Richard and improvisation went together like salt and snails, you thought, so this must be the lingering... you-know-what. He was him until a few minutes ago, after all. (God.) "They say that?"

"No, because they're cretins, as mentioned, but they ought to. They—" There's a hitch in his voice, then a long pause. "Let's go. Don't argue."

You don't disagree, but— "Why?"

"This place is bad for the health. I said not to argue. Come along." Richard, blackboardless, is behind you; he is tugging your stool out from the table. "Don't you want to rescue your pet?"

"Gil's not my pet, he's— okay, okay." You're standing. "Where to?"

-

'Where to' is the front door, which you appraise with some skepticism. "Always doors, isn't it."

"The law for [DOOR] is identical to that of [THRESHOLD], if that helps." Richard has hung his dressing gown on the coatrack and now hovers behind you, picking at his teeth. "It is how it is. Now, listen up. You go through there—"

"And I'll be cast hereunder into frothing incomprehensible nothingness, surrounded by naught but the hideous phantasms I see fit to conjure up, yada yada, I know."

"What? No. You go through there, and you'll come out there." Richard points to the closet door on the far wall, the one with the squeaky hinge. "Understand? Right through there, right back into this room."

You cock your head. "But what's the point of going out in the first place, then? And what about Gil? And where's the incomprehensible—"

"Do you understand." In a shut-up-or-I'll-slap-you kind of tone.

"Sure," you say sulkily. "Yeah. Go through the front door, come out the closet. Got it."

"Good! Good." Richard claps his hands together once, looks faintly embarrassed, and recovers by sticking a wetted thumb in the air. He assumes an air of contemplation, as if this actually meant something. "Yes, you do have it. Excellent. Er— you'll need this back."

The iron key. You juggle it around in your palm. "If I stuck this in the fireplace, would you catch on fire?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte. Good, the knots are tight..." He's checking the cord around your waist, which you hadn't realized was still there. "I suppose that's it, then. Close your eyes when you step through the door. Remember that one-way connections don't exist; he is within you exactly as much as you him, except he doesn't know it. Remember that you are engaging with a living being, not a building or a landscape. And be sensible. I might have difficulties reestablishing a steady connection."

"Um," you say, "half those things are brand new. He's in my mind?"

"You are interwoven. I'm sure I said that. It hardly matters, in any case."

"...It matters kind of a..." You trail off. "I don't know why I argue stuff with you."

(2/5?)

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"She learns. Astonishing. Well, you're settled." Richard releases the cord. "Good fortune, and all that, though a load of good that did... speaking of, this is your last chance. I am not suffering through all this—" (He twirls a finger.) "—again, so you will succeed or you will euthanize him properly. Non-negotiable. Now I'll take my leave..."

The pause is long enough for you to realize you're supposed to say something: something like 'thank you for all your hard work' or 'no, don't go' or 'but I need you.' You shift your weight innocently.

"...Er, now." He feigns a cough, reaches over to ruffle your hair(?!), and is gone. You release the breath you didn't know you were holding and turn to face the front door. There is a notecard cellu-taped to it: "CLOSE YOUR EYES WHEN GOING THROUGH."

Gone but not forgotten, him. Well. As inclined as you are to disobey direct orders, Richard probably wouldn't mislead you about something like this. Big things, sure. Things like 'you can't go back home, actually,' or 'your father didn't die before birth, actually.' But little things? In this case, he wants to make sure you don't start frothing at the mouth. You don't want to start frothing at the mouth. So it probably makes sense.

You reach for the door handle, then withdraw. This is your... house, isn't it? You haven't stopped to think about that. You're standing in your own parlor, about to open your own front door, and God knows when you'll be here again. If you will ever.

...But (positive thinking) that's not— you're not actually back. You can't possibly be. You're not stupid. This is a illusion of some sort, which you are projecting or constructing or remembering in convincing detail, because this is your own mind— it has to be your own mind. You can't think of another explanation. This is an imaginary house, where you and Richard play-acted a imaginary morning, which...

Maybe it's silly, but you find it comforting. That you can slip so cleanly into your old self, despite everything that's changed. That you can warp Richard into someone who makes you breakfast and asks how you're doing, even if you didn't intend to, really. That your home is sort of... with you, or within you, no matter where you go. Underwater, or Gil's mind, or anywhere. Through this door, even.

>[+3 ID: 8/(9)]

You shut your eyes, open it, and step through. You open your eyes.

You are back in the parlor, having come through the closet door, only this closet door didn't squeak. And everything's wrong: not very wrong, the dimensions of the room are the same, with the same furniture is in the same places, but the upholstery is different, gaudier, and there is gold everywhere, and candelabras, like some indigent person's idea of a well-appointed parlor. And where the fading portrait of Harland Fawkins should be is an awfully flattering painting of you.

(3/5?)

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Hmm. You shut the closet door carefully, pad around the nearest armchair, and are girded enough not to startle when you come face-to-face with its occupant: Gil, lolling, rotting, shot. His eyes are still open.

"You're oozing on the cushioning," you reproach, mainly to distract from the knot in your stomach. "You ought to put down newspaper— oh."

There is newspaper between him and the armchair. You rub your forehead. "Um, thanks. If that was you. I'm back, by the way. And I really am gonna save you. Last time was a false start, this is— this is the real deal. Got it? You're not alone, you're safe, you're... wait, wasn't there supposed to be a book? Oh."

You assume that's supposed to be a book lying on the end table, though it resembles no book you've ever seen. It's massive, firstly, the height of two stacked dictionaries and the width of two laid foreedge-to-spine, and it's guarded by a shellacked cover that gleams in the candlelight like plastick or chitin. You heft it open to discover stiff blank spiral-bound pages.

God! If you were a book, you'd have the decency to have a title and an author and a suitably invigorating cover illustration and, frankly, you'd be broken up into neat portable volumes. Of course Gil's is boring and inconvenient. But one cannot be choosy when one is dealing with metaphor-type things, not with stakes like this, so you crouch atop the settee and flip through the pages until they stop being blank and become populated with wild crayon scrawling. The scrawling progresses into childish stick-drawings, which end abruptly and— you are flipping faster— are replaced with pages of letters, fat, awkward letters, replete with backwards 'e's and 'r's, which gradually shrink and straighten and refine themselves before culminating in—

The next page is riddled with gnawed holes. As is the next. And the next. You have to page through for a long time before finding anything legible: the corner of a blue paper. "-ESSMENT: Gilbert is intelligent but refuses to apply himself; he is not disruptive but does not play well with oth-". A few pages later, a colored photograph (this is imaginary) depicts a child Gil, mussed and dirty, up to his elbows in the guts of some rusted machine: "HARD AT WORK," the inked caption reads.

You are less than a quarter of the way through, and that is with the best skimming you can muster. Damnit! All while Gil— you can't say that he's watching, precisely, but you're sure he's aware. Maybe if you flip to random pages, you'll— "If I flip to random pages," you say loudly, "they'll be the pages I need."

No response. Nothing you can even take as a response: no tremors or twinges or mysterious glowing. But you went and said it aloud, and everything, and you can't take it back, so what choice do you have? You flip to a random page.

>Diary entries in precise microscopic handwriting. Most have been eaten in whole or part. One survives intact.

(4/5)

You flip again.

>A... ledger, you think: debits and credits and balances. Actually, two ledgers, side-by-side, exactly the same except for the amount of red ink.

And again.

>A hand-written list (not Gil's writing: blockier) of risky and implausible tasks. Many are crossed out.

And more:

>A careful diagram of a nonsensical machine's innards. It seems to involve crystals and the jotted instructions 'hope for the best.'
>A page which is not a page: actually, there's a big chunk of the book where the pages just stop, and there's just a potpourri of dried leaves and paper scraps and paint flakes that dump out all over the floor and table. Damnit.
>Several pages of writing in an alphabet you don't understand in a ink so blue it's almost glowing. The paper has been wetted before.
>A sort of diagram, with boxes that point to other boxes which point to other boxes, and so on, off into infinity. It comprises the last handful of pages of the book.

Is that enough? You don't know. You'll give it thrice more.

>Early in the book: a page blacked-out in its entirety.
>Late in the book: a page blacked-out in its entirety. What are the odds? It's right after the leaf/paper/paint slurry.
>Your fingers catch on a page with a ragged edge and open to it: there is a hole blasted right through the center of it, and the paper is blackened and curled around it. The hole continues through the boxes diagram and clear out the back cover.

You swallow. The first seven were enough after all, possibly. Those ones aren't for you, or... not yet, at least, not until you decipher the rest. But maybe not ever.

So you're done. Good! Your eyes are watering. How these pages are supposed to translate into Gil, or fixing Gil, you're not entirely certain, but at least you probably definitely have the pages you need. You just need to... begin.

Hmm.

>[1] Start with the diary entry.
>[2] Start with the ledgers.
>[3] Start with the list.
>[4] Start with the diagram.
>[5] Start with the... leaves?
>[6] Pick up all the paper scraps on the floor and try and put them back together. God save you.
>[7] Start with the blue writing.
>[8] Start with the diagram.

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! This thread is late by one hour. My apologies.
Also, I got a cool Richard commission which I accidentally posted way too large to see. Here's a better version.

>Schedule
One a day, sometimes more if the first one was short. There may be sporadic half-updates (no options) if I start writing too late in the evening, sorry in advance. I am in the PST timezone.

>Dice
We use a 3d100 roll over degrees of success system with crits. The base DC is 50. Modifiers may be applied to the roll or to the DC as relevant. The # of rolls that match or exceed the DC determine the result. Probabilities may be found in the Dice and Mechanics pastebin.

The degrees are:
0 Passes = Failure
1 Pass = Mitigated Success
2 Passes = Success
3 Passes = Enhanced Success
0/100 = Critical Failure / Critical Success [regardless of other rolls]

>Mechanics
The MC has a pool of 9* Identity ("ID"), which may be considered both HP and the measure of her current sense of self. It may be lost through physical, metaphysical, or emotional damage. It may be regained through write-ins, designated options, and at reasonable narrative points, including sleep. It may be spent on a flat +10 bonus to most rolls, as well as on more elaborate metaphysical effects. Dropping to 0 ID is bad.

[*The ID cap is typically 12, but prior choices have lowered this until a sidequest is completed.]

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

>Twitter
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.

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

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>TO-DO

Immediate goals:
- Fix Gil!

Short-term goals:
- Spend your share of the heist $$$
- Meet back up with Annie the worm

Long-term goals:
- Rescue Madrigal
- Procure permanent, non-melting body for Gil
- Regain your missing ID
- Regain your missing memories
- Finish your model
- Find the Gold-Masked Person and their snake, reclaim the Crown
- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (3/16)
- Learn more about, and explore, the Grande Mangrove
- GTFO of this underwater hellhole
- Make friends???

Mysteries:
- Who or what drove Ellery into self-imposed exile?
- Who or what is Namway Co.'s “Management”? What did they want with the clone of a snake?
- What's the deal with that weird sword training flashback you had?
- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you?
- What is Richard actually like, behind the whole... dad thing?
- What is the meaning of Jesse's spiral tattoo?
- What is Ellery's patent for? Is it connected to his entire deal?
- Who is Horse Face investigating, and why?
- Who is the Gold-Masked Person? Why did they want your Crown? Where are they now?

Ongoing assignments:
- Inform Eloise (and the Wind Court?) about anything you discover about Namway Co


>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX
You discover that the witness was the gooplicate in disguise and kill it once and for all. In the process, you get injured, hallucinate a little bit, ruin your clothes, and discover that said gooplicate wasn't actually a gooplicate-- it was a human person. Whoops. Also, Jesse got murdered, probably. Double whoops. Also, this means that it couldn't possibly have been the Wind Court spy... the spy must've been b ACTUALLY it's probably not relevant! Doesn't matter! You'll think about it later! You drag the "gooplicate" corpse back to the Court guards and leave.

Back at camp, you catch Ellery hanging out with Gil in your tent. You chase him out, then leap into action to rescue Gil #2 from braindeath. Gil #1 is a little uncertain about you mucking around in his head, so you give a rousing motivational speech and go for it anyhow. It goes somewhat poorly, culminating in Richard dragging you into a "bomb shelter": a mind version of your own house, or something.

>BONUS ANNOUNCEMENT THAT I FORGOT
Gil is in the Husbando Tourney and has miraculously made it past Round 1! Toss him some of that ol' Drowned dice in Round 2 here: >>5090023

--

>Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>5092324
>[1] Start with the diary entry.
Here goes something...

>>5092324
>>[1] Start with the diary entry.

>>5092324
>Diagram
the 8th one, not the 4th one

>>5092328
> Get vaguely angry at Gil, you aren't sure why but the universe around him seems smug for some reason

ROUND 2 BABY.

>>5092324
>[7] Start with the blue writing.

Wet the paper again, lick it! See if there is SECRET MAGYCKAL RUNES

> XTRVV What could it mean

>>5092547
>>5092561
>[1]

>>5092876
>[8]

>>5093072
>[7]

Called for [1] and writing.

>>5093072
>ROUND 2 BABY.
YEAH!! I guess this means that Drowned dice really are localized to these particular threads. Art will come when I get the chance.

>>5092876
Aw, crud, this is what happens when I write options at 3 in the morning. If we ever return to this slate of options I'll make sure to distinguish them.

>Ahem it's not a "diary" it's a "journal"

Well... you should probably start with the one you flipped to first, shouldn't you? That's how it works. Or how it ought to work. Of course, there's the small matter of re-finding the diary entries (you hadn't thought to use a book-mark), but you shut your eyes and pick a page and there they are. Or there it is: why have all but one been eaten away? Is it special? Or were the special entries targeted first, and this one is the most banal? Richard would say that you're searching for meaning in random noise, but it's not as though Richard knows what he's talking about. He said it himself: he's improvising.

But whatever the significance of this entry, it's the only one you have, so you may as well sit here and read it. Which you will admit feels vaguely unethical. (Memories are resurfacing of a short-lived fiercely-guarded diary of your own.) But if Gil didn't want you to read this, he shouldn't have put it in this book, and he shouldn't have gotten himself shot in the first place. Yeah! So it's alright. You'll just give it a glance...

...

...You can't read it. Not like you can't read the handwriting— it is miniscule, but it's also clean and lucid. It might be better than yours, not that you intend on telling him that. (And not because you have bad handwriting. You just hated the practice, is all, and you liked to put curlicues where they didn't strictly belong.) So it's not that, and it's not in another language, not like the blue-ink pages, and it's not blurry or anything, it's just...

You realized that you were waiting for Richard to solve this in the same moment that you realized you already knew. It's the one thing Ellery was good for: you just have to defocus your eyes, but behave all casual like you really are reading it, and it'll— 22.3.89 Today Otis who's pop's a fisher called me a pissant & a horeson because he thought I was making eyes at his girl Muriel. Tried to tell him Muriel has a face like a bird dog & this did not go over well. Was chalenged to a fight. Tried to say that fights were for little kids & got called a sissy & a pussy & Otis punched me in the stomich. He said this was a taste of what's to come. Desided to take back way to home.

(You aren't reading this— you've established that much. So how are the words coming to you? Are you hearing them? Thinking them aloud? Writing them down? You don't know why you'd be writing them down, other than that your hand is twitching and your vision's gone feathery at the edges. But don't stop now.)

(1/2)

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Told Alfie & Warren about the hole thing & they both said to fight him so he'd leave me alone. Otis is a year older so I said he'd probably knock my front teeth out & leave me alone in a dich. Alfie laughed. Warren said he'd beat up Otis for me but then I'll get called a pussy even more for hiding behind my big brother. Also I don't want Otis killed. It's almost sundown which is when the fight's suposed to happen & I have not decided about this. I have also started on a better ornethopter as Pops broke the first one, you finish, but it's a good thing anyways sence the first one sucked. A good ending. You click the pen once in victory, then again to hear the sound, then clip it to the flimsy journal page—

(You are doing no such thing. You can feel the settee under you, the book's weight on you, you can hear even the soft scuttling noises from Gil beside you. If you focus hard, you can even lift your head and look around, though your neck is stiff and your surroundings fuzzy. The journal stuff— the pen stuff— you're thinking that, involuntarily. That's in your mind.)
(...Um, but you're in your mind also. Or Gil's mind. Or something. So you're not sure what distinguishes the journal stuff from the not-journal stuff, except you thinking there's a distinction at all. The distinction's in your mind, too. All you have to do is dissolve it, probably, and...)

>[A1] You are Gilbert Wallace, aged 11.
>[A2] You are somebody who belongs, but not yourself.
>[A3] You are yourself.

>[B] If you stand there doing nothing, this memory will degrade like the last one. You need to take an active role doing... something. You're trying to get Gil to solve his own problems, so his bits get tied back together. What's the first thing you do? (Write-in.)

>>5093340
As I understand it, all Gil's memories are still there, they're just disconnected. So what I think we have to do is
>[B] Find the second half of this memory among the leaves and paper scraps

>>5093345
Deleted my first response because I think I can put it more succinctly... while I admire your thinking outside the box, the prompts are structured how they are for a reason. In the case that you're just confused, [B] is asking for the first thing you do inside the memory.

>>5093340
>[A2] You are somebody who belongs, but not yourself.
>[B] Get Gil to remember something else to tie that memory to this one.

>>5093353
>In the case that you're just confused
As opposed to what?

