fiat.)
Leave out Richard entirely, tell her the mumbling is spellcasting.

>>4168900
>>4168874
Supportan

>>4168882
Unfortunately, both of you are extremely heterosexual! And imagine the scandal if word got out!


#4168900
>>4169100
This is just lying, guys! Broad overview would be something like "I have a, uh, thing in my head" without going into specifics. If you're going to go ahead with this, it's going to be treated like option 5 and require a roll.

>>4169168
>Unfortunately, both of you are extremely heterosexual! And imagine the scandal if word got out!
why do you hurt me OP ?
>>4168874
>[2]

>>4169168
Might as well
>[2]

>>4168874
>1

Leave out the fact that Richard is the one who pulls off all the miracles. Nope, that's all you. He's just some good for nothing bum who lazes around in your head and is not at all useful. When you talk to him it's out of pity so he doesn't get bored.

Rolled 84 (1d100)

>>4169169
Sorry, anon :'( You'll just have to use your undoubtedly vivid imagination.
>>4169179
>2

>>4169263
#4168900
>1 (new version)

Rolling between these.

>>4169328
Did 1d100 by reflex. Let's call that a 2 (and therefore broad overview).

Writing.

>>4169338
QM at it again

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>>4169391

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>You're a wyzard, Charlie mashed up the write-ins and took some in character liberties

How long has it been? Count the months: ten in the City, two on the run, eight puddle-jumping, five here, give or take. And before: two and a half months of coaxing and prepping and saying goodbyes nobody understood. Almost three and a half years since you were stuck with Richard, and you haven't told a soul. So why is it now, with Madrigal staring you in the eye, that you can feel yourself start to waver?

"I," you say falteringly, "I was nineteen, um, when I found a box in my attic..."

"What were you doing there?"

You pause. It appears to be a serious question. "I don't— spring cleaning, probably? I don't remember. Um, it's not the point. The point is..."

«I thought you were going to stay out of trouble.»
«It seems my expectations were too high.»

"The point, is, um..." You lick your lips.

«Let's not do something you'll regret, Charlotte.»
«Think through your actions with me. You tell her. Fantastic. What next.»
«She won't believe you, firstly. She has no faith in you. She can't possibly understand the significance. She hasn't the brains.»

"Charlotte?" Madrigal prompts. You look past her.

«But suppose she did believe your big glib story about a snake in a box and a snake in your head.»
«She doesn't like you, Charlotte. She distrusts you. She hates you. There is no mercy in that cutthroat soul. She will sell you out as she sees fit, and then we will have to pack our bags. Again.»
«I presume that's unappealing.»

"Charlotte?" She sounds worried. "The box?"

"Yeah, um, the box." You rub your shoulder. "The box."

«You'll have to tell her something. Unfortunately, it'll have to approximate the truth.»

Madrigal hugs her arms to her chest. "Are you okay? You look kind of... distracted."

What do you say? What's in the box? You're drawing blanks, all you can figure is a, a key, but that's stupid, that doesn't even make sense, that'd just raise more questions—

«For instance, there's no reason to change what was in the box. It's a meaningless detail. I was.»
«Start with that, and we'll work it out. You worry too much, Charlie, it's not healthy.»

"There was a snake in the box," you say.

"Oh." Madrigal blinks. "What? Don't they live underwater? Why was it in your attic? How big was the box? Was it a washing machine box or something? Is that why you haven't complained about going along on this? I figured you'd be bitching my ear off—"

You're not actually sure about the first point. "Maybe it was a, uh, land snake?"

"Don't be silly, those don't exist. And even if they did, wouldn't it have died? I mean, being stuck in a box? How could it eat?"

"I don't think it— look, it's not real, okay? The snake. It exists, but it's not real, so it doesn't have to eat— or breathe— or whatever. Okay?"

Madrigal tallies something on her fingers. "Uh..."

(1/3ish)

>>4170264
>>4169263
>>4169179
>>4169169
come to nurgle

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"Okay, good." You swallow. "And I, uh, yes. Um, it was my— it— I took it as my familiar."

«Your what.»

"Your what?"

Madrigal has obviously never read Wyzards Munificent. You muster a smirk. "My familiar, Madrigal. A small animal that helps me perform— magicks."

«Sakes alive.»

"Magics?" Her eyes flick to your belt. "With blood? Where's your syringe?"

You scrunch up your nose. "Ew, do I look like a corpsef— not magic. Magicks."

"Magics?"

"No— sorcery, okay? Sorcery? Is that clear? Can you say that? Sorcery? I perform sorcery with- arcane mutterings. And herbs, and orbs, and dancing around a bonfire, and— so that explains everything, okay? I'm a wyzard. Wow."

Madrigal squints. "Where do you get the herbs? And the bonfire- I mean, I guess you have a lighter, but—"

"I gather them," you say munificently. "Under the moonlight."

"Man, life must be pretty fucking hard for you here."

"Er, yes." It's hard to know what to say when you're not sure if she's joking. There's a sort of glint in her eyes. "Quite."

"So all that talking to yourself, that's arcane mutterings?"

Is she joking? You scratch your ear. "Oh, um, not always. Sometimes I'm conversing with my familiar..."

"Who's invisible."

"Uh, right." You nod decisively. "I mean, not invisible, usually, it's just that he's not... real. Um. I don't have to— I just talk to him, uh, so he doesn't get bored. He doesn't really do much. He's lazy, um, you know, I do all the heavy lifting."

«Charlotte.»
«That was wholly inappropriate.»

"All the heavy sorcery lifting," Madrigal says.

"...Ye-es?"

"Neat." She glances away from you, her face unreadable. "Yep. That's that, I guess. Do you want to check out the office while we're here? Since you got the shoulder all magic'd and everything."

You're not entirely sure why she's offering an escape, but you're not about to let it drop through your fingers. "Yes! Yes, I'd like to— yes, uh, please. Yes."

"Cool." She meanders away. You hastily get up and follow her into the blue-tinged light of the office.

It's a bizarre office, but you could frankly expect no less. Three square walls are papered intermittently with intimidating posters. "LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS." "OBJECTIVE THINKING ENSURES RESULTS." "SMILE! YOU'RE ON CAMERA." There's several important-looking notices. A white banner drapes across the back of the room: "CONGRATS ON CLEARANCE, GUPPY !!!" And now that you're looking for it, you spot more decorations: deflated balloons in the corner, paper spirals dangling from the ceiling. A party?

On the fourth wall lies pictures. It's what Madrigal called it, and you're hard-pressed to find a better descriptor. It's a four-by-four grid of gently glowing... pictures, though you're not sure why anyone would display gritty flickering pictures of... hallways.

"Hey," Madrigal says. "There's us."

"What?" You stare up to where she's pointing. You were exaggerating: they're not all hallways. One is of the very room you're in. And a tiny Madrigal. And a tiny... you.

You scoff. "That's not what I look like. I'm not that short."

Madrigal doesn't dignify you with a response. You scoff again when she slowly raises her arm. "Something on the ceiling?"

She points again, with her other arm. The tiny Madrigal is pointing. The tiny Madrigal is raising her arm. You jump; the you in the picture jumps. "Criminy! What the hell!"

«It's video.»

"I think..." Madrigal says slowly. "I think it's watching... places, and it's sending the watching here. Like a remote mirror."

«Yes. It's called video.»

"Like a remote... can you do that?"

«Yes. This is a security room. These are monitors showing footage from security cameras. The guard appears to be dead. I sincerely hope you don't have questions.»

The guard? And then you spot the swivel chair near the pictures. "Monitors." A gloved hand dangles limply off the side. "Madrigal," you say. "Hey, Madrigal. I think there's a corpse?"

"Sorcery it," she says distantly. She's still staring at the wall.

You grimace. "Um, okay." It's just a matter of touching the chair, not touching the dead body, not touching the dead body— there you are. You turned the chair around. There's a corpse in it.

Well... how do you put this. There's a body in it. The body has no face: it's just bone. No eyes, either. Everything else— the neck and wrists, mostly, since they're the only things exposed under a full-body yellow jumpsuit— is intact. And there's no stench of death.

"Huh," you say, just as Madrigal bolts from her slouch: "A-ha!" And then returns to it: "Oh, damn."

You look up. "What are you..."

"There's a ghost," she hisses. "In this room."

You jerk around to discover... nothing. You return miffed. "No there isn't."

"No, I swear to god— I swear on my mother there is. It just keeps— it keeps showing up, then it's gone. Like that." She snaps her fingers. "If you'd just keep watching— or, wait. You should catch it with your sorcery."

She has to be joking, right? She's yanking your chain. You try to smile. "Er, yes, I could certainly do that... uh, there's a body here."

"Who gives a shit."

"There's people with harpoons outside, Madrigal."

"Nah." She picks at her teeth with her fingernail. "Look, they're all the way up there, see?"

On the monitor, two jumpsuits are having a silent and violent conversation in a corridor with no doors in it.

"Where are we?"

"Great question." Madrigal strokes her chin. "Where's the ghost?"

You sigh.

(Choices next)

>Some of these may be opportunities to regain ID. You can pick multiple (though they may be spread out through multiple updates). Determine how much time you want to spend here.

>[1] Oh, what the hell. Stand there and wait until the ghost ("ghost"?) reappears on the monitor.
>[2] Make a good show of attempting to catch the ghost. You know, with sorcery.
>[3] Examine the Important Notices on the wall.
>[4] Seriously, though, the body is really weird. Give it a good once-over to make sure you didn't miss anything.
>[5] Poke the body.
>[6] Talk to the body.
>[7] Look really hard at the "security monitors." Maybe the snake's in one of them? Maybe you'll find out what this place is for?
>[8] Listen. Listen. There's balloons here. There's paper spirals. There's streamers. The jumpsuits are elsewhere. You've had a hard day. A damn hard day. Throw yourself a party.
>[9] Write-in.

>>4170272
>[3] Examine the Important Notices on the wall.
>[4] Seriously, though, the body is really weird. Give it a good once-over to make sure you didn't miss anything.
>[9] smack her in the butt

>>4170272
>[3]
>[4]

>>4170274
>>4170371
>Slap her on the butt
That wouldn't be very ladylike of you!
>Everything else
Called and writing shortly.

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>Check out the Important Notices
>And the body

"…Okay," you say after a while. "You have fun with that, I guess."

Madrigal doesn't move. You have little idea why this interests her so much, unless she's looking for a distraction just as badly as you are. But why would she— wait, you don't care. You have bigger priorities.

"I'm going to go OVER HERE. And READ some IMPORTANT NOTICES."

Nothing. She doesn't blink. You fold your arms and march over to the far wall, where three pieces of crisp white paper cover a poster about… wage theft? The smallest is neatly typewritten, with flowers around the margin:

"Hi Ms. Villalovez ! Congratulations on achieving Clearance 1 ! We here at 'Namway Co.' are immensely grateful for your s-years of dedicated service !
As you adjust to your new Clearance, you are advised to keep these tips in mind !
* Don't touch your face before it's cured ! This can take upwards of 24-48 s-hours !
* For up to an s-week after curing, you may experience limited/restricted range of expression ! DON'T PANIC ! Be patient until full integration ! Your range of expression will be a LOT bigger than it used to be after :-)
* You can always stop by HR if you need support :-)
Cheers !
Dierdre
(And all your friends at 'Namway Co.' !)"

The second is in short, severe handwriting— you've seen this before, back at the maintenance room.

"Guppy-
We're keeping the snake in the basement- KEEP THE LIGHTS ON
Anyone who tells you otherwise is fucking with you (the boys don't like this gig but I keep telling them it's not my problem)
The goal is to dupe the thing, not invite it in
Also in general keep an eye on it,sound the alarm if there's anything fishy
Thanks
Lester F."

The third is… um, the third is… oh dear. You shift back and forth to get a good angle on it, but the good angle never arises. You can tell there's text on it, certainly, but it's all… blurred. In the middle lies a large wax seal. At the bottom is a curving signature, the only legible thing on the paper: "— The Management."

"Madr-," you start, but she's already off to the races: "Oh, shit! Here it— Charlotte, the— oh, it's gone."

You nod in half-hearted commiseration. "Ghosts do that."

"Don't fucking patronize me."

"Look, I don't— I don't know what you want." You've stuffed your hands in your pockets. "Would you just look at this? Please? I need to know if it's just me."

Madrigal works her jaw, but does as she's asked. She cocks her head. "Geez. Goddamn. I didn't know something could look like that in real life."

"I mean," you say, "it's not real life, so that would— that would tend to—"

"Stop fucking patronizing me."

You rub your nose. "It's not just me, then, that's the important thing. You wager the seal's doing it? But it's still attached, I doubt the memo's just been hanging here unread—"

"Maybe it's above our clearance," Madrigal says, scraping at her gums. "Sort of a 'for your eyes only' thing."

(1/2)

This is plausible. You have to change the subject. "I… I guess so. What did you say the ghost looked like?"

"Um, I didn't."

"Oh."

"But it was a man in a black suit."

"Oh." Your exhaustion hits you all at once. "Sunglasses?"

"Yeah. Wait, how did you—"

"Doesn't matter." You leave the notices hanging and make your way back over to the swivel chair. "Did you look at the body any more?"

"N…o, I was distracted— how did you know? Have you seen the ghost, Charlotte?"

"Every single day," you mumble. "Every day of my God-damned life." The body hasn't twitched, as far as you can tell. Is it breathing? You can't tell, under the jumpsuit, and you're loath to touch it. It might be dead. Worse, it might be alive.

"What? I didn't hear…" Madrigal peers over your shoulder. "What the fuck's up with this, anyhow? No face? That's weird, right, or is that normal in not-real land—"

"It's weird," you say shortly. "I think it's… a procedure. I don't know if it's supposed to go this way, or if it went wrong, but—"

"Hey, an ID." Madrigal extracts a laminated tag from the folds of the jumpsuit and holds it up to the light. "Lookit that. 'GUPPY'— oh, they scratched her real name out. 'GUPPY VILLALOVEZ. SEX F, EYES'— scratched that out too. 'HAIR BRN, HGT 5'5"'— taller than you, right?"

You scowl. Madrigal smirks. "Scratched her face out, too, stamped a big 'CLEARANCE' over the thing. Wow, that's rough."

