>>5338893
>>This invitation extends to Wallace Whitehorse, one of the top detectives at the acclaimed Hopper Agency

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Wallace Whitehorse, one of the top detectives at the acclaimed Hopper Agency

>>5338893
>>This invitation extends to Mariah Milner, the mind behind the most successful cartoons made at Hearthaver Studio

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Hank H. Halloran, the esoteric mind at the forefront of the Hall of The Curious & Crazy

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Hank H. Halloran, the esoteric mind at the forefront of the Hall of The Curious & Crazy

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Hank H. Halloran, the esoteric mind at the forefront of the Hall of The Curious & Crazy
Esotericism is the jack of all trades here imo, we also gain access to astral forms easier probably

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Wallace Whitehorse, one of the top detectives at the acclaimed Hopper Agency

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5338924
>>5338920
>>5338918
>>5338911
>>5338909
>>5338907
>>5338905
Tiebreaker roll for Wallace or Hank!
1 = Wallace
2 = Hank

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Hank H. Halloran, the esoteric mind at the forefront of the Hall of The Curious & Crazy

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Mariah Milner, the mind behind the most successful cartoons made at Hearthaver Studio

not sure if this will be counted but I dont mind either choice

>>5338893
>This invitation extends to Mariah Milner, the mind behind the most successful cartoons made at Hearthaver Studio

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>>5338946
…this invitation extends to Wallace Whitehorse, one of the top detectives at the acclaimed Hopper Agency. Well, isn’t that awfully nice of them to describe you as such.

A little further down, there’s a large block of text describing exactly what this invitation entails. The ‘Red Spiral’ is a large luxury resort located on a remote island. Apparently they invite notable individuals every year for an all-expenses paid, three-week holiday. That sounds highly suspect, and if it wasn’t for the fancy seal and the personal address you’d assume this was typical scammer garbage. The invite goes on to explain that you and a handful of other guests will granted the best luxuries the island can offer and will be minimally disturbed by the very small crew of staff they have at the Red Spiral.

Something that peaks your interest is the description of some of the fun activities available on the island. Chief among them are the usuals like a large swimming pool, artisan cocktail lounge and a glitzy casino, but one of the lower-listed attractions is a ‘mystery game for those with sharp wit’. Now that sounds right up your alley!

It hasn’t been too long since you got granted a very generous length of leave from your boss due to cracking open the secrets of a case that the agency had been sitting on for years with little avail. Turns out, those lost amulets were all hidden inside the wax figurine in the family’s greenhouse, who’d have thought? Thinking upon your frankly depressing lack of personal plans for the holiday, you mull over accepting this offer for a little while before settling on “Yes, absolutely, of course, but let’s check this is legitimate first so I don’t get my kidneys harvested.”

Calling up your old pal Reggie from the Office of Verifying Things takes the better part of an hour, especially since his scratchy enunciation and the shitty connection create a voice that a pneumonia-ridden smoker would sneer at. After some finagling, he gets back to you with a definite and entirely-trustworthy answer of “Yes.” to the Red Spiral being a real resort located out in the far west, just by an uninhabited archipelago.

The most important question of holiday making is what to pack. Essentials, bare essentials, barest of bare essentials? Or a bunch of useless crap?

>Pack lightly. Clothes, wallet, telephone.
>Pack a moderate amount. The other stuff, but also toiletries and your service weapon and even a pair of cool shades.
>Pack too much stuff. Useless doodads and baubles and fridge magnets. As well as all the other things.
>Pack a ridiculous amount. Snap your neck trying to carry it out of the door, and end this journey before it even begins.

>>5338981
>>Pack a moderate amount. The other stuff, but also toiletries and your service weapon and even a pair of cool shades.
Uhhhhh no way we're going somewhere without a pair of cool shades

>>5338981
>Pack a ridiculous amount. Snap your neck trying to carry it out of the door, and end this journey before it even begins.

>5338981
>Pack a ridiculous amount. Snap your neck trying to carry it out of the door, and end this journey before it even begins.

This sounds hilarious.

>>5338981
>Pack too much stuff. Useless doodads and baubles and fridge magnets. As well as all the other things.

>>5338983

190 Percent supporting cool shades

>>5338981
>>Pack a moderate amount. The other stuff, but also toiletries and your service weapon and even a pair of cool shades.

>>5338981
>>Pack a ridiculous amount. Snap your neck trying to carry it out of the door, and end this journey before it even begins.

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>>5339039
>>5338999
>>5338997
>>5338995
>>5338985
>>5338984
>>5338983
You elect to pack a moderate amount, sticking a few non-essentials in there just so you feel well-stocked. You bring your service weapon too, granted by the detective agency when you were promoted from Apprentice Detective to Proper Detective. It’s an inflatable baton with “DON’T BE BLOODY SILLY” emblazoned on the side in big blocky letters. Never know when a situation could arrive where a very mild thrashing could be in order, after all! You nab your rotary phone and some ‘Minty Monday’ shampoo as well. Oh, and the Cool Shades. Can’t forget those. You never ever wear them, but like… the threat of you wearing them is often a bargaining chip in conversations.

A glance in the mirror is necessitated. You look okay, better or worse days have been had. Maybe a quick freshening up would make you more appealing but the excitement of holiday awaits you! Suitcase in tow, you examine the instructions at the very bottom of the invitation again. Gartonsby-By-The-Sea Airport. Ask the teller about tickets from C. Oiling. Seems simple enough!

>Take the bus, to save the environment!
>Hop into your car, which you only own if you pick this one!
>A taxi is more suited to your middle-class tastes, thank you very much!

>>5339060
(Bonus points for figuring out which celebrity each portrait is based on. These points are utterly worthless and mean nothing.)

>>5339060
>>A taxi is more suited to your middle-class tastes, thank you very much!

>>5339060
>Hop into your car, which you only own if you pick this one!

>>5339065
Bruce Willis

>>5339060
>Hop into your car, which you only own if you pick this one!

>>5339060
>A taxi is more suited to your middle-class tastes, thank you very much!

>>5339065
Peter Sellers?

>>5339060
>Hop into your car, which you only own if you pick this one!

>>5339060
>Hop into your car, which you only own if you pick this one!

File: 0B8EAC5B-82D1-412A-91AF-8(...).png (1.14 MB, 1024x1024)

1.14 MB PNG

>>5339649
>>5339621
>>5339604
>>5339331
>>5339287
>>5339272
>>5339124
Jamming the suitcase into the boot of your car takes longer than you expected, but you get it done eventually. This vehicle is seriously lacking in storage capacity. It’s not even got enough room for three people in the backseat. One of your pals at work advised you buy the Chaffington Whipley VI but being the contrarian that you are you went for the more ‘vintage’ model, the Chaffington Whipley II. In this circumstance, ‘vintage’ refers to being older, clunkier, smaller and harder to source good parts for. Well done, you!

You step into the car, greeted by the fuzzy mauve interior and scratched-up leather seating. Turning the keys and beginning your drive to the airport, you flick around on the radio for a little while. Your taste lies in jazz music, rock music and jazz-rock fusion music. Everyone you know hates the last one, and they’ve made you very aware of it. Today you settle on the news instead to catch up on current affairs. The radio bleats out weather warnings and traffic information, but you also pick up that the nationally-famous Kathy Kingston has packed up and decided to go on holiday despite being in the middle of her press boom. If you remember correctly, she’s in her 50s and has spent more than half of her life behind bars, only to recently be exonerated as new evidence came to light. Pretty nasty stuff, eh? You don’t fancy yourself a survivor in the confines of a prison, especially with all the fingers you’ve stuck into the pies of the criminal underworld via your job.

The airport is a tiny little thing compared to Helridge or Vickton, but it is functional. The only issue with having a mere three gates is the queuing. Constant, constant queuing. Reaching the front, you pull out the invitation and, as per the instructions, say that you’ve got tickets waiting from C. Oiling. Her darker complexion makes it hard to tell, but she definitely goes a little red in the face and starts breathing heavier. Eyes transfixed forward a touch, then they aren’t. She snaps out of it and gives you the customer smile, before saying she’ll fetch a security guard to take you directly to your plane.

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>>5339665
A beefy man is your escort. In appearance, a bodybuilder or henchman. Black polo shirt without any identifiable branding or flourishes. Plain, but powerful. He just gives you a hand gesture to follow once the teller brings him to you. It’s an ambulatory process weaving through the airport but eventually you’re led out onto the airstrip and towards a small, private jet. Not flying commercially, then. He hands you your tickets and you see that they’re not for the trip but in fact admission to the resort itself. Stepping up onto the loudly-clanging steel, you give a smile which he doesn’t return and speak your thanks. The immediate interior is cold and clinical, must be the little area where the staff hang around and prepare the food.