>>5093375
>As opposed to what?
That was phrased somewhat poorly... I meant "confused about the intent of the prompt," versus "understood the prompt and decided to do something different" (which is still often valid, if not in this instance). I'm not concerned about you guys being confused overall at this point-- it'll get explained more later. If later comes and you're still confused, please just say so and I'll give a clear OOC explanation. I care more about player experience than >muh sanctity of the narrative or whatever.

>>5093340
>[A1] You are Gilbert Wallace, aged 11.
Maybe this is the best way to get him to find himself?

>>5093340
>A2
encourage him to go fight Otis
once he wins tell him you're sorry for insulting bird dogs by comparing them to muriel

>>5092317
> "...It matters kind of a..." You trail off. "I don't know why I argue stuff with you."

> she learns

Oh but Richard, you have to ask what exactly she has learned. Not arguing and obeying instructions are two differrent things entirely.

Anyways, can we check if he did anything to our hair while ruffling it?

>>5093345
>>5093340
Supporting.

>>5093340
ROLL IN THE HUSBANDO QUEST we are on the eeeeeeedge

>>5094071
And drowned dice do their thing.

Lol.

>>5093340
>>5093730
support

>>5093730
>>5094118
>A2 + write-in

>>5093375
>A2 + similar write-in

>>5093661
>A1

>>5094118
The vote you're supporting got revised, so this is invalid! You're both headed in the right direction, but you don't have all the information you need yet.

Called for [A2] + write-ins and writing.

>>5093979
>Anyways, can we check if he did anything to our hair while ruffling it?
It's been too long since this happened for checking to make sense, so I'll state up front that he didn't do anything special. It was just a hair ruffle, however you'd like to interpret that.

>>5094117
In fairness, Gil doesn't know how to drive :^)

>>5094211
I'm taking the moral victory from him being popular this round.

>Slip right in

...And everything dissolves like water, and for an fleeting moment you are A¸B0aO¥O± oK¿?¡suspended in WH whA£±WHO&T nothing, and then you are clutching a doorknob, a doorknob is being clutched by you, someone with chipped colored nails and a freckle on her thumb— who? Hazel, the answer comes immediately, if unhelpfully. Hazel. A girlfriend? Surely Gil would've mentioned having a girlfriend coming over. The mother? You're not old enough. Perhaps it's the sister.

You are opening the door, though you hadn't intended to open the door. And you are walking forward, though you don't particularly want to walk forward— you were hoping to get your bearings before busting in on whatever Gil-fragment sleeps in here. It's the oddest feeling: nobody's controlling you, you're sure (you know what that's like), but it's like you're clicking down a track. You rap on the doorframe. "What are you up to, Gilly?"

The date on the entry should've tipped you off, but this Gil is little more than a gawky child— especially in his mad scrambling to hide the diary, the loosened floorboard, and the pen from your view. "Nothing! Go away! You're not Mom, you can't just— what if I was sleeping, huh? What if you woke me up? Then you'd be a, a big, fat—"

"But you weren't sleeping," you note. "What were you writing in? A diary?"

"No!" He sits extra hard on the diary. "Why would you even think that? Only sissies keep diaries. And girls, so maybe you have one. Boys have journals. What'd you even come in for?"

"Warren told me some kid picked on you after school."

Gil's expression sours. "Warren's a liar."

"Really? He said you got socked in the stomach. Said you had to stop and puke on the way home. Why wouldn't you tell me about this?" You edge into his tidy bedroom. "You know I'm always here for—"

"Yeah! And you treat me like I'm your goddamn baby! I'm not a baby, I'm almost 12, and if I get socked in the stomach that's my own goddamn business who I tell it to, Hazel. You're not Mom. What good would telling you even do?"

It stings to have this directed at you, even if rationally that makes no sense. Hazel, for her part, keeps her tone level. "Don't cuss, Gilbert. And if I knew who the kid was, I could speak to his parents—"

"Speak to his parents? That's a dumber idea than Alfie's." Gil throws the pen on the ground. "Go away."

"Gilly—"

"Go away! And stop goddamn calling me that! I hate it!"

(1/2)

You can't blame him for that, exactly, with a despised nickname of your own. But still! What a disrespectful, ungrateful little punk! You would've been whooped if you ever spoke to your aunt like this (not that you ever did, because you were raised properly). Imagine having a sister who loved you and cared about you and worried about you. Imagine taking that for granted.

For the first time, you take action: flexing your fingers, just to see if you can, then speaking. "Well, would you rather I called you a bitch? Because you are a sniveling little bitch. I hope Otis knocks your front teeth out and I hope you choke on them."

Gil is tiny. You noticed that— you must've noticed how tiny he was, before— he can't be taller than 5 foot, and you'd pin him at a good ways shorter than that. And with him all shrunken back with shock, he looks even tinier. "...Why do you know his name? I- I didn't tell Warren his name."

You would answer but for the sudden perceptible tautness in the air. Like you're inside a rubber band about to snap. Whoops. Were you not supposed to call him a bitch? (Even if he was?) You'd deviated from the script at that memory-party, with the giant snake and Pat and Lester, but you suppose that wasn't properly a memory: just a place (a dimension? a reality?) made from one. This really is a memory. Different rules, maybe.

But a rubber band about to snap is not the same as a snapped rubber band: you could let it go, gently, and color inside the lines from now on, and nobody would be the wiser. You're almost sure you could. So the real question is: do you want to?

>[1] You don't. Ditch the Hazel persona entirely and drag Gil to the fight whether he wants to go or not. This will alter the memory irrevocably— but it'll save you a boatload of trouble.

>[2] You do. Pretend like nothing happened, let things resettle, and do things the hard way.
>>[A] Clearly the fight is the point of all this. Convince Gil that he should participate— and that you should come along to watch. (Writing-in arguments will aid the roll.) [Roll.]
>>[B] Convince Gil to participate, then sneak along after him. (As above.) [Roll.]
>>[C] Technically, you could just scope out the fight yourself, right? You'd have to go back and nab him if you needed him, but you won't have to persuade him.
>>[D] Write-in.

>>5094350
We're here to restore his memory, not rewrite it.
>[2B] Convince Gil to participate, then sneak along after him
He doesn't even have to win. Just land one good punch on Otis' nose so that Muriel sees him leaking bloody snot. She'll laugh at him forever and his own cockiness will be his undoing.

>>5094350
>>>[B] Convince Gil to participate, then sneak along after him. (As above.) [Roll.]

If he's gonna talk the talk, we expect him to walk the walk then.

>>5094350
>>>[B] Convince Gil to participate, then sneak along after him. (As above.) [Roll.]

>>5094350
>2B
sneeki breeki

>>5094825
Lol, I just reinstalled Shadows of Chernobyl

>>5094705
support! also maybe point out that Otis is just gonna keep beating Gil's ass until he has a reason not to (reason: getting punched in the face)

also are we rolling *now* or??
just in case, dice+3d100

Rolled 83, 49, 72 = 204 (3d100)

>>5095005
i need an adult
(pls work)

Rolled 3, 59, 24 = 86 (3d100)

>>5094350
I just like to roll

>>5094365
>>5094705
>>5094719
>>5094825
>>5095005
>2B
Seems pretty set! I need dice. (Yes, different ones. Sorry!) The write-ins are enough to convince Gil-- good job-- but you still need to sneak.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 8 (+5 Key, +3 High ID) vs. DC 65 (+15 ???) to tail him with no issues!

No optional +10, Richard is AWOL

>>5095005
>also are we rolling *now* or??
Nope! (Or not when you posted that, at least.) When an option has [Roll] attached, that means it'll require a roll after I call the vote: if I let people roll before, odds are they'll support the option with a high roll instead of the option they actually want. You'll know when you're supposed to roll when I put a ">Please roll me..." command in greentext, as above.

Rolled 72 + 8 (1d100 + 8)

>>5095199

Rolled 68 + 8 (1d100 + 8)

>>5095199

>>5095219
>>5095262
Since I didn't get a third roll in time, I'll take the first d100 from >>5095007.

>80, 76, 91 vs. DC 65 -- Enhanced Success

Excellent start to the thread. Writing.

>Sneeki breeki
>80, 76, 91 vs. DC 65 — Enhanced Success

Yes, you do want to. And not just because you want some humility slapped into Gil, though that'd be enormously satisfying— there's just something about ripping up the script and storming out into the unknown that appeals to you. But Gil's pinched How do I know you're not gonna fuck me up? is rattling around in your head, and... well, God, what if you do eff him up? You don't know what you're doing. Richard doesn't know what he's doing— Richard!— and he's not even here to not-help. Maybe you ought to play it safe... God, that sounds cowardly. But you ought to.

You stand still. You say nothing. The tautness loosens. "I'll stop calling you that when you stop being my little brother," Hazel says for you. "And I'll worry about you for that long, too. Are you planning on fighting this kid?"

Gil slumps back, defeated. "He's, like, seven feet tall."

"He's twelve, he's not seven feet tall. Come on." You fold your arms. "If you avoid him, he's gonna take that as license to beat you up forever. You'd be making yourself more of an easy target, not less, you get it?"

"So I'm supposed to let myself get beat up."

"No! Well, maybe a little, but listen. Dumb kids like this? They pick on you to feel strong and powerful, and in control, because inside they're pathetic, insecure little bitches." Like Enid Tosh. God, you despise Enid Tosh. "And you know what they're most scared of? Being exposed for the bitches they are. Especially if there's a girl involved! So you don't have to win, Gil—" You point square at him. "—you just have to land a punch. One punch, his ego will bust like a balloon, and he'll be so embarrassed he leaves you alone forever. Come on. You talked a big game at me, so why not put that fighting spirit somewhere useful?"

"I guess." He wipes his nose. "Why are you still here? I told you to go away."

"Are you going to fight him?"

"If I'm bleeding out in a ditch somewhere and miss work, you have to fill in for me. Or you explain to Pops. I don't wanna get screamed at while I'm dying."

"...Deal."

"Now go away! And shut the door. I have to—" He looks shifty. "Just go."

"Aim for the jaw," you warble, shut the door, and close your eyes. That was good, right? You convinced him? Hopefully you were supposed to get him to go to the fight, and not the other way around, but... well, you wish you could've given Enid or some of the other ones a sock to their stupid sculpted chins. Would've shut them up, at least to your face— the whispers would've been worse, but they were bad already. Still. Now you just have to follow Gil, and make sure he wins, you guess? Or make sure he makes sure he wins? Easy enough. You'll just loiter in this hallway for a little while, then... then, um...

(1/2?)

File: infinite doors.gif (206 KB, 320x240)

206 KB GIF

There isn't a hallway, you're realizing. You aren't standing on anything, you aren't seeing anything, eyes open or not, you aren't clutching— you are clutching a doorknob, inexplicably, and before you slip and tumble into formless nothing you shove the door back open. Gil's bedroom is empty, the journal rehidden, the window... open. A-ha. You shut the door, lock it, and stick your head out into the evening air: there he is, slipping away into the streets. Can you go through the house? No. The door has vanished. You shove yourself through the open window and land in a patch of weeds.

Following Gil is difficult: the terrain is unfamiliar, the path he takes is winding, and he has a bad habit of vanishing behind carts and velocipedists and pedestrians and gaggles of seabirds and lunch stands and every other sundry obstacle in the streets of a modern Pillar. Fortunately, you've discovered a foolproof tracking method— the streets of a modern Pillar only exist in a small radius around him. Farther away, objects lose distinction, disintegrating into blobs of shape and color; even farther, and they fall away into nothing.

This does necessitate you to keep up with him, though, a task that grows steadily harder: either he's speeding up, or the radius around him is shrinking. Pretty quick, you're forced to imagine your own street just to fill in the gaps, but jogging and thinking don't combine well, and when you slip on a puddle your concentration slips with it.

You are nowhere, though for a fraction your body lingers. Think fast! You have a cord, though it only leads out, and you have a, a, a key. Richard's key. A key to a door, or a threshold. You don't have a door. Do you need a door? It's not real, Richard'd said once, cause and effect are a smidge loose...

You fumble the key out of your pocket just before you cease to have pockets and wave it about blindly. There! It catches on something, a lock in a plain wood door, which you shove open and stagger out of into— you are in an empty muddy lot at sunset. Gil, ahead of you, stands rigidly: he is facing a small pack of other kids. One of them, a long-haired, blocky boy— Otis?— steps forward, cracking his knuckles theatrically. "You're late," he calls. "Too nervous, pipsqueak? Or was it just slow getting here on those stubby legs of yours?"

Gil's hands are in his back pockets. "Original. You get that out of a manual?"

"What?"

"I said..." Gil hesitates. "'Original. You get that out of a manual?'"

"Nope! I came up with it all by myself." Otis's skull is too thick for sarcasm to penetrate. "Anyhow, you were making eyes at my girl. And then you called her a dogbird. So I'm gonna kick your ass, understand? Watch."

(2/3)

He spreads his arms, grinning, as insect legs the diameter of slender trees punch out of his abdomen, as his back swells cancerously, as his eyes bulge and his face crusts over, as the red sunset catches the lot ablaze, as Gil watches in paralyzed horror as an enormous Elleryish beetle-monster crashes down upon him—

You skid out the door and slam it behind you. You are back in your un-parlor, which has only gotten gaudier since the last time you saw it. The air smells of death: you breathe through your mouth.

So. So there's the puzzle-story ending for you, then, an unresolved stinger, an absurd non-sequitur, so so so you, um, you need to find a Gil who'll— who'll solve the riddle of "help a scrawny child kick the ass of a giant beetle thing." If you're right about all this. And who knows if you are.

Good!

>DISCOVERED: [Fast Travel]. You can get between fragments without worries about detours or dice.

>[1] The ledgers.
>[2] The list.
>[3] The diagram.
>[4] The... leaves?
>[5] Pick up all the paper scraps on the floor and try and put them back together. God save you.
>[6] The blue writing.
>[7] The chart with all the boxes.

>>5095525
>[2] The list.
If there are risky and impossible tasks there that were apparently completed, maybe it contains Gil's competence?

>>5095525
oh god
we corrupted his memories
we've already messed him up

>2

>>5095525
>[2] The list.

>>5095686
Nah, seems like his traumatic beetle existence has given him PTSD. We can work on that once he's cognizant again.

>>5095525
>[2] The list.

>>5095525
Oh and 2, the list.

>>5095531
>>5095686
>>5095856
>>5096088
>>5096114
>2
Called for [2] and writing... eh... the situation's complicated. If I'm lucky, I'll publish tonight-- if not, it'll be tomorrow.

>>5095686
What >>5096086 said, and also he got shot in the head! He was messed up before you got here-- that's why you're trying to fix him.

File: better than nothing.jpg (42 KB, 564x386)

42 KB JPG

>List

On the bright side— positive thinking, Charlotte— there's really nowhere to go but up, isn't there? Surely not every dissociated fragment of Gil will contain beetle monsters. Maybe some of them are pleasant. It's quite possible some are pleasant. And if you go over here, and don't look at the living corpse in the chair, and inspect this handy-dandy book, then you're certain you'll find there a nice, calm, pleasant, beetleless part of Gil. Emphasis perhaps on beetleless. So you should pick something early in the book, presumably, like the ledgers— though ledgers to you scream "mind-numbing boredom," not niceness. Hmm. The list, then? Yes. The list.

Inconveniently, the book has shut itself, but you mumble "I'm opening it up to the list" and open it and the list is there. Funny how easy it is— it seems like a trick, like you're being lulled into a false sense of security, like any moment now the rug's gonna be pulled out from under you and there'll be screaming and beetles and walls caving in, but that isn't positive, Charlotte, that's paranoia. Just look at the list...

You can't read the list. You can get an impression of the list, by glancing at it and looking away fast, but if you want to know what's actually written there you're going to have to defocus and give yourself eye strain and that's all a lot of trouble when you have this key, don't you? This blatantly magyckal key. (No wonder Richard didn't want to tell you what it did: you are so rubbing this in his face later.) If you simply insert it into the page, like so, and turn it, and feel the whole room wrench 90 degrees, and hear Gil in the chair cry out incoherently— then the page folds open once, twice, four, eight times, draping over the furniture and floor. Some part of you is distinctly unsurprised when you step upon it, denting the spongey surface, and a titanic book cover collapses over you.

There is a flash of darkness, and a sensation— not unpleasant— of being flattened, which lasts until you stumble through the swinging doors of the Better Than Nothing. Or... no. No, it can't be the Nothing, this is Gil's head and he's never been— so this is some other bar, somewhere you've never been, which happens to share the same basic layout. Yeah. Whatever it is, though, it's nasty: grimy and tattered, populated by wispy memory-people, furniture that flickers away in the corner of your vision, and Gil. Excepting yourself, he's the only solid thing here. He's older than you saw him last, or at least taller, and his clothing is baggy and unmatching. Borrowed? He's hunched over at the bartop.

(1/2)

You walk over (this is untrue: you have the impulse to walk over and then you're there) and plop onto the empty stool next to him. "Hiya."

Gil (bewildered, disheveled, early 20s) is slow to react, owing possibly to the drained bottle next to him. "...Do I know you?"

"Uh..." Rubber band, snappage. "...no. No, I just wanted to— um— to say hello, and— do you know anything about a list? Like a list of... tasks. It's important. I think it's probably important." (Or why else would it be in the book?)