You're unimpressed. "Nothing we didn't know before. I don't suppose she's carrying a map to the snake? A placard explaining why her face is off?"

"N-o… oh, here's something." She fishes out a ring of little metal objects. "Keys. Fancy that."

You're like 90% certain those aren't keys, but whatever. "She is the guard, I suppose."

«Those are keys.»

"Yep. Probably got the maintenance room on there, god knows what else." Madrigal rubs her forehead. "Just gonna pocket these—"

"I'll take them," you say quickly. "That's okay."

"Um." Madrigal fixes you with a quizzical look. "Sure, whatever." She hands you the ring of keys(?). The body— the guard reaches up and grasps her wrist.

"Um," Madrigal says. She jingles the keys(?); you take them swiftly and tuck them into the pocket of your slacks. "Um, let's just…" She pries the fingers off her wrist, and they fall limply back down. "There we go."

You exchange glances. "…Hello?" you say tentatively, in the direction of the swivel chair.

No response.

>[1] Ooookay. Let's just… how about you just… leave. Snake's in the basement. Gotcha. You'll be fine.
>[2] Take a good look at the monitors, just in case.
>[3] Have a talking-to with Richard about the whole "ghost" situation. You mean, really. That's not funny.
>[4] You do kind of want to figure out the whole no-face situation. Have a chat with Guppy Villalovez.
>[5] Write-in.

>>4172277
>[4] You do kind of want to figure out the whole no-face situation. Have a chat with Guppy Villalovez

>>4172277
>[4] You do kind of want to figure out the whole no-face situation. Have a chat with Guppy Villalovez.

> Fuck off out my head, bitch, place is already full up.

I see her trying to get in.

>>4172994
>>4172277
Also wish her a happy birthday. Do we have a present for her?

>>4173003
>>4172277
Can we give her a pair of sunglasses?

>>4172277
Definitely supporting wishing Guppy a happy birthday

>>4172604
>>4172994
>>4173038
>Have a conversation
>Wish her happy birthday
>Tell her to get out of your head
>Give her sunglasses as a present

Yeah, you can do all that! Writing.

>Talk… and birthday… and sunglasses… and warning

"…So," Madrigal says, massaging her wrist. "It's alive, then. Despite the..."

You twiddle your thumbs and stare down at the unfortunate Guppy Villalovez. You're trying to imagine having no flesh on your face. Is it cold? Does it hurt? Would you receive pity handouts in the street, or would you drive off even the bleeding hearts—

"…the, well, you know," Madrigal finishes lamely. "Can it hear us?"

"I doubt it. And she certainly can't see us, what with the… no eyes."

"Yep."

"So, uh, shall we-"

"Use your sorcery to forgeth a link betwixt your twin souls? Great plan, Charlotte."

Is she offended? Is that what it is? She thinks you're lying (nevermind that you are), and she's lashing out like a child? Pathetic. Despicable. And what a massive pain in your—

"I don't think that'll be necessary," you sniff. "I was going to say handsign."

"Interesting. You're going to use a visual language." Madrigal puts her hands on her hips. "To talk to someone who can't see."

You brush a strand of hair out of your face and lean over the unmoving shoulder of Guppy Villalovez. "Um, yes. Look." You gingerly turn her wrist palm-side up. "If I just sign so she can feel it…"

Guppy's other hand rises out of nowhere to seize your shoulder. You do your best not to yelp as it roughly prods its way up to your face, which it pats all over (Madrigal stares in part-horror part-amusement) before, finally, letting go. You rub your cheek in indignation.

"Who the HELL are you?" says Guppy's hands— you're having trouble reconciling them to the thing in the swivel chair. "Do you have ID?"

You exchange glances with Madrigal. "N-no," you stammer, before remembering it does no good. "Um…"

«Of course you have ID.»

Oh, God, is this a— you're just— look, you're sick and tired of believing things that squarely aren't true. You don't care if it's effective, or if you're good at it, you just like- well, you'd prefer some things to be real, for once, and for things to, just, you don't know, matter—

«Er, Charlie.»
«You picked up an ID in the other room. The woman's eyes are gone; she's not going to know the difference.»

You knew that. You were kidding. Haha.

Anyways, you pull out the ID card of Harold P. Stenniker and press it into Guppy's hand. She feels it for a moment, then hands it back to you. "Good enough. SO? What do you want?"

You exchange glances with Madrigal, again. What do you want? You don't particularly need information— this is more to satiate your curiosity than anything, but you can't just say that in polite company. "Give me an excuse," you mouth to Madrigal. "What??" she mouths back, shrugging.

You shake your head in disapproval and return to Guppy. "Um," you sign into her open palm, "my… associate, and I, wanted to, uhm—" Your eyes land on the balloons. "—wish you a happy birthday…?"

"What MONTH is it?"

You bite your bottom lip. "…It's the Madman?"

(1/4)

"Birthday's in the SMUGGLER." Guppy's skull manages to look withering. "THANKS for remembering."

"Um, sure." You're a little distracted, actually, by your stunning genius. You just need to coax her a little… "It's not your birthday? We just thought, um, with all the decorations…"

"Party for clearance," Guppy's hand says. "Obviously."

>[+1 ID: 3/11]

There! There you go! Booyah. Ace in the hole. You didn't even have to broach the subject! You intended this from the very beginning, naturally. "Oh? Clearance?"

"You SURE you work here?" is her response. You cough. "Um, we're, uh, new."

"Didn't know Lester was hiring. Temps?"

"…Yes?"

"Ooh. Grab your check and get out before you get—" Guppy makes a garrote motion. "Or worse, promoted. But you DIDN'T hear that from me. Capiche?"

Is this a good time to broach the topic? Is there ever? "Have you, um, been promoted?"

Her chest heaves in, you hope, silent laughter. "You noticed? Is it that obvious?"

"Uh…" You attempt to plead with Madrigal for help, but she's wandered off to stare at the monitors again. "…maybe…?"

"Well, it's NOT supposed to be obvious. If it were obvious, there'd be no damn point."

Does she not know? A decade of etiquette lessons has not prepared you for this. "Um…"

"Good thing I botched it, huh?" Her chest heaves again.

Reason has long since fled you. "W-what?"

"Botched it! Tore my damn face off! 'Course, it wasn't my face any longer, not really— easy come, easy go— but same RESULT, yeah?"

Madrigal has abandoned you. But Richard- Richard has your back, right? He'll provide you a rock and a, a lighthouse in this swirling ocean of… wrong faces, and impossible diplomatic situations, and—

Right? Please?

«I think this is a rather good learning experience, Charlotte.»

You're alone. "Yeah," you sign morosely. "I'm sorry, um, I'm not sure I was ever… briefed… on this process. What do you mean by—"

"It's classified," Guppy Villalovez's hand says.

"Oh—"

"I don't give a damn, though, I'm dying."

"You're wh—"

"This is all VERY secret, you know. Hence the security. I'm sure you were told all that. Um, you don't know the half of it, though— they tell the temps JACK all. They wait to see if they like you first. Takes YEARS. S-years. And then you get clearance."

"I saw the—"

"The banner. Deirdre put that up, bless her soul. So, the thing about clearance is, it means you're in DEEP. Officially deep. And they want you to- they can't have you backing out after you know things, right? So they- um—"

Guppy's hand freezes just above her face. "—um, they take- they take, um, your- your face. And they REPLACE it. With a— and it can look like anything. So that's how you dodge suspicion, you just change your— but you're stuck, right? With the company? You're ride or die. Um… I guess I died."

(2/4)

Is that a joke? Is that funny? You're kind of paralyzed here, your face gaping and rigid, like a skull, haha, that's a joke, that's funny. Except it isn't, and you're really not— you're not equipped for this. Not right now. You need a nap. It's because you've just been staring at a skull for unbroken minutes on end, that's the issue, the eyesockets just burn into you— she needs sunglasses. You might be serious about this. You'll come back to it later. You've got to make conversation, Charlotte.

"…Oh?" you sign after a normal length of time.

"Oh, yeah, I'm screwed. And it's going to take ages, assuming they don't just find me and slap my face back on. That's why I… locked the door." Guppy's hand pauses. "I have the keys. Where did you get—"

"You're trying to die?"

"Yeah? I mean, I've got the devil and the deep blue sea, and between the two of us I'd take the sea— hey, what are you temping for? The snake thing?"

"Um." This might kill you if it keeps up. "Yes."

"Heard it was going to hell in a handbasket. Not surprisingly. Everybody told Lester it was bad news, he didn't listen, look where we are— they told you the plan for it, right?"

"…No…"

"GET THIS. They're trying to dupe it."

You pause. "Like… trick it, or…"

"Dupe— copy it. Gooplicate it. Tried the skin, couldn't settle for the skin, now they're— well, gods know what. None of my damn business anymore."

"That's…" Your handsign trails off. You can't take this anymore. Is this what people feel when they look at you? The burning? And only one of your eyes are gone. And not even gone, it's just they can't see the replacement, which isn't your fault. But maybe you should get an eyepatch. Or…

"Sunglasses," you say aloud. Madrigal starts. "Wha— huh?"

"Sunglasses," you repeat blandly. "I need sunglasses. I need… oh." Sunglasses have been slipped into your hand. They're exceedingly familiar. The rims are brass. Your head begins to throb when you slide them on. (Are they prescription?) You keep them on, nonetheless, though they're too big for your face, they steal down the bridge of your nose…

«They're not yours, Charlotte. You look stu— they don't suit your face.»
«You need rectangular frames.»

"You look kind of pale," Madrigal says. "Should I take over? I mean, I'm not doing shit."

"No!" you say, and then you course correct and say "no, I'm— I'm okay," but you corrected too hard and it comes out too quiet. You smile to show you're okay.

"…Um, alright." Madrigal nods, like she agrees, but she isn't turning back around— she's just leaning against the wall, over the monitors, watching you— because you can't be trusted, of course. You scoff, you return to Guppy— you remember why you wanted the sunglasses. You take them off your cheeks. You put them over the eye sockets.

You feel calmer, but not enough for it to count.

(3/4)

«Those look better on me.»

You giggle, because the sunglasses don't look better on Richard, they look the same, he's so pale and his eyes are so pale and he's got those cheekbones and his skin is drawn so tight and only kind of puddles under his eyes— he might as well be a skull—

Madrigal is looking increasingly concerned. (Maybe she's right. You're really on the last legs of your sanity and you're not sure why. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just the stress all crashing in at once the minute you've got a break. Maybe you have underlying issues, too. The environment? The skull? Who knows? Who knows?)

"Hello?" Guppy Villalovez hasn't died yet. "Is the temp gone?"

"I'm still—" You hasten back. "I'm still here."

"Oh, okay, good! I just wanted to say, uh, lock the door on the way out, okay? Capiche? You're a champ."

"Um," you say.

"Nice to talk to someone before I go. You get out of here, okay? I don't know what they offered you, but it's not worth it. Go live your life. Kiss a boy. Something like that."

You can't respond to that. You're just staring and staring at the sunglasses and you're realizing they don't make anything better. They make it worse. They make it worse. You can see your own face in them, and it's— (well, it's batshit, and God save your sinner's soul for saying that, but there's no other word, and in your defense, you didn't say it, only thought it, and in your defense you didn't even really think it, it just appeared, and you can't get smited for that, right?)— it's you, and you think: oh my God, she's in my head. She's in my head. And indeed, your head feels fit to bursting. And you say, you snarl, to Guppy Villolovez, who cannot see or hear you (this is for the best)— "get- out- of- my- head—"

>[-2 ID: 1/11]

And Madrigal darts from the wall, and says "Charlotte," but in a very very particular tone of voice, and you say, pleading: "My head's full, Madrigal— it's full— I can't have anyone else—" as she takes you by the shoulder, and steers you to the opposite side of the room, and sets you across from her, and socks you, hard, in the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Good," she says roughly, and works her mouth, and doesn't say anything else for a little while. And then she presses her hands together and says— "What the fuck?"

"Don't curse," you say.

"I'll curse as much as I fucking like, Charlotte. What the fuck?"

You rub your shoulder. "I- I don't—"

"Is this normal? Do you often go fucking insane, Charlotte?"

"Um…"

"Could you at least tell me when you're about to go fucking insane? You can't be high and mighty about it when you're gibbering on the floor—"

"I wasn't gibbering," you say.

(4/5) (surprise!)

"No! Because I fucking intervened, Charlotte! I don't really— the point is not that you're nuts. I have dealt with some real fucking pieces of work just fine. The point is, I'm not going to be so goddamned nice about it when I'm skewered through the abdomen and you're giggling. So work with me. Okay?"

You cross your arms. "No."

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Because it was a— that was a one-off. It's never happened to me before, it's never going to happen again. I was just— I was stressed."

Madrigal stares. "I don't believe you."

"W-why?" you sputter. "It's true! I don't have any sort of history— and look at me, I'm fine now, aren't I? That quick?"

"And I don't believe that, either." Madrigal raises her eyebrows. "You look like you're in line to be executed."

"I— what does that mean?!"

"Dunno. But it's what you look like. So what are we doing about the— you know, the—"

"Guppy?"

"Yeah. I was eavesdropping." Madrigal strokes her face. "So what do you figure—"

>[1] Nothing. Leave her here. (To die slowly? Potentially being caught?) But it's what she asked for, right?
>[2] You could— you could put her out of her misery, right here. You could make it quick. She'd never see it coming. Like, literally, she'd never—
>[3] You could… make Madrigal do it. Right? She's probably a hardened killer, right? [Hard roll.]
>[4] The flyer said… if she needed support, she could go to HR. You can't just let someone die. It's wrong! It's immoral! Take her with you to find HR.
>[5] You have something you want to ask or say to Guppy first or in addition to the above. [What? Write-in.]
>[6] Write-in.

Discerning voters may read this update and go… "wow! I don't really understand why Charlotte just had a 2,000-word mental break!" So here's my justification… 1) you guys have been low ID for ages (and decided not to take the time to goof off here) — and 2) in order to have Charlotte logically ("logically") make some of the choices she was voted to make, she had to be a tad off her rocker. Not to say I'm upset by the votes or anything, I had lots of fun! I probably also could've stricken out the "get out of my head" vote, but that's, you know, less fun. So there you have it.

>>4174363
We need more votes for goofing off people.