A little further in, behind a hanging silver drape, there’s a lavish row of seats embossed with beautiful weaving, recursive patterns. Small mahogany tables affixed to the floor are scattered with potpourri and rose petals. There even seems to be a subtle shift in the hue of the lights, gradually moving from golden to crimson and then back again. By far, this is the fanciest plane you’ve stepped foot in. Perhaps even more interesting than the interior are the people. People aplenty! You’d guess there are more-or-less twenty people in here, some engaged in idle conversation or reading books while others enjoy a glass of wine or admire their surroundings.

Doesn’t appear that there are any formal seating arrangements, so you sit down beside…

>The shorter man with the scraggly beard and red, puffed up cheeks

>The brunette with the dirty brown jacket and muck in her nails

>The bespectacled gentleman with his eyes buried in a hefty-looking book

>The woman with the big lips and grey, cascading hair

>>5339667
>The bespectacled gentleman with his eyes buried in a hefty-looking book

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>>5339668
You locate the most comfortable spot to sit down, a pretty comfortable looking seat with a satin cloth draped across the cushion. For an airplane seat it looks high-class and cozy. Just beside you, there sits a man in perfectly crooked spectacles. He has thinning dirty blond hair resting high up on his head, and his reddish-pink lips are very full. In fact, his whole face seems very smooth and… moist? He doesn’t look sweaty, but not particularly like someone you’d want to lay a finger on either. You’re reminded of the fishmen of Innsmouth that you fondly read about when a work associate lent you his Lovecraft collection.

Ogling the man’s appearance aside, he seems to have his head buried in a book. The pages turn quickly, must be a sharp reader. It looks old and worn, like an original edition. As you lean ever so slightly inwards to discern the text he casts a minuscule glance at you, then back to the book, then at you again. With a sudden thud of the two covers, he slams it shut and gives a nervous clearing of the throat.

“Ahah… I… erm… You’re interestin- interested in books n’ like… that stuff, then. Nosy, ahaha… erm, nosy guy. You, I mean.”

He exudes uncertainty and anxiety like a madman. Shifty eyes and a jittery demeanour too. One of the other passengers, a stern-faced woman sitting on the other side of the room, calls out to you with a grin:

“Don’t bother with him, he’s a lower-class nutcase as far as I see it. Halligan or something, aren’t you?” she gestures to the man.

“Ehm… Halloran. Hank Halloran. And I’m… you’re a bit rude you know? You’re… ahaha…”

He trails off, still trying to force up a nervous smile despite the confrontation. The woman turns back to her company with a scoff, not bothering to grace him with a response or perhaps just not hearing his rambling at all. Well, somebody has to make do for conversation! With your best graces, you introduce yourself as Wallace Whitehorse and tell him you’re a detective. Hank, as you now know him, widens his eyes a bit at this and clutches the book tighter towards his chest with a look that’d be ferocious if not coming from a human stress machine.

“You’re eh, not police I should hope. Please, ehm, tell me y-your privates, I mean, you’re… that you work privately. I don’t want to see your balls. Or… cock. Or anything like, eh…”

He trails off again.

>Your reply?

>>5339742
"I work for Hopper."

>>5339903
Seconded.

>>5340041
>>5339903
Disregarding the fact he’s apparently shifted the conversation to your genitals, you reply that you work for the Hopper Agency, not the police. His demeanour shifts from nervous wreck to slightly-less nervous wreck, and a sigh of relief pours forth.

“Bloody good n’ all… t-they, like, ehm, they’re a bunch of, y’know, charlatans and such, ahah. Police. Crooks, the lot’ve em. A-A-And they’ve got the erm, the uh… the government right in their pockets… metaphorical ones, pockets I mean.”

You idly agree with what he says, and with him no longer clutching the book right to his chest you can see that he was reading “The Abbreviated History of The Eldritch” by one ‘P.H. Prescott”.

He notices where your eyes are drawn, a bit more receptive than before but still keeping his guard up. The type of behaviour you’ve seen with the guilty or those afraid they’ll seem guilty of some wrongdoing. Still, it’s an improvement. You ask about what draws him to that book in particular.

“Oh, ehrm. It’s my work a-and such. I curate and, eh, study all these types of things. The eldritch, the, like, bizarre. Paranatural and supra-planar h-happenings. You can… you can find a lot of it online but some s-stuff… aha… it’s only in old books.”

He goes on to explain that he curates an independent museum called the Hall of The Curious And Crazy, a tourist attraction filled with supposedly esoteric items from across the globe. You admit you’ve never heard of it, but then again that’s not often been your area of interest. Hank gives his first genuine chuckle and states that most people aren’t ‘in the know’ about the paranatural. You’re beginning to see why the stern lady described him as a madman, but he doesn’t seem completely bent out of sorts to the point of being unbearable.

>>5340070
Sensing that the conversation has concluded, he dips his head back into the encyclopaedia of the strange and you turn your attention to the staff area you came in through. A lady in pilot’s attire and a man dressed sharply in an auburn suit are standing there, and the lady calls out to you all that she’ll be your pilot on this flight, and that the man will be waiting on your every need.

It’s a brief safety & general information talk, over in a few moments. She clarified that the flight will likely take about two hours. Following that, a few more words and then you’re off! Up, up, up into the air! Once things have stabilised a little, and the symbol on the overhead for ‘Messy Violent Death’ switches off, you feel free to walk around the plane. Maybe making a few friends would help, since it seems that according to the pilot everyone on this plane is off to the same destination. One, two, three… twenty-two others, discounting yourself.

>Mingle with the stern woman, a blonde laid-back man and a dour-looking black man, all discussing and sipping wine at the back of the plane.

>Affiliate yourself with the quietest corner: a well-dressed gentleman with an angular face, a frankly ragged fellow with dirty teeth and a rugged sort who sits cross-armed and still.

>Make conversation with a rowdy group composed of a grinning fellow in faded clown makeup, a puffy-cheeked bearded man and a grey-haired lady with prominent lips.

>Is that Kathy Kingston, from the news? I think that’s Kathy Kingston, from the news. Go say hello to her!

>>5339742
Rick Morranis

>>5340073
>Affiliate yourself with the quietest corner: a well-dressed gentleman with an angular face, a frankly ragged fellow with dirty teeth and a rugged sort who sits cross-armed and still.

>>5339742
Stephen Merchant, clearly. Just look at the goggle eyed freak!

>>5340073
Quiet corner.

>>5340073
>Make conversation with a rowdy group composed of a grinning fellow in faded clown makeup, a puffy-cheeked bearded man and a grey-haired lady with prominent lips.

How could we pass up a clown?

>>5340073

>Is that Kathy Kingston, from the news? I think that’s Kathy Kingston, from the news. Go say hello to her!

How can a nosy detective-type resist?

>>5340073
>s that Kathy Kingston, from the news? I think that’s Kathy Kingston, from the news. Go say hello to her!

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5340521
>>5340358
>>5340151
>>5340097
>>5340092
Correct answer!
>>5340083
Rolling for who to talk to!
1 = Kathy Kingston
2 = The Quiet Corner

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>>5340557
Your eyes are drawn to an older woman, her posture seeming almost motherly as she hunches over and sips her tea quietly. Her graying hair falls free on one side while being snipped short on the other, and there’s a distinctive tattoo of a cinderblock just down that side of her neck. Kathy Kingston. Topic of the most recent media frenzy, when it was uncovered that she was falsely imprisoned for 27 years for the murder of her husband and two sons. It’s grim stuff, but she was exonerated when the true culprit passed from a heart attack and his grisly diary was found.

You approach slowly, not wanting to pester her more than she already has been these last few weeks. She gives a weak smile to you as you come over, patting the seat beside her as a gesture to sit. Obliging her, you introduce yourself and ask if she’s who you think she is.

“Must read the papers, dear? Yes, you’re right. That’s me, and that’s all anyone wants to flippin’ know about me recently. Tiring stuff.”

You assure her that you’re more interested in idle conversation than drawing every detail of her life out like a ratty journalist. She grants you a laugh for that, and replies that it’s unlikely that she has many stories that aren’t to do with prison. She gestures to her forehead and hair, creased with wrinkles and wispy-thin respectively.

“Premature aging, you know? I’m only forty-nine, but the tribulations you go through in the clinkery-clank, let me tell you dear, they make you look about twenty years older.”

Flattery is all you can really offer, saying that she doesn’t look as old as you might think. A gulp of tea and a bristling chuckle are what she gives you, before saying that “being a suck-up doesn’t work on me, dear. If you want my favour you’ll have to wave a shiv around at me or something.”