"I don't know what you're talking about, lady." He's a good liar: he keeps his voice steady, despite the slight slurring; he maintains an expression of plausible irritation. But his eyes dart downwards, and you follow them all the way to the corner of white paper in his pants pocket.

So he has it, but either it's a secret or he doesn't want to talk to you or both. Fine. You nod curtly, slide off the stool, and walk ('walk') back to the doors. Gil hunches back over into stasis.

Round #2.

>A roll might or not not be required based on the combo of [A] and [B] selected. [A4] doesn't need a [B] attached.

>[A1] You can handle this as yourself. He does know you, even if he thinks he doesn't, and maybe that'll have some subconscious influence.
>[A2] You can handle this as yourself, but... prettier. Or more gussied up, rather. Do your hair, do your makeup (if you can remember how after 3 years), be the, er, sugar water to catch beetles in.
>[A3] It's weird. Maybe you'd be better off sliding into one of the barflies— they don't seem to have faces, much less personalities, so it should be easy enough.
>[A4] God! Just assume Gil's perspective and grab the damn list out of your own damn pocket. It'll be fine.

>[B1] Just strike up a normal conversation. He's already drunk, or on his way there: once you get him comfortable broaching the topic of the list should be easy.
>[B2] Turn your charm up to full blast— yes, you *do* have charm, whatever Richard likes to say, and feminine wiles, and this Gil is drunk and lonely, and... you're not stupid, you know.
>[B3] Darts! Didn't he say he liked darts, way back? And that's a thing people do in bars, probably (you are not an expert dartswoman)? Maybe that'll lighten this oppressive atmosphere.
>[B4] Write-in. [Writing-in particular things to say or do will help any possible rolls.]

>>5097470
>[A1] You can handle this as yourself. He does know you, even if he thinks he doesn't, and maybe that'll have some subconscious influence.

>[B1] Just strike up a normal conversation. He's already drunk, or on his way there: once you get him comfortable broaching the topic of the list should be easy.

But Charlotte's version of normal. So let's start out asking some questions about him, like why he's in this bar drinking etc and bitch about our own life to him. Talk about in vague terms that we're here to help someone out, our vassal, and get progressively more awkward trying to explain things until we get defensive enough to start interrogating Gil.

>>5097494
>>5097470
Maybe start by buying him a drink. That always makes people like you!

>>5097470
>[A3] It's weird. Maybe you'd be better off sliding into one of the barflies— they don't seem to have faces, much less personalities, so it should be easy enough.
>[B3] Darts! Didn't he say he liked darts, way back? And that's a thing people do in bars, probably (you are not an expert dartswoman)? Maybe that'll lighten this oppressive atmosphere.

>>5097470
>A3
>B3
time to accidently murder someone with darts

>>5097470
>>[A3] It's weird. Maybe you'd be better off sliding into one of the barflies— they don't seem to have faces, much less personalities, so it should be easy enough.
>>[B3] Darts! Didn't he say he liked darts, way back? And that's a thing people do in bars, probably (you are not an expert dartswoman)? Maybe that'll lighten this oppressive atmosphere.

File: dartboard.png (2.78 MB, 1490x1490)

2.78 MB PNG

Rolled 3, 10, 11, 8, 7, 11 = 50 (6d20)

>>5097494
>A1, B1

>>5097507
>>5097618
>>5097864
>A3, B3

Called for incognito darts, though you're going to be talking to him regardless so I'll work in some of >>5097494.

Merry Christmas. Let's play darts!

>THE RULES

>You and Gil are playing cricket darts (or at least a bastardized dice-based version of it, pls don't ding me for accuracy). The goal of cricket darts is to hit the numbers 15-20 and the gullseye on the dartboard three times each, which "opens" the numbers. Once a number is opened, you may hit it again to score points (eg. hitting the 15 scores fifteen points), which continues until the other player also hits that number three times, "closing" it and removing it from the game.

>To win, you must hit every number at least three times *and* have more points than your opponent. If you hit every number three times but are behind in points, play continues until you have more points or your opponent closes every number and wins.

>Each number, excluding the gullseye, has a double and a triple segment. These segments double/triple both hits (so a double 15 counts for two hits to 15) and points (so a double open 15 scores thirty points).

>To simulate, we will be rolling 6d20s. The first 3d20s will be the numbers you hit: 15-20 will be, equivalently, 15-20. The second 3d20s will be the modifiers: 14-18 will be a double, and 19-20 will be a triple. If the number and the modifier roll match, that's a gullseye.

>Gil is way better at darts than you are, so he has both a higher chance to hit the right numbers and a higher chance to hit doubles and triples. Them's the breaks.

>Winning should be possible, if unlikely, so if you win you'll get a bonus. Losing will take off -1 ID for Charlotte's bruised ego. Overall, though, this is just for fun and won't have major narrative consequences.

>We'll play until somebody wins or I decide it's dragged on too long and roll the rest myself. I'll keep track of the points as best I can.

And if you don't want to read all that, here's your TL;DR:

>Please roll me one 6d20!
>(I will ask for 6d20s to be rolled multiple times throughout the day, so please keep a tab on the thread!)

Rolled 12, 8, 6, 15, 2, 8 = 51 (6d20)

>>5097958

File: darts 1.png (133 KB, 498x755)

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>>5097965
>GIL: 8, 10, Gullseye
>CHARLOTTE: Double 12, 8, 6

Gil adds +5 to any number below 15. His (11,11) roll scores him a gullseye. You fume.

>Please roll me one 6d20! (I may start asking for more 6d20s at one time to keep up the pace-- we'll see.)

Rolled 12, 6, 7, 13, 12, 16 = 66 (6d20)

>>5097971

I will leave the next roll to whoever gets a less sucky one.

Rolled 8, 17, 6, 12, 16, 8 = 67 (6d20)

>>5097973
>CHARLOTTE: 12, 6, double 7
>GIL... tbd

Rolling for Gil: presumably (you) were pissed enough to take two turns in a row.

>Please roll me 3 6d20s! The same ID can roll more than one 6d20, but please be considerate.

Rolled 6, 14, 9, 12, 20, 11 = 72 (6d20)

>>5097977
all 20's lets go

Rolled 14, 11, 13, 18, 14, 16 = 86 (6d20)

>>5097977

I gave a good berth of time for other rollers to roll so gonna roll again.

File: 11D9B793-2A65-4407-A46D-7(...).jpg (5 KB, 249x225)

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>>5098001

Not bad…

Rolled 1, 13, 19, 3, 4, 13 = 53 (6d20)

>>5097977
roll 2 electric boogaloo

>>5098001
very above average but I don't think it gets us any points

File: darts 2.png (137 KB, 498x755)

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Rolled 5, 7, 7, 5, 1, 9, 12, 1, 6, 9, 6, 2, 1, 13, 10, 3, 10, 5 = 112 (18d20)

>>5097977
>GIL: 13, double 17, 11

>>5097978
>>5098001
>>5098026
>CHARLOTTE: 6, double 14, 9
>CHARLOTTE: Double 14, 11, double 13
>CHARLOTTE: 1, 13, 19

Hey! You got a 19! You gloat extensively and put off your plans to browbeat Gil into cutting the number of required points down to 1 until later.

>Please roll me 3 12d20s!

AND

>Do you attempt to gaslight Gil into accepting your double 14s as "basically 15s"?

>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 9, 7, 18, 4, 7, 7, 7, 19, 9, 17, 5, 1 = 110 (12d20)

>>5098029
>12d20
we're getting serious, I see

also >N
we'd have to honor it going the other way too if we did that

Rolled 20, 9, 8, 3, 10, 2, 13, 6, 3, 4, 19, 14 = 111 (12d20)

>>5098029
>N

>>5098029
also gil rolled like complete ass right there
seriously 18d20 and it's only 2 total higher than my 12 lmao

Rolled 12, 15, 6 = 33 (3d20)

>>5098029
I don't understand darts.

Rolled 13, 1, 6, 10, 7, 3, 18, 1, 11, 10, 2, 19 = 101 (12d20)

>>5098058
>>5098029
OR ROLLING APPARENTLY.

File: darts 3.png (146 KB, 498x755)

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Rolled 10, 12, 7, 14, 4, 14, 10, 14, 3, 18, 2, 7, 10, 6, 9, 11, 1, 9, 11, 19, 7, 18, 3, 14, 4 = 237 (25d20)

>>5098029
>>5098035
>GIL: 10, 12, 12, 10, 6, 14, 17, 6, 11
One good hit in nine throws? Two 1s? Gil's so drunk he isn't even hitting the dartboard some of the time. You can now cheat with impunity, not that you, being pure and honest, would ever do so.

Also, 17 is now open for scoring points.

>>5098033
>>5098034
>>5098060
>CHARLOTTE: 9, double 7, 18, double 4, 7, 7
>CHARLOTTE: 20, 9, 8, 3, triple 10, 2
>CHARLOTTE: double 13, gullseye, 6, 10, 7, triple 3

You are now tied with Gil for # of hits. Genuinely impressive.

>Please roll me 3 15d20s!

AND

>[1] "Accidentally" give yourself some extra points on the board.
>[2] "Accidentally" upgrade your singles to doubles.
>[3] "Accidentally" upgrade your doubles to triples.
>[4] "Accidentally" hand Gil some badly weighted darts.
>[5] Claim that any shots on the line definitely count as the right number.
>[6] No! You are pure and honest!

Rolled 15, 16, 16, 12, 9, 10, 5, 14, 16, 8, 14, 5, 9, 7, 3 = 159 (15d20)

>>5098077
the numbers just keep going up!

>1
you know, by accident

Rolled 6, 4, 14, 6, 2, 1, 13, 3, 18, 10, 4, 10, 18, 17, 1 = 127 (15d20)

>>5098077

>1

Rolled 4, 3, 8, 14, 9, 10, 12, 8, 15, 13, 11, 7, 9, 19, 8 = 150 (15d20)

>>5098077
rolling again since it's late and been a while

File: gil #3.png (41 KB, 490x484)

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Rolled 19, 15, 11, 12, 12, 5, 17, 3, 17, 9, 2 = 122 (11d20)

Rolling Gil's extra dice... he needed 36 but I guess 25 is the cap!

File: gil #1.png (61 KB, 389x525)

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Rolled 10, 6, 9, 7, 2, 10, 7, 17, 19 = 87 (9d20)

>>5098163
Aaaand rolling your extra dice because I screwed up on the count.

File: darts 4.png (175 KB, 498x755)

175 KB PNG

Rolled 17, 13, 9, 17, 9, 7, 19, 8, 10, 14, 2, 6, 18, 4, 1, 7, 17, 16, 11, 9, 13, 11, 15, 13, 13 = 279 (25d20)

>>5098077
>>5098163
>GIL +5 canceled out by deteriorating motor functions: 10, 12, 7, 14, triple 4, 14, triple 10, 14, double 3, 18, 2, 7, triple 10, double 6, 9, 11, double 1, 9

>>5098084
>>5098091
>>5098150
>CHARLOTTE: 15, double 16, 16, 12, 9, 10, 5, 14, 16
>CHARLOTTE: 6, gullseye, 14, double 6, double 2, 1, 13, 3, 18
>CHARLOTTE: 4, 3, 8, 14, triple 9, 10, 12, double 8, triple 15

You go on a hot streak... plus your "accidental" addition of extra hits to the 17, 19, 20, and gullseye categories. Look at that! You have 16 points-- Gil has 0. If you can close out 17-20, you win (as you always knew you would).

>Please roll me 3 18d20s!
>Darts will continue into tomorrow; update will come tomorrow as well. (It's a holiday.) Merry Christmas!

Rolled 18, 10, 10, 19, 13, 7, 3, 6, 6, 20, 5, 3, 9, 8, 11, 11, 12, 16 = 187 (18d20)

>>5098180

Merry Christmas!

Rolled 20, 16, 5, 19, 7, 8, 7, 11, 10, 3, 3, 15, 8, 5, 11, 15, 11, 10 = 184 (18d20)

>>5098180

Rolled 14, 10, 12, 1, 9, 9, 2, 12, 20, 2, 2, 3, 2, 17, 17, 15, 6, 7 = 160 (18d20)

>>5098180
looks like we're closing out strong, hope I don't mess that up

merry christmas!

>>5098180
Merry Christmas.

Rolled 12, 7, 7, 12, 12, 17, 2, 19, 14, 19, 4, 2, 17, 20, 2, 9, 11, 19, 4, 4, 7, 6, 5, 2, 15 = 248 (25d20)

Goood morning! Rolling the rest of Gil's dice.

File: darts 5.png (204 KB, 498x755)

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Rolled 13, 17, 7, 11, 9, 16, 11, 13, 3, 14, 15, 9, 12, 8, 19, 6, 13, 17, 2, 17, 15, 1, 3, 19, 3 = 273 (25d20)

>>5098180
>>5098451
>GIL: 17, 13, 9, 17, 9, double 7, 19, triple 8, 10, 14, double 2, 6, triple 18, 4, 1, triple 7, 17, 16, 11, 9, 13, 11, 15, 13, double 13

>>5098189
>>5098201
>>5098210
>CHARLOTTE: triple 18, 10, 10, 19, 13, 7, 3, 6, double 6
>CHARLOTTE: 20, 16, double 5, 19, 7, 8, double 7, gullseye, gullseye
>CHARLOTTE: 14, 10, 12, 1, double 9, double 9, double 2, 12, 20

You're so close to victory that you can taste it: your back-to-back gullseyes have given you a sizable points advantage, meaning all you have to do is close out 17 with two more hits to win.

Do you

>[1] Earn the last two hits fair and square? (Roll an 18d20 with your vote.)
>[2] Get it over with-- this has lasted over an hour-- and "accidentally" give yourself the final two hits?

Rolled 11, 7, 9, 14, 12, 19, 15, 9, 13, 12, 17, 8, 13, 17, 7, 18, 10, 6 = 217 (18d20)

>>5098465
>[1] Earn the last two hits fair and square? (Roll an 18d20 with your vote.)

Rolled 2, 1, 17, 6, 9, 10, 15, 5, 16, 18, 5, 3, 5, 4, 14, 1, 17, 19 = 167 (18d20)

>>5098465

>1

Rolled 10, 13, 2, 14, 10, 4, 14, 6, 18, 7, 14, 2, 5, 2, 16, 11, 19, 3 = 170 (18d20)

>>5098465
>1
for the ID

>>5098474
>>5098484
>>5098489
In 27 throws, you hit the 17... once. Damnit! You still need one more hit.

>[1] Argue that your 2 hits actually landed on the 17. It did. Basically.
>[2] Oops! Your hand slipped as you were marking your 17 hit, coincidentally drawing a circle. You win!
>[3] One more round. Or three more rounds. Or nine more rounds. You know, whatever you need.

>>5098492
>>[3] One more round. Or three more rounds. Or nine more rounds. You know, whatever you need.

>>5098492
>[3] One more round. Or three more rounds. Or nine more rounds. You know, whatever you need.

Rolled 15, 3, 20, 6, 3, 14, 6, 6, 19, 2, 8, 17, 10, 3, 12, 14, 7, 9, 20, 13, 17, 14, 7, 9, 9 = 263 (25d20)

>>5098504
>>5098505
Very well! But be careful... Gil is sneaking up on you. He's also hit the 17 seven extra times, just to rub it in. Here's hoping you don't snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

Rolling his modifier dice.

File: darts 6.png (219 KB, 498x755)

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Rolled 12, 17, 12, 10, 15, 9, 10, 16, 1, 3, 1, 1, 17, 14, 2, 16, 1, 9 = 166 (18d20)

>>5098506
>GIL: Double 13, 17, triple 7, 11, 9, double 16, 11, 13, triple 3, 14, 15, double 9, 12, 8, 19, double 6, 13, 17, triple 2, 17, double 15, double 1, 7, triple 9, 9

>>5098474
>>5098484
>>5098489
>CHARLOTTE: 11, double 7, 9, 14, double 12, 19, double 15, 9, 13
>CHARLOTTE: double 2, 1, 17, 6, 9, double 10, 15, double 5, triple 16
>CHARLOTTE: 10, 13, gullseye, 14, 10, 4, double 14, triple 6, 18

Pointswise, you're scarily close: 146 - 137. If you don't hit that final 17 soon, Gil could overtake you and make your life very difficult.

>Please roll me 1 18d20. We'll be taking it slower as the end approaches.

Rolled 6, 20, 6, 15, 16, 6, 12, 11, 2, 12, 9, 19, 1, 9, 4, 19, 4, 16 = 187 (18d20)

>>5098519

>>5098526
Goddammit

File: darts 7.png (220 KB, 498x755)

220 KB PNG

Rolled 20, 13, 11, 17, 13, 1, 12, 10, 13, 3, 5, 10, 17, 19, 19, 4, 11, 12 = 210 (18d20)

>>5098519
>GIL: 12, 17, 12, double 10, double 15, 9, double 10, 16, 1

>>5098526
>CHARLOTTE: 6, 20, triple 6, 15, 6, triple 12, 11, double 2

You hate Ellery, Horse Face, the sun, Enid Tosh, and the number 17. When Gil hits it again, despite being barely able to stand, you contemplate hating Gil too.

>Please roll me 1 18d20.