>6
>It's not too late to throw a party with all these party supplies. Include Guppy. Maybe she'll rediscover the will to live or something?

>>4174602
>>4174363
Happy Deathday to you! Come on, you only die once, she has to have an ideal way of going out. One that sticks it to the company.

Maybe she wants to come along with us? Surprisingly high chance of dying if she does!

>>4174602
>>4174363
Erratic partying will surely end badly! Let's do it, supportin'

>>4174841
We could always end it by lighting the place on fire.

Arson is super fucking fun. Mm. Fire good. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar who has never burned anything down.

>>4174602
>>4174819
>>4174841
>>4174909
I appreciate how committed you guys are to this.

I'm going to need a roll, though, for the party-- you've got to convince Madrigal you're doing it for totally 100% sane reasons and don't need to be restrained/socked again. No roll for asking Guppy to come with.

>Roll me 3 1d100s + 5 (+5 You Really Need This) vs. DC 50 for successful partying.

Rolled 94 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4175139

>>4175196
I am gonna be so sad if this is a roll under quest.

>>4175139
Can we instead convince Madrigal that being crazy isn't a big deal and she should really be less upset by it? I mean. *wave at Guppy* There are way worse things.

Rolled 1 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4175139
>>4175196
don't jinx it

>>4175220
dude

>>4175199
It's roll over with degrees of success. Not that it matters too much, because there's also, er, crits.

>>4175208
She doesn't think it's a big deal, precisely-- like she said, she's dealt with worse. She just doesn't care for 1) it endangering her and 2) it wasting her time. This might've been the latter.


I'll take one more roll on the 1% chance it's a 100, but otherwise this will be a critical fail. Which does mean (spoilers) you're hitting 0 ID. I won't lay on any punishment beyond that.

Rolled 99 (1d100)

>>4175279

I vote we suck his dick

>>4175279
you're a mean one QM

>>4175283
>99, 104, 1

Jesus christ.

Uh... you're still dropping to 0 ID, but taking into account the other rolls it'll be a light sentence. Might even get resolved before you leave here. Deal?

>>4175293
I'm just doing my job :(


Writing.

>>4175298
also what does id mean ? is it our health ?

>>4175304
I'd recommend checking out the infographic on this post, specifically the "mechanics" box: >>4167461. It also contains loads of other info you might find useful.

That being said, I'll summarize it here for you: ID ("identity") is your sense of self: kind of your health, and also kind of your sanity and ego, all wrapped up into one stat. Doing ego-boosting in-character actions (gloating, peacocking, impressing someone, coming out on top) raises your ID, as does simple relaxing/taking a break, and sleep brings it to full. Being humiliated, losing, and taking mental or physical damage lowers it. ID also can be spent to situationally improve rolls.

When it drops to zero... you don't know, because it's never happened yet! You won't die, but it won't be good news.

>>4175333
autist MC incoming

>>4175333
lay it on us op

>>4175344
So not too much of a change from the usual, then?

>>4175348
:D

>>4175220
Dude.

Duuuude that fukkin' sucks.

>>4175362
We gonna get wasted ass druno and force Richard out to prove we aren't mad?

>>4175636
We're gonna mental break harder and Maddie will have to put us down.

>Girl squad
>Happy unbirthday to you
>99, 104, 1 vs. DC 50 - Critical Failure

"I mean…" You glance towards Guppy. "…can't we just take her along?"

"What? You're kidding." Madrigal runs her hand backwards through her hair. "We're not taking a fucking deaf-dumb-blind skeleton— can she even walk?"

"You don't ask those things," you chide. "It's rude."

"It kind of matters, though! What's she gonna do, ride on your back? She's gonna fucking get shot, Charlotte, she's not—"

"She's going to die anyways."

Madrigal sighs. "I mean, I guess. But she might get us shot, is the main thing."

"You make a break for it then, I'll— it's not very honorable to leave her here. Better to get stabbed, have some final… glory… come on, please. Madrigal, please." You take her hand. "Please."

Her response is tinged with disgust and pity, and the pity is worse. "Charlotte—" She pulls her hand away. "Fine. If it matters so much to you. Wonder why you weren't so keen on the fucking sanctity of life when Ellery got shot?"

The victory is hollow. You pull your arms to your chest. "He— I thought that didn't happen, according to you."

"I don't know what fucking happened. Go ask—" She waves toward Guppy.

So you do. "Hey, uh…"

"OH. I thought you left." Guppy is wearing black nail polish, you notice, and you feel sicker.

"Um, no. I was just wondering, uh, if you'd like to come with us—"

"That's very nice of you, but I'm pretty set!" Guppy awkwardly pats the armrest. "I don't think it'll hurt or anything, that bit got cut out. Why don't you forget about me, head back to work—"

"I can't let you…" You shift uneasily. "I can't let you die like this. It's wrong."

Guppy's fingers curl around your hand for a moment, and then she signs: "So?"

So? You bite your lip. You need to take a different tack, clearly. "Um, it'd be… wouldn't you want to go out with a bang, kind of? Sort of a… celebration, you know. A final up-yours to management—"

"Lester isn't that bad," she says. "He's a DICK to the temps, but if you get to know—"

You shake your head. "Not Lester— Management, capital M. Isn't now the perfect time to stick it to them? For all the hell they've brought down on y- us?"

You're guessing wildly, of course, but at least some of it seems to stick. "What're you planning, then?"

God. What are you planning? "Targeted strike against the— against the snake. That's their latest thing, right? We'll go in there, um, we'll figure it out. You could help, Guppy, you could—"

"How do you know my name?"

You freeze, then remember. "It's- it's on the wall."

"Oh, I forgot. Um, alright, I guess that's— it's going to go to hell, you know. It won't work."

After all this, rejection's like a kick in the face. You crumble. "Um, okay, that's- that's-"

"Doesn't matter much to me, though, so why not. Can't walk great, though— can I lean on you? Is that alright?"

(1/3)

Oh. Oh! You nod vigorously across the room to Madrigal, who closes her eyes. "Yes! Yeah, you can— no problem. That's just fine. Um, I'll just— we gotta celebrate this. Hold on."

Finally: something goes right, and you're not about to let it pass unnoticed. You bustle over to the wall and begin tearing down all the streamers you can reach. You move on to the balloons, after that, and only stop when you've realized you're missing something far more important. "Party hats," you mutter darkly.

«Check your pocket.»

You check your pocket, and find party hats, and you're too caught up in the elation of the moment to remember that Richard isn't nice, there's always a motive— you put a pink party hat on, and shove a yellow one into Madrigal's bewildered hands, and dance over to Guppy and place one on her head, too, which really does quite a lot to make her easier on the eyes. And then, because all this is in honor of Guppy, anyhow, you begin to tie the balloons to the arms of her chair, and the streamers—

Madrigal has not put her party hat on. "Charlotte," she says seriously. "this is stupid. We've got a—"

And she says other things, but you're not hearing them, because you're thinking: oh my God. This is stupid.

Oh my God.

>[-1 ID: 0/11]

And maybe it's stupid that this did you in, but… you're past judgment, now.

You didn't die. You could never live that down— and anyways, Richard wouldn't let you. But, you thought, but— it's just so hard, being you. Nobody understands. Even you don't understand why you do things, sometimes. There's something— there's something missing.

You don't want to die. But you can see the appeal of— of not being yourself. Not being anybody. No history, no baggage. No decisions. Must you always make decisions? Must… you always make decisions?

Could you just— stop?

"Charlotte?" says Madrigal, as if through a tunnel. "Charlotte? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— I like your hat— Charl-"

…

————

Your name is Madrigal Fitzpatrick, and you're not a fucking idiot, okay? You're not. You're good at connecting the dots, especially when the dots are this fucking massive.

Dot One: Charlotte went dead. Cut-the-wires dead. Clockwork-stopped dead. This was a little fascinating, a little scary, and mostly made you wish Ellery were here, and then hate yourself for wishing that. Because he'd be fascinated.

Dot Two: And then she started up again, and you went oh, okay. That's not Charlotte. It's "Charlotte"— looks like her and everything— but Charlotte walks like she has a stick up her ass. She doesn't swagger.

…Is the explanation you came up with after the fact. What you actually noticed was the gold eyes— it'd be hard not to. They're clearly why "Charlotte"'s heading over to steal the sunglasses off Guppy Villalovez's face.

You follow casually. "Hi," you say. "You gonna introduce yourself?"

(2/3)

"You know my name." The sound of the voice is the same, but if you're listening for it— boy, you're listening for it— there's something fucky about the undertone.

"Nope," you say. "Nope, I don't. And don't give me gullshit about, like, your name is also Charlotte, woo, spooky— you can't have the same name." You try to remember why and immediately give up. "The universe won't let you."

"Charlotte" turns, sunglasses on, her lip curled. "I suppose you'd know about the universe, then."

"Never said that!" There's some genuine heat, there, and you'd prefer not to immediately piss off Charlotte's spirit… thing. "Never said that. I'd just like a name, because I'm not calling you Charlotte. That's weird."

"Charlotte's" lip curl intensifies.

"Like, shit, it's okay, you don't have to keep up the pretense? I'm not gonna go 'oh wait' and start thinking you're actually Charlotte. I don't know how the hell anybody'd— but whatever. So if you'd just give me a…"

"I don't strictly have a name. I'm called—" Not-Charlotte takes a good long pause to emphasize that— "'Richard.'"

You squint. "You're called Richard."

"Yes."

"Charlotte calls you—"

"Yes."

"Holy shit, that sucks." You fold your arms. "I mean, of course she does. She calls the magic fucking thingy fuckin'— Richard. God, that's stupid. I'm sorry."

"It's not so bad as all that," Richard says evenly. "It's rather novel."

Char- he's- they're holding a sword. A good sword, not the fuzzy abomination from earlier. The blade is steel. Steel! You cast a jealous look back towards the wood-and-bone Fitz: you'd kill a man for a steel spearhead.

But that's not the point. "What's with the sword?" you say.

"Oh, I'd prefer a knife. But you know…" Richard waves their hand in the air. "…Bodies."

You really, really don't know, but you don't say that. "Er, I meant more 'what are you gonna do with a sword?'"

"Ah. Kill her." Richard points the tip down at Guppy.

"Oh." All you can think to say is "you shouldn't do that." But you're thinking about dot 3.

Dot 3: Charlotte was going to tell you something. Was going to tell you this, probably, until she convinced herself otherwise. Or… was convinced otherwise, forcibly. You're beginning to see both the how and the who.

"Oh, I shouldn't." Richard experimentally skewers Guppy's party hat. "Are you going to stop me?"

And that makes you think… are you?

>[1] Write-in.

If you guys are very stuck, I'll drop some options in a while.

>>4175835
>"Why kill her? Can't we just leave her in peace?"

Not sure how Mads would feel about this so I'll go with something neutral and safe.

>>4175636
If getting wasted drove Richard out of your head, you'd be an alcoholic. (At the moment, you're just a bar regular.)

>>4175659
Close, but no cigar!

>>4175835
> Maybe. Depends on what your reason for killing her is, especially before we actually celebrate. I mean, are you doing it just because? Because that's pretty crass.

Man I should probably catch up on old threads first. But wow, murder as soon as he comes out. How garish, like a straight to video B-horror.

>>4175921
"B-movie villain" is a pretty good descriptor for him, honestly. I've also heard "Bond villain" and "date rapist"... he's not a subtle man. Slash snake.

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>>4175879
Honestly, I've been writing Charlotte for so long and have been using straight write-ins for such a chunk of that time that I forgot it doesn't make a ton of sense for less-established characters. Pic related. I'll avoid it going forward.

>>4175879
>>4175921
"Writing," in that it's nearly 1 AM and I don't think I'll get that far. Update will likely be published sometime tomorrow, but we'll see.

>>4176705
That picture made me laugh a lot harder than I probably should have.

>>4175835
> "No."

>Uh… why?

"What the fuck?" you say, after you're able to form complete sentences. "You can't just— why?"

There's a smile on Char- Richard's face that doesn't belong on anyone's face, ever. "Because-"

"Can we not just leave her? What would be the harm— is this for fun? Is that it? You've been cooped up too long, you're getting your fresh air and exercise? That's crass. That's fucking— that's fucking nasty. Can you not wait until we meet a- a live target? Or claw the wall, if you have to? Scream into a fuckin'… pillow?"

"Are you quite done?" The smile has dipped into a (more palatable) sneer. Richard shoves their sunglasses further up the bridge of their nose. "That was a lot of baseless and hurtful assumptions you made there, Madrigal. Wouldn't you say?"

(Why didn't you like Charlotte? She was snotty, sure, and childish, and she did punch you in the face— but she could be tolerable, briefly, before she remembered she was supposed to be a bitch. And, more importantly, she wasn't this guy.)

"I dunno," you say. "Are they?"

"Murder is a means to an end, Madrigal, not a source of pleasure. You think I have time to faff about serial killing?"

You throw your hands up. "How the fuck should I know?"

"I do not. Here, I'll lay out the present issue." Richard traces the top of the swivel chair with the sword. "We have here a liability."

Seriously? "Um, yeah. I agree. That's what I said ten minutes ago. I didn't jump straight to murder."

"You're more irritating in person, aren't you- oh, drat." Richard pauses to hack up a goddamn lung. Not into their elbow like the peasants, though, oh no— it's into the daintiest, frilliest little handkerchief you've ever seen. The thing might be monogrammed.

You squinch your nose in disgust. "Complications?"

"-Hardly, just-" Another bout. Richard's lips, teeth, and hankie are stained black when they pull away. "-just some minor rejection. It'll pass. As I was saying—"

"You're not fucking up her lungs, are you?"

"Oh, no, it's metaphysical. In any case, I'd certainly be amenable to leaving the woman here."

"Huh?" You drop your arms to your side. "Uh, that's great. Let's d-"

"I would be amenable. Sadly, Charlotte saw fit to contribute sensitive information to the discussion." Richard doesn't look very sad at all. "And we can't have that out and about, can we? 'Loose lips sink ships.'"

"You just stole that from that poster," you say irritably. "And she can't speak."

"Nevertheless. I suppose I could just cut off the hands— would that satisfy you?"

"No!"

Richard shakes their head. "Picky, picky. I'll just go ahead and—"

"Wait! Wait." You grasp for straws. "What about the… the mess? Isn't it going to be gory as shit? People will come in here, they'll see the—"

"Oh, no, not in the slightest. The body's not real, Madrigal, there's no blood or tissues."