Serious or not, it’s an offer that you’d never expect from someone who seems like a rather docile lady. Her time inside, from the bits you’ve heard on the radio, was perpetually miserable and rough. Government funding has been getting lower and lower for prisons, so it’s no surprise to hear the standard inside there isn’t fantastic.

“So, what gets you a ticket on this holiday, dear? I assume we’re not all gifted a nice getaway because of familial tragedy?”

>>5340562
You explain your invitation mentioned your acclaim at the Hopper Agency, and she makes a face that can only be described as disappointed. Picking up from Hank earlier, you clarify that the agency is not affiliated with the police and that it’s mostly private matters or dubiously-legal affairs involving missing property and unfaithful partners. She softens a touch at that, clearly another person who has no faith in the police force.

“I’ll tell you one thing, there’s not a copper worth his coppers in this entire world, not a single one. They’re all lecherous lazy buggers. Even the ladies, you know? We’re meant to have a bit of decorum and majesty, but I’ve seen more of that with the crooks than the female guards, always throwing their weight around to feel a bit stronger.” She scoffs and finishes off her cup of tea. You can see she’s left the teabag in, and she reaches in to pluck it up and stuff it into her pocket. Seeing your reasonably-perplexed look, she explains:

“Oh, old habit. A friend of a friend smuggled some teabags in for me once, but they only had four to give me… for the whole stay! So I had to reuse and reuse until eventually it tasted like an entirely new drink. I’d heat the kettle I made out of a saucepan over the radiator, then I’d hide it behind a loose bit of concrete on the wall. Can’t snap out of keeping the used ones, dear. Not at all.”

The conversational lead drifts over to you.

>If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the tattoo of the cinderblock for?

>Got any other interesting stories? I’d like to contradict my prior statement to not ask too much about prison.

>I must be going, I’ve got to meet the other characters. Or at least a few of them.

>>5340563
>I must be going, thank you.

>>5340563
>I must be going, I’ve got to meet the other characters. Or at least a few of them.

I am direly torn. We may be the dullest person here.

>>5340860
>>5340740
Looking about, to and fro, you feel that you are a bit of a dullard in comparison to the eclectic bunch gathered here. I mean, sure, you crack mad cases and snoop around in people’s lives for a living, but do you have a weird scar, or a lisp, or a tragic story about how your parents drowned in a grain silo? Damn it! Maybe you need to… reinvent yourself a little? Give yourself a Defining Characteristic that other people will see and go “Oh, well then. That’s peculiar”. You add it to your mental checklist, anyways. Something to mull over in the evenings in your assumedly-lovely hotel room / cabin / private mansion.

You excuse yourself from the company of Kathy Kingston, saying that you must meet the folks around the room. As you all fly, so does time, and it seems that you’ve spent more on this flight than you first thought. You probably have time to chat with, say, one more guest or group of guests before arrival. Just a vague spitball, but you feel like this arbitrary limit is almost the will of the universe or something like that. Casting your gaze onto the others and witnessing the addition of some new faces to the groups, you consider again who you’ll be affiliating with for the last leg of the flight:

>Mingle with the stern woman, a blonde laid-back man and a dour-looking black man, all discussing and sipping wine at the back of the plane. They’ve now been joined by an aged man with raucous hair and round glasses.

>Affiliate yourself with the quietest corner: a well-dressed gentleman with an angular face, a frankly ragged fellow with dirty teeth and a rugged sort who sits cross-armed and still. A dark-skinned man wearing a bowler hat has also moved over there.

>Make conversation with a rowdy group composed of a grinning fellow in faded clown makeup, a puffy-cheeked bearded man and a grey-haired lady with prominent lips. A fat man in chef’s attire has made himself part of the group.

>>5340562
Meryl Streep?

>>5341023

>Mingle with the stern woman, a blonde laid-back man and a dour-looking black man, all discussing and sipping wine at the back of the plane. They’ve now been joined by an aged man with raucous hair and round glasses.

Sternlady was the one who initially addressed us and warned us that Halloran might be mad, right? Seems polite to greet her proper.

>>5341023
>>Make conversation with a rowdy group composed of a grinning fellow in faded clown makeup, a puffy-cheeked bearded man and a grey-haired lady with prominent lips. A fat man in chef’s attire has made himself part of the group.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5341074
>>5341040
Correct on Meryl Streep.
Another day, another roll. This time:
1 = Stern Woman & Co.
2 = Rowdy Group

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>>5342227
That woman from earlier, the one who piped up about Hank, seems to be leading the conversation with a handful of others. They all seem moderately well dressed and compose themselves in a formal fashion. Must be the snooty section, eh? Judging by her comment earlier, you’d guess so.

Fruity perfume wafts through the air as you approach, presumably emanating from the lady. All eyes turn to you as you offer a charmer’s smile and ask if you could have a seat. One of the passengers there, a dark fellow with what seems to be an unfortunate case of unfixable scowling, makes a gesture to the nearest seat. Mere moments after you’ve sat down, the well-dressed member of staff approaches and offers you a variety of wines. You’re encouraged by one of your peers, a man wearing perfectly circular reading specs, to try the Cabernet Franc. It arrives with haste and you promptly sip away at the crisp-tasting wine. He must be an aficionado, or at least a frequent drinker.

“You’re not too clothed, not properly. But you also don’t look like some of the rabble on this plane. What do you do for a living, huh?”

It’s the stern-faced woman. Your eyes quickly trace a mental image of her and attribute a certain familiarity, maybe she was in the papers or you bumped into her on the street once. Storing the thought, you mention your career as a private detective, though with this company it seems wiser to keep the stories of prodding at rubbish bags to yourself. The scowling black gent gives you a firm handshake and introduces himself as Renford. No clutching of palms from the bespectacled man, but he does eagerly let you know that he’s called Gilbert Grantham and that he holds the “prestigious but utterly worthy honour” of
being the regional manager of LoanHome Banks for Wider Balmstock. You personally bank with them, so it’s… ‘good’ to know that your money is in such confident hands.

The lady of the group punctuates her speech with precise words about her importance to the country, but amidst the curiously scripted sounding introduction, you gather that she’s a politician for the Opposition, and bears the name of Delilah Decksman. In contrast with the fruity scent floating over from her side, there’s not a hint of sweetness or warmth in her words. A chilly frost would be the best descriptor, like you’ve just stuck your head in a verbal freezer.

The last introduced member of the table is the least-fitting, being slouched down in his seat rather than paying any mind to manners. He has messy, unkempt hair that gleams a surely-unnatural blonde. His attire is, at the very least, formal in its’ own way, being what seems to be a cheap suit with a jacket thrown over the top at the last minute. Much like Renford, all he offers is his name and nothing more. Clive.

>Chat with Clive
>Chat with Renford
>Chat with Delilah
>Chat with Gilbert

>>5342367
>Chat with Clive
A puzzle piece that doesn't seem to fit? Snoop's gotta' snoop.

>>5342367
>>Chat with Gilbert

>>5342367
Jennifer Aniston?

>>5342367
>>Chat with Clive

>>5342367
Talk to Gilbert.

>>5342367

> Clearly Clive

>>5342367
>Chat with Clive

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18 KB JPG

>>5343443
>>5342678
>>5342657
>>5342609
>>5342559
>>5342521
>>5342414
Clive was naturally the most interesting to your nosy tastes. Why was he unfitting with his company? Before you even had a chance to probe him for questions, he had one fired off at you first.

“Wanna see something cool?”

Delilah sighed wearily and rolled her eyes, while Renford gave out a chuckle. Gilbert let a tut slip by as a sign of disapproval, clearly showing that all your present company had bore witness to the “cool” thing that Clive was about to unveil. From beneath the seat he was in, Clive patted around a little and then sat back up, clutching a…

By gosh, that’s a shotgun! A real, bonafide firearm. On a plane!? After airport security!? The etched wooden back of the gun was intricate and full of elegant spirals, while the barrel… wait, just how many shots was this thing capable of firing… there’s your standard two, but three, four… five…

“It’s a septuple shot. Blows an elk to pieces in seconds. Custom made, baby!”

You’re not sure how to respond to this overwhelmingly alarming weapon, or the fact that he has it on an aircraft. Your company doesn’t seem to be too dismayed or panicked beyond just annoyance, so you assume he’s got no nefarious intent with the thing. Clive flashes his smile and reveals a row of not-so-clean teeth to you. He certainly doesn’t fit in with the upper crust that inhabit this part of the plane, that’s for certain. You inquire as to his profession.

“Hunter, man. I work for some of the richest peeps in the world! Plus I train em’ in oblit-er-ATION of wildlife mammals, you dig? God, I hate animals. Those bozos… whew! Ya know what I mean? They just get muck everywhere n’ make a total mess, so I make a mess too… outta their damn brains! Bwahahaha…”

You’ve hardly said a word, the man is effectively having a conversation with himself here. Delilah, lip quivering with disdain, loses her temper after showing the restraint she was capable of. Fist slammed onto the side of a seat, and a glare that could cut through steel.