Rolled 16, 10, 20, 12, 10, 7, 3, 10, 12, 5, 16, 5, 17, 11, 15, 13, 3, 14 = 199 (18d20)

>>5098535
Come on, laws of probability!

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>>5098535
>GIL: 20, 13, 11, gullseye, triple 13, triple 1, 12, 10, 13

>>5098537
>CHARLOTTE: 16, double 10, 20, double 12, 10, double 7, 3, 10, 12

Gil hits the 20 and the bullseye, scoring hits he needs. You definitely hate Gil.


>Please roll me 1 18d20.

Rolled 19, 1, 6, 6, 4, 19, 11, 1, 15, 9, 9, 11, 20, 2, 16, 9, 11, 9 = 178 (18d20)

>>5098540
<weeping internally>

>>5098541
...maybe we can gaslight ourselves into thinking we let him win intentionally?

Rolled 2, 1, 13, 16, 6, 3, 19, 12, 2, 17, 3, 10, 14, 16, 6, 6, 12, 19 = 177 (18d20)

>>5098540
...And I forgot to roll for Gil. One sec.

>>5098542
Charlotte is an expert in mental gymnastics... she'll figure it out. But you need to lose before that can happen.

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Rolled 11, 18, 15, 5, 11, 1, 16, 7, 3, 20, 2, 13, 16, 15, 14, 15, 11, 10 = 203 (18d20)

>>5098545
>GIL: Double 2, 1, 13, double 16, gullseye, 3, 19, gullseye, triple 2

>>5098541
>CHARLOTTE: 19, 1, 6, triple 6, 4, double 19, 11, 1, 15

You want to kill the inventor of darts. You are going to throw the inventor of darts into your snake pit. You are going to force Gil to throw the inventor of darts into your snake pit and you are going to make him watch.

Gil might just need two 20s. You refuse to calculate the points.

>Please roll me 1 18d20.

Rolled 16, 15, 11, 11, 18, 2, 8, 15, 5, 3, 11, 7, 9, 20, 19, 15, 5, 11 = 201 (18d20)

>>5098551

Rolled 12, 2, 10, 18, 18, 11, 3, 15, 16, 14, 9, 8, 20, 20, 10, 3, 14, 16 = 219 (18d20)

>>5098551
>>5098559
Gil doesn't hit the 20. You don't hit the 17. Nothing changes. You're pretty sure Monty is right and you are in hell.

>Please roll me 1 18d20.

>>5098562
Maybe I'll let somebody else roll. The laws of statistics seem to have a beef with me,

Rolled 16, 16, 13, 3, 2, 9, 2, 19, 14, 10, 8, 1, 2, 6, 15, 4, 6, 1 = 147 (18d20)

>>5098562
I hope people don't play this irl
well I guess they can aim at 17 irl

Rolled 13, 12, 8, 11, 11, 11, 19, 18, 20, 4, 13, 14, 18, 5, 1, 11, 10, 5 = 204 (18d20)

>>5098562

Rolled 20, 18, 7, 18, 19, 10, 11, 2, 1, 16, 1, 8, 16, 15, 10, 11, 15, 3 = 201 (18d20)

>>5098551

I know this doesn't count but rolling anyways.

>>5098629
Honestly you think we would have hit it.

Rolled 11, 19, 17, 13, 17, 2, 4, 9, 19, 6, 6, 15, 6, 19, 16, 11, 19, 5, 10, 6, 9, 19, 12, 17, 15 = 302 (25d20)

>>5098551
Honestly. Shake the bad rolls out.

>>5098635
There we are, looks like the jam is cleared up and they're coming out 17s now.

Rolled 13, 2, 13, 1, 5, 11, 19, 17, 15, 9, 3, 10, 10, 13, 18, 1, 19, 17, 18, 9, 8, 3, 15, 9, 6 = 264 (25d20)

>>5098605
You throw...

>>5098625
...And throw...

>>5098629
...And throw...

>>5098635
...And after 22(!!!) more turns, you hit the 17 again. This may be on account of you shaking with rage, throwing all the darts to the floor, throwing darts in Gil's direction on purpose, etc. Or it may be some cruel god spiting you, personally. It's probably that. Come to think of it, isn't this in Gil's head? So really, isn't he controlling all of this? So he's cheating. He's the one cheating. You hate Gil.

But do you win?

...Maybe! Unfortunately for you, Gil took some turns in there too...

>Rolling Gil's dice: 108d20.

Rolled 6, 17, 14, 7, 4, 17, 4, 12, 7, 14, 2, 3, 6, 15, 12, 14, 14, 5, 8, 10, 2, 3, 4, 6, 4 = 210 (25d20)

>>5098678

Rolled 9, 17, 11, 8, 1, 17, 7, 12, 11, 9, 6, 9, 4, 18, 12, 6, 5, 8, 6, 9, 1, 14, 16, 17, 12 = 245 (25d20)

>>5098680
>50 rolls in and there's zero 20s

I'm glad the Drowned dice are equal-opportunity so far.

Rolled 3, 7, 4, 10, 13, 11, 12, 17, 18, 18, 6, 4, 14, 11, 16, 19, 6, 19, 16, 5, 3, 17, 1, 12, 17 = 279 (25d20)

>>5098681
It doesn't even matter, because we're in the modifier half of the rolls, but I'm gonna finish this out.

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Rolled 18, 3, 15, 5, 19, 4, 19, 13 = 96 (8d20)

>>5098682
>100 rolls in, zero 20s

File: CONGRATS.gif (515 KB, 400x266)

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>>5098605
>>5098625
>>5098629
>>5098635
>>5098678
>>5098680
>>5098681
>>5098682
>>5098685

OKAY! THE ENTIRE BACK HALF OF THE DARTS GAME CONSISTS OF

>YOU SCORING ZERO 17s
>GIL SCORING ZERO 20s

UNTIL YOU SCORE ONE 17 ON THROW **#48** OF THE STANDOFF AND WIN*

gg.

*There's the whole matter of points, but I am going to assume that you score more 20s than Gil scores 17s and still come out on top there-- or alternately that both you and Gil forget that points exist

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>>5098690
> THROW **#48**
This is *your* Throw #48, to be clear-- combining you and Gil it took almost 100 throws total.

>>5098690
And as you are the TRUE AND HONEST WINNER of this horrible accursed game, and in recognition of this ridiculous struggle, I will bestow upon Charlotte this permanent bonus:

>[BONUS GAINED: Lucky Seventeen]
>[A roll of 17 always counts as a pass of the DC, regardless of what the DC is.]

If you roll a 17 and I forget about this bonus, you guys are liable for reminding me. I will write the update... tonight for sure, maybe earlier if I feel like it. GG again!

>>5098696
yes true and honest winner
we definitely didn't cheat in an earlier round at all
still what a horrifying game

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>>5098942

I didn't really get the rules. I was just having fun rolling dice like a boss.

Writing.

>>5098942
You didn't ""cheat,"" you made several TRUE and HONEST mistakes in the scoring that coincidentally went in your favor. That's your story and by God you're sticking with it.

>>5098949
based

>"""A way to lighten this oppressive atmosphere"""

You should be able to walk straight back over, right? He won't remember a thing... right? Since he isn't Gil. He can't be. The real Gil's been shot; he can't string two words together, much less (implicitly) tell you to piss off. So this one is— to put on your Richard hat— some kind of imitation, a simulacrum, a figurine wedged into a shoddy diorama, hollow and static unless someone comes by to animate him. Or to ditch Richard's stuffy argot (ha-ha), this is a Gil-as-he-was, which is Gil like a cicada shell is a cicada or like a biography is its author, and gosh isn't it easier to string words together when you don't properly exist? Or maybe it's just because Richard isn't here to shut you up.

If Richard *were* here, he'd tell you to stop fellating yourself (whatever that meant) and get on with it. You declared Round #2 and you've just been standing there. Well— well actually, you've been observing, and Gil hasn't moved a muscle, which supports all your theories. Though you can't explain *how* he gets animated, exactly. Is there always a shardlet of Gil in there, and you're bringing it out of dormancy? Or is it a wholly empty shell, and your attention forces Gil to inhabit it, like how you inhabited your old self back there?

Does it actually matter, or are you just spinning your wheels because you're privately worried about being dead wrong, and stalking over there only for Gil to turn a faintly incredulous gaze on you and ask why you're back? Um... no. No, it actually matters, which is why you—

You know, it might actually be better if you just grabbed one of these guys— you like the look of this wraithy one over here, you're not sure if it's a man or a woman but it's awful tall— if you grabbed one of these guys, really grabbed it, and sort of manhandled it over yourself, which feels like an ice bath, especially when your own skin goes all vaporous on contact... if you did that, and then coagulated yourself back into a person shape, though "a person shape" is about all you can say. You appear to have a face and hair and limbs and other person things— what sort is impossible to say. You might be awful tall. You also might not be.

It's a bit uncomfortable.

>[-1 ID: 7/(9)]

It's even more uncomfortable when you sit next to Gil, who continues to stare blankly into space. "Gil," you hiss. "Gil. Gil! Hello? Can you— you can't hear me." Or there's nothing awake to hear, and you're not— not what? Not real enough? Not alive enough? Not human enough? You don't register as a conscious observer: you register as scenery. Great.

(1/3?)

Well, it's fixable enough. Look at the hand you probably have: might you possibly be holding a drink? It is a bar. Can't you take this almost-certainly-a-drink and gently pour it over Gil's head? Yes you can. And watch how he springs to life, red-faced and sputtering and dry, very very dry, because the gulf between almost-certainly and definitely is prodigious and there never was a drink in your hand. He spins towards you and with his searching gaze pins chunks of you down: you are young, and female, and not in fact tall. But only those. He doesn't recognize you.

Fortunately, it seems to be enough to settle his nerves, and he settles back down on his stool. You clear your throat before he can forget about you. "Can I buy you a drink?"

There's a long silence— maybe he did forget about you, even if he's looking right at you. Damnit! "...Me?"

Oh. What? "Yes, you— there's nobody else here, idiot. Who else would I mean? The bartender? Um, barkeep—" The bartender, who bears a passing resemblance to Jacques, hovers before you. "—get this man whatever drink he wants. Put it on my tab."

Gil's bright red. Maybe you shouldn't have led with the 'idiot?' "Um, thanks, but I don't—"

"What? You don't want another drink? You've only had /one/— c'mon, that's sobriety, basically."

He's jittering the bottle against the bartop. "No, that's not— I just, um— is there a menu?"

"A menu? It's a bar, it doesn't have a—" Gee, even his ears are red. "How'd you order whatever that is? Is that a beer?"

"Probably?" He sees your face. "I don't... drink. Um, I don't have a habit of it, I mean, I clearly am— do you want something from me?"

"Barkeep, I want two—" (What is the name of the cocktail?) "—you know what it is. Quickly, thanks. Why would I want something from you?"

"Because I don't know who you are," Gil says slowly, "and you're sitting next to me, and you're spending money on me. Lady, you're a con artist or you have something to sell me."

"Something to—!?" You sit upright. "How are *those* the only two options? Whatever happened to the virtue of— of munificence? Of, as they say, 'spreading the wealth?' Or—"

"Okay, you're a con artist, you sell shit, or you're trying to pat yourself on the ass. Which one?"

"—/or/ perhaps I'm being sociable? Perhaps I saw you across the bar, and I thought to myself that you seemed like a person I might... enjoy the company of? In time? If perhaps I got to know you, and we had a nice conversation, and...?"

He laughs tonelessly. "Lady, I'll save you the trouble. I don't have any money. I don't know what the goddamn even counts for money, here, but whatever it is I don't have it. I got this—" meaning the beer— "free, cause the guy saw I was new down here and felt sorry for poor me. Got the clothes borrowed. Leech on someone who isn't a charity case, will you?"

God! What a miserable bastard! "Oh, you're new down here?"

(2/3?)

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"Thought it was obvious."

(Now that you listen for it, it is: his words have the characteristic garbling of someone unused to speech. You'd taken it for an artifact of the circumstances.) "Not terribly. You blend in very well."

Gil looks brooding and doesn't answer. You clear your throat. "What's your name, by the way?"

"I don't see how it's your business," he mutters. You don't have to fake your look of wounded indignation; he catches your eye and softens a fraction. "...Gilb- Gil. Gil. That's one 'l.'"

"One 'l,'" you say thoughtfully. "Is that short for something?"

"No." He stares straight ahead and, despite your best efforts, continues to do so until two pink cocktails are deposited in front of you. You slide one over to Gil. "There you go. Drink up."

Gloomily, he takes it. "It makes no *sense.* How does it stay in the glass?"

"God." You can't help your snicker. "You really /are/ new. I suppose you're also worried you've died?"

'Yes,' from his stricken expression. "Well, it doesn't matter why it stays in the glass, and it doesn't matter if you're dead, though you probably aren't. Since it does stay, and you're here either way, so what's the point? Drink up."

"...It has an umbrella."

"The umbrella makes it taste better, Gil."

He removes the umbrella and with one finger pushes it towards you. "Okay. I'll drink your girl drink. If that's what you want."

"It's not a /girl/— it's pink because it tastes like—" Gil has held up a finger to 'shush' you and is taking a huge swig. "Um, it's more of a 'sipping'—"

Too little, too late: he has already exploded into ragged coughing, spraying his cocktail over the bar and his clothes (a shame— it stains). He is a shade approaching purple. "—more of a 'sipping' drink," you continue blithely, and suck yours down to demonstrate. "It has a kick."

"You- y-" He seems to be choking on water, not just cocktail— he can't have been drowned a month. "T- that's- that's goddamn /paint stripper!/ What the fuck?"

"Should've kept your umbrella in," you say. "But keep at it, will you? You'll like it better when you drink more of it."

He glares at you. You smile winsomely back at him.

>[A1] This Gil sucks! Wherever your dutiful retainer went, you want him back— if you ditch the disguise, maybe he'll get the hint? ...Maybe?
>[A2] With the way things are going, it might be best to preserve some anonymity, actually. Don't change a thing.
>[A3] Write-in.

>[B] Any topics of conversation while you play darts? (Write-in. OPTIONAL.)

update too long, filler options, darts in part 2, bls understand

>>5099115
>[A2] With the way things are going, it might be best to preserve some anonymity, actually. Don't change a thing.
>[B] Get him talking about his past. Try to get him to remember his fight with Otis to tie these two memories together.

>>5099115
>[A1] This Gil sucks! Wherever your dutiful retainer went, you want him back— if you ditch the disguise, maybe he'll get the hint? ...Maybe

>[B] Ask about his plans for the future now that he's down here. Dead or not, he has to do something with himself. In a sense, he's now free from whatever was stopping him in his past life.

>>5099115
>A2

>B
ask if our girl drink was too tough for his delicate mouth

ask if Gil really isn't short for Gilligan

ask why he can't throw a 20

>>5099115
>[A2] With the way things are going, it might be best to preserve some anonymity, actually. Don't change a thing.
>[B] Get him talking about his past. Try to get him to remember his fight with Otis to tie these two memories together.

>>5099128
>>5099139
>>5099213
>>5099896
Called for [A2] + the write-ins and writing shortly.

>Cont.

"Anyhow," you continue, "It shouldn't give you too much trouble, since you're such a tough guy, and this is just a dumb girl drink. Can I have your umbrella if you don't want it?"

Gil doesn't respond, except to tighten his mouth at the corners; you take his umbrella and tuck it behind your ear. "That's not even a drink," he mutters finally. "That's goddamn nail polish remover."

"It's called liquor, Gil." You grab his glass (miraculously unspilled) and take a pointed sip. "And it tastes like fruits, so what's the matter? Do explain. Are you not girly enough to stomach this? And you had a sort of allergic reaction to the—"

"I'm not girly." (He also isn't listening at all, apparently.) "I don't know why you— it's not my fault your drink fucking sucks. Are you out here looking for a fight? Is that why you sat next to me? Go find some other asshole for that. I don't get into fights."

A-ha. Ahaha. You lean in. "Because you're a pussy?"

He tenses, snatches his glass back from you, and gulps a mouthful of cocktail down— his mouth contorts, but he manages not to cough. "I'm not a pussy, I just don't want to deck a lady. Piss off."

"This is my seat, and I'll have you know I'd kick your ass. In a fight or a drinking contest or anything."

"Anything," he scoffs.

Maybe not at... beetle things, or at fixing stuff, or whatever, but none of that's even relevant. "Anything. Try me."

"Okay. Go fuck yourself. We're playing darts." He scrambles off his stool, glass in hand. "You, me, here, now, 8 foot oche, cricket. I don't give a shit if you can't throw darts underwater."

"I think you can," you say mildly.

"That's idiotic. There's no goddamn logic to—" Gil throws his hands up. "Whatever! Whatever. It's magic, or I'm hallucinating it all anyway, so— where's the goddamn dartboard?"

-

You are standing eight feet in front of a dartboard, possessing both a handful of darts and the brand-new knowledge of how to play darts (or "cricket" darts: apparently there's a lot of games you can play with them), except— you feel a bit woozy— except that you didn't go find the dartboard, or borrow any darts, or have darts explained in any capacity. You're positive you didn't. You were just there, and now you're here.

Gil doesn't seem to have noticed: he is squatting nonchalantly near the scoreboard, which claims that he's already hit the gullseye. "Stop squeezing the life out of it," he says.

"Out of—" You're clutching a single dart between your fingers. "Hey. I don't need help."