You hold your forehead. "Oh, don't say that."

(1/2)

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"Why not? It's accurate. Her body's not real, your body's not real. You're glued together by delusion, essentially."

You despise every word of this. "Delusion."

"Oh, yes, acres of it. If you got a paper cut, for instance, you'd bleed for no reason at all. Whereas if I cut myself…" Richard slices calmly into the base of their thumb. You grimace. "…I get the rational result."

It's a wide cut, and with the way they're bending the thumb back you can clearly see there's nothing at all under the skin. You shut your eyes.

>[-1 Grit: 8/15]

When you open them again, Richard is leering. (You have to give him credit— you had no idea Charlotte was capable of making these expressions.) The thumb is intact. "Having trouble, there?"

You fold your arms defensively. "No, I'm just tired of your fucking showboating. Remind me, what was the point of that?"

"It won't make a mess."

Right.

>Madrigal's [Grit] is like Charlotte's [Identity], except it measures Madrigal's tenacity and stoicism instead of her ego. It can be spent on rolls in a similar, but more limited, manner.

>[1] God damn, just kill the broad already— she's practically a corpse anyways. Just have them let you know when to turn around. You're sick of this business.
>[2] At least cutting the hands off doesn't kill her. She probably won't even feel it.
>[3] You hold no special affection for Guppy Villalovez, but you wouldn't mind spiting Richard, who's rapidly climbed to the top of your "Dicks I Can't Stand" list. Appeal to Charlotte, whom you're certain is in there somewhere. [Roll.]
>[4] You don't buy the "pragmatism" angle a fucking whit, and if this bastard starts killing people you're not sure he'll stop. You have a spear and you know how to use it. Defend Guppy by force. [Roll.]
>[5] Write-in.

>>4177572
>1

She did want to die anyway

>>4177572
It doesn't matter if it's "real" enough or not for you, or actions are still ours to own up to.

Killing her because you're too scared of what *might* happen is a bitch move, or a weak excuse.

But fuck it, she wanted to die anyways. Charlotte was the one who wanted to save her, she's the one you're going to have to answer to, and I'm SO SURE you have such a great relationship it won't wreck things.

You're gonna be walking in front of me for the rest of this time, though.

>>4177741
>>4177572
+1

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>>4177741
>>4177975
Alright. This is a great write-in, but Richard is, to put it lightly, a tough nut to crack. I'm going to need a roll.

>Roll me 3 1d100s + 20 (+20 Listen Here You Little Bitch) vs. DC 75 (+25 Coldblooded) to avert murder.
>You're not (personally) in a corner, so you can't spend Grit!

[As a reminder for anyone new in the audience: Drowned Quest Redux functions on a Degrees of Success system, where the # of times the rolls pass the DC is what counts. The table is as follows:

Natural 1: Critical Failure
0 Passes: Failure
1 Pass: Mitigated Success (yes, but...)
2 Passes: Success
3 Passes: Enhanced Success (yes, and..)
Natural 100: Critical Success]

Rolled 74, 15, 68 + 20 = 177 (3d100 + 20)

>>4178583

Rolled 41 (1d100)

>>4178583
I am not sure if you want 3 seperate rolls or one roll of 3.

Rolled 64 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>4178583

>>4178813
3 separate rolls

Rolled 85 (1d100)

>>4178583

>>4178813
>>4178862
>>4178953
Three separate rolls, yes, otherwise I'd ask for 3 3d100s. But no worries.

>61, 84, 105 vs. DC 75 - Success
Writing shortly.

>>4178989
Huzzah! Get fucked Dick.

>>4178583
> +20 Listen Here You Little Bitch

So. As I have stated I have no idea how this quest works, but I did write my vote with themes of stoicism and tenacity (with a side serving of kinda freaked out by Charlotte being something worse than insane) and I'm wondering what about it got us such a big bonus.

I'm still writing..... you know, off and on, like I have been all day. I've been principally busy with something else Drowned-related I'll post with the update later this evening.

>>4179560
Because I wanted to reward a write-in with a lot of thought and detail put into it. Not much to it besides that!

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>boom, owned

How are you supposed to reason with a thing? You tried and you failed and nobody can expect any more than that, right? Nobody can give you shit if you cut your losses. Nobody can…

The scene: Monty's office, tomorrow. You'll stumble in. "How's my favorite quartermaster?" Monty will say, because he always does.
"I'm your only fucking quartermaster," you'll say, because you always do."Charlotte killed a random woman."
"Oh? And did you do anything?" he'll say, and look up over the top of his newspaper, and judge you, and that'll be enough to blacken your mood for the rest of the week.

Nobody can give you shit, but that won't stop them. You rub your forehead. "Just because this isn't… this isn't ''real,'' or whatever, doesn't mean it doesn't matter— you're still doing it, aren't you? You still have to own up to your fucking— it doesn't matter how much blood— you're still murdering someone!"

Richard sheathes the sword. "Oh," they say. "Alright then."

"…Alright then?" You don't want to jump to conclusions. "Is that a 'I won't kill her'?"

"Oh, yes." They circle around the swivel chair and clap their hands onto your shoulders. This shouldn't fundamentally work: in heels, Charlotte is four inches shorter than you. But… this isn't Charlotte, you remind yourself, so it's reasonable to be unnerved by the clammy palms and iron grip. Nothing stronger than unnerved.

They take your chin in one hand, keeping the other pincered at the base of your neck. You flinch.

>[-1 Grit: 7/15]

"Madrigal— Maddie? Can I call you that?"

"Fuck no."

"Oh, don't be like that, Maddie." Richard tilts their head. "I'm just trying to check if you're feeling comfortable."

This is such blatant gullshit you're somewhat at a loss. "Um, I'm fi-"

"Oh, Maddie, don't lie to yourself. You're so tense. And you're laboring under all these awful preconceptions…"

And there it is. Son of a bitch. You yank yourself from the grip on your chin, but you're unable to free your shoulders. "Could you not lead with all the shit, or did you get hoodoo cursed to- to do sinister grandstanding every time you have a point?"

Richard seems more amused than you'd hope. "I have lemons, I make lemonade."

"You have w—"

"In any case, you lack grounding in metaphysics, so the first issue is… forgivable. I don't speak in riddles when I say this isn't real, Maddie, that's the technical term. It's a bit like squares and rectangles— everything that's real exists, not everything that exists is real. Yes?"

You rub your neck. "If you're going to do a lecture, can I sit down?"

"The chair is occupied. But to your point— the unreality of the situation has no bearing on moral decision-making. Is that what you said?"

"If I say yes, will you get off my shoulders?"

"Of course."

You inhale. "Yes. Only I didn't say it like a pretentious f—"

(1/3)

Richard doesn't move. Neither does their grim, stenciled-on smile. "I was lying. You're right, it has no bearing: the presumption was that that matters."

"Oh, sorry," you hiss. "I forgot."

"Not a problem, Maddie, we won't mention it further." Richard rubs your shoulder chummily. "So it's settled, then? I'll murder the woman?"

Who could blame you for this? "God, you're just an evil motherfucker, aren't you?"

"I'm not evil."

The smile has slipped. It takes you a moment to realize, and another to process: that hit… somehow. "You're… not an evil motherfucker?"

"I am a motherfucker," Richard says seriously. (You conceal a snicker. Charlotte would keel over if she knew those words passed through her lips.) "I'm not evil, Maddie. This is for our long-term benefit, and I'm concerned you can't understand—"

"The long-term benefit of maybe someone maybe not fucking— tattling on us? That fucking long-term benefit? That's pathetic. Or if it's not pathetic, it's a weak fucking excuse for sadism, pal."

"I'd call that more of a short-term benefit." Richard draws their sword, releasing you in the process. "Long-term is, I break Charlie of the bad habit I already broke her of."

You pace out of touching distance. "What?"

"Picking up strays." The sunglasses glint in the fluorescent lights. "Not enough love in her childhood, so she projects, that sort of thing. Quite tragic. Etcetera."

"That's… worse," you say. "That's— you're conditioning her by murdering people she likes."

"Oh, no," Richard says patiently. "She's murdering people she likes. It's more effective."

"That's, um, evil." You're out of other things to say. "That's like the dictionary definition of…"

You trail off.

Look: it wouldn't be wrong to leave. You like to consider yourself a generally good, generally nice person, but you're not a fucking saint, okay? That's why you got arrested, that's why you're down here. And anyways, you signed up to babysit Charlotte, not her demon overlord, and Monty knows it. The door's right there—

"Someone has to look after her. She's only a girl, Maddie."

The sword, in Charlotte's manicured hands, hovers just above Guppy Villalovez's unknowing neck. The situation has suddenly shifted from 'fucked up' to 'fucked up, but in an interesting way.'

>[+1 Grit: 8/15]

You pause. "This is for Charlotte."

"Of course. Isn't that what I said?"

"…Not exactly, no. You're murdering for Charlotte's benefit. I suppose you'll say you possessed her for her benefit, too."

"Yes."

"Have you considered she might not appreciate… all this?" You gesture at the sword. "She's not a grateful person, Richard, and that's when people aren't being murdered. I daresay she won't like it, in fact. She'll probably fucking hate it? And you? Have you considered—"

(2/3)

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"She'll come around to it," Richard says, and flourishes the blade, and swings, and…

Coughs. Black spit dribbles out the corner of their mouth. Their sword hand trembles, with the sword itself at a limp angle midair.

"Will she? Will she come around to it? She might to your face, whatever that looks like, but I think she's gonna resent you."

Another cough. The sword hand trembles. There's no sword in it. "She— tries. She can't."

"Because of your winning personality, clearly."

Richard wipes the spit away. "Something very much like that, yes."

"That was sarcastic," you feel compelled to add.

"Quite."

Well, you can't win 'em all. Better to focus on the— goddamn, you hope it's a victory. It's certainly hard-fought enough. "Where'd the sword go?"

"Spiritus quidem promptus; caro vero infirma," is your cryptic response. Richard is out the door before you can stop them.

"What?" you call from the doorframe. "Is that spirit- spirit lang- oh, hell."

>[-1 Grit: 7/15]

You had looked down. Because the security room (as the sign above the door calls it) is not in a hallway, like you'd reasonably assumed. Rather, it's located on a catwalk forty feet above a bustling factory floor. The air smells of fish oil and copper.

"This is unfortunate," Richard says mildly. "I'd prefer to be touching the ground."

"No, really?"

"HEY! DIPSHITS!" You are not alone on the catwalk. A clean-cut douche leans precariously against the rail ten feet down. "IT'S NOT COCKTAIL HOUR! GET BACK TO WORK!"

Oh! He's not talking to you. You breathe again.

"YOU TWO! HEY!" Shit, nevermind, the douche is snapping in your direction. "PAY ATTENTION! DO YOU WANT TO DIE?"

Is it a trick question? He doesn't appear armed. You glance at Richard, who offers no answers: they're as surprised, or moreso, than you are.

"No!" you shout back, after a moment. (It's true.)

"THEN WHERE'S YOUR FUCKING GEAR, HUH?"

>[1] Uh… you lost it! Obviously. You're so clumsy. Whoops.
>[2] You never had it! Obviously. You're not a factory worker, you're… Management. Come to inspect. Of course. Yes.
>[3] You never had it! You're just, um, visitors. Didn't he hear you were coming?
>[4] Look… this guy is on a catwalk 40 feet in the air. He is leaning over the edge. You could easily— easily!— bumrush him over the edge. It'd practically be self-defense. [Gain Grit.]
>[5] ………Let Richard handle it. [Lose Grit.]
>[6] Write-in.

>>4180639
>[2] You never had it! Obviously. You're not a factory worker, you're… Management. Come to inspect. Of course. Yes.

"Dick, pass me the clipboard." Poise to write on it. Of course Richard has a clipboard. "You, what's your name? We're here to perform an inspection, and we were told SOMEONE would meet us here, but nobody did. Not off to a good start." Fake (?) Slight angry hysteria "Now what's this about *needing protection* in this area? Lester didn't mention anything about us needing protection!"

Name-drop!

>>4180639
>>4180761
This sounds good.

>>4181016
When they ask what we were sent for we can say

- To check on proper disposal of expired Tartan and Striped Paint

- Inventory of left and right handed screwdrivers

- Proper procedures for recycling and reuse of grinder sparks

- Snake oil production levels

And then they'll know that it was Lester who sent us because he's kind of a dick.

>>4180761
>>4181016
>>4181384
Called and writing. I'll see if I can get this published before 1 AM.

>>4181426
Why does Maddies grit gaining seem more murderous than Richards? I mean, we can always kill the guy AFTER our fast-talking fails.

>>4181527
>Why is option 4 more murderous than Richard?

Because Madrigal is not a shining beacon of goodness-- she's a career smuggler who happily robbed a corpse a few threads ago. Assuring her own safety comes way before moral compunctions. She certainly would've felt bad afterwards... though not too bad. He was a douche. Probably.

Also, it's important for her to seem tough in front of others.

>>4181585
Okay. Just want to have a proper idea of what stoic and and tenacious means for her.

It did feel kinda hypocritical to kill the dude without trying to fast-talk him first after the whole thing with Richard and him killing Guppy.

If I was more paranoid, I'd say he put us in this position intentionally just to turn it around on us.

In fact, I AM that paranoid.

A good smuggler knows the power of a clipboard, though.

>>4181597
I think Madrigal holds others to higher moral standards than those she holds herself to, is the concise way to put it. Being stoic is more about putting up a tough, jaded front than it is about having any kind of integrity.

Funny thing about the clipboard: Madrigal owning one is Established Canon. She had one when Charlotte punched her lights out and left her in the swamp. (Long story.)

>>4181660
> Being stoic is more about putting up a tough, jaded front than it is about having any kind of integrity.

Huh. See, this is why it's important to ask. Because I disagree. But if that's how you have it in-universe I can roll with that.

> Madrigal has a clipboard

Makes sense, with the smuggling.

>>4181667
In Madrigal's case, not as a general definition of the word! But of course. Despite all this, if she winds up inconsistent, it's not the fault of the voters and I won't hold them to any standard. I've been writing Charlotte's POV for six months, while I've been writing Madrigal's for a few days, so I don't have the same kind of handle on her as I do the primary MC. It's just how it is!