“MISTER Coolard. Stop waving it around.”

For someone who hunts and kills for a living, he shrinks up awful in his seat after invoking the scorn of the intimidating politician. Content that her quiet wine drinking won’t be interrupted again, she changes her demeanour entirely back to the sternness you witnessed prior and begins chatting with a visibly-cautious Renford about yacht sailing. She wears the boots for EVERYONE here, it seems.

>Tell her to chill out (If chosen, please roll 1d100 minus 99 for how well it goes.)
>Quietly drink wine until the plane lands
>Write In

Rolled 82 + 99 (1d100 + 99)

>>5343639
>Tell her to chill out (If chosen, please roll 1d100 minus 99 for how well it goes.)

What could possibly go wrong with such good odds

>>5343690
oh yeah I forgot, to roll minus you have to typ "+-". For some no doubt genius reason if you just type "-"it defaults to +

>>5343639

> Ask Mr. Coolard to step aside with you and learn more about his history.

Rescue this poor man from the upper crust! And vice versa frankly.

Rolled 87 - 99 (1d100 - 99)

>>5343690
support

>>5343639
>>Write In

Chat with Gilbert.

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>>5343931
>>5343789
>>5343733
>>5343691
>>5343690
You’re trying to meet people here, and she’s being rather ferocious. Everyone seems a tad bit afraid of her, and so internally you roll around the dice of fate and settle on an appropriate reply to her loud and bold behaviour.

[ULTRA-FAILURE]

“Eh, Delilah, was it? You could just chill out a bit instead of swinging around your authority around like a bat.”

You gasp. You clasp your hands over your mouth as Clive bursts into laughter, then quickly stifles himself. Renford gives you a look of utter terror, and Gilbert just bears the marks of dismay all across his visage. You… you haven’t yet cast your eyes onto Delilah. God, you fucking fuck. Why’d you say that out loud, you absolute bloody mongoloid!? Shit, bollocks! Ah god, oh fuck. She’s going to take your head clean off yo-

“DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME IN THAT MANNER, YOU BLOODY WRETCH. WHO IN GOD’S HOLY GRACES DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? DON’T TAKE THAT TONE OF VOICE IN MY COMPANY AND CERTAINLY DON’T INSTRUCT ME ON HOW I SHOULD COMPOSE MYSELF, ESPECIALLY FOR THE LIKES OF YOU! I OUGHT TO PELT THIS BLOODY WINE GLASS OFF YOUR HEAD, MR. NOT-GOOD-ENOUGH-TO-BE-A-PROPER-DETECTIVE! GAH! THE ABSOLUTE GALL OF YOU YOUNG MEN TODAY!”

“Miss, I’m actually thirty-si-“

“I DON’T GIVE A RAT’S BEHIND IF YOU’RE OLD ENOUGH TO BE ROCKING IN A RETIREMENT HOME, YOU WILL NEVER SPEAK TO ME IN THAT FASHION AGAIN, UNDERSTOOD!? YOU NEED TO LEARN SOME MANNERS BEFORE SOMEONE LESS REFINED THAN ME TAKES YOUR COCKADOODIE EYES OUT!”

“Ehm… yes, miss.”

>Wipe the sweat from your brow and realise that your entire shirt is soaked with it
>You’ve actually been a bit sick in your mouth. Maybe spit it into a napkin?
>Tears are streaming down your face like a blubbering baby. This is not a good look.

>>5343995
*swinging around your authority like a bat

>>5343995
>>You’ve actually been a bit sick in your mouth. Maybe spit it into a napkin?

We can use it later! The other options will ruin our nice shirt and/or make us look like a friggin' pussy.

>>5343995
>You’ve actually been a bit sick in your mouth. Maybe spit it into a napkin?

>>5343995
>You’ve actually been a bit sick in your mouth. Maybe spit it into a napkin?

[Likely no updates until late tomorrow. The record-high heat here in the UK is unbearable and making it hard to focus on writing coherently, and my home has poor air circulation in general.]

>>5344090
Sorry to hear the heat got you, bud. Stay frosty! Feel better soon.

>>5344090
Invest in a fan, mate. It might sound a bit captain-obvious and they're probably all sold out right now but you'll seriously thank yourself next summer. I learned my lesson a couple years ago and it's probably the most priceless object in the room right now.

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>>5344290
>>5344328
[I actuallly did go and buy a standing fan a few days ago but there’s only so much it can do. Plus, gotta hydrate even more than usual with a fan blasting you 24/7]
>>5344090
>>5344024
>>5344018
>>5344011
The sensation and texture of bile in your mouth is not a one you find enjoyable. Grabbing a napkin, you spit into it, much to the disgust of essentially everyone in the small gathering. You’re a tool, and a fool, and fucking hell, is she scary or what? You’re not sure what to do with the vomit-infused napkin so you put it in your pocket. It’s… better than leaving it on the table, right? You excuse yourself from the present company and sheepishly sit on your own for the last half-hour of the flight. Occasionally, someone would glance over to you with an expression of pity, disgust or concern.

Touchdown. The plane, while a little bumpy and making your stomach churn again, doesn’t crash and explode into a fiery wreck. You’re escorted off the plane by the pilot lady, a big grin affixed to her face, though your astute senses do pick up a certain twitch to her pale-blue eyes. Tickets for the resort in hand, you exit the aircraft and are overwhelmed by the beating heat-drum of the sun. It’s hotter than you’re accustomed to, skin glistening with sweat beads as your feet touch the little runway beneath you. Short, and isolated. That’s how you’d describe it. No large airport, just a runway and a shack, thatched roof and all. Looks like the gentleman of the staff has gotten to work unpacking all the suitcases for everybody.

There’s a beautiful clear sky above, not a cloud to be seen. Palm trees sway around, their leaves bristling against eachother and complementing the soothing ocean sounds. Any word other than ‘paradise’ would be inaccurate for this little slice of postcard-bait. Despite your expectations, the two crew members of the flight don’t actually step off for a break or anything, simply waving when you glance back to them. It seems obvious where you’re headed: the little shack. A handful of people begin their stroll over to it, while some others simply gawk at the tropic scene before them. You notice Clive scanning the treeline to the greener inland area, perhaps surveying for any rogue wildlife he could turn into a corpse. Kathy is fumbling with something inside of her suitcase right beside the plane, while Gilbert and an angular-faced man point at some rather large gulls and seem to exchange words between themselves.

>Straight to the check-in, please!
>Talk to a new guest (random choice)
>Go see if Kathy needs a hand
>What are Gilbert & that stranger doing?
>Investigate Clive’s jungle-gazing

>>5344729
>>Talk to a new guest (random choice)

>Talk to a new guest (random choice)

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>>5344745
>>5344738
[Captcha: GAYXD]
As people filter out, one person in particular catches your eye. Perhaps it’s her striking blonde hair or just the fact she’s relatively youthful-looking in comparison to most others here, but this lady stands out to you. She appears to be struggling to drag two large suitcases behind her, so you take this as your chance to naturally start a conversation.

“Need a hand with those, miss?”

She looks up and gives you an analytical glare. Glancing up and down at you, then again. Then she nods. You take the heavier of the two cases, realising all too late that her struggle was not a lack of strength, but rather a lack of wheels. What a ridiculous suitcase, this big but with no wheels on it. Why did she need two anyways? Perhaps her and another guest were related, and would be staying together.

“You look like you’re going to struggle as much as me, but maybe it’ll be funny for both” she says, dropping the previously-presented stoicism. “I’m Mariah, Mariah Milner. You’re… a guy that got yelled at by that fascist bitch over there, right?”

She points her finger to Delilah, who is currently rolling her small suitcase behind herself as she hurries along to the shack. Gilbert seems to also be tagging along behind her now, having departed from his previous company.

You reply with…

>Write In

> That's me. Pardon the inquisitiveness but are you packing for two, or just very well prepared?

>>5344873
>>5344881
+1 to this. She a cellist or something?

>>5344873
>>5344893 +1

>>5344873
> That's me. Pardon the inquisitiveness but are you packing for two, or just very well prepared?
>Hypothesize aloud that she might be a musician

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>>5345468
>>5345466
>>5344893
>>5344881
“That’s me. Pardon the inquisitiveness, but are you packed for two? Or maybe a cellist? Seems a lot for one lady.”

“Hah, I wish! Nope, no instruments for me. It’s all just work stuff, can’t escape it!”

“What do you do for work?” you ask her.