He laughs at that harder than you'd expect— until you glance over and see his glass half-empty. Lightweight. "Okay then. Shoot."

Your dart lands quivering in the "12" segment. Which should count, you think, but according to the rules in your head does not. Neither does the forthcoming "8" or "6." Gil springs up to take your place at the scoring line (the "ocky"?): scowling, you replace him by the wall.

(1/5?)

He racks up several more hits before you land your first, a 19, and gloat in his face— though it rings a bit hollow when he barely responds. He's been growing sort of weird, and maybe it's the liquor, and maybe it's baseless paranoia, but when he's all pale and walking all jerky and his eyes have clouded up it's hard not to worry—

"...I feel like shit," he mumbles, and drops his fistful of darts. (He has missed eight of his last nine throws: two of them are embedded in the wall around the dartboard.) Turning, he staggers a few steps, falls to his knees, and vomits. You watch not out of particular interest but out of a terrible foreboding.

And when he paces away, it becomes justified: the vomit is pink, soupy, and littered with the corpses of beetles. God! Are things breaking down already? Did you do something wrong? Richard told you to be involved, and you're involved, so— is it the darts? Is something wrong with darts? Besides it being an awful game for idiot shadies. Come on, what would Richard say? Is it that it goes in cycles? You take your turn and throw, then Gil takes his turn and throws, and on and on, no variation, no stimulation, just the two of you trapped in a loop, no better than sitting and doing nothing at all— God! He walked you straight into a trap! But what can you do now, stop playing darts?

Oh, it sounds easy. But you can't think of a sensible reason to stop that won't raise suspicion, maybe breaking the memory even more, or make you look like a whinging coward, and what if Gil remembers you being a whinging coward? And you also said you could kick his ass, and if you slink away not having done so... no. The sensible thing is to win as fast as possible.

You speed the winning along by marking a few extra hits on the scoreboard. (This is, of course, in the interest of Gil's safety.) For his part, Gil is looking more alert, though he still won't talk much. He's concentrating, you tell yourself. As are you. You start to improve in your aiming, even landing a set of improbable back-to-back gullseyes: you restrain the gloating, this time, as it wouldn't go appreciated. Or so you tell yourself until you spot the scoreboard.

"Gil!" you trill. "You better hurry! All I have left is... 17... oh, gee." Something is moving under his skin of his face. It's impossible to say if he's noticed or not: he stares vacantly at the dartboard, having just landed a 17 of his own. "Listen, we'll just wrap this up quick, then I can—"

In the next nine rounds, you hit the 17 once, which you are prepared to chalk up to high stakes and a quavering wrist. But it's fine! Gil hasn't cracked open yet, the room (such as it is) isn't dissolving yet, and all you have to do is hit one number one more time. It's no harder to hit than any other number. Positive thinking.

(2/5?)

In the nine rounds after, you hit the 17 zero times. Many things are moving under the skin of Gil's face. He has nearly caught up to you despite this: all he needs are two 20s. He throws and cannot hit the 20. You throw and cannot hit the 17. Gil has hit the 17 ten times.

It has been half an hour. Maybe more, or less: you're not sure how time works, or if it exists, or if it matters. Another fifteen rounds have passed, and you have not hit the 17, and Gil has not hit the 20. Gil is low and swollen with beetles, so he gets an excuse, but all you can figure is that the 17 ceases to exist when you take your turn. Or it swaps positions with another number just before your dart pierces it. You'd figure this was Gil cheating his slacks off if he wasn't equally unable to score— so it's not him winning that's the goal. It's the darts going on forever. Or at least until Gil and the memory (and you) burst like overripe fruit. Good!

But it's still Gil making this happen: it can't be anyone else. This is his head. "Gil," you say. "Gilbert. Gilligan. Gillington?" No reaction. He's an egg sac. You could pop him with a dart. "Gil, let me win. Please."

...Maybe he isn't the one to appeal to. He isn't even Gil: at most, he's an extension of him, same as the dartboard and the darts and the cocktails (and their paper umbrellas) and the bar and Not-Jacques the bartender and every other damn thing in here. It's all him. Which you will admit is a bizarre and discomfiting thought, but you will set that aside because it's also a useful thought: "GIL!" you scream to everything. "I KNOW YOU CAN UNDERSTAND THIS!"

You don't know, but you don't have much other choice. "STOP SABOTAGING ME! THAT'S A BITCH MOVE! I'M TRYING TO HELP!"

What were you expecting? A message to appear on the walls? At least a vague feeling of acknowledgement, you guess, but nothing comes. "I DON'T EVEN— WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO— THIS IS STUPID! DO YOU NOT TRUST ME, o-r..." When you say it seems obvious. God! He really doesn't, does he? Broken or not broken, he thinks you're in it for... something. You're a con artist or a saleswoman or a slave owner. He doesn't think you could possibly just— "Gil, you have to— YOU HAVE TO TRUST ME, OKAY, YOU HAVEN'T GOT ANYONE ELSE! I MEAN IT! IT'S ME OR Richard but you can't— Richard isn't someone to— IT'S JUST ME. AND I'M TRYING TO FIX YOU. SO LET ME HIT THE GODDAMN 17."

That's all you have in you. (And your throat hurts.) Gil is writhing and huddled on the ground. You thrust your shoulders back, pivot around to the dartboard, and throw without conscious deliberation. You know it hits the 17 before it thunks in mightily, and you-

(3/5?)

-

"So what's the plan?" you say, are saying, to Gil, who is upright and unbeetled and seems drunk. But a normal sort of drunk. "I mean... you've gotten over the shock, I hope, so you have to have realized you'll be here for the rest of your life. However long that is. If you don't get dismembered or eaten or hypothetically turned into bugs, you're not gonna age."

"...So I heard." Gil rubs his head. "Because I already died? So I'm at the age I died at forever?"

"No! I mean... maybe, but nobody's been able to prove it, and it's depressing. So you may as well believe the alternative, which is that you're a perfect ageless being now, you're alive, you have a whole... hypothetically, at least a year or two ahead of you, so... what? If you have nothing to do you'll go nuts, in a literal sense. What do you do with yourself?"

"You ask a lotta questions, lady." The tone is more factual than judgmental. "Look, I've got it covered... see here."

He fishes out a list— the list!— and slides it onto the bartop. "I'm not s'pposed to say anything about it, but that rule's fucking— it's fucking stupid, right? I've got this whole innish... inishi... goddamnit. Initit..."

"Initiation."

"Innashon. Yeah. I'm all wrapped up in stuff already, so I'm keeping busy. Even if the stuff's fucking stupid. I mean, it's all... says it's to test guts and loyalness and stuff, but I think it's fucking suicide. Look at this one. 'Get shot in the head.'"

You pause. "What?"

That can't be right. Unless it's metaphorical, or a trick prompt, assessing for survival instinct or lack thereof... but no, look at the list: 'GET SHOT IN THE HEAD' is scrawled on there in dripping red ink. You hope it's ink. Gil looks suitably concerned, at least. "Yeah, I know! What a moronic... what are you supposed to do, hand someone a gun? Nobody gives a shit about you enough to shoot you. It's just—" He gets a canny look. "Hang on."

You tense. This is all very, very Ellery, specifically 'Ellery just before he stabbed you through the sternum.' Your nerves aren't eased when Gil pulls out a pistol: a nice one, with an ivory grip, not that that'd help getting shot. "Careful with this, it's a—" He considers his words. "—an heirloom. You know how to work a gun?"

There's no good answer to this. "Uh."

"Well, you just take the safety off, and cock the hammer, and— you don't have to aim if it's point-blank. Just point and shoot, huh? Aces." He sits back down on the stool.

The pistol is heavy in your hand. "...You want to get shot?"

"In the head. I have to be, see? It's on the list." He fidgets. "It's just what's supposed to happen to me."

Out of the frying pan, into the fire? You bite your cheek.

(Choices next.)

>[A] God Himself (Itself???) could descend from the heavens (ascend from the dirt???) and tell you to shoot Gil in the head and you would not shoot Gil in the head. Hell no. You're not letting that sit on your pristine conscience. So instead, you...
>>[1] Gently attempt to convince Gil that shooting him is a bad idea. (How? Write-in.)
>>[2] Less gently yell at Gil, or more precisely the bit of Gil inside this Gil. (What insults do you go with? Write-in.)
>>[3] Take the pistol and slide it in your boot and refuse to give it back.
>>[4] Snatch up the list, ignore all protests, and find a less dumb thing to help with.
>>[5] Write-in.

>[B1] The ledgers.
>[B2] The diagram.
>[B3] The... leaves?
>[B4] Pick up all the paper scraps on the floor and try and put them back together. God save you.
>[B5] The blue writing.
>[B6] The chart with all the boxes.

"Talk about the past" write-in will be bundled with the next update-- "Gilligan" also if I can fit it in. Couldn't work them in smoothly, sorry.

>>5100188
>[A4]
>[B2]

>>5100188
>A4
>B2

uh technically pat already shot him in the head
so he can just cross that one off
we should cross it off for him
tell him getting shot in the head made him forget he was shot in the head
which is true

>>5100179
>>[A] God Himself (Itself???) could descend from the heavens (ascend from the dirt???) and tell you to shoot Gil in the head and you would not shoot Gil in the head. Hell no. You're not letting that sit on your pristine conscience. So instead, you...

Mime a pistol with your fingers, point at him and go "Bang". Nobody said he had to get shot in the head with a real gun, he got so focused about what was written down that he forgot about what wasn't written.

>>5100303
This is a fragment of Gil that only existed for a period of time that preceded his head getting shot. Izza memory. Sort of. But also him.

Anyways, THIS Gil hasn't gotten shot yet.

>>5100188
>>[B3] The... leaves?

If we're voting on what to do next.

>>5100209
>>5100303
>>5100836
Called for [A4] + crossing the list off yourself + finger gun + [B2].

>>5100836
You are. I'd like to wrap this up within the thread, so I'm trying to cut down on extraneous updates... we'll see how successful that is, but still.

Okay... this is cripplingly ironic given what I just said here >>5100944 and my promises that this thread would suffer less delays than the last, but I'm not going to get to a stopping point and I have an early drive in the rain tomorrow (so I can't pull another 4:30 AM bedtime). No update tonight, yes update tomorrow, I swear on my mom I'll pull a double-update day the next chance I get to compensate. I feel worse about this than you guys do, probably.

>>5101002
it's all good.

>BANG

It's a good thing you know what's happening: you could spot that crazed glint from a thousand paces. Gil has whipped himself into a State. And yes— Ellery's State ended with a knife in your heart, and your mother's States resulted often in her attempting to leap out the window, or brandishing a knife of her own (until Aunt Ruby took to pre-slicing her meals), but both of those were due to simple mismanagement. Nobody knew how to deal with Mother, back then, and you failed to recognize Ellery's State until he lunged. It's a mistake you plan to rectify now.

You don't deal with a State with an argument, a lesson you have learned through years of hard experience. Logic, no matter how sound, can't penetrate the veil it casts; impassioned pleading will just inflame them. No, as disgusting as it makes you feel, you have to work within it— not feeding it, that leads to window-jumping quick, but speaking carefully, changing the subject, and mitigating what damage you can.

"Yes, you're probably right," you say. "You are supposed to be shot. I mean, it says so right there."

Gil's face loosens into an uncharacteristic dopey grin. "Right? I-I don't even want to be shot, really, it's just that I have to be. It's on the list."

On the list your ass— you're sure he really did go through some convoluted hazing process for something-or-other, but suicide couldn't have been a part of it. "Yes! Though I notice that it doesn't specify you be shot by a bullet."

"But I-I-I was shot by a bullet." His eyebrows furrow. "Um, I—"

"...Gil?"

"I-I mean... I mean, I'm supposed to be. With a bullet." His look of befuddlement clears. "I don't know why they didn't specify. Guess it was an oversight. But I know I'm supposed to."

Was that him? For a second? Or wishful thinking? "But think about it! Maybe it was an oversight, but shouldn't you be exploiting every loophole you've got? They're already making you do all this stuff— they can't complain if you follow the rules they set. So, look, what if I did this?" You point two fingers at his forehead and mime pulling a trigger. "Bang."

"...Did what?"

"Um, I shot you. With my hand. Bang." You do it again. "You've been shot in the head. Here, look, I'll—"

Gil watches dumbfoundedly as you grab the list from his hand, rip "GET SHOT IN THE HEAD" off the bottom, crumple it into a little ball, and toss it over his head. "You did it!" you crow. "Congratulations! I ought to buy you another drink. What's on the rest of here, anyhow?"

Most of the list doesn't make sense: it's packed with references to places and people you've never heard of, plus Richard-y technical jargon. You poke at one of them. "What's an ornithopter?"

"Oh..." Gil rubs his forehead. (The State has evaporated off him like frost at noon.) "It's a dumb little machine— it flies, uh, by flapping wings. A kid could make one."

(1/3)

"So why's it on here with..." You squint. "...'Hot-wiring the Marquess' floatboat?' I don't know what 'hot-wiring' is," (or the Marquess, or floatboats,) "but it sounds like a crime. Actually, most of these sound like—"

"Because I told the guys I built a couple— you know— back when I was a kid. And I guess they found that real funny." Gil does not appear to find that real funny.

"Oh. So why can't you just build another?"

"I can. Read it again."

You look slightly to the left of the bullet point. "Build an ornithopter with real feathers. Oh. So you have to tangle with the Court?"

"Unless you know where to find a lot of dead birds down here." He rubs his nose. "I don't know anything about them 'cept they're some fucked-up cult. Oh, and one of them called me a 'twerp,' which... do they all read off the same manual? Whatever. In any case, I have no interest in begging, borrowing, or stealing from them, but I guess that's sort of the—"

You nod sagely. "So it'd be useful if I got you some feathers? Or a whole orni-whazzit?"

"Well, I—"

"Fantastic!" The key's already in your hand. "I'll be right back."

-

Your parlor, if that's ever what it was, is changing: you step out of the closet onto what you think is green shag carpet until you realize it's a thick coating of moss. Odd. But the book seems identical, and for better or worse, Gil does too: motionless, mute, but clinging to life. (He's still blinking. You checked.) "I beat you at darts," you say, and are fairly sure this is true. "Just so you know."

Gil evinces no reaction. You purse your lips and turn: you need an ornithopter, don't you? Or feathers, but you haven't any idea where to find those, while— you thought the word sounded familiar— yes! There's a few new beetle-holes in the diary page, but the relevant sentence is intact: "I have also started on a better ornethopter..." This is how it comes together. You only have to go back in there, make him finish the thing, and—

But you can't do that until Otis is taken care of. And you don't have any way to do that yet, you think. So... so it's like you're turning a big knot around in your hands, looking for the right loose end to pull on. Except the knot's also being eaten by beetles, or something. But it's okay! It's all good. You are going to go ahead, and pick one of these other ones by random (close your eyes) the diagram! yes, and stick your magyckal key in there (how do you convince Richard to let you keep this?), and— it swings open like a trapdoor. You fall, as you do always, and when you land you are different.

(2/3)

Not terribly different, just different: your hair is down to your chin, not your shoulders; you are wearing some manner of flowing robe; you have a sword at your hip which, upon a brief inspection, is not The Sword. Also upon a brief inspection, you rather like the robe. It has pockets! Richard could take a hint.

You are so preoccupied with said pockets that you entirely fail to miss the gun to your head: it takes several beats and an awkward 'ahem' before you glance up. Oh! It's Gil. (Always with the gun, him.) And he looks... normal, actually: moussed hair, suspenders, pinstripes, just like that crumpled skin in the beetle manse. This can't have been too long before that.

"Goddammit, lady, put your hands up!" An unlit cigarette is clamped between Gil's teeth, while— God, what is that? Some manner of contraption is strapped to his chest, with wires leading up to another doohickey near his ear. You put your hands up obligingly. "Who the hell are you?! How did you get in? I locked this ticky-tacky shitheap down after me, I swear to—" (Something garbled is coming through the doohickey.) "—no, I didn't get goddamn tracked... you!" He shoves the muzzle of his pistol against your forehead. "You're not one of their goons, are you?"

"Whose goons?"

"Don't play stupid, lady. You're in their locus." Gil sees that this doesn't help. "Headspace. Don't lie. If you lie I'll shoot, okay?"

>[1] No, you're not a Headspace goon! You're, um, a... (Write-in, else [Roll.])
>[2] Yes, you are a Headspace goon! Mainly, you want to call his bluff, but this could be a useful cover. Or at least an interesting one.
>[3] Huh. This Gil is awfully close to yours, the proper one, except that he doesn't seem to be all stuttery or, er, beetle-y. If you told him who you really were, and what's really going on, maybe he could be the... "loose end of the knot"? (And hopefully that wouldn't destabilize anything?)
>[4] Okay, you're kind of morbidly curious at this point. If you were Gil (and on some level you must be: you're mingled with him, says Richard)— who would you be holding at gunpoint? Find out.
>[5] Write-in.

>>5102190
>[4] Okay, you're kind of morbidly curious at this point. If you were Gil (and on some level you must be: you're mingled with him, says Richard)— who would you be holding at gunpoint? Find out.

>>5102190
>[2] Yes, you are a Headspace goon! Mainly, you want to call his bluff, but this could be a useful cover. Or at least an interesting one.