>>4181687
So it's more about Madrigal's expectations of herself as a Stoic who is tenacious and trying to live up to that?

>Nobody expects the corporate inquisition

Who leans over a railing like that? He's just asking to trip to his gruesome death. Or, well, be pushed… which would be a quick, low-risk way to solve your problems. But then what? Everyone would look up. Unfortunately, this has to be subtle.

Good thing years of under-the-table dealings have shaped you into an easy and dexterous liar. You just need a second to recover before you slap on your best I'm-your-boss face and turn back to the douche. "About time," you scoff. "We've been waiting for— how long, Frances?"

You kick the toe of Richard's boot with your heel. "Twenty minutes," comes the prompt response.

"Twenty minutes, and not hide nor hair of a guide. Not a good start to the inspection, sir."

Amazing how fast all the color drains from the douche's face. "I- I wasn't expecting an inspection…"

"Yes," you say, "that's why it's a surprise inspection." Clipboard. This is the perfect fucking time to pull out your clipboard, and it's shoved under your cot at home. You crimp your irritation into a tight business-y frown. "Surprise."

"…Of course, of course." The man shakes his head. "Uh, my apologies, Ms. Frances, Ms.—"

"And what's this about needing protection?" You narrow your eyes. "We were informed of no such thing. That's a black mark on your record, for sure. Frances, I need my clipboard."

Richard, surprisingly obliging, hands you a clipboard. It's not your clipboard— your clipboard has an ergonomic claps, it's the best fucking thing you've ever seen— but it's good enough, you guess. You slide a crayon stub from your back pocket and make a big X on the blank paper, keeping one eye on the douche. He cringes. God, you feel so powerful.

"Whoever let you in should've told you," the douche finally ventures. "And you should've— no offense, you should've known. You do know what Namway produces… right?"

"Lester sent us," you say, "and he didn't say anything of the sort."

The douche blinks. "Lester sent..."

You make another X on the clipboard. "What did you say your name was?"

"…" He fixes his shitty tie. "…My apologies for the rude welcome, ma'am, Ms. Frances. I'd be happy to show you around. Was there somewhere in particular you wished to inspect? The factory floor, the vats, the foundry, the—"

"We'd like to see your screwdrivers," Richard says. "Left-handed. You do have an inventory of them...?"

The douche stares, dumbfounded, and then bobs his head. "Er, yes, of course. I'll take you right there, if you'd like to follow—"

Is he calling your bluff?

>[1] Not at all— he's just scared to death. You'll follow him to the "screwdrivers," suffer through his apologies about how they went "missing," and decide what to do about it then. You'll get to feel smug about it.
>[2] He must be, right? Apologize for "Frances"'s misbehavior and tell the douche another location you'd prefer to "inspect." [What?]
>[3] Write-in.

>>4181726
At risk of spilling too much backstory, I'd say not quite-- she's more focused on proving herself to others versus to herself.

At the same time, though, I think you're potentially focusing a little too hard on those two attributes. Madrigal has grit, certainly, but it's not how I'd primarily describe her: just her mechanic, yeah? As long as you're playing her as acerbic, cynical, and competent-- and with her emotional guard perpetually up-- you're doing just fine.

>>4181779
>1

Nothing can go wrong

>>4181779
>[3] Write-in.

Narrow our eyes and glare at him.

> You wish for us to follow you, without getting the proper protective gear you were concerned about first?

>>4181846
>>4181880
Let's shank him after we get geared up.

>>4181880
Good point, good point.

>>4181915
Bonus: We can stuff him in a equipment locker. AND blame Richard! "Left handed screwdriver" come on.

Yes I know it was my write in and I could regret it or I could use it to blame Richard. See how HE likes it.

I like this. I like playing kinda terrible people.

>>4181963
*stuff his body in a locker.

Never go to a second location children. Also we gotta scan for security cameras in the PPE room and whatnot.

Maybe we can pump him for information once we have him literally cornered.

>>4181779
>>4181915
Alternatively we could, once he gets us PPE, sigh and say if they actually have left handed screwdrivers than do they also have the "snake oil" Lester wanted us to get.

We're here for snek, right?

Also can Richard do weird mind fuckery to people other than Charlie? Or does he only ruin one life at a time, artisnal evil instead of wholesale murder?

>>4182013
Charlotte doesn't know for sure, but it seems unlikely Richard is in anybody else's head. It's very much artisanal.

>>4181880
For clarification, are you going with the douche to where the gear is, or are you making him get it for you? I'm getting mixed signals.

>>4182136
Let's go with him. We can take the time to ask about workplace safety accidents.

>>4182188
In that case, writing.

>Hey, now, a girl needs protection

"Interesting," you say. Your crayon stub hovers menacingly above your clipboard. "Not so concerned about our safety, now, are you? Forgot all about that gear?"

"Not at all, not at all." The douche puts his hands up placatingly. "It's in with the screwdrivers. Now, please, if you would…"

You follow the douche down the catwalk (letting Richard walk ahead of you) and pepper him with questions you make up on the spot: recent accidents? Compliance with regulations? Quotas? Unions? You don't have union activity, do you? You mmhm your way through dry and complex answers, making random marks on your clipboard as you exit the catwalk and enter a smoky warren of stairs and balconies. ("We're above the Foundry," the douche explains unhelpfully.) You glean only two things: there are no regulations, and (shockingly) there are a shitload of accidents.

"Doesn't matter much," the douche says cheerfully. "We just recycle them."

You make an X on your clipboard.

Just as you start thinking you're being taken in circles, you stop before a door. (Have you passed it before?) The douche scans a keycard and pushes it open. "Here we are," he says. "The left-handed screwdriver utility closet."

You give him a look, and he dips his head in assent. "I'll go in first."

Satisfied, you follow the douche into the utility closet. He wasn't lying: the left wall is lined with masks, gloves, and jumpsuits. "I'll take care of it," the douche says, closing the door behind you. "Screwdrivers are in the back, take a gander."

You do, half-uncertain despite yourself. Richard lounges against the wall. There are no screwdrivers, left-handed or otherwise. "There's no-" you start to report, when the light flicks off.

Just as quickly, it flicks back on, and you're not in the utility closet. You're not anywhere, as far as you can tell— it's a white void. You blink, startled and nauseated, and the clipboard falls from your hands. Your heart pounds.

>[+1 Grit: 7/15]

"Okay, dipshits," says the douche. He's standing five feet away, one hand on the cord of a disembodied lightbulb. "Jig's up."

You've dropped into an instinctive crouch. Your spear is already drawn. "Lester," you hiss. "Lester will not be pleased about this."

"I think Lester will be fine," he coos. You stare blankly. Richard smirks. "I- I'm Lester."

"Oh!" you say. "Fuck."

"There, the right response. They really sent the cream of their crop, huh?" The clean-cut douche Lester saunters closer to you, only his hand stays on the cord. His arm is distending grotesquely. He doesn't seem to notice. "Now, honey, who's 'they,' and was this sabotage or espionage? God forbid it was espionage."

"Don't come closer," you snap. "I'm armed."

"Whatever will I do. Here, honey, do you need a list? Probably can't remember all the branches, can you? Namway— please don't say that, that's us. Headspace. Querk. Ozertec… nothing?"

(1/2)

Headspace? You met with a rep the other day. You've never heard of the others. You pace backward as Lester continues to advance, his hand still on the cord four feet away from his shoulder.

Richard stands off to the side, smirking. "I- I think," you stammer (stop it!), "I think you should ask my associate."

"She's the brains, huh? Fair enough." Lester pivots. "Same question, honey."

"Nobody's ever called me that before," Richard says reflectively. "Fascinating."

Lester glances at you, forces a grin, and looks back. "I'm sure it is. Now, would you like to tell me which dickhead sent you two, and what they possibly hoped to accomplish?"

"Not really. Please excuse me." Richard beckons you over while Lester processes this response. "Okay, Maddie, pick an option. One, um, I bring this down around his ears, we leave. Two, we let him have fun, I bring this down around his ears when I get bored, we leave. Thoughts?"

"…Are there none that involve me?"

"Oh, no." Richard adjusts their sunglasses. "You're a useless sack of shit, Maddie, and you'd be trapped if I weren't here. Aren't we lucky Charlotte had her little oopsie? I would've been forced out if I didn't have a real body—"

You sigh.

>[1] Option 1: Who gives a shit. Get out of here, find the snake, and go home.
>[2] Option 2: Let Lester monologue for a while before you bust out. You'd like to hear more about Namway and… whatever they do. [Any specific topics?]
>[3] Option 3: Fuck the first two options! You're not going to let a *thing* tell you what to do. Take charge of this situation, somehow. [Well, what do you do?]
>[4] Write-in.

>>4182741
>[3] Option 3: Fuck the first two options! You're not going to let a *thing* tell you what to do. Take charge of this situation, somehow. [Well, what do you do?]

Seeing as

"Guppy-
We're keeping the snake in the basement- KEEP THE LIGHTS ON
Anyone who tells you otherwise is fucking with you (the boys don't like this gig but I keep telling them it's not my problem)
The goal is to dupe the thing, not invite it in
Also in general keep an eye on it,sound the alarm if there's anything fishy
Thanks
Lester F."

I say we throw our spear at the lightbulb.

>>4182741
> The person we ran into WAS Lester

I suppose we should have asked for his name. It doesn't cost anything to be polite. What were the odds.

>>4182741
Also remind Richard that if he hadn't just teleported us randomly we wouldn't have had to come up with something on the spot. He seems to be luckier to have special snake powers to balance out his completely irresponsible use of them.

Look, we can be irresponsible too.

>>4182808
Oh, don't sell yourself short, the write-in did ask for his name. It's just that he dodged the question and nobody noticed:

>"Lester sent us," you say, "and he didn't say anything of the sort."

>The douche blinks. "Lester sent..."

>You make another X on the clipboard. "What did you say your name was?"

>"…" He fixes his shitty tie. "…My apologies for the rude welcome, ma'am, Ms. Frances. I'd be happy to show you around. Was there somewhere in particular you wished to inspect? The factory floor, the vats, the foundry, the—"

Anyways, I'm going to sleep. Vote remains open until I call it at some point tomorrow. Have a good night, guys.

>>4182818
Well we were planning to murder him in the store room anyways. So. You know.

That plan is still a go.

>>4182741
>2

>>4182741
>[2]

>>4182741
I'll switch to 2.

But keep an eye on that lightbulb.

Update tomorrow, sorry guys.

>>4184868
'S all good.

We got our own magic snake. Even though he's a shit, at least we get to feel smug about how Lester is gonna suffer once he realizes it.

File: richard gadsden.png (16 KB, 330x220)

16 KB PNG

>>4183096
>>4183267
>>4183293
Writing. "Tomorrow," "2 AM day after tomorrow"... same thing.

>Initiate exposition

"Shouldn't we fish for info?" you say, and immediately kick yourself: why are you asking for Richard's input? "I mean—"

"If it brings joy to your little heart to wring useless factoids from this 'man,' I don't see why not." Richard leans in, sliding down the sunglasses a fraction so you can see the uncanny eyes. "Just don't make it dull, will you? Or I'll have to step in."

"Richard, why did you say 'man' like that—" Richard turns away. "Richard— god dammit." You rub your hand down your face.

Gameplan, Madrigal, gameplan: should you just let the guy talk it out? From your expertise in trafficking with various stripes of scumbags, you've sussed out one commonality: they all jack off to the sound of their own voice. All of them. It's because (this is your pet theory), see, nobody ever listens to them, not really— either they're freaky loners with no human contact, or they're surrounded by lackies and yes-men, or they're under a fake identity, or so on. So to have somebody (let's be reasonable: to have a woman) sit there and nod at the right times as they explain how the monarchy's controlled by cultists or why they really need ten pounds of black unguent— well, it's "special."

It kills you a little every time you sit there and nod. But it keeps people coming back— and god, you make so much fucking money.

Now, to be fair, this isn't your usual circumstances. But you see no reason why Lester wouldn't hold to this philosophy, which means all you have to do is…

Lester, for his part, hasn't been sitting idle: he's been making various sad attempts to engage and/or threaten you, which you've been ignoring. You get the feeling he's not quite cut out for this— either he's secretly too nice, or he's just generally shit, one of the two. Richard has been running interference while you plot.

Richard is crying, is what you mean by that. Big gobs of tears. You didn't catch why he decided to go that route, exactly, but it's actually really fucking convincing: it's because Charlotte's face takes well to looking sad, you think. Lester is, understandably, bewildered. "Ms. Francis," he's saying, "please, would you stop—"

"We- we- we-" Richard stammers. "We- we were just following o-orders… please don't— please don't kill us—"

And it's this point in the speech that Charlotte turns— that Richard turns slightly towards you, and their face doesn't change, but you can feel the wink behind the sunglasses. You decide about then that this is profoundly fucking awful, and it's you job to end it by any means necessary.

>[+1 Grit: 7/15]

"Lester," you say firmly.

He turns towards you, probably relieved to have a break. "Broke your vow of silence? What is it, hon?"

"We're not dipshits just because we were sent on a suicide mission, okay? It's not our fucking fault nobody tells us anything. We didn't even— Francis, tell him. We didn't even know what you made."

(1/3)

"It's true," Richard says. (Their face is dry. You're not sure they understands how tears work.) "Still don't, not really."

"Okay, then, which dipshit sent you?" You don't say anything. "What, you have loyalty to that kind of employer? Makes me wonder why I treat my chucklefucks with any dignity! I should—"

"So we were wondering," you press on, "if we could know what— what we're going to die for, you know. At least that much. Not the secrets, just the, um, overview. What we should've already known."

"You want the spiel."

You nod.

Lester scans your face for a few seconds, then apparently accepts it as genuine. "…Sure. It's not too complicated, honey. Namway makes people."

You nod.

"Not biological people, of course, the market's too crowded. Heh heh. Uh, we manufacture goo dupes— 'gooplicates,' if you've got to. We get the blood and junk chit shipped in, an associate drills for the raw material, we forge the skeletons, put everything together, and ship them off to Management and paying customers. Yes?"

You nod.

"Is that good? Can we move onto you answering questions, now?"

You- catch yourself before you nod. "…Who buys this?"