She sighs and explains that as both a cartoonist and a project lead for two currently-running cartoons, she had to take some of her work with her on this holiday. Seeing your curiosity, she stops for a moment, unzipping her case and revealing much of work equipment. Prints of storyboards, small sections of scripts, a laptop and several notebooks are all tightly-packed in together. There’s also a small bobblehead of a fuzzy blue monster, which she explains is one of the characters in “Groovy Gardens”, the show she holds most dear to her. You think you might’ve seen an advert for it once on TV?

“How’d you get into the industry, then? Must take a lot of talent and time.” you inquire.

“Pfft, please. You get just as many art degree graduates who think their art blogs are like fine art as you do people with a proper dedication and work ethic. I got my start with a degree, sure, but I spent years and years pitching the same show with alterations and art changes and everything. I had to make contacts and constantly arrange meetings with different companies. Eventually I got picked up by Hearthaver, you probably haven’t heard of them. You’re right about the time part, but talent is a whole different game.”

You feel lucky that your boss is generous with his leave, and that getting your job wasn’t a nightmare of meetings and bureaucrac. The two of you continue walking beside eachother until you both reach the shack. White plastered walls, but with a thick thatched roof above it. Quite an odd mesh of texture, but it seems vaguely tropical enough. A few people got there before you, so a queue has formed.

Everyone at the front seems to be a tad confused, poking their head into the open side-window where you’d expect a booth or teller. You walk past the queueing guests to take a peek, only seeing a strange, rather abnormally large red mannequin in lieu of a human being. It has been created to be in a pose of an extended hand, as if waiting for someone to hand over change or pass a pen.

A young perky-looking woman, hair equal parts pink and blonde, leans into the window and shouts out a loud “Hey!”
No reply is granted to her. The guests begin to complain to one another about their arrival not being anticipated.

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>>5345617
All eyes are turned towards the back of the queue when the dark fellow in the bowler hat that you saw on the plane calls out. “Everyone, please! I think we all walk together, to resort. It is easy to explain for us that… eh…” he waves the tickets in the air, pointing to them with his other hand. “These, I don’t know word in English. But we explain these are for our stay, and say about nobody being there to take them. Easy solution for us, so we should go together as one.”

“Tickets, mate. They’re called tickets.” says a red-nosed man with a pale complexion. Most everyone seems to agree to just walk along the beach until they reach the main resort. It’s not a massive island apparently, so chances of getting lost are very minimal. While walking behind them, you overhear the black man introduce himself to the pale man as “Umar Unigwe”, while the other lets him know that he’s “Emil. Emil Elridge.”

>Walk with everyone else
>Walk with a specific person (write in)
>Walk alone

>Walk with a specific person (write in)

This is our chance to talk to the clown!

>>5345618
Talk to this Uniqwe fellow. He seems to have initiative.

>>5345618
>>Walk with a specific person (write in)
We NEED to chat with the clown. We NEED to.

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>>5345790
>>5345759
>>5345747
Eyes scan the group. Where’s the clown? Must talk to the clown. Why is he wearing clown makeup off the job? Is he an entertainer working here? What’s his… y’know, his DEAL!?

There he is! His jaunty stroll is easy to spot, loooong legs swooping back and forth. He’s wearing pretty normal dress shoes, standard black. But his baggy pants are green and pinstriped, while his white polo shirt has an assortment of fridge magnets, bottlecaps, fishing hooks, coloured pencils and lighters hanging off it. On his face lies white greasepaint with a bright red splotch on his nose. Large black arches outline his upper brow. All this complemented by a gaudy olive jacket gave quite the impression. Looks like he’s making giddy conversation with one of the gruffer, rosy-cheeked passengers from the plane.

You saunter over to them, managing to naturally slip into conversation with the two mirthful gents by saying you could’ve swore you heard hyenas until you saw the two of them. This gets another laugh out of the clown, while the gruff man just chuckles a touch. The clown’s hands comb through his frizzed-up ginger hair in a pastiche of a ‘slick laid-back guy’ before he pats you on the back with a big grin.

“I tell you, fella, we were cacklin’ ourselves silly when we saw that crazy lass blow her tin-top with you! Poor bloody luck there!” he belts out with another laugh. “Nice to meet ya, fella. You’ll oblige me yer name? I’m Quinn Quixote but I reckon more people know me as…”

He starts jumping from foot to foot like a mad jester with glee.

“Bunkum the Clown!”

You smile at the crazy display before you. It has a charm that makes it feel far less disoncerting than Hank spouting off about the eldritch or a man with a gun that could turn you into meaty chunks. No, this was just some silly sod having a bit of fun. Giving him your name and a pat on the back in return, he makes a gesture to the red-faced man beside him.

“This here’s Nickle Ars- I mean, Nicholas! Tell him what yer claim to fame is, go on!”

Nicholas extends his hand for a shake, which you politely accept. His hands are sweaty and rather rough, but his smile and rosy expression eases you up a touch.

“I’m a surge-… well, an ex-surgeon. I got blasted and blitzed on grain alcohol and heppers, then I pulled off this mental operation on some mayor guy with total success. Got arrested, like. But the papers loved me! Those were my five minutes!” he shouts out to you as his brightened cheeks grow even brighter. Judging by the bulging shape beneath his dark coat pocket, he’s probably got some sort of boozey beverage on him at the minute.

>Allow Quinn to engulf you in tales of clownery
>Ask about Nicholas and his proclivity for suspicious substances
>Just focus on walking for now

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>>5345829
[Might as well drop Nicholas’ face as well.]

>>5345829
>Allow Quinn to engulf you in tales of clownery
A clown is a useful ally to have... and an even worse foe.

>>5345829
>>Allow Quinn to engulf you in tales of clownery

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>>5345885
>>5345835
Quinn entertains the two of you with some stories about his time as a clown. He’s a “senior entertainer” primarily, travelling to nursing homes and elderly relatives to entertain them with his crude but charming acts. He recounts to you a common piece, where he would attempt smoke a cigar and keep finding it won’t light, until he blows on it and reveals it’s a party horn the entire time. Pulling a large blue fishhook from his shirt, he shows you that if he depresses a small trigger on it, it becomes floppy and limp. No explanation is needed on what jokes he can pull off with this.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you wearing the clown makeup now? We’re on holiday and all” you inquire of him.

Quinn shrugs, his grin growing a little softer. “Felt like it, s’pose there might be some of yer on this island who need a good cheerin’ up n’ all. Do I need a good reason, fella?”

You assure him you didn’t mean anything by it and were simply curious. The matter is dropped and the three of you keep moving down along the beachfront with the others. After about five minutes, something comes into view. A large building, white exterior with ornate red patterns painted along it. A domed roof, akin to the Taj Mahal. Same shade of red as the patterns. The closer you get, the more of the resort you see. Many buildings of unusual shapes and sizes, all similarly painted in the white-red scheme. There’s definitely a water park there too, and you can see some buildings suspended in the air on tall metal poles, on the far side of the island.

Umar leads the way for everyone, seeming to be someone with natural initiative. Onto the thin asphalt roads of the resort, you don’t spot a soul in sight. It’s entirely possible that you and your airplane cohorts are the only people here, except for the staff. Wherever the hell they are. Passing a bowling alley and what appears to be a theatre with jagged pointy roofing, there’s a much-less-ornate building with metallic lettering above it reading “Main Reception”. You and the others filter in, the interior being cool and lacking the breeze of the outside. Marble pillars hold up the roof, painted a deep crimson. Everything seems Grecian in design and arrangement. There’s a thick mahogany desk spanning half of the vast room, with enough spots for at least four receptionists at once.

Strangely, none at all are present. In their place, another four mannequins. Two of them are positioned to be typing at the desktop computers, one seems to be mid-conversation while another is reaching for a small display stand on the countertop. Is this some kind of elaborate decorative piece, or have the real staff decided to have a little laugh at everyone’s expense.

>Investigate the display stand
>Touch one of the mannequins
>Wait and see what everyone else does

>Touch one of the mannequins

Poke it!

>>5346823
>Touch one of the mannequins

>>5347196
>>5346971
You poke one of the mannequins and feel the world around you slip away.

The feeling of separation from the self.
The feeling of an observer from afar.
The feeling of your heart beating outside of your own chest, beating for another.
The feeling of decay and entropy and collapse.
The feeling of joy when you know nothing you do will change the outcome.
It all rushes through you, through your core.

You collapse.

>Foggy Apparition
>Dark Nightmare
>Fated Premonition

>>5347363
>>Fated Premonition
If it's fated and a premonition then that means it's sure to happen, yea? Let's see what's in store!