4 is definitely interesting, but maybe not the best for Gil's mind

>>5102190
>[2] Yes, you are a Headspace goon! Mainly, you want to call his bluff, but this could be a useful cover. Or at least an interesting one.

Lol, Chuck tries to be a villain.

>>5102190
>>[2] Yes, you are a Headspace goon! Mainly, you want to call his bluff, but this could be a useful cover. Or at least an interesting one.

>>5102251
>>5102334
>>5102874
>>5102879
Called for [2] and writing.

>Face-heel turn

If there's two things you've gleaned about Gil from all this, it's that 1) he's an unfettered coward and 2) he's a shameless liar. 'Shoot you?' Fat chance. "Yup," you say gamely, "you got me. I'm a Headspace goon. That's why I'm here in this... manse?"

It must be a manse, since you're breathing air. Gil blinks. "Is that an internal term?"

"Y-es." You nod, the metal of the muzzle knocking against your forehead. "Sure is, as I am not just— I am not just a goon. How dare you? I'm a very important, official person, who is here to conduct official, important business, like... like arresting you. Yes. You are under arrest, Mr. Wallace, or should I say Gil, and if you come quietly, then I'll consider granting you some—"

"This is a... gun. You realize this is a gun?"

You wave a hand airily. "Yes. Now, you really shouldn't protest, Gil, it isn't—"

"It's— it's loaded. There's a loaded gun to your..." He squares his shoulders. "Look, lady, I have a goddamn loaded gun to your head, which means you're my bitch, you understand? Move and I'll kill you. Talk back and I'll kill you."

"You're cute." As you step away from the gun, Gil's eyes widen. There's a pronounced tremor in his forearm. "You get all that from a manual? They passed a little booklet around at Tough Guy camp? Go on, kill me."

He tenses, and for a split-second you think he really will, and then you're calculating whether getting shot inside a memory fragment would kill you or just make Richard yell at you for a while— then the doohickey bursts to life. (It must be some sort of two-way radio. Ingenious.) "Yes, I—" he says to it, then "No, I don't know how—", then "Yes, I'll—"

"Taking orders, bitch boy?" You lean against the wall. (You have no sound reason to antagonize Gil, except that it seems like something an important, official person would do. Also, he called you a bitch first. Also, it's fun.) "Had to go running to your daddy for help?"

He performs a vulgar gesture. "Uh-huh— she hasn't, I'll get her— yes, I know— uh-huh. I'll be right over. Lady, we're going for a walk."

"Oh! Me." It genuinely did take you a moment. "I was thinking about stretching my legs, so I daresay I'll take you up on that offer. Where to?"

"Phin's going to have a little chat with you." Gil gestures with the gun. "Wants to know about the bad press, I'd expect. And the new hashlocks. Not to say we need you for those, but the boost would be appreciated, yeah? Come on."

While you'd enjoy dragging your feet, that seems like a fast track to horrible beetle-related happenings— or Gil leaving and taking his memory with him. You nod primly, allow the gun to be pressed against your back (you don't know why he bothers— maybe it makes him feel better), and meander along beside him.

(1/2)

The manse you are walking through certainly is, er... physical space, which is about all that separates it from absolute void. There are walls, maybe, which comprise rooms, which may contain a suggestion of furnishings— you can't tell, because they shift away when you look too hard. But at least you're walking— at least while you look at your feet— and Gil doesn't seem to be concerned: he's preoccupied with his radio thingy, which squalls away in his ear. 'Phin' is shouting at him, or 'Phin' is having a very bad time with something— you can't tell which.

Eventually— you'd gauge it as about 5 minutes, but you can't tell if that correlates with actual time passing— you emerge into somewhere in particular: a confined wood-paneled room. It smells of dust and contains one fireplace (raging), one table (rickety), and no chairs. There's a faint buzzing sound. One of the walls is torn almost completely down, and behind it lies a thicket of wires, disconnected piping, and blinking lights.

While you're examining the scenery, Gil tears towards a figure crumpled near the fireplace. "PHIN! Phin, goddammit, what did you—"

You follow leisurely. 'Phin,' whoever he was, appears dead— extra-dead, even, since that's not even a corpse near the fireplace. It's thin and hollow, like paper. There is a faint buzzing sound. A buzzing sound. You glance at the ceiling.

Alas, poor Phin, unluckily projected upon: a few hundred murky beetles cloud above the fireplace. At least it wasn't you. "He'll be fine," you say. "As long as you don't run off and abandon him here. But I suppose you'll have to—"

You're not sure if it's grief Gil's paralyzed by or simple shock, but he's not listening either way. You clear your throat. "Ahem. Gosh. How awful for you, Mr. Wallace. I suppose you'll have to interrogate me all on your lonesome, yes? Unless you'd like to outright tell me what difficulty this causes you, and how one official, important gentlelady might endeavor herself to fix it..."

"Shut the fuck up!" He isn't even looking at you.

You cross your arms. "You shut up. Idiot. Why are you boo-hooing over your stupid buddy? He's not even dead, he's just beetles, which— you said it wasn't that bad, so don't be a hypocrite. He can still do whatever he was doing. What was he doing?"

"Installing—" He cuts himself off. "I said, shut up."

"Or you'll kill me? Oh no. So, what, you can't finish installing the whatever-it-is on your own? Is that the big horrible issue here?"

Gil ignores you. (Perhaps that's for the best. You went out of character on accident.) But you're right, you think— this is the big horrible issue, fixable by locating a more-experienced Gil and... dragging him over, you guess. You'll figure it out, you're positive. After all, everything— excepting the darts hiccup— has been going very smoothly.

(Choices next.)

>[1] Okay, he might have a gun, but you have a fancy title. Probably. Officially ask him a few important questions. (But not too many. You don't want to break something.)
>>[A] Who does he think you are?
>>[B] Who does he think he is?
>>[C] What's he doing in here?
>>[D] What bad press?
>>[E] What are hashlocks?
>>[F] What's that thing behind the wall?
>>[G] Write-in.

>[2] Best not to risk anything. Get out of here.
>>[A] The ledgers.
>>[B] The... leaves?
>>[C] Pick up all the paper scraps on the floor and try and put them back together. God save you.
>>[D] The blue writing.
>>[E] The chart with all the boxes.

>[3] Write-in.

>>5103236
Damn, Charlotte is savage. Not having Richard around does wonders for her.

>[1C] What's he doing in here?
>[1D] What bad press?
>[1F] What's that thing behind the wall?

>>5103239
> double down on our offer to fix it.

It's exasperating to do it with a gun on us, but someone has to clean up the mess and Gil clearly isn't up to it. So here we are, bring us up to speed and we'll see what we can do.

>>5103239
>1A, C, D, E, F

B might cause some existential dread but the rest seem like safe, reinforcing questions.

>>5103238
>>[1C] What's he doing in here?
>>[1D] What bad press?
>>[1F] What's that thing behind the wall?

>>5103244
>>5103382
>>5103487
>>5103506
Using my "every dialogue option with 2+ votes" approach, called for [1C], [1D], and [1F] + offering again to fix stuff though as it makes little sense "in character," you won't press too hard about it.

Writing... er... it's New Year's Eve and I'm at home with family. We'll see if I get anything done. Check back tomorrow if there's nothing tonight-- I'm going to aim for a daytime update.

>srs business

And since it is going so well, it won't harm anything if you loiter a while longer, right? You can use the time to pick Gil's brain— though you aren't certain how much he knows, exactly. Can he remember his past? Conceptualize a future? Maybe you better stick to his sliver of the present.

You clear your throat. "What was that about bad press, Mr. Wallace? Surely you can pretend to conduct an interrogation without your boyfriend's assistance."

"My...?" It processes. Gil springs away from Phin's skin like it were a hot stove. "Hey! Fuck you!"

"Aw, I'm sorry... was it unrequited?" You bat your eyelashes. "It's always so difficult, having feelings for a superior. To desire amorous relations with someone in a—"

In a, a— your train of thought was cut off entirely by the terrible noise, first, then the ringing in your ears almost as loud, and it's only when you smell sulfur and follow Gil's gaze to the new hole in the wall that things fall into place. The end of his pistol glows faintly. "Mmm mmphmm mmmm mm," he says under the ringing, but you can read lips: "It's goddamn loaded! I told you!"

You can't cohere a response in time.

"Now, I don't want to shoot anybody, especially a lady, but you can't go around thinking you're the boss here! I'm the boss, cause I have a gun, and you're a smarmy hack with a... a sword?" He stops short, baffled.

"Swords are cool," you murmur.

"Why would you have a goddamn— whatever! Answer my questions. What the fuck is up with the bad press?"

"You shouldn't curse so often. If you curse, you... curse yourself." Your mother made it sound scarier, but you can't remember how she put it, exactly. "Um, what bad press?"

"What bad press? You're making it out like we're responsible for locitis, when you know perfectly well that makes no goddamn sense. We skim off the top, we don't screw around with—"

"Locitis?" You lace your fingers.

Gil laughs derisively. "Sure, let's play this game. Locitis, the one thing anyone's been talking about? Mysterious disease? Causes personality shifts, memory gaps, hallucinations, suicidal tendencies, seizures, sudden death? Coincidentally afflicts, not just locus-havers, but people who have Headspace templates. But it's not because your shitty construction rots people's brains, no, it's the evil jackers going around, killing people, scaring the rest half to death so they'll buy your hashlock protocols and your crackfree failsafes... which are worthless! They add a whole thirty seconds to the crack. This guy—" He waves the gun at the ceiling. "—had three."

(1/4)

File: manse window.jpg (71 KB, 418x600)

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You're trying to remember ever hearing of 'locitis,' directly or in passing. Maybe you overheard some chitchat at the Nothing? But nothing in particular comes to mind. "Was this a regional phenomenon?"

"'Was' this? It's still happening! And how the hell am I supposed to know?"

It was probably localized to the West— that'd explain why you've never heard of it. That, or it's so podunky out here that cases were isolated... and, well, "go-crazy-and-die" is a thing that happens all the time. You don't need a manse for that. "Correct. I was testing you. You're a jacker?"

"No, lady, I'm a professional phillumenist." So yes. Which makes sense— Gil's avoided talking about his job, but he admitted to that much, you think. And they go around... siphoning ambient Law out of people's manses? Or something?

"I see. So I suppose this..." You point at the wall. "...is your equipment? Your Law siphon, or whatnot? Did you intend to put the paneling back over it?"

"My what siphon?"

Is he lying, or— "What do you call it?"

"We grow crystals, that's all. Nothing wrong with that, is there? So why are we the bad guys, and you lot profit off of—"

Lying or dodging the question or something. "Okay, whatever. So the thing back there is your siphon, or... crystal grower, or whatever, and it's half-installed. That's the problem? Why can't you finish?"

Gil jiggles his gun. "Give you details so you can reverse-engineer it? Spare me."

"Well, it doesn't have to be details..."

"Spare me."

Okay, you doubt you're getting anything out of him, at least not while he thinks you're a (what was it?) smarmy hack. Slash important official. Maybe you ought to quit while you're ahead and come back later if you need clarification. Yeah. "Will do!" You pull the key out and swivel towards the wall.

"Hey, is that an anchor? Put that back, lady, don't—"

"Uh-huh." The paneling reveals itself to be a secret door, once you stick the key in it. "Seeya."

Does he fire the gun? He might've, based on the noise and the smell, but as you slam the closet door shut there's no trace of a bullet. Thank goodness. Even if it'd just treat you to a Richard lecture, you'd like to minimize those if you can help it... wait.

This is isn't your parlor! And you don't mean that it's gaudy or moss-covered: this is your manse, in rosy glass and marble and gold, with a fount in the back and a big crack through the middle. Did you take a left turn? Shouldn't Richard be here? You don't see him, or Gil, for that matter, beetled or rotting or any of them. Though now that you look at it, the floor is moss-covered. And the dimensions are a lot more cramped than you're used to. And there's a radio, right where the radio in your parlor is supposed to be. It's talking.

««Charlie. Charlie, come in. Tell me you're getting this.»»

(2/4?)

You can't talk back to a radio... unless you have Gil's doohickey, apparently, but you don't. But it's also not a real radio, or even an existant radio, so you suppose you can do what you want. "...Richard?"

««No. It's Harlan Pleasant.»»

It sounds very much like Richard. "Who?"

««Never mind. Of course it's me.»»
««You have made yourself difficult to locate. Though naturally I still managed it.»»
««I am sensing that you are stable.»»

You glance down at yourself. "Um, I guess? Yes. Yes, I've— I have been doing amazing, I'll have you know, and it's awful funny it happened while you were gone. I'm just saying."

««I am never 'gone.' I have been monitoring your vitals. I was simply unable to communicate.»»
««Moreover, your apparent success is a direct result of my—»»

"What's this supposed to be? Is this your locus? Doesn't look like Headspace, but that figures— wouldn't want to infect yourselves. That'd be too sporting."

««What is happening.»»

What is happening is that your stomach is in your throat. You know that voice.

««Don't tell me you let one escape.»»
««Charlotte Fawkins, you didn't let one—»»

You turn. Gil, gun in hand, is shutting the closet door behind him. "Who's that? Your supervisor? Your boyfriend?"

««I beg your pardon.»»

"No!" you say, revolted.

"Aw, I'm sorry." Gil stalks over to the settee and flops down on it. "Is it unrequited? Always so difficult, wanting to fuck your way to the top, and the guy above you just isn't interested—"

"Shut up!" You fast-walk over to the closet and yank the door open to discover— nothing. Not the wood-paneled room, not even a closet, just roiling nothing, and you slam it shut again and whip around. The book, then. Where is the book? You jog back to the settee. A headache has spontaneously developed, as has a sort of static crackle in the back of your head, and you—

««Ah. I see. You are abusing me to create passageways, which ordinarily exceed the limited capacity of the fragment to comprehend. Only you have done it in front of one where inexplicable passageways are normal.»»
««So it has rationalized it and come through it.»»

—you can't find the book. You can't find the book! Where has the book gone? Did it vanish into the crannies of the settee, or slide under it? Did it fall through the crack? Is Gil sitting on it? He couldn't be sitting on it, it's huge. There's still a few leaves and paper scraps on the ground, so it did exist, but... and Gil is watching all of this. "Oops, did you drop your failsafes? Rolled under the couch? I guess this proves you're not hoarding the effective security for yourselves, so props for that."

"Shut up! Richard—"

««What. I thought you were doing amazing.»»
««Keep it up.»»

God!

(Choices next.)

>[1] Okay. Okay, you can handle this. Gil seems fine as long as he thinks he's in the right setting, so you just have to... pretend that you're still a Headspace person, and that this is really your manse. And take it from there.
>[2] As long as it makes some sense, you don't have to stick with your first impulse— claim that you're really something else in *disguise* as a Headspace person, like a demon or a spirit or something. And that's why you're gonna take him through his own memories! It all makes sense. (OPTIONAL: Do you [Roll] for a proper 'true form'? Y/N)
>[3] Nope. Rip off the bandage, inform him that he's fake, etcetera. Will he have a little breakdown? Maybe, but it's the fastest way to ensure that he's useful, and you may as well weather the fallout while you're still stable yourself.
>[4] Write-in.

>>5105677
>1

if this isn't really our manse, what is it? a copy we made while in Gil?

>>5105677
>>[1] Okay. Okay, you can handle this. Gil seems fine as long as he thinks he's in the right setting, so you just have to... pretend that you're still a Headspace person, and that this is really your manse. And take it from there.

>>5105700
>if this isn't really our manse, what is it? a copy we made while in Gil?
Is this rhetorical, or would you like a proper OOC explanation? (It'd be awkward to do it IC.)

Also, I'm going to call the vote in about an hour. I was serious about two updates.

File: important official person.png (229 KB, 273x600)

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>>5105700
>>5105706
>[1]
Writing. Also, here's Charlotte's new weeb? outfit.

>>5105700
>>5105726
In the absence of a response, here's the OOC explanation: it's not spoilers (it's all been hinted at in-quest), but don't scroll over if you want to preserve an air of mystery.

Recall that you originally got here from your house (or "bomb shelter," according to Richard)-- you went from your regular parlor to a weird, exaggerated version of it, with Gil and the book in it but no Richard. It's from the weird parlor that you've been doing all the memory stuff. Recall also that you got to the weird parlor because Richard told you you'd walk through the front door and come out the closet-- and to close your eyes while you were doing it.

As he frequently does, Richard was misdirecting you: there was nothing outside the front door (because it led directly back into Gil's nonphysical/nonspatial mind). However, because of the expectation that you'd wind up in the same room-- plus the fact that Gil's 'entangled' with you, and the fact you didn't know there was nothing there-- you subconsciously forced him to imagine the parlor you'd wind "back" up in. This is why it's weird: Gil doesn't know what your parlor looks like, so this was his (also subconscious) interpretation.

The fact that it got even more exaggerated-- and the addition of the moss-- are indications that it's drifting away from the original 'inputs' you provided. (Where to? Spoilers.) And the manse is because Gil, and the book metaphorically representing him, just got overriden by a different Gil... who expected to find your manse behind that door. And because he does know what your manse looks like (on some level), it's very accurate, though still it retains a few aspects of the parlor.

File: radio.jpg (105 KB, 671x800)

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>Easy route

You fumble with the knobs of the radio until you find the one that shuts the whole damn thing off. Richard quiets. (Imagine if you could do that all the time.)