"Depends! Sometimes it's custom shit— someone wants to pull a fast one, cover up a crime, whatever. Sometimes it's bulk orders. Construction crew on-demand. Mercenaries on-demand. Slaves."

"And the snake," you say. Richard, rigid, glances at you. "That's the only thing we were told— the snake."

"Oh, well." Lester raises his arms. "I wash my hands of that. That's straight from Management, you know, not our fault. Dipshits wanted their own snake."

"What?" you say. You feel like this should be more portentous than it is. Is Management trying to wrangle a lot of animals? "Why?"

"Not my jurisdiction. Not my jurisdiction. This wouldn't be such a fucking issue, though, except they also want the original alive— so we had to do some experimental stuff. It didn't take. Or it did take, depending on your— it's locked in the basement."

"Oh," you say.

"I shouldn't've told you all that. Oh well." Lester brushes his hair back. "I'll just have to kill you, then. Sorry, honey. Don't feel bad, I was always going t-"

Lester pops, with a wet squelch, and scatters bits across the blank floor. Richard frowns slightly.

(2/3)

You gape for a second, then turn fiercely to Richard. "Did you explode him?!"

"N… I mean, yes, but… well, I planned to explode the whole thing, but only he took."

"Ah." You'd feel worse if the bits on the floor were viscera, but they're not: they're pinkish smears of… goop. "Ah."

"It appears this place is more escape-proof than expected. Not through any merit of the construction, obviously, it's shoddy. But the design is good."

"You exploded our jailer," you say. "…Wait, the—" (The lightbulb is gone.) "—…nevermind."

"Exploded that too, I reckon." Richard examines their fingernails. "Shame."

"Okay, yeah, you exploded our fucking jailor and you- you, uh left the jail." You rub your forehead. "Nice. Great work. Now what?"

"We consider our less-than-optimal options."

"Our bad options."

"Less-than-optimal. See, the issue with this place is that there's nothing here…"

[All of these will succeed. It's a matter of picking your consequences.]

>[1] And you can't do something to nothing: there has to be something there first. Or something. This equates, somehow, to cutting your arm open and letting a lot of your blood dribble onto the floor. ("Lester doesn't count.")
>[2] Leaving your spear behind would also work, apparently. "I mentioned this after the blood," Richard says, "because I think you'd prefer the blood." And you really fucking would. But… the option is there.
>[3] "I could toss out the violin altogether," Richard muses, and you force him to explain: he could, apparently, push Charlotte past her limits in order to brute force the place open. "It'd be unpleasant for her. Possibly painful."
>[4] Richard could attempt to pick at the "shoddy" weak points of the place— but it's liable to cause some nasty reactions in the rest of the facility. Fissures to nowhere. Doors peeling off the wall. Etcetera.
>[5] Write-in.

>>4186833
>[5] Write-in.

WHY wouldn't using Lester's body work? I mean. Since our spear would work. He exploded Lester, surely he can put him back together. Honestly this sounds like Richard just wanting us to have to "pay" to get out of here.

Or can't he just "summon" shit like he's been doing this whole time? People have to come here, too, right? We can just wait and eventually someone should be around. Looking for Lester if nothing else. Since he's exploded, we can maybe try the "Lester sent us" gag again.

Gosh.

I think we should have thrown our spear at the lightbulb after all.

>>4186833
>[3] "I could toss out the violin altogether," Richard muses, and you force him to explain: he could, apparently, push Charlotte past her limits in order to brute force the place open. "It'd be unpleasant for her. Possibly painful."
>[5] Get a good look at Lester, just in case we need Richard to conjure up a mirage... or something? If he can make real things he can probably make mirages, yeah? (in the vein of this >>4186851, but less radical.)

>>4186833
>4

Do we care about the facility? No?
Are we used to fissures to nowhere? Yes?
Hell, are there already doors where there shouldn't be and disappearing floors? Also yes?

>>4188240
I'll switch to this + examine Lesters body (also loot it).

> Richard: Loot any interesting PARTS of his body. What, Maddie can do it but not me? It's just a thing he's no longer using, like whatever she hoped to find in his remains.

Sorry, to clarify: there's no body to examine. The guy is in unrecognizable bits and pieces, and you don't see any pockets or wallets or anything like that.

>>4186851
There's good reasons for these things, but I'll note that even if Richard was trying to extort you-- what could you do about it? You're up shit creek without a paddle, effectively.

>>4188409
Is this [5] an attempt to command Richard? You can't do that-- you're not playing him at the moment.

>>4188187
>3
>>4188240
>>4188409
>4

Writing.

>>4188537
I mean.

Is it out of character for Richard?

>>4188537
> what could we do about Richard extorting us?

Find out what about the room would have locked him out if Charlotte was in control, and tell Charlotte about it.

>>4188655
The write-in? I'd accept it and make it work were this Richard's POV, but generally he wouldn't be interested in menial corpse-inspecting. Even if it were something brain-dead obvious, though (eg. "insult Charlotte"), it wouldn't matter-- you still can't control the character you're not in control of!

>>4188656
That's something I would've accepted... but you didn't say that the first time! For what it's worth, Charlotte is aware of the "white room" thing and that it locks out Richard-- if not precisely how.

>>4188660
I mean. It's something to look into if we have the chance. Not like we can ask Lester about it though.

Maybe we can talk to the snake about it.

>Structural integrity is for suckers
>Richard:

"…I don't get it."

"What is it you don't get, Maddie?"

You stare weakly out over the scene: nothing at all, save the spatter of fleshy goop across the floor. And Richard, ahead of you, polishing their sunglasses with the monogrammed hankie. You stuff your hands into your pockets. "Um, shit, everything. Why does it have to be my blood?"

"It's real. Well." Richard doesn't look up. "It's not, actually, but it's close enough."

"'Close enough.' And the entire guy you exploded doesn't work for you? It's not like he's gonna fuckin'— he's not gonna mind."

"I agree, it won't, but it's a prop, Maddie. It's a wooden standee of a bush. Wasn't real to start with, and now, well—" They slide the sunglasses back on. "—now it's exploded."

You raise your eyebrows. "'It.'"

"Oh, that wasn't the actual Lester. Doppelgänger, you know— it probably didn't know, is the unfortunate thing. Delusion. I wager it's how it stayed together with no skeleton."

Shit. "That wasn't the actual…"

"If you owned a facility that manufactured doppelgängers of people, Madrigal, be honest— would you not make a bunch of yourself? There's probably 60 in a cold storage somewhere, with the real one off sipping martinis on the beach of a manse. Or dead, for all we know."

"I wish," you mutter, "I had a martini. Can we not just wait here?"

"For what?"

"Someone to come along? We're still in the closet, aren't we? It's just all fucked up— so should someone, like, open the door? I knock them out, we piss off, problem solved, no bloodletting required—"

Richard chuckles. "Maybe geographically."

"What?"

"Geographically, we're in the closet: we haven't moved. Physically, mentally, spiritually, we're nowhere at all. Understand?"

What part of "everything" did he not get? "No? Maybe if you weren't intentionally fucking vague—"

"Of course you wouldn't." (You scowl.) "It's simple, though. Everything unreal was shunted out, which is to say everything, Maddie, except you and him— and me, er, atypically. The rest of the closet is where it was, while we're… outside, in nothing."

"For fuck's sake, Richard, I know what a pocket dimension is." You hunch your shoulders. "Just say that."

Undeterred, Richard has begun to make expressive gestures. "It's not a pocket dimension— that's an outdated term, and for good reason— apart from being colloquial, it enforces the idea that these places are inside the original dimension, which isn't necessarily the case. The neologism is 'auxilliary space'—"

"I don't give a shit, Richard, I don't…" It's astonishing, in fact, how much of a shit you don't give. Son of a bitch, you know what it's like? It's exactly like Ellery's blithering, except with that you cared about the man, if not his favorite subjects. You don't have that mercy here. "It's a pocket dimension."

(1/3)

File: cigarette holder.jpg (160 KB, 2117x1651)

160 KB JPG

"Sure. If you must. It's a 'pocket dimension' with no egress and nothing in it. Sure. Close enough."

"Great." You rub your forehead. "So Lester's out. Waiting's out. I don't want to spill blood, you don't have any blood, I'm not leaving my spear— what else?"

"Jailbreaking Charlotte."

"Jailbreaking— I don't think that's what that word means, but whatever. I mean, I guess, but… it's kind of a dick move, right?" You shift on your heels. "I mean, I don't want her to come back and be all, like…" (You put on your best accent.) "…'Goodness me, Madrigal, why is it I have three arms?' Like, that'd fucking suck, right? For both of us."

"That's a good impression," Richard says. "I don't have that talent, I'm afraid."

"Um…" You shift on your heels. "Thanks, I'll take that as agreement, I guess. So… what was the last one? Something about picking at the stitches…"

"The weaknesses, yes. Effective, but it'll damage the integrity of the whole manse. Might start coming down around our ears, that sort of thing."

"Great," you say. "I don't give a shit about this place. Do that."

"Excellent." Richard pauses. "Yes, I'll go ahead and… do that."

An uncomfortable silence ensues as you wait for Richard to do anything at all. "Um," you say finally. "Are you?"

"No." They clench their jaw. "No, I'm just… give me a moment." As you watch bemusedly, Richard pulls in succession a packet of cigarettes, a cigarette holder, and a lighter from their pocket. They get a cigarette, put the packet away, put it in the holder, put the holder in their mouth, etc. etc.— but, you notice, the jaw doesn't unclench until the first inhale.

"Does Charlotte smoke?" you say conversationally.

"No. I'll pay for this." Richard rubs their lips. "But it's a trade, Maddie. One compulsion for the other."

"One…"

"Do you ever get the feeling you should do something, Maddie? But it's not you who wants to do it, it's—" Richard waves the cigarette holder about, sending trickles of black smoke arcing upwards. "—I don't know. Something foreign."

"No," you say firmly. "Because I'm not a fucking lunatic."

>[+1 Grit: 8/15]

The cigarette holder goes back in the mouth. "Good, because that's never happened. We'll be out in five minutes."

(2/3)

File: canyon, ish.jpg (94 KB, 900x602)

94 KB JPG

You are out in five minutes. Richard did something you could neither understand nor recollect, although you're fairly certain it involved a fountain pen. You emerge into the closet, except the closet didn't used to have a canyon in it, you're pretty sure.

"One can only be so careful," Richard says mildly. He's still smoking. "Wonder what's down there."

"Um…" You peer over the edge into the spiraling blackness. "God, that's pretty deep. It's like the… the fucking cave all over again."

>[-1 Grit: 7/15]

"I was lying," Richard says, "I know what's down there. The snake's down there." They see your look. "Can you not tell?"

"N… no, it's just black." You step away from the edge. "We're not going in there."

"Oh? Why not?" Richard smiles toothily. "It'll get us right there. You like danger, Madrigal, don't you?"

Not when it involves tight spaces. Or the dark, or dark, tight spaces, are things you don't say, because, holy shit, why would you? Those aren't things you say, and certainly not to strangers, and certainly not to Richard. "Yeah," you say instead, through gritted teeth.

"Well, here we are! Spelunking! All senses of that word."

>[1] Rappel down the canyon in the closet, straight into the basement. You like danger, don't you? Don't you, Madrigal? Don't you? [Roll.]
>[2] You can't do it. Make your shitty excuses, do whatever you have to, but you are not going in there. Just find the actual entrance to the basement. It's somewhere, right? Right? [Roll.]
>[3] Write-in.

>>4188809
>[1] Rappel down the canyon in the closet, straight into the basement. You like danger, don't you? Don't you, Madrigal? Don't you? [Roll.]

>>4188809
> Everything unreal was shunted out, which is to say everything, Maddie, except you and him— and me, er, atypically. The rest of the closet is where it was, while we're… outside, in nothing.

Aww, is Richard so disdainful of the "not real people" because he is one himself? Note to self: do not bring this up to his face.

Still.

> "That's a good impression," Richard says. "I don't have that talent, I'm afraid."

Huh. Weird of him to be complimentary.

Anyways.

The note said specifically to "keep the lights on", and we sure as heck didn't get the PPE.

>Write-in

"I like Winning in dangerous situations, Richard. Let's get some sort of light before we go down. There was a note, it was very emphatic about that part."

Also look around for that PPE.

>>4188809

>[1] Rappel down the canyon in the closet, straight into the basement. You like danger, don't you? Don't you, Madrigal? Don't you? [Roll.]

ADVENTTURE

>>4188809
>[1] Rappel down the canyon in the closet, straight into the basement. You like danger, don't you? Don't you, Madrigal? Don't you? [Roll.]

>>4189179
Richard is not about to shut down someone else mocking Charlotte.

>>4189120
>>4189179
>>4189192
>>4189531
>Rappel
>Also grab PPE, insist on a light

I'm going to need a roll for this.

>Roll me 3 1d100s + 5 (+5 Got a Light?) vs. DC 80 (+10 Dark, +10 Claustrophobic, +10 Eldritch)

>Spend 1 Grit for +15 on the roll? Grit is more powerful in physical situations, and less powerful in social ones.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 4 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4189746
No grit

Rolled 37 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4189746
No spendy.

Rolled 23 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4189746
I posted like 5 minutes ago but it hasn't appeared so I assume 4chan lost it. Trying again, but the original will probably show up as soon as this does.

I'll take one more.

Rolled 5 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4189746

>>4189775
>9, 42, 10 - Failure
Jesus, guys. This was scaled towards spending Grit, and even that wouldn't have saved you.

Writing shortly.

>Once more unto the breach
>9, 42, 10 vs. DC 80 — Failure

Here's your issue, Madrigal, the one staggering issue: you can't refuse. Oh, you can refuse, but this is what'll happen if you do: Richard will smile, and say nothing of it, and then he'll tell Charlotte. And Charlotte— well, she can't be trusted with anything. Not Ellery, not this. She'll know it, then everybody will know it, and then— you're not stupid, you know you won't be a laughingstock, or whatever. People will still like you, will still talk to you, might even do business with you. But they'll discover you're a fraud, and they won't respect you, and you have worked too fucking hard to let that go. Too fucking hard. You're going down there whether you like it or not, and that's the end of it.