>>5347363
>Fated Premonition

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>>5347368
>>5347418
You’re transported to somewhere outside of time. A fated realm where what has been and what is yet to come are in distinguishable. You feel the sand against your bare form, your feet slowly sinking into it. There’s somebody else, a silhouette against the murky sky. Hundreds of thousands of red strings descend like snaking tendrils from the clouds and wrap them up as they convulse and panic. You can’t tell who it is, but it is a horror to witness. The velvet threads twist, now all spiralling and looping in your direction. You try to run, but your feet won’t move… sunken in the sand. Sharp, biting pain hits your entire form as the strings collide. It’s unbearable. Like a million tiny needles being stabbed into every part of you.

You wake up. The eggshell-white roof above you is panelled evenly, matching the colour of the blankets that cover you. Sitting up, you take note of your surroundings. A small emergency room. A metal cart with some surgical supplies sits dusty and untouched in the corner, directly beside a large glass-windowed cabinet with different pills and syringes. There’s another hospital bed in the room as well, room for two clearly. It’s vacant, though the dirty green armchair in the corner besides the door is decidedly not. Nicholas, who you recall as a surgeon, lies snoring with his head thrown back in the chair.

You’re hesitant to get up. The last thing you recall is laying your finger on one of the mannequins in the main reception, then suddenly blacking out and having an ominous dream. How badly did you hurt yourself when you fell? Did you have a reaction to the material of the mannequin? These questions ring in your mind, but you note that you don’t feel any pain at the moment. Whether that’s a sign of health or a sign you’ve been given medication is anyone’s guess.

>Try to get out of bed
>Call out for Nicholas
>Go back to sleep for now

>>5347866
>Call out for Nicholas

>>5347866
>>Call out for Nicholas

>>5347866
>Try to get out of bed

>>5347866
>>Call out for Nicholas
If we somehow transformed into a giant cockroach I'm gonna FREAK. OUT.

>>5348317
>>5348312
>>5348175
>>5347973
“Nicholas? Nicholas! Hey!”

He stirs a little in his seat, still drooling onto his shirt.

“Hey! Nick, wake up! What happened?”

Suddenly, he jolts in his chair, letting out a loud gasp. Bad dream, maybe? Wiping his eyes and getting to his feet, he walks over to you and leans against the foot of the bed.

“You had some kind of seizure and collapsed. The medical equipment here is not the best, but I can tell you that you’ll be fine. Any history of it?”

“Eh… no. No history.”

“Right. Might want to get a checkup when you go home but you weren’t frothing at the mouth or anything. Should be fine for the moment.”

You nod in response as Nick turns away from you. He turns back when you inquire one more thing from him.

“How come you’re the one treatin’ me? Surely the staff have medical training?”

He chuckles and shrugs, hands in the air.

“Staff? No staff. No idea, we wandered all over the resort and found nobody. Unless we’ve been duped, it appears to just be us at the moment. There’s no good internet or cellular service on this island either.”

You get out of the bed, putting on your previous clothes as Nicholas leaves the room. Your suitcase is neatly tucked in the corner, safe and sound. No one else on the island, eh? This is really strange.

>Take a look at the medicine cabinet
>Leave the emergency room
>Get something out of your suitcase
>Other (Write In)

>>5349083

>Get something out of your suitcase
>Cool shades

Detective mode activate!

>>5349083
>Get something out of your suitcase
>>Cool shades

>Take a look at the medicine cabinet

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>>5349262
>>5349186
A conundrum of this level might require the Cool Shades. You haven’t worn them since you bought them from some greasy Arabian man on a street corner while investigating a particularly troublesome case. Sometimes you threaten to put them on, but don’t follow through. But you’ve never passed out like this, nor had such an esoteric and deeply worrying dream. Hesitantly, and with shaky hands, you unzip the suitcase and rummage for the Cool Shades. They’re tucked down the side of an interior pocket, safely nestled between a pack of chewing gum and a clicky pen. You take them out…

Unfold them…

Place them on your face…

You are now wearing the Cool Shades. The room is noticeably darker. On account of wearing sunglasses, obviously. Turning your attention to the medicine cabinet against the wall. Looks like it has been opened up by Nicholas, and a bottle of fairly weak painkillers has been opened. There are signs that a few of the other bottles have been touched too, as they lay less perfectly organised than the majority of the contents. Some tranquilizers and sedatives, primarily. As well as rubbing alcohol. Thinking back to the misnaming of Halloran as Halligan on the plane, you take a cue out of the fictional detective’s book and decide to pocket a small glass bottle of ethanol. Maybe it’ll be handy at some point.

[Wallace’s Belongings]
Cool Shades: +18% Detective Skill
Chewing Gum: +8 to Annoying Guy
Vomit-Soaked Napkin: 55 Poison Damage
Inflatable “Service Weapon”: 0.00% Damage Multiplier
“Minty Monday” Shampoo: 3x Hair Freshness Multiplier
Rotary Phone: +19% to Style
Bottle of Ethanol: Inflicts Drunk
[All statistics have no bearing on play and are purely decorative.]

>>5349346
With the minor theft out of the way, and the mental note to ask Nicholas if he took anything from the cabinet for his own tastes, you elect to step outside. You’re beamed upon by the bright midday sun. Looks like you were only out for a couple of hours. Nicholas is still walking away to the right, though he’s made good distance now. You’re definitely in a more developed part of the resort, with buildings surrounding you on every side.

On your left, there’s a grand waterpark with vibrantly-coloured slides. Water gushes down every which way, and you can make out two figures getting ready to go down one of the higher, spiralling slides. There also seems to be a bit of pirate theming to it, as a ship-shaped bar lays just beside one of the two large swimming pools in the park.

Directly ahead is a large building with many spiky outcroppings. On those outcroppings hang many lanterns, ribbons and lengths of red string, as well as a sign that reaches across the entrance to read “Scarlet Matinee Lounge”. Several cardboard cutouts of dancers and magicians are dotted around the area, supplemented by a mauve stone statue depicting a salacious dancer flicking a towel at someone. You can see inside, deep red carpets and marble pillars akin to those at the reception.

To the right, you see Nicholas wandering away down the long asphalt path. There are quite a few buildings dotted around, including some that you saw before like the main reception. There’s that domed roof building, as well as the bowling alley too. Somewhat closer is a collection of market stalls with signs depicting ice cream, fresh fruit and various other foodstuffs. You can see those damned red mannequins manning each of them. Looks like a larger guest you haven’t spoken to yet is sat on a low bench over there, eating something in his hand.

>Catch up with Nick
>Off to the waterpark!
>Investigate the stalls & guest
>Head into the Scarlet Matinee Lounge
>Somewhere else (Write In)

Also…
>Focus on investigating where the staff are. This is serious and you don’t have time to play around TOO much. Straight forward demeanour, no fussing. You must get to the bottom of this.
>Definitely keep the seizure and lack of staff in mind, but also let loose a little. Yes, it’s worrying, but your job has accustomed you to mysteries and being in situations where they exist.
>Ah, what the hell? It’s your holiday! Sure, it was weird, but what isn’t in this life? Enjoy yourself like it’s the last day you got, and put the worries aside for a minute!

>>5349347
>Catch up with Nick
>Focus on investigating where the staff are. This is serious and you don’t have time to play around TOO much. Straight forward demeanour, no fussing. You must get to the bottom of this.

>>5349347
>Catch up with Nick
Get thst intel
>Focus on investigating where the staff are. This is serious and you don’t have time to play around TOO much. Straight forward demeanour, no fussing. You must get to the bottom of this.

Those ominous and creepy events. I like those.

>>5349347
>Investigate the stalls and guest
>Focus on investigating where the staff are. This is serious and you don’t have time to play around TOO much. Straight forward demeanour, no fussing. You must get to the bottom of this.

>>5349679
>>5349600
>>5349352
[Update later today, apologies for the wait.]

WOOO

>>5351362
Picking up into a brief sprint, you soon catch up with Nicholas. He remarks that your shades are really cool but also kinda tacky, the backhanded compliment resonating deep inside you for years to come. You’ve elected to try and be a bit more serious, goal-oriented now. Having a sudden seizure and then learning that the island is largely devoid of life isn’t something you can just laugh away.

“Nick, you said there were no staff at all on the island, right? Doesn’t that worry you?”

Nick shrugs and keeps walking, the two of you matching paces as you travel past a few buildings on this long road.

“It’s weird, sure, but this is a holiday! Gotta enjoy it, not like they’d just forget an entire resort exists out here. We were handpicked right? Personalized invites, all flattery-like? Nobody would go to that effort then forget about us. You ask me, the staff are probably gonna do some big show tonight to introduce themselves to us all. I just bet they didn’t count on someone having a sudden shock like you did.”

You mull over his words for a few moments, thinking about the possibility of where the staff could be. You’ve noticed by this point that anywhere they should be, those red mannequins are located. A mocking stand-in, almost. There’s another matter that troubles you a touch too, but to a much lesser extent.