"Didn't want me to overhear all that?" Gil comments. "I don't blame you."

You take a deep breath. This is fine! It is. Richard said you were doing amazing, and if you focus hard you can pretend he wasn't ironic. This could be a good thing, even, if you could get him to come along. It wouldn't hurt to have backup. (Though he might want you dead.) No he won't! Positive thinking. You'll have to convince him to like you, or scare him enough not to wave the gun around, and you can do both of those things without breaking a sweat. You have to act, is all. You can do that. It's just lying to yourself.

"It hardly matters what you overhear," you say grandly. "I only thought silence would make a better backdrop."

"For what." His tone is dry. You are infinitely glad that Gil was locked in a house long enough to learn manners, because you would've hated him otherwise.

"For me to tell you... that you are trapped, you fool! You are bound and netted and at my mercy! I hope you enjoyed your precious freedom while—"

He's put his feet up on the ottoman. "I still have a gun."

Oh, he does. Damn. "You think that can stop me? Ha! You seem to forget where you are, Mr. Wallace. You come tromping into my manse, mucking up the furniture, and you possibly hope to—"

The pistol is in his hand, if it wasn't before, and he raises it very casually and fires. Near you, or maybe at you, you can't be sure— you don't think he's sure, because the cockiness slips visibly after he's done it, and he looks frightened. Not that it matters, because there is a bullet spiraling towards you, though it somehow doesn't seem to matter much at all. Not when you can see the air wobbling around it. You reach out and pinch it between your fingers.

And then you are staring at the bullet between your fingers, and Gil is staring petrified at you, and— huh?? How did you do that? You can't do that. You're sure you couldn't do it again if you tried, not that you plan on trying, and— is it cause you were acting so cool, and that was the coolest thing you could've done just there? (Well, you could've sliced it in half with your sword. But then you'd be shot twice.) Is it cause it's your manse? Your mind? Gil's mind? Does Gil believe you can catch bullets with your fingers? He might, actually, he seems to have all sorts of weird opinions about you, but...

This Gil hasn't stopped staring, which— you can't blame him, you'd be too. You cough to break the awkward silence and drop the bullet. "Um... ha! Witness my miraculous power! Your pitiful gun is worthless against me, ensconced as I am in my demesne!"

(1/2)

He still doesn't say anything. God, you really wish he would! He's all wedged against the corner of the settee, shrunken in an oddly literal sense: he seems ill-fitting in his own clothes, or maybe his own too-large skin. He seems younger. He seems terrified. You feel bad, almost.

But not quite, because A) play stupid games, win stupid prizes, Mr. Wallace, B) that was cool, objectively, and C) this is good! You wanted him like this, didn't you? You acted, and stuff. "And daren't you try to escape, as mine manse is crackproofed... against leaving! Bwahahaha! Now you art my little bitch, Gil Wallace, and together we shalt rule th- rule Headspace!"

"Do you mean run it?" His voice is much smaller than it was.

"What?"

"Um, it's a... business. You don't rule businesses. You run them."

How are you supposed to know? You've never ruled a business before. "Yes! We shalt run Headspace, together, as I have been watching you for a long time, Gil. You have ambition. You have drive. And there is nothing I seek more than—"

"Is this a paid position?"

"Is this a— yes! Of course. I fairly compensate my ret- my assistants."

Gil appears slightly recovered, though still reduced from the bravado of earlier. "How much? And is it a salary or per hour?"

You are so glad you turned Richard off beforehand. "None! It— it doesn't matter! You will be fairly compensated with all the riches of the land—"

"With blood money," he says matter-of-factly. He's digging around in a pocket for something.

"Yes! With all the bloody riches of the land, et-cetera, and you don't really have a choice, okay? You're my assistant now, and you have to follow me around and help me out and not ask questions, because I am doing very important stuff. Very secret, important stuff. Gotcha?"

He is lighting a cigarette with a match. You understand this to be a 'yes.' "Good! Good. Excellent. Er... shall we... embark?"

>The book has gone missing, but the same categories will be used for convenience.
>[A1] The ledgers.
>[A2] The... leaves?
>[A3] Pick up all the paper scraps on the floor and try and put them back together. God save you.
>[A4] The blue writing.
>[A5] The chart with all the boxes.

>[B] OPTIONAL: Gil is going to ask for your name eventually, and you suspect 'Charlotte Fawkins' might trigger some unfortunate associations. What goofy Rich Important Evil Person name do you give him? (Write-in.)

>[C] Write-in.

>>5105899
>[A3] Pick up all the paper scraps on the floor and try and put them back together. God save you.
Now we can make Gil do it.

>[B] Desdemona Aurelia

>>5105677
>[2] As long as it makes some sense, you don't have to stick with your first impulse— claim that you're really something else in *disguise* as a Headspace person, like a demon or a spirit or something. And that's why you're gonna take him through his own memories! It all makes sense. (OPTIONAL: Do you [Roll] for a proper 'true form'? Y/N)

Why would we roll for a proper "true form" when we have a snakey one? We can double down on our identity being a secret agent investigating Namway and the manse makers, which is even technically true, and letting him know that Namway has stolen a snake. Hence our reactions to his project.

>>5105924
>>5105899
Worth a shot. Let's see how confident Gil is in it before committing though.

>>5105899
>>5105924
+1 to this.

>>5105803
Thanks. No response originally because I slumbered. Forgot to note how early the update was.

>A3
Now is ideal for this task because we have Gil to do it for us help out.

>B

Catastrovania Strifaust Morituros IX

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First of all: today marks the 3-year anniversary of Drowned Quest's first thread. If any of you have stuck with me that long, thank you-- and thanks to everybody that came in later, too! It's crazy to think how far we've come.

Second of all: votes!

>>5105924
>>5106152
>>5106480
>>5106557
>Slave labor
Charlotte is nothing if not consistent :^)

>>5105924
>>5106557
>Name
I'll probably mash these up. Definitely not using "Catastrovania" as a first name though, Drowned is not joining the Drawquest Extended Universe

Called and writing.

>>5106557
>Forgot to note how early the update was.
I wanted it to be even earlier than that, but half the reason I don't write during the day is that between distractions and obligations it always ends up taking "literally the whole day." As it did here. Oh well.

>>5106146
I'm not quite parsing this, on top of it being an update too late, so I'm gonna veto. But just to get some clarity:

>Why would we roll for a proper "true form" when we have a snakey one?
You don't have a snakey "true form" at the moment-- that was you wearing the Yellow-Eyed Thing, which you murdered in Thread 16 mid-drug trip. You'd need some pretty serious assistance from Richard (or a lot more drugs) to get back in that zone.

> We can double down on our identity...
I'm not sure how that would be "doubling down," even discounting the most recent update: your cover story is someone working for Headspace, not investigating Headspace (or Namway). Also, Headspace (which makes manses) and Namway (which makes gooplicates) are two different companies, and to best of your knowledge they're unrelated. Though maybe that's something to look into. Have they ever been mentioned in the same place before?...

>letting him know that Namway has stolen a snake.
You don't have any reason to believe that jacker-Gil would know (or care) about this! Was the intent to see if he would?

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>Make Gil do all the work

Gil takes a ponderous drag on his cigarette. He does not seem as enthusiastic about this as he ought to be. "Embark where?"

You were hoping he wouldn't ask that. "What did I say about questions?"

"That I shouldn't ask 'em." He's still wedged in the corner, but his voice is level. "But look, lady, it's simple. I don't give a damn if you're a rat bastard, I don't give a damn if you're working for a net drain on civilization— pay me enough, I'll sell out as hard as you want. I'll sell my own mom, that's what you need. Yeah?"

Wow, what? "Er... we won't have any need for your mother. That's a very bold—"

"Just an example." He blows smoke through his nose. "Though you can have her. Never did anything for me, anyhow. Now, like I was saying... I don't have a ethical quibble. I respect your god-given right to exploit the masses, whatever, I'm flattered you scouted me. I just—"

"But don't you feel a- a moral compunction?" you interrupt. "To stay true to your virtues, and your, um, your sworn beliefs—"

"I'll have whatever beliefs you pay me for, and morals are for girls— no offense— girls, kids, and sissies. Though let me know if you'd like me to change my mind about that. Anyhow, the one thing I ask is that you be up-front, alright? If I'm working for someone, I have to know they're good for what they owe me. It's just logic. So I'd be real appreciative, lady, if you told me where the hell we're 'embarking' to."

It's like a party trick: one moment he's scared out of his mind, the next moment he's as cool and collected as you've ever seen him. Maybe it was the cigarette? And God, how are you supposed to explain— you can't even find the book! "Well, it's quite simple, actually. We're just..." Acting, not lying. Acting. You are an important business person. "...vetting you. Making sure you're suited for the job, yes? It's a normal—"

"Vetting how?"

You smile vaguely, which you hope reads as mysterious and not making stuff up. "Just a background check, Mr. Wallace. Making sure all the, um, parts of you are fit for ruling a business. Though it's just a formality, so don't— don't panic about it. Just sit there and let me—"

Let you what? The book is gone, you're quite sure of it, not that you know why. (You're sure Richard would tell you, but— ha, no.) All you have left are the handful of scraps on the floor, but those aren't enough to— positive thinking! "—let me let you prove your mettle. Yes! You shalt prostrate yourself upon the earth, and scour it for cleverly hidden bits of— of paper, I think. Like there was one big page, and it got torn up? Could you do that?"

Gil just looks at you. (God. You need to catch another bullet, fast.)

"...I'll pay extra?"

(1/2?)

File: house model c.jpg (82 KB, 480x720)

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He exhales smoke, nods curtly, and crouches down on the ground. "I don't see any paper," he reports. "There's some plant stems under here? I think they're called succulents... I don't know what type." He stands, dangling a stem of ice plant.

"Oh!" You do. "Er, I mean, I suppose that's an acceptable... Gil?"

Gil's face has darkened— his cigarette, forgotten, gathers ash in his mouth. He is rubbing the stem with his thumb, almost stroking it. He rolls it between his fingers.

"Gil?" Maybe you should've picked up the paper scraps.

Gil looks past you, and you turn: the marble wall behind is covered in ice plant. He glances down and the mossy floor is choked in it. The settee and the radio are smothered in it. You are— "Don't!" you yelp, but Gil has gained a glassy, bewildered look, and when his eyes skate past you are wrapped in spreading vines. How fortunate that the roots are shallow, that they only invade the top of your skin, but if he looks again— no, don't invoke it! You'd cut yourself out if only your sword weren't trapped too, and as a worthless knockoff it's not even on fire...

>[-1 ID: 7/(9)]

But think positive! This is going amazing! Or it has so far, and you'll be damned if that stops now because stupid fake Gil's getting stupid nightmares from a stupid plant. You have the key, don't you? It's in your hand. If you can yank your arm— yes! yank your arm free, and stumble forward, you can sink the key straight into Gil's forehead, and the last thing you see is his wide, wide eyes before he wobbles and peels open like an orange.

Something thin and gauzy, like a tarp made of green chiffon, unfurls out of him, and hangs for a moment, and drops, and passes straight through you—

You blink. You are standing on a scrubby knoll, facing a house: a large, old, white, abandoned house, done in a poor imitation of antediluvian style. It's surrounded by patches of ice plant. The sky is blue and clear. Gil is beside you, less glassy, still bewildered. "I—" he croaks.

Compose yourself, Charlotte! "Ahem. So we have embark-ed, as planned, and I trust you are ready to justify your obscenely high salary, Mr. Wallace... Mr. Wallace?"

Gil is watching the house. "We're going in there?"

"What? Yes."

"We can't go in there! Are you kidding! That's— that's not a— it's not safe."

"Hazard pay," you say airily, "not that you'll need it. It's only a house, is it not?"

He's lacing and unlacing his fingers. "Yes, but that's not the— we can't— I'm not fucking going in there. You can't make me. You can't pay me, you can't— I'd rather be shot. Take my gun and shoot me if we're going in there."

It is only a house. You recognize it very well, actually. You set it on fire, after finding Gil in it. "It's perfectly safe. Watch, I'll go open the—"

The door is barred with planks. You contemplate the windows, then the windows are barred with planks, too. "Gil, please."

(2/3)

"I'm not— what am I doing? I'm not— I-I'm not—" He forces a smile. It's unconvincing. "Let's embark somewhere else?"

You can't embark somewhere else— you barely managed to embark here. But what can you say?

>Every option will require a dice roll. Appending a write-in to any of the options may improve the DC.

>[1] There's no sound reason for this Gil to be primordially terrified of a house, and you bet he knows it. Attempt to reaffirm his "present-day" identity, then appeal to his sense of logic.
>[2] You know what else scared Gil today? You. All you have to do is scare him worse than the house does, and he'll have no choice in the matter.
>[3] Screw him: you just need to get *in.* Take a sledgehammer or do acrobatics or whatever the hell is required to bust past Gil's defenses.
>[4] Write-in.

>>5107322
>1

if that fails 3 is always fun

>>5107322
>[1]
Have him center himself in the moment by listing out things he can see, hear and touch.

>>5107431
>>5107481
Slow day, huh? Called for [1]. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 15 (+5 Facts and Logic, +5 Grounding Presence, +5 Familiar Face) vs. DC 70 (+20 Couldn't Make Me) to get through to Gil!

Rolled 21 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>5108139
damn gil and his residentialphobia

Rolled 43 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>5108139

ROLLAN

>>5107117
senpai I cannot emphasize how much sovl your art style has. nice work here.

Rolled 74 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>5108139
Orangutan

>>5108179
>>5108187
>>5108267
>36, 58, 89 vs. DC 70 -- Mitigated Success
Close shave. Writing.

>>5108187
>spoiler
Thank you :)

>Appeal to logic
>36, 58, 89 vs. DC 70 — Mitigated Success

Well... you should start simple, probably, then escalate if you need to. There's still a fair chance he'll listen to reason. "This is part of the test, Gil. If we leave now, it means you're not up for the job, and I'll have to arrest you for—"

"Then arrest me! I-I don't give a damn!"

Okay, maybe a slim chance. But still a chance. "But I don't want to arrest my assistant, so... could you tell me what the matter is? Is it the type of house? Tell me what kind of house this is."

"It's a—" He waves his hand aimlessly. "—a, a model C. One of yours."

"Correct." (You have no idea if that's correct.) "Is there something wrong with model Cs?"

"Besides being shitty, unimaginative, and a real bitch to crack? Nothing I can think of." He seems calmer when he's not looking directly at the house. You shuffle to block his view of it.

"But none of that is a reason to be scared, is it? None of those things are dangerous."

"Dangerous to anyone with taste," he mumbles.

"Yes, I agree, but that's not the—" You brush hair out of your face. "That's not the point and you know it. Gil. It's just a damn house. Is it going to kill you?"

"...No."

"Okay. Is it going to hurt you, even? No. Because it's a house. What kind of a pussy is scared of a house?"

Gil hugs his arms to his chest. "I'm not a- a pussy."

"Exactly! You're not! And you're not a twerp, or a pipsqueak, or a bitch, or a limp-wristed lowlife coward. You're a tough guy. And you're also super cool, and logical, and you're not going to have a lot of dumb emotions if they make no sense, right?" You smile winningly. "You can get them under control. I know it. Cause you're not a pussy."

"Because I'm disciplined," he says.

"Cause you're... disciplined. Sure, whatever. The point is, you can do it, okay? You can face your fear. You can run up to your fear and kick it in the balls." You have no idea what you're saying. "And you will. Take my hand, okay?"

You stick your hand out, and after a long pause Gil takes it. "You're being very... informal," he says.

Are you? Oh, damn, you're supposed to be— it all got off track, didn't it? You were just spewing the first things that came to mind, and it was even mostly true. He is tough, because if he wasn't he'd just be a lot of stupid bugs, not a person. And he's not a— well, you don't know if you can say that. He might be a pussy. But he tries really hard, and you can win all the fights for him, so who cares? It's better this way. So he doesn't outshine you.

(1/2)

The longer you go without responding, the more Gil reddens. He's somewhere around 'burgundy' by the time you refocus. "Er... yes. You are my assistant now, so I thought that'd be acceptable. And I make the rules, since I am an official person, so it is acceptable. Um. Would you come with me to the house?"

He nods slightly.

"Okay! Just watch. We're going to take a step." You take a big step forward. "Can you follow me?"

He swallows and steps forward. You restrain yourself from pumping your fist. "Yes! See, this isn't so hard. Can you do another?"

You take another big step forward and tug at Gil's hand to follow. He doesn't budge. "...Gil?"

Oh, damnit! Damnit! You had him fixed, you solved the problem, and now you turn back around and he's wild-eyed and quivering exactly the same as if you did nothing at all. Will you have to give a pep talk for each and every damned footstep? No. You refuse. You said you'd escalate if you needed to, and this is clearly the— he interrupts. "Don't you get i¦t? I-I-I-I can't go b¤acK th¯HE®E! Are Y©UaF,UCyou fucking— /I-I(I— NO¡IcCAN,TFU>¸(K¥NO!GoB ªCK!pl¶LEASEiiiI CAN'TDO1N_TWAN2tT¨TO¸TOtTo0(—to— to— I-I—" He shudders. "Ow."

He'd just been hanging there, mouth ajar, as garbled nonsense screamed through him, so it takes you a moment to react. "Yes?"