But goddamn, you'd really like a light. "Richard," you say. "That's nice and all, but shouldn't we… toss a flare down, or something? Just to make sure…"

"Yes, yes, I suppose so." Richard, puffing away at the cigarette, retrieves a smooth fist-size rock from their pocket. You watch as they stride over to the edge and drop the rock into the canyon. "One, two, three- ah." There's a faint clank. "Hundred feet down, give or take twenty. Happy?"

"N-o," you say uncomfortably. "It was more about the light than the depth… actually. Though that's good to know."

"You should've just said so, Maddie. Do you want matches?"

What the hell are you going to do with matches? Burn your clothing? Has Richard ever heard of a lantern? A glowbe? "Uh, sure. Thank you." You take the matchbook. It has a snake on it.

"Naturally. Now, should I prepare the rope, or do you have other frivolous concerns? Do tell, Maddie."

"I was gonna get a mask and gloves." You appraise Richard. "I assume you don't want any, yeah? You can go set up the rope while I go—"

They've already turned. You sigh and head over to the racks of safety gear, still miraculously intact, and pick whatever looks cleanest. Richard is done as you turn around: a jute rope hooks to the wall, drapes across the floor, and encircles Richard's waist and leg. The rest of it trails off over the side. You swallow, and hope it isn't visible behind the mask. "Shit, um, how do I factor in?"

"Same rope. You're above. I'll keep an eye on you."

You pause. "Is that safe?"

"Safety is irrelevant, Maddie, the only question here is convenience. And this is terribly convenient. I'll get you situated."

You only squirm a little as the rope goes under your legs, behind your thighs, across your shoulder. It already chafes. Goddammit, why do you wear shorts? (They're comfortable.) At least you have a jacket—

You're left feeling silly, but Richard nods decisively. "All you have to do is put one hand behind you, one hand ahead, feed yourself the rope, and walk down."

"What, that's it?" You examine the rope, which is perfectly ordinary. "What if I let go?"

"You fall. Don't let go."

(1/4)

And on that note, you begin your venture into the canyon. It's both just as bad and worse than you expected, with your sole consolation being that you can't see the other canyon wall— this would've really freaked you out. Unfortunately, suffocating darkness is a poor substitute, and you find yourself with sweaty palms and a dry mouth almost as soon as you begin. The canyon wall is sheer and ambiguously rocky, the rope burns your skin, and Richard is whistling. He's enjoying this— and it is he, because Charlotte wouldn't be caught dead here, you think. You take a shaky breath.

Do your palms have to sweat? Now? When it's extremely fucking important you don't let go of something? When, if you let go, you'll end up in paste a hundred (give or take twenty) feet down? Nobody will come for you: you'll be in a dark locked basement monitored by cameras nobody is watching. At least you'll die quick. Or maybe you won't: maybe you'll break your back and starve to death, right there on the floor. Maybe the snake will eat you. (Do they eat people? You've never asked Branwen.) Or maybe you'll break your back, and survive, and make it out, and hobble about on canes, and be pitied. Pitied. You'd rather be shot.

>[-1 Grit: 7/15]

Your palms are not getting any less sweaty. You're also dizzy, for all that helps, and Richard's whistling is grating at your nerves like emery board. Charlotte probably owns an emery board, doesn't she? She would. You wish your nails looked like hers. You're not telling her that. You shouldn't even think it, just in case it shows on your face. Or maybe you should: it's a change of pace from the goddamn darkness. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so dark. (And you're back.) You never liked it, not really, but that was before it was a blank canvas for your worst impulses. Goddamn. Why is everything here so fucked up? Why is your heart pumping so fast?

What if the rope snapped? (The whistling stops.) It'd be exactly the same as if you let go, but it wouldn't be your fault. The pity wouldn't be as intense— it'd be more of a "wow, look at her, crippled on the line of duty" versus "aww, look at her, her palms got too sweaty." They are too sweaty. You can barely keep a grip on the fucking rope. Seriously, though, what if it snapped? Or slipped? How did Richard even attach the thing? Maybe he didn't. Maybe he just hoped you wouldn't notice. And you didn't notice, Madrigal, you fucking moron. You're suspended by nothing at all. It could snap at any moment. It could snap now.

It snaps now. You feel it in your stomach first, the sickening drop, and then your body follows, jerked abruptly downwards like you've got a string in your back: you fall.

(2/4)

And then Richard catches you by your collar, and you stop. All you can see as you dangle are the gold eyes, lit like mirrors by unseen reflected light. "For fucks' sake," Richard says. Only…

Only, well, he'd been stealing Charlotte's voice before, forcing you to constantly separate the two. This is not Charlotte, it doesn't even have an accent— it's a man's voice, smooth and even, middle-aged. It is, upon brief reflection, exactly the voice you'd expect from Richard.

"Could you kindly not break the rope?" The eyes are narrow. "Do you really lack so much fortitude? Light a match if you must, but don't let it happen again."

"I'm midair," you say studiously. Something is niggling you about the voice, but you don't have time to think about it. "You want me to light a match? How are you— you're very strong."

"You're paper mache, Madrigal, you're thirty pounds or less. Stand up."

Improbably, after some noisy scrabbling and banging around, you find footing. (A ledge?) Richard lets go of your collar. "Light the match, please, but not in my face."

You find the matches in your pocket, strike one about a dozen times, and eventually succeed. It's only then when the obvious question occurs to you: how had Richard caught you if he's on the same rope?

The answer, as it turns out, is that he's— they're (you can see Charlotte's body again, it's too much)— standing on the vertical canyon wall. So are you, you can dimly tell. You bite hard on your thumbnail to keep from yelping.

"Good." Richard's eyes are crinkled at the edges. "The rope was a bit of a sugar pill, as you can tell. Shall we? You can keep lighting matches if this one burns out."

As it turns out, walking down the wall with match in hand is infinitely easier than rappelling down in the dark. You quickly get over your initial shock and even come to enjoy yourself: it's not something you've done before, that's for certain, and, well— what could you expect from this place? The canyon didn't exist 20 minutes ago. You might as well walk down it.

Richard keeps up a running commentary you largely ignore: it's something about how darkness degrades the something or other, and conversely light, and you tuned out right there. You're more focused on his voice, which sounds very familiar. "Were you ever on the radio?" you finally ask.

"No."

"Huh." You frown. "Are you sure? Because you have that sort of sound, and- uh- fuck- cadence. The cadence. I've only heard it from people on the radio."

"I couldn't say what you mean."

"Oh! Shit!" You snap your fingers. "You sound like, um, shit— Channel 1140. Harlan Pleasant… uh, the news guy, super fucking biased— no?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"You sound exactly like him."

"Madrigal, I don't know what you mean. Could we get back to—"

"Exactly like him." You pause. "You're not Harlan Pleasant, are you?"

"The radio," Richard says delicately, "was a constant fixture in Charlotte's household. Please keep walking."

(3/4)

You do, jogging so you can reach Richard's side. "Holy shit! You stole Harlan Pleasant's voice!"

"I assure you, he still has his."

"How did Charlotte not notice? Doesn't she— this is your only voice, right?"

"Charlotte fails to notice a considerable number of things," Richard intones, and will say nothing further on the subject. Your mood is much improved by the time you reach the bottom. (Was it really just a hundred feet? It felt three times the length. Distances are difficult in the dark.)

Your first match has finally burned down, and you light another. The ground at your feet is grassy. In the basement? You look up, and Richard is gone. "…Hello?" you call.

"Stay there," comes the faint response. "I'll pick you up after this is resolved."

"What the fuck? You can't—" You remember he's far away. "YOU CAN'T FUCKING DO THAT, RICHARD—"

No response. He can fucking do that, apparently. You bite your lip in irritation and glance around— dark, dark, dark, except for the wavery circle of light produced by your match. How many do you have left? 18, right? It was a full matchbook.

But where do you start?

>[1] Attempting to locate Richard. You're not going to let him leave without you, goddammit, and he's more than likely headed towards the snake.
>[2] Attempting to locate the lightswitch. The lights were supposed to be *on*, so there has to be one somewhere— and it would clear up most of your issues.
>[3] Attempting to locate the door. Richard wants to ditch you? That's fine, but you're not waiting for him in a dark basement. You're out.
>[4] Write-in.

>Errata: Sorry, that should be -2 Grit: 6/15. Too late to fix now, so mistake.

>>4191059
>[2] Attempting to locate the lightswitch. The lights were supposed to be *on*, so there has to be one somewhere— and it would clear up most of your issues.

We *know* there's a lightswitch here. It's probably just to our left. We should reach out and flip it on, just like the one at home. Or wherever Maddie most strongly associates home being with.

Between Richard hitting her in the face with the "clue" bat, and all the weird shit culminating in the rope snapping, clearly so long as we stick to things we know we should be okay.

>>4191059
>2

can't see shit senpai

>>4191059
>[3] Attempting to locate the door. Richard wants to ditch you? That's fine, but you're not waiting for him in a dark basement. You're out.

>>4191626
>>4191685
>2

>>4192906
>3

Writing. I'm tired, so here's hoping it goes quick. (It never goes quick.)

It didn't go quick.

>Just turn the lights on, dummy

The match is comforting, but limited— you can barely see your hand, let alone your surroundings. If you're going to accomplish anything without cold sweat and a headache, you need actual light.

Actual electric light, no less. You'd never had any, growing up— the council wasn't about to waste their precious wires on the people who did the work, were they? It was solidly rich-fuck exclusive.

…That's not to say you'd never seen it, though. You weren't a rich fuck, but, well, you were solidly middle-class. (You've kept this fact to yourself for years, preferring to intimate a much rougher upbringing— you need the cachet.) Which is to say: you know what a light switch looks like. Which is to say: you look for a light switch.

"Nothing is that fucking easy," you mutter: you have immediately found a light switch. You look around with with the match, poke it gently with the match, poke it gently with your spear, poke the wall around it with your spear… no dice. It is a light switch. You press it.

The lights don't come on, which you should've expected… but you didn't, because you dropped your guard too goddamn far. Nothing else hap-

It's you. One hand on the light switch, the other on the Fitz, matchstick gripped between the teeth. It's you, but from the perspective of someone above and behind you.

-pens. Shit, you jinxxed it, because that sure as hell wasn't nothing. In the spirit of experimentation, you flip the switch back into its resting position. Nothing.

Working on a hunch, you look behind and above you to discover an eye. No body or anything, just a massive yellow eye, hanging there in the darkness. This would normally faze you, but you have decided to stop giving a shit.

>[+1 Grit: 7/15]

You slide the matchstick from your teeth. "Hi? Can I help you?"

The eye doesn't say anything, which in immediate retrospect makes sense. It just kind of blinks, and—

"Uh, it's possible," Charlotte says, about two minutes before you slug her.

—A memory arises, unbidden, which is weirdly worse than having something else's perspective blasted into your head. You like the illusion of control, you guess. "Cool, that's… cool. Uh, what are you, what the f— er, what are you doing here, and could you not do that? Thanks?"

You lean against the fence Bran is fixing. "Are you asking if it talks? Bran-"
"Doesn't talk," Bran says. "Does got- pictures and so on. Feelings."

"That was about the snake." You pause. "You're an… eyeball."

(1/3)

Two at once: "I'm good with metaphors," Ellery says coldly, snidely, and you hurt all the more because it's kind of true, he is… ————— …"darkness doesn't destroy reality, not exactly— it just unmoors it, sets …times, and forms and shapes and so on, names, distances, etcetera, adrift…" Ell reads. His arm is around your shoulder, your head is on his chest—

You swallow down nausea. "Would you be a snake if I turned on the lights?"

You flip the light switch. Nothing happens.

"I can't turn on the lights?"

You're 19, terminally bored, and breaking and entering. You're sneaking into some topside mansion and flick the switch on the wall. Bad move: the lights all turn on—

"I can turn on the lights. This is like playing, fuckin', uhh, charades. Fuck me. I'm talking to an eyeball." You rub your cheek. "Is there a catch? Because the lights are very much not turning on."

"Nothing is that fucking easy," you say five minutes ago. ————— "Is there a catch?" you say five seconds ago.

There is a catch. "What? That's stupid. Do you want my help or not?"

"I don't know, sweetheart," your mother says, stroking your hair.

Nausea again. You last spoke to your mother at 24. You were executed at 26. She didn't show up. "Could you figure it out?"

"I don't know, sweetheart," your mother says, stroking your hair.

Good, it repeated that one. Does it know, or is it just blindly groping its way through your brain? Which is worse? "There has to be something in it for me, you get it? Hello? At least tell me what—"

You light the match and exhale shakily— ————— Bran smiles, close-lipped— ————— Charlotte has a weird amount of enthusiasm for solving Bran's missing animal case— ————— "Wow, Maddie, you're so cool," Ell says, and he's only 70% joking—

You are growing to loathe giant eyeballs. "Okay, praise, I guess. The catch better be damn small."

(2/3)

"Changed my mind," Monty says, kicking back onto his desk.

"Huh?"

"Changed my mind," Monty says, kicking back onto his desk.

"No, I got…" You hold your head. "That's it, then? This was fucking pointless?"

A cavalcade of voices: "No!" — "we will" — "trade" — "experiences" — "for information."

Holy shit. "What information."

"Dipshits wanted their own snake."
Monty shrugs. "Just kill it, Mads. Who cares?"

"There's another snake," you say slowly. "…In here? The gooplicate? And you want me to kill it? And you're trading me… hints. On how to do what you want. That's fucking insufferable, you know that?"

"Nothing is that fucking easy."

Why did you say that?

>[1] It's dark and you're cold and alone and all you've got is a spear, albeit a spear you love very much, but still only a wooden spear with a tooth at the end. You need all the "help" you can get. Three "experiences" for three hints.
>[2] Two for two.
>[3] One for one.
>[4] Fuck this, you're not fucking giving up your fucking mind to a dumbass jerkass eyeball snake thing so it can """graciously""" provide you with the information you need to do the fucking thing it wants you to, you're out, you're outta here, you're off to find Richard or a working light switch or whatever the fuck, you'll decide as you go storming off into the pitch black basement, this can't go wrong
>[5] Strike some kind of bargain or compromise or whatever. (Specifics please.)
>[6] Write-in.

>>4193228
>[5] Strike some kind of bargain or compromise or whatever. (Specifics please.)

Do we lose our experiences if we trade them?

> Bill the eyeball for experiences it already used to communicate with us.