“Nick, just gonna ask… did you take anything from the medical cabinet? Like rubbing alcohol or sedatives?”

Nicholas gives you an awkward glance, but quickly puts his hand on your shoulder and shakes you a little. He tells you to lighten up, and that you can put your sharp detective edge on standby for a little while. Not really an answer.

>Reveal that you took some rubbing alcohol in an effort to get him to admit it
>Demand to know if he did or not
>Tell him it could be important to figuring out why the mannequin induced a seizure
>Drop the subject

>>5351849
>Tell him it could be important to figuring out why the mannequin induced a seizure
No need to show any hands yet--this one's a valid question to ask when we've just had a seizure.

>>5351849
>Reveal that you took some rubbing alcohol in an effort to get him to admit it

>>5351849
>>Tell him it could be important to figuring out why the mannequin induced a seizure

>>5351854
>>5351862
>>5352027
You brush his hand off you and with a serious tone explain that you need to know because it might help you figure out why you had a seizure. If somebody else took one of the syringes or bottles and applied something to the mannequin, for instance, that could cause a seizure on skin absorption.

He scratches his head for a moment, lets out a sigh, and rummages through his pockets. After promising you won’t tell anyone, he shows you that he took a syringe and a small glass vial. He explains that it’s a weak tranquilliser and that it can induce hallucinatory responses, but definitely not the kind of thing that would cause a sudden seizure. You agree to keep hush-hush that he has this, surmising it must be associated with his proclivity for substance abuse.

Eventually, Nick comes to a stop and looks up at a wide two-story building, surrounded on most sides by a tall cast-iron fence. It has a more art-deco style than other ones you’ve seen so far, brilliantly-embossed archways and overhangs with patterned fabric. Judging by the bed symbol carved into the doorway’s sign, you’d say it was one of the residences on the island. A small number two is beside the bed, indicating double occupancy. You’ve never been on a holiday where you had a private house rather than a hotel room, so this seems very exotic.

More pressing matters concern you, however, and you bid Nick farewell as he wanders inside. Thinking back to your strange dream, you recall being stood in a sandy environment. Maybe the beach? It was definitely an island setting, twisted by your dreaming mind to be a place of terror and mystery with coiling tendrils in the sky. Your priority right now should be locating any staff at all, and querying them on the mannequins and their purpose.

Speaking of those damn things, you can see one in your peripheral vision. Turning to it, it appears to be leaning down beside the asphalt path towards a set of beautiful red rose bushes, as if it were clipping them or perhaps picking out a distinctive one. Do they all bear the same quality, or was the one in the reception laced with something?

>Closely examine the red mannequin
>Head back to the main reception and investigate that mannequin
>Interview other guests on their findings
>Map out the island so you know where everything is

>>5352672
>Closely examine the red mannequin
But don't touch it!

>>5352672
>Closely examine the red mannequin
But like the other anon said, safety first!

>>5352672
>Map out the island so you know where everything is

When things start to go south I'd like to know the lay of the land.

>>5352687
But I wanna touch it! We must touch it for the science!

>>5352672
>Map things out

>>5352672
>>Map out the island so you know where everything is

>>5352872
>>5352765
>>5352747
>>5352714
>>5352687
[Update tomorrow. My computer being temporarily busted makes creating a proper map a real pain in the ass, so you’ll have to afford me some time.]

>>5353908
No worries, QM! Solid quest so far. Keep at it!

>>5353908
No worries, man, take your time. Still digging it!

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>>5354271
>>5354176
>>5352872
>>5352765
>>5352747
>>5352714
>>5352687
Before you can figure out the mannequin mystery, you need to get your bearings and understand the layout of the island. It might give you an understanding of where the staff are, what to look for and how things have been tampered with, if they indeed have been.

You contemplate the concept of roaming the entire island, pen tucked behind your ear and brightly-adorned notebook in hand. A scrawled map of personal and intimate notation. Then you realise how long that’d take, and instead make the smart choice and head back to the main reception. Much to your expectation, the small display stand on the front desk is indeed containing maps and brochures for the island, one of which you snag. However, on your way out you notice something entirely new.

A large whiteboard affixed to a black metallic stand has been moved into the reception, besides the entryway. On it lies a drawing of the very same map you hold in your hand, and a list of recognised and entirely-new names denoting the residency of each occupant. Huh, perhaps after you fainted and were escorted to the emergency room, the other guests took it upon themselves to assign accomodation?
You see that you have been assigned to “Elevated #1”, in reference to the tall-supported buildings you saw before. It seems that two guests per mansion is the main bulk of residency, much like the one you saw Nick entering. Three guests are staying on a luxury boat, while the final eight including yourself will be in the elevated area. You’re mildly miffed you had no choice in the matter, but decide to focus on what’s important.

It occurs to you that the mannequin is still there that knocked you out before.

>examine the receptionist mannequin closely
>go and see your accomodation at the elevated buildings
>go to a specific place (write in)
>other (write in)

(If the map is too scrawled or unclear and you want something clarifying, let me know)

>>5354895
>>go and see your accomodation at the elevated buildings

>>5354895
>examine the receptionist mannequin closely

>>5354895
> Push the mannequin over with a stick

I want revenge.

>>5354895
>examine the receptionist mannequin closely
We can check out our pad in a minute--these mannequins are still pretty mysterious.

>>5354938
>>5354919
>>5354916
>>5354912
It’s not something you can put off any longer: you need to take a look at those mannequins. You saunter over to the front counter again, leaning in towards the one you previously touched while taking care not to lay a finger on it. You sniff and don’t find any distinct smell coming from it, like medicine or a caustic substance. Staring closely at it, you notice the slight ridged bumpiness that the surface holds.

You lean in further, nose just a few inches away from bumping into it, when you realise what it is. Thread. Tightly-woven and infinitesimally thin, but definitely some sort of thread. This layer wraps around the entire exterior of the mannequin. How strange. They’re usually plastic or wood, right? Why is this one adorned with a layer of thread? More to the point, it felt distinctly plastic and rigid when you touched it before. You keep this noted in your mind, pulling back from the counter.

A niggling feeling that you should knock the perpetrator of your misfortune over with a stick begins to manifest in your mind, but you suppress it. Just then, the sound of footsteps coming towards the building from the front entrance. Another guest? An elusive staff member?

>hide and spy
>approach to see who it is
>ambush! strike them down!
>stay put

>>5355552
>approach to see who it is

Kind of want to get some scissors to cut a sample of that fabric off. With some thick gloves. Gosh we should have grabbed some at the medical building.

>>5355552
>approach to see who it is
No reason to get TOO paranoid... Yet.

>>5355552
>approach to see who it is
If they were up to no good they'd probably be walking a little quieter, and it's not like we've been restricted from exploring at all, so...

>>5355552
>>approach to see who it is

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15 KB JPG

>>5356086
>>5355907
>>5355733
>>5355725
You relax yourself for a moment, permitting your nerves to settle. If there were some skulking hidden staff or shady infiltrator plotting a nefarious seizure-inducing plan, would they openly walk through the front entrance in broad daylight? It’s unlikely. The chances of it being a fellow guest are much higher. With these thoughts reasoned out, you walk over to the entrance and just before you step outside the object of your worries is made clear.

It’s the large-lipped woman with greyish dyed hair that you saw before. Her eyes widen at the sight of you, clearly surprised to see you up and about. After a moment, she lets out a smirk and begins to speak.

“Nice shades. I take it your little accident wasn’t life-ruining then?”

You give her a quizzical look and tell her that it was still pretty frightening.

“Tends to be the case with sudden collapses! They’re not the most relaxing from what I’ve heard.”

Adjusting the tote bag she carries up onto her shoulder, she extends her hand and introduces herself as Lilianna Lutt, a burgeoning comedian and stand-up extraordinaire. You grant her a similar introduction, your status as a private eye meriting some jokes about keeping your eyes off her privates. You and Lilianna walk over to the desk again where she nabs a pocket map for herself. She also offers the explanation of the whiteboard that you previously thought: about a half-hour after your collapse, everyone was still gathered in the reception and chose to assign housing independently. Seems like she’s staying at one of the elevated buildings, though not the one that you are in.

“They’re quite nice. No good reason to be elevated on big poles, but all you need to do is climb a spiral staircase and you’ve got a good view of the whole island. Spacious too, real stompin’ ground for the crazy fucks among us.”

>”I’m a crazy fuck. I love to do insane shit with reckless abandon.”
>”I try to stay reasonable, and focused on what matters. Some would call me… a bore.”
>”I’m normally a bit looser, but I’m trying to figure out why the hell I had a seizure at the moment?”
>”Fuck you! Tell me everything you know about mannequins and thread, NOW!”