"My head..." He trails off, clutching his forehead. "Where am I?"

"Um, where do you think you are?"

"In a cardboard box. But that makes no goddamn sense, which is why I'm asking."

>[1] Continue.
>[2] Write-in.

Welcome to my new format for [TBC]s, shamelessly stolen from My Wife Is A Supervillain Quest— this is still a half-update, but you're welcome to provide input if you like. I hope to post the continuation of this during the day tomorrow and update normally tomorrow night, hopefully at a decent hour... my usual writing schedule has gone to hell and back, I blame being home for the holidays.

>>5108546
>[2] Ask who he thinks he is, in detail.

>>5108546
>1
I want to tell him that technically he's right, but he might explode. Also RIP MWIASQ.

>>5108545
>>[1] Continue.

File: cirrus clouds.jfif.jpg (32 KB, 474x474)

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>Cont.

"...No," you affirm. "That doesn't make any sense. Can you see the box?"

"See it? I, uh—" He reaches sideways with a closed fist and knocks on air. "I— sort of. I don't know how to explain it. I think I'm cracking up, probably, sorry for the inconvenience."

"Oh, no, you're not a— but you can see where I'm standing?"

He nods.

"How about you try describing it? Maybe that'll help... ground you." You shuffle back in front of him, to block the house.

"Worth a shot." He smiles wanly. "Um, it's a grassy slope, or— maybe not 'grassy,' I guess there's a lot of weeds and bushes. And it's pretty dried-out. It's not cold or warm. The sky is blue, and clear, almost, but there's wispy sort-of clouds blowing in from over there. If I remember right they're called cirruses."

How does he know what clouds are called? Maybe you skipped that day. "Yes! Cirruses. Are you on the slope, too?"

"I guess I must be?" He starts to knock again, but stops. "And you're here. I know you. Who are you?"

You want badly to answer that question, but you have to be sensible, Charlotte. Be sensible. There's a tautness around you. "I'm... Desdemona Aurelia Strifaust. IX."

Gil studies you. "That sounds like a fake name."

"It's not a fake name!" you say, offended. (It's the name of a minor character from Wyzards Munificent.) "It's my name. As I am a exceedingly important person. I am the ruler of Headspace Inc."

"The ruler..." He looks puzzled. "How would I know you? I'm just a guy. Nobody special."

"Is that what you think?"

"Am I not? I just— I guess I don't really know. Who I am. Shit, I'm really fucked up, aren't I? Did I hit my head?"

You could tell him whatever you wanted and he'd probably believe it. Maybe permanently. But you couldn't— you've never manipulated anyone like that in your whole life. Why would you start now? And you like Gil. You don't want to screw him up. "Something like that. How about you tell me what you remember? And I can fill in the gaps if I have to."

"I guess." He squints up at the cirruses. "Well, my name is Gil. That's easy. I'm... 25. I'm a normal guy... I don't know. I guess there's not much to remember."

"That's not true!" God, that's sad. "There's lots to remember about you. You're my assistant, first of all, who I hand-picked for being super cool, and tough, and loyal. You like me a lot. And you help me out when we go on adventures."

"...Does the ruler of Headspace Inc go on a lot of adventures?"

"Yes! Because I can do whatever I want." You put your hands on your hips. "And we're on an adventure right now. We're in a manse. I mean, a... locus, or whatever you call them. We're just about to go inside a house you've never seen before."

"A house?" Gil cranes his neck to look past you.

You lean to block him. "Yes! It's a completely normal house, and there's zero reason to be scared of it. In fact, you're not scared of it. You're excited to go inside."

(1/2)

"I don't know about excited, but... yes. We're in a locus. I've been in those before. That's my job."

"Was your job," you say brightly. "Then I hired you. But yes! The point stands. Shall we go to this normal house without any beetles in it?"

"I— I don't see why not." He fixes his gloves. "I'm ready when you are."

Yes! And it was only like pulling teeth. He doesn't seem back to normal, exactly, but... maybe being a little pliable will do him good. Or do you good. It certainly makes things easier in the short-term. (The air is still taut, but you are ignoring that.) "Fantastic! See, I knew you were an excellent assistant. Let us embark!—"

The house was not on nearly such a high hill when you looked at it last, but it gets leveler and leveler as you walk, and as you look at it there doesn't seem to be planks over the door. You grab the doorknob and make to swing it open when Gil coughs. "Are you sure?"

God! "Yes, of course I'm— an excellent assistant is seen and not heard, alright? So shut up." Gil doesn't say anything. You open the door.

There is very little inside the house, though maybe 'house' is the wrong word: it's just one big room, no doors. The walls are cracked and empty, except for the ice plant spilling in through the molding and the single crooked picture frame. The floor is dusty. Gil sits in the exact middle of it, loosely cross-legged. His jacket lies discarded next to him. His hair is drooping severely. He looks you in the eyes, but doesn't otherwise react.

He should be beetles. Why isn't he beetles? "Gil? Can you hear me?"

No reaction. You pace towards him and crouch down. "I'm here to— to fix you. But I need your help. Could you please— huh?" He is raising his left hand. "Are you trying to ask a question?"

"No," he says— says your Gil, from the doorway. (This is going to get real complicated real fast. Could they at least have different voices?) His left hand is in the air. Slowly, he brings it down, and when you glance back over the other-Gil's hand is back in his lap. "No, I— I— what the fuck is this? Who is this? I-I-I'm not— I've never been— is this a set-up? It's a goddamn set-up, isn't it? That's not me."

You take a deep breath. "What's the matter with him? Can he not talk?"

"How am I supposed to know? That's not— that's a fake person. That's fake. Can we go? I think we should go. I think we should—" He turns (and other-Gil turns) and you look: there is no door. "Motherfucker!"

"Don't curse. We need to talk to him, I'm just not sure he can—" Other-Gil's eyes are tracking your movements, but he hasn't said a word. "Could you help?"

"What?"

"Or maybe I'll figure out something... give me a second." You think.

(2/3)

>[1] The obvious thing to do is to get your-Gil to help communicate: you'd be downright shocked if there wasn't some mental link between the two. It's just a matter of how.
>>[A] Convince him to chip in! This is important! (How? Write-in.)
>>[B] Your patience is rapidly waning: frog-march him over and make them hold hands, or whatever the hell. Easy. Simple. Fooproof.
>>[C] Write-in.

>[2] He doesn't know what's going on, and you don't want to push it. Aren't you and Gil supposed to be "intermingled," anyhow? Surely you can... figure it out. [Roll.]

>[3] Write-in.

>>5109050
>1A
Tell him that if that isn't him it certainly was modeled after him at the very least, and he can't leave something like himself in the lurch like this.

After all, we know for a fact if it was to fix another him up he'd let someone into the deepest recesses of his mind where all the embarrassing childhood memories are kept.

>>5109050
> 1A

Tell him that when he gets other Gil to respond, we can take him away from all *this*. There's another, better world waiting for him. Where we actually yes do go on adventures, and where he's loyal and brave and a true Hero.

That's why we know he can do this, because we trust him and this? This locus stuff is what he can do. And if he can't believe in himself then he can believe in the us that believes in him. Believe that we're still gonna make him do it, damn skippy.

>>5109080
>>5109318
Called and writing.

>Pep talk mark 2

Okay, you have thought, and you're pretty sure that your options are something like "you do it" or "Gil does it." And while, as a dashing heroine/adventuress/future queen, you are capable of doing anything you put your mind to, you just don't really feel like, er, putting your mind to it. It seems like something that'd lead to beetles leaking out your ears, is what you mean. And you know who's suited to that? Gil.

"Gil," you wheedle. "Don't you want to find out what this is? Wouldn't it be interesting to—"

"Interesting? I already know what it is, Desdom— that's a goddamn mouthful of a name, if it is real. Do you go by anything else?"

"Er..." You hadn't prepped a nickname. "Dessie? Sorry, you already know what it is?"

"Yeah. I told you already. It's a fake verson of me. So fake it can't even talk. And it's either here because it wants my blood, so it can kill me and replace me, or because someone made it and put it here to psych me out." He stares directly at you. "Now I'm not saying I know who did it, but I think the logical thing to do would be to leave. Don't engage. That's the only way to solve a lose-lose."

That would be logical, you guess, if he wasn't completely wrong. "Whoa, hey— so maybe it is fake, but so what? It's still you on some— I don't know, on some metaphysical level, probably. And even if it isn't, doesn't it look lonely? Have some compassion."

Gil snorts. "Remind me what compassion gets me?"

God! It's not like you expect him to go around adopting orphans and feeding stray dogs, but this is himself— and he's the one who begged you to help another him in the first place! "It- it- well, it makes you a decent person, firstly, but it- it- haven't you ever been lonely?"

"Not in the slightest. Now if you'll excuse me, lady— sorry, Dessie, I'll have to be off. I'll assist you another time, deal?" He's got a matchbook out. With every unsuccessful strike of the match, the walls wobble.

"That's not how assisting— gimme those!" You snatch the matchbook out of his hands. "This is a full-time job! And as your boss, I order you to talk to him."

"I quit," he says coolly, and slides your sword out of its scabbard. As you process this boggling display of audacity, he begins attempting to lever the wall open as one might crowbar a stuck window.

"You can't quit— you're going to hurt the sword!" (You turn to Other-Gil, who is miming dumbly along with him, and mouth an exaggerated 'SORRY.') Gil, you let me go through your stupid embarrassing memories, so how is this worse? This is, like, 100 times less bad than—" Inexplicably, the levering is working. The wall rattles with every thrust. "Gil! Gil, what if I bribed you, okay? Would you do it for a bribe?"

(1/4?)

"What kind of bribe?" He doesn't stop.

"Money, or— hey, what if I got you out of here? I don't just mean this stupid house. I mean..." You gesticulate. "Are you very happy? I mean, in general?"

Now he does stop, but only to gaze back on you in disgust. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I just mean... you're drinking alone at bars, you're breaking and entering for a living, you haven't talked about any friends— I mean, I guess there's Phin, but it kind of sounded like he was yelling at you? And the rest of the jackers, maybe, but you sold them out, um, instantly. So I'm sensing you aren't that... attached?"

"I don't see how it's any of your business." He returns to levering. "Life's not about being happy, anyway."

"I agree." It's not a lie. Happy people aren't cut out for greatness, you think. Or maybe someone told you that. "So what do you think it's about?"

"Nothing. You're born and you eat shit until you die. Best case scenario, you make some other people eat shit along the way. Worst case, you eat so much shit you blow your brains out in the living room."

You wrinkle your nose. "God, that's— that's awful. Don't you think you have any higher purpose?"

"Like a destiny? I don't believe in horseshit, sorry."

"Not like a— I mean, maybe like a destiny, but not necessarily. Just that you're... meant for something. There's a reason you exist, and it's your job to- to go make that reason true." You lace your fingers. "Um, and God is— God's the the one planning this all out, but I think you said you didn't believe in that, so I didn't want to get that involved."

"I did say I didn't believe in horseshit." But his voice is more subdued.

You pounce. "But wouldn't you rather have a purpose? I'm positive you do, you just don't realize it! And if you just keep running away from your problems, you never will, and you're just gonna be a miserable bastard your whole entire life. I believe— no, I know you're better than that. I know it for a fact. I trust you. And I think if you open your eyes and snap out of it—"

"What?" He's stiffened. The sword hangs by his side.

You press on. "If you open your eyes and snap out of it— I can help you, okay? I'm here to help. If you'd just listen to me, I can— we can go adventuring. We can see the..." You're exaggerating, but he doesn't need to know that. "...the world. You know, Gil, I think I was meant to find you. I really do. And I think you were meant to come with me. But I can't help unless you focus and- and wake up. Will you do that?"

There is an odd look on his face. "Could you repeat that?"

"Will you-"

"Right before that. Please."

You squint. "Um, I can't help unless you focus and wake up? Was that confusing? I meant sort of meta-"

(2/4?)

Isn't it funny how you can forget about something until it changes? The tension had been there all along, pressing down on you, but it'd been that way for so long that you never thought it would... snap. But cutting off your 'metaphorically' was a wrench in your gut, so palpable you stumble, and suddenly Gil towers over you bright-eyed and triumphant. "I'm not your assistant," he says. "You thought you could lead me on, could you? You thought you could dazzle me with gullshit? I know who you are. I know what's going on."

God-damnit! He can't— he can't possibly— now it's all going to go to hell, you just know it, and Richard will taunt you from his stupid radio how you couldn't even keep up a simple cover, and never mind that you couldn't! It's about the principle! You smile toothily. "I simply have no idea what you mean! I'm Desdemona Aurelia Strifaust IX, I work for—"

"No. No, no, no— shut up." Gil cradles his temples. "You want to know who you are? Because I'll tell you! I've got you all figured out. You're me."

You stop. "Um. What?"

"I know, I know, I'm goddamn dense. No need to remind me. To be fair, I was wondering why everything was so off, it's just now that I— I clocked it. It all makes sense now. I'm unconscious, aren't I? And I don't mean sleeping, I mean..." He mimes being knocked out. "Unconscious. Maybe I'm hurt— god, hope not, but I wouldn't be hallucinating you for no good reason."

"Ah," you manage.

"It would've been so much easier if you'd just gone and told me, but I guess that's how you have to work, isn't it?" He looks like he's diagramming you in his head. "You're... yeah, you're my subconscious trying to get through to me, which is why you're a cute girl. Makes sense. I don't know why you're blonde, but I guess the tits makes up for it—"

You flush. "I beg your pardon?"

"See, you don't have to do that anymore. I got the message. Message delivered loud and clear. You can—" He makes a 'poof' gesture. "—let me figure it out. I just have to wake up, right? Is there a reason I can't just do it?"

After the 'tits' comment, you wouldn't mind leaving him to his own devices, but you have to remind yourself that he isn't Gil. He isn't. He just thinks he is. "You're... broken."

"Oh shit, I am?" He stares down at himself. "I guess I wouldn't remember, huh? Shit. Well... okay, and what is this asshole for?" Meaning Other Gil.

"Er—"

"No, shut up. I've got it." He snaps his fingers. "It's sort of— it's symbolism. Fuck. I hate symbolism. I wish people'd say what they goddamn mean— but still, what is it for? Am I supposed to learn something? A lesson? I fucking hate lessons."

"Maybe that's why you need them," you mumble.

(3/4?)

"So it is lessons! Shit. You'd think if there was something I needed to know so bad, I'd just know it, but I guess... so what, I need to go around and do stupid self-help until I'm fixed enough to wake up?" He clasps his hands over his head. "So I wake up a changed man. Whoa. Goddamn, I watched too many movies."

You have resigned yourself to the position of spectator. "What the hell is a movie?"

"Oh, we're having a little joke. That's funny. No, no, it's alright, I'll just—" He takes exaggerated strides towards Other-Gil and bends down at the waist. "Hello. I guess you're here to tell me how miserable I am?"

"So you are miserable," you say accusingly.

"Goddamn, you're a real moralizer, aren't you? I thought my subconscious would hate my guts a lot more, but I guess I can do that all by myself. Now shut up! The men are talking."

It's impossible to tell if he's joking, or how much, or just about anything else: you barely recognize him like this. Is this how he is alone? In private? It feels invasive to witness, let alone participate in, but what choice do you have? You can hardly tell him the truth.

Your-Gil is still bent over at the waist, but for the life of you you can't tell what's happening to Other-Gil: he's gone sort of vague and ghosty. It's none of your business, you decide, and sit down against the wall until it wraps up.

Finally, Gil straightens. "Oh, hell."

"Is everything..." You tilt your head. "Um, where'd he go?"

"Him? Uh, I learned the lesson, so I guess I... absorbed him? Aren't you the one who knows how this works? The lesson made no goddamn sense, because of course it didn't. That'd be easy." He rakes his fingers through his hair. "You're going to ask, aren't you? See, I know. He was saying that he'd been here forever. In this house. Never entered, never left, just... was here, all alone. He didn't want to be rescued— didn't know any different, see. He just... something was missing, he said."

"Something was missing."

"Yeah. He didn't know what. Obviously I didn't know what, though I'm sure it's, like..." He gestures sarcastically. "A good dad. Don't need a coma hallucination for that one."

You fold your hands. "Um, I think it's beetles."

"What?"

There's no way to explain it to him. But this big empty room and not a single beetle? You were here, and there were thousands— and that's not even counting Gil himself, who really, really ought to be beetles. Or... should've ought to. You're not sure how the 'absorbing' changes things.

"Never mind," he says, bustling past you. "You're cryptic, yeah yeah, I get it. Not your fault. Can I still call you Dessie, though? Bit stupid to name myself, but..."

"Um, sure," you say. (It beats him calling you 'Gil.') "No problem."

"Thanks, Dessie." He cracks his knuckles. "Hey, like I said, I don't really need you anymore... I know the drill. You can piss off whenever you like."

If only!

(Choices next.)

>[1] The ledgers.
>[2] The... leaves?
>[3] The blue writing.
>[4] The chart with all the boxes.
>[5] Just follow Gil wherever he ends up going.
>[6] Write-in.

>>5109797
Charlotte confirmed cute. Not what I was expecting.

>>5109800
>[2] The... leaves?

>>5109800
>4

>>5109813
Maybe Gil just finds weird gremlin women cute. Maybe that's why he never bailed lmao T_T

>>5109800
4!