It already used our brain, and it used a *painful* experience *twice* on us. Bullshit there weren't less painf ones to use.

> Exchange one for experience for one of its experiences.

Best offer we can make, if it doesn't want it we can go find Richard. Pretty sure it'll have a ton of fun dealing with him.

If it wants us to deal with the Gooplicate, it can give us the hints. If not, well, fuck that noise. This Mommy don't work for free, much less pay others for the pleasure of working for them.

What else does it have to incentivize us to just kill the gooplicate? After all, this trip has been nothing but a loss leader so far.

>>4193228
>[2] Two for two.
The experience of the lights not turning on and the initial shock of learning Ellery had been replicated.

Bam, two experiences.

>>4193228
Backing >>4193237

>>4193237
>5

>Do we lose our experiences
You don't know if you lose them or not. You haven't exactly had a lot of dealings in this area.

>Bullshit there weren't less painful ones to use
Maybe they were readily available because they were painful. Maybe it doesn't know they're painful. Or maybe, like its close cousin, it's a capricious, malicious dick. There's really no way to know at the moment.

>This Mommy
Please don't.

>Attempt to bill the eyeball
>Trade an experience for an experience (attempt to sic Richard if it fails)
Gotcha.

>What else does it have for you?
Well... unfortunately, it's the entire reason you're here. If you leave without it, this whole trip won't have been a loss leader-- it will have been a fat loss, at least in terms of its main objective.

>Side note
Moving forward, I'd appreciate it if you demarcated what's OOC questions/discussion vs. IC thoughts/actions. Makes it easier to interpret on my end.

>>4193497
>5

>>4193476
>2

Called and writing.

Actually, I need 3 1d100s. No bonuses, I'm not telling you the DC or what it's for. Quicker the better.

Rolled 70 (1d100)

>>4194201

Rolled 7 (1d100)

>>4194201
no dc? :(

Rolled 97 (1d100)

>>4194201

>>4194210
>>4194213
>>4194219
>70, 7, 97 vs. DC ???
>???

Writing. Not too bad.

>>4194213
It's a special occasion.

>>4194226
Yay good rolls!

>>4194164
>This Mommy
Please don't.

English is a limited language, boo, boo. Just trying to translate a self aggrendizing tone, not being a weird fetish.

>>4194232
You were looking for "bad mother" not "mommy"

>>4194240
I will use this from now on

>stonks

You can't just— well, you can't just accept, that's chickenshit, there's very little you like less than backing down against someone who's clearly in the wrong— but you can't just walk away, either, because this is the goal. It's here. This is what you came for. Just fuck you, huh.

So instead you bluff. You're good at it— top three good, you'd estimate, up there with death stares and sourcing shit. It doesn't really matter what you say, just that you say it, and so what comes out of your mouth is: "Fuck all those, I'll do tit for tat. Experience for experience. Yeah?"

It's not going to accept, which is exactly the point. You just can't look like a pushover: you set out your hardline stance, it counters, and you both sidle towards a conclusion more favorable than the one at the start. Negotiation 101.

You miscalculated.

You lean with your elbows on the store counter, resting your chin on your hands. Your "MADRIGAL" name tag clacks against your shirt buttons. "Look," you say disinterestedly, "I'll just give you the shit for free—"

It'd be one thing if it accepted your offer. Maybe it's stupid, maybe it needs to take Negotiation 101, whatever. But nothing's ever free.

You can't back down, though, that'll just put you into a worse position than the start. And it's not— how bad could it be? Maybe it just doesn't comprehend value. It's an animal, after all, even if sometimes it's an eyeball. "Oh, I mean, you don't have to do that… I'd be happy to trade…"

"Oh, I insist!" Alcott says, draping her bomber jacket around your shoulders.

You fix your gaze, a little desperately, on the match. "No, you really d…"

Your protest trails off because the pupil of the eye is steadily widening, and it's producing some inexplicable mental gravitic pull, and you know in your heart of hearts: way to go, Madrigal, you really fucked that one up. Prick.

>70, 7, 97

It's only after the pupil gets really fucking wide, all black on the inside with yellow moon-slivers around, that you feel anything. (It takes almost a minute to get to this point, and though you would've liked to scram during that minute you'd forgotten how to walk.) What you feel is your hands going numb, not pins-and-needles numb but absolute fucking dead numb, and this wouldn't be so bad except you have the misfortune of closing your eyes afterwards, and you can't feel where they are, either. You can't tell that the match has dropped to the floor. You don't panic, because every time you try to panic (every half a second) something eats- something- some- s-

(1/3)

Anyways, you can't feel your hands, which is (wha-) fine, and you're not entirely sure they're your hands, which is also fine. You also can't feel your wrists, forearms, elbows, upper arms, or shoulders, nor your feet, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, or waist, but this doesn't (holy f-) concern you at all. The numbness creeps in around your torso, but hits your face and skull and neck all at once, and all you have is your spine, basically, by the end of it. All you can (godd-) feel is your spine, which is fine. Not good, but fine.

Anyways, you are being assessed and found wanting. You are messy. You are uneven and your stitching is wonky and you're fraying at your edges. Worse, you are cluttered and distracted and useless. Nothing in the entire world needs catalogs of explicitly bad jokes or two sets of prices for unguent [coin/chit] or thoughts about a dog that's dead and has been for 15 years. And the redundancy. Of two minds on so many things. It's chaff. It's dead weight. It's inefficient.

And so as you stand there (for you have forgotten how to speak) you experience a palpable narrowing of yourself, a ruthless and analytical spring cleaning, and it would tear you apart inside, but something keeps eat- something keeps- something- some- s-

Anyways, by the time it's all over, you're down to threads. You're not even the skeleton of a person, not that you'd ever think that, but you're not, you're just backbone and nerves, backbone and nerves, and you're so fast and clean and focused, but nothing and nobody could call you human. Not now. Not at this point. You don't know what you are, you're you, you're—

Anyways, the name was tossed with everything else, and you'd feel bad about that, but you're too narrow to have a capacity for pity, for yourself or others, and also something keeps-

Anyways, there's no point staying here, trapped and cold in this lumpen flesh. Just take your useless hands and rip out your spine— you'll die, but you won't feel it, and that wasn't you, anyways, that was never you, you're all here in a perfect straight line— just take your hands, there they are, and surge / kick / whip upwards as you do, there you go, and you're out, just like that, and your-not your body falls, and you're free forever. Not free. Not free. You will wait for orders. You will wait—

You vomit the entire contents of your stomach, which is to say half a cup of bile, onto the ground. You think about your dead dog Sparky as you do, which triggers a second dry heave and paradoxically makes you feel better. But not by much. It'd hard to be by much.

>[-3 Grit: 4/15]

You remember how to speak again, but you're not sure if you ever forgot, or if you just thought you did. Is there a difference? You wipe your mouth and spit and glower at the eyeball. "Well, thanks for that."

(2/3)

The new client has a knife an an attitude. You throw up your hands. "Look, now you know."

"Now I know." You wipe your mouth again, for good measure. "Yes, thanks, I really wanted to know how to rip out my own spine. Just grab and pull. I'll make a note of it, I'll write it down on fucking carbon paper so I have copies, I appreciate it… holy shit, that was you." You breathe shakily. "That was you. That was your experience."

"Uh, it's possible," Charlotte says, about two minutes before you slug her.

"…Unless it was a big fucking practical joke, in which case ha ha, very funny, I'm spooked."

"Uh, it's possible," Charlotte says, about two minutes before you slug her.

"Helpful as ever." You kick out your legs, which are going, for their own part, pins-and-needles numb. "Goddamn. I was going to…" You have to think about it. Negotiation 101 isn't strictly off the table, you guess— if anything, you now have a larger say. And it'd show you're undaunted, apart from the vomit and so on. Oh, shit, it's dark. (You clumsily strike another match.) "…Look, can you just give me a fucking hint? Come on. Play ball."

The eye blinks.

You're lying by the foot of a man. For the most part, you're on the ground— he has you gripped by your tail so you don't go anywhere. He's talking to someone else. "We're doing the crystal."
Someone else: "We can't do the crystal, Lester, the strength's all over the place. Read my lips: the only reliable way is blood."
Man: "Blood's not fucking reliable for a snake! We're all set up for human blood, but how long's it gonna take to get down to a drop for a snake? S-months. We don't *have* s-months, we have *s-days,* which is why we're fucking amplifying it— why am I explaining this! You're the fucking expert!"
Someone else: "Okay. We're doing the crystal. Gee."
Man: "…Sorry. Sorry, I'm just stressed out, ignore me."
Someone else: "So we're not doing the crystal."
Man: "No, we are."
And here you sneak up and bite the man's ankle—

"There's a crystal," you say. "So?"

The eye doesn't move. You're talking to a fucking eye again. "Okay, thanks loads. I'll just be off, uh, to stick my hand down a snake throat and go fishing. Cool?"

Nothing. Then…

"I'll see you" — "when" — "you're" — "tidy" ———— You reach around, and claw into your flesh, and pull out your own spine.


——————


You are Charlotte Fawkins. You're pretty sure you're Charlotte Fawkins. No, yes, you are. Look at that.

Richard is uncomfortably close to you, almost touching, looking sweatier and paler than usual. (You're rather sweaty, come to think of it.)

"There. Are you happy?" he's saying, but not to you, you realize. He's not looking at you. Er, he's looking past you, towards… well, straightforwardly, it's a snake the size of a building.

[TO BE CONTINUED]
[When it is not 4:30 in the goddamn morning]

>>4194822
>>4194822
Awww. Poor torture snek.

Well. I mean. Guess we found something that we can be righteously outraged by instead of cynically accepting.

Oi wonder what Richard has in his head to turn him into the callous prick he is today. I can totally see him in Lesters shoes, if it got him what he wanted. All in the name of necessity and whatnot.

Maddie, do you really want to be like Lester and Richard?

>>4194822
Deeply horrifying

>Charlotte
>[ID: 5/11]

…Where were you? Where were you. Um… oh, snake the size of a building. (Your head is overwhelmingly fuzzy.) It's hard to make out much detail through the gloom, only that it's sort of blotchy all over, sort of piebald, and its dead eyes are the size of carriage wheels. Richard plucks his sunglasses off your nose and slides them onto his own face. "Well?"

«You are a man.»

The snake's voice is androgynous and reedy and absolutely noninflected, though it's hard not to read onto it steaming disgust. "Yes," Richard says patiently, "that's what I told you would happen. Surprise."

«I had assumed you were joking. As is your wont.»

"Afraid not." Richard brushes down the front of his suit. "This is as 'me' as you're getting, so could we please…"

«Why does your face move.»

"It's how the sound comes out. Now, really—"

You're starting to come around. "Richard," you say hoarsely. "What— where are—"

His face sets. The snake inclines its head. «You have a name, then.»

"No. No-o, I don't. No. She calls me it, I didn't choose—"

«Just stop her.»

"I don't think you understand," Richard presses (you have never heard this tone of voice from him, not once), "how convenient it is to just have a word that—"

«There is a policy for a reason.»

"…" Richard grimaces. You take the opportunity to pipe up with the sole conclusion you've managed to draw. "So, um, do you two know each other, or…"

You flinch: you've received a cuff to your shoulder for your trouble. Richard wipes his palm on his suit and grabs your wrist. "You speak when you are spoken to—"

«Do not strike the girl, 'Richard'; it will cause blemishes. She may speak.»
«We do know each other, if not closely. On a certain level.»
«How is your correspondent treating you, girl.»

It's only when the snake's head dips that you realize it's speaking to you. You're not nearly awake enough for this. "Um… who?"

«Your correspondent.»
«My apologies. 'Richard.'»

How's Richard treating you? You have no straight answer— if there's ever a subject more muddled than this, you've never heard of it. On one hand, he's overwhelmingly nasty, he makes sport of degrading you, he drives you to do things you see in your sleep. On the other, he cares about you like noone else does, you're safe around him, if not from him, he's all you have, really, you can't— on the third hand, you still don't know where you are, what you're doing here, why it's dark, if this is the snake you're looking for, where Guppy or Madrigal are, or anything that happened in the last hour and a half. So maybe this is not the best time.

«You will not be inflicted for anything you report.»

[Choices next.]

>[1] Deliver a report on your correspondent. [Write-in anything specific you would like to mention.]
>>[A] A harsh report.
>>[B] A lenient report.
>>[C] An equivocal report.
>>[D] Something else. [Write-in.]
>[2] Defer. Your throat is sore. You really need to prioritize answers, like, right now.
>[3] Change the subject. You have other questions for the snake or Richard. (What?)
>[4] Write-in.

>>4195322
>[1]
>[C]
Afterwards
>[4]Just how deep does this snake plot go? Why snakes? Why was a "correspondent" just hanging around in our attic?

>>4195322
>1A

>"He's a dingus"

Cuff me will you? Enjoy your shitty customer review

>>4195322
>[4] Write-in.

A whimsical report. Filled with lies about how nice Richard is, how he never makes you feel small, or unable to be loved, or like a broken shell of a person going from fuckup to fuckup who will never be happy.

Really, it makes you feel like he's really done enough for you and that you're ready to let him go so you can fail or succeed on your own.

>>4195353
>>4195322
Also this.

>>4195458
>>4195319
This was all in character BTW.

OOC, who here would choose cosmic powers but they make you feel like shit all the time?

>>4195322
Oooh. Can we finish with "Richards beem able to do anything we need, except whatever makes us happy".

Has Charlie ever considered suicide?

>>4195464
The suicide question is OOC.

>>4195464
>>4195468
>Has Charlie ever considered suicide?
Technically she committed it.

>>4195353
>>4195322
Supportin

>>4195353
>>4195485
>1C

>>4195375
>1A

>>4195458
>god DAMN I just LOVE the way that richard VERBALLY ABUSES me

Called for noncommittal. Update somewhere in the next 12 hours.

>>4195464
Complicated question. She's never been suicidal and has no desire to die, strictly... but way back here >>4175830 she sure is enthusiastic about, er, temporarily "stopping." Read into it as you will.

>>4195484
This is true, in that she jumped off a big ledge into the ocean, but Richard informed her and she believed that she'd survive the drop. Attempted suicide is one of the three major ways people get down here, though (the other two being accident and execution).

>>4195462
I wouldn't!