>>5356170
>”I’m normally a bit looser, but I’m trying to figure out why the hell I had a seizure at the moment?”
Also, what the deal is with this empty island resort. That's WEIRD, right?

>>5356170
>>”I try to stay reasonable, and focused on what matters. Some would call me… a bore.”

>>5356170
>>”I’m normally a bit looser, but I’m trying to figure out why the hell I had a seizure at the moment?”
Our future actions will define just how much of a crazy fuck we are in time... let's focus on info-gathering while we can. We still haven't found any staff yet and that's growing from a mild to vaguely moderate concern in my book!

>>5356170
>”I’m normally a bit looser, but I’m trying to figure out why the hell I had a seizure at the moment?”
Yeah, being a detective tends to encourage serious thinking after being incapacitated in a strange land.

>>5356202
>>5356205
>>5356217
>>5356260
“I’d normally be a bit more loose, but I did have a seizure and all… definitely not one of the ‘crazy fucks’, though.”

Lilianna laughs at your self-appraisal and says she doesn’t find it particularly unlikely that there are some nutjobs among the guests. Specific mention of Hank is made, as she regales how he tried to convince her of “the link between fish and man” in a particularly bothersome conversation. While you partake in a bit of a laughter too, it is cut short when a pressing question that you’ve neglected to ask comes to the front of your mind.

“Lilianna, how come nobody is freaking out over the staff being missing? It’s a bit of a scary prospect, no? Especially since we’re on a remote island.”

She pauses, considering what you said for a moment but her smirk returns just as quickly as it left. “I mean, some people are totally losing it. There’s this bounty hunter fella who’s gone all Sherlock Holmes - no offense - since we found out about the missing staff. That loud shouty lady, the one who made you wet your pants, she’s been pretty cagey too. For a lot of people, myself included… who cares? We’ve literally got free reign of paradise!”

You’re not sure how to feel about that, but you do keep the ‘bounty hunter’ in mind. Maybe you’ll cross paths with him at some point. As for now, you…

>Go wherever Lilianna is going
>Head to a specific location (write in, use names as listed on the map)
>Visit your accomodation
>Acquire scissors from the emergency room and collect a sample of the mannequin material
>Other (write in)

>>5357189
>Acquire scissors from the emergency room and collect a sample of the mannequin material
We can totally chuck it in someone's face once things go all 'Danganronpa' up in this bitch. Also there's no clue who we'll run into next... might be good to have a sample on hand for some of our fellow esteemed guests to look at.

>>5357189
>>Acquire scissors from the emergency room and collect a sample of the mannequin material

>>5357211
>>5357189

+1

>>5357586
>>5357376
>>5357211
You’ll engage in your detective duties and gather a sample of the material for close analysis. That seems pretty reasonable. Lilianna walks alongside you as you exit the main reception, and you see no reason not to clue her into your activities. With a pause to mock your snooping nature, she decides to tag along.

“I know it’s not any help, since I never took in any of what she said, but my mother was a forensic analyst. Pretty funny coincidence, eh?”

Quite so. Unfortunately, as she said, Lilianna proves to be of little use besides providing a conversational partner and extra pair of hands to search the emergency room. Within a few minutes, you find a drawer filled with scalpels, surgical scissors and other neatly-arranged metallic tools. They’ll do the trick just fine. Lilianna locates some medical gloves that should provide a layer between you and the surface of the subject.

Back to the main reception, and through those wide-open doors. Circling around the desk, you kneel down and very delicately slip the scissors between the thread. Snip snip! To your surprise, the thread falls off more as cloth than actual loose threads. A roughly circular patch. But… looking at it, you see no signs of weaving or interlocking. It’s like each thread is suspended in the aid, yet still forming together into this solid chunk. Perhaps it’s a method you are unfamiliar with, perpetuated only in foreign lands?

Lilianna too states that it’s “a really weird way of doing things” but that “lots of these haji-style countries probably do stuff in a backwards way”. You’re a little perturbed by her casual attitude to saying such things, but it isn’t your top priority at the moment to school an acquaintance on being less prejudiced. Rather fortunately, there’s a small linen bag on the countertop, likely used for storing marbles or other such small knickknacks. This operates as your secure storage for the sample, allowing yourself less of a chance of sudden collapse by being a fool and reaching into your pocket unthinkingly.

“So, like, you wanna grab a bite to eat, Mr. Highridge Yard? Sven and Paul agreed to cook for everyone, maybe even on a consistent basis if no staff show up. Suckers! I think Frankie is helping out too, but she seems a bit more screwed-in and less servantile… pfft.”

Again, you must re-iterate to someone else that you are not with the police, certainly not Highridge Yard, but rather an independent private investigation agency. Still, the offer of food does sound tempting… you’ve not really had much to eat today, and it does seem to be just past midday at this point. The fact that you saw one of the guests in a distinct chef’s uniform definitely helps ease your mind about the quality of the food.

>Head to the Cafe with Lilianna
>Head to the Cafe, but say you’d rather go alone
>Head to your accommodations at the Elevated Buildings
>Head somewhere else (write in)

>>5357791
>>Head to the Cafe, but say you’d rather go alone

>>5357791
>Head to the Cafe with Lilianna

Feels best to travel in pairs

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5357833
>>5357818
Rolling for chowing alone or with Lilianna!

>>5358040
Though the brief thought of going alone crosses your mind, you instead decide that Lilianna will make an okay company for some much-needed grub. With her in tow, you make your way towards the Cafe as marked on the map. Specifically, it is noted as the “Juniper Cafe”. Sure enough, a sign bearing that name shines bright atop a small and comfortable-looking building, less jagged and far more curved than some of the other architecture on the island. The warmth of a well-heated room greets you as you step inside, finding it to be spacious but retaining that comfy feeling. Plush rugs are scattered around, though none too close to the several dining tables and booths that pepper the place. A chandelier hangs down, red bulbs basking the space in a crimson glow that further soothes your soul. Your eyes aren’t the only sense that receive a treat: delicious smells permeate this place.

All that can be atrributed to three individuals you recognise from the plane. The largest among them is the man in chef’s attire, who introduces himself to you as Sven in a thick Helminetian accent. His bulging gut is barely contained in the now slightly-stained chef’s uniform that he wears, though you note the white hat atop his head is immaculately clean. Just beside him, with less kindness in her voice, is a lady in a shoddy brown jacket. Her long, similarly-coloured hair flows down to just above her chest and retains a similar composition as her jacket: ratty and unkempt. You shake her hand as she refers to herself as Frankie Felspark.

The final cook is an angular-faced man you’ve spotted a fair bit. He was on the plane conversing with some others, and was also pointing at gulls with Gilbert shortly after your departure. His attire is between formal and casual, very clean and straightened but not constrictive. He offers you a small well-practiced bow and introduces himself as Paul Partout, bearing the humble career of a valet. Between the three of them, he explains, they’ve cooked up enough food to feed all twenty-three guests and then some. The pantry was apparently exceptionally stocked and a similar praise can be said about the freezer.

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>>5358059
Paul ushers you and Lilianna to one of the tables closest to a window, a nice view of the beach and crashing waves visible.

“I did go around asking about food preferences, madam and monsieur, but I’m terribly sorry I didn’t make it to everyone. Neither of you are vegetarian, I may assume?”

Lilianna laughs to herself with a rapid shaking of the head. “No chance! I’m a big girl, I can handle choking the chicken… and then cuttin’ it up for dinner!”

Crass comment aside, Paul nods to her indifference to matters of meat. He turns to you, awaiting a reply.

>”Meat eater born and raised!”
>”I’m not much of a fussy eater. Either will do!”
>”I am, actually. I hope that’s not too bothersome?”

There’s also the matter of who you dine with. Seems you’re not leaving Lilianna for this meal, but you overheard from Frankie and Sven’s conversing that other guests will likely be arriving soon. There’s one free seat at your table…

>Dine with Lilianna
>Dine with Lilianna and one of the chefs (who?)
>Dine with Lilianna and another guest (who?) (For convenience’s sake, whichever guest you specify will be among those attending the dinner)

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>>5358062
[Here’s a collage of every guest. You’ve seen them all on the plane, and read their names on the whiteboard, but only the ones who’s names you can attribute to their appearances are listed so far.]

>>5358062
>”Meat eater born and raised!”
>>Dine with Lilianna

Board gets slow on Sundays/Mondays, fren

>>5358062
>”Meat eater born and raised!”
I've never eaten a vegetable in my entire life
>Dine with Lilianna
She seems decent enough and we don't wanna seem like some loner autist.

>>5358062
>”I am, actually. I hope that’s not too bothersome?”
>Dine with Lilianna and one of the chefs (who?)
>Dine with Lilianna and another guest (the bounty hunter)

>>5359395
>>5359347
>>5359333
[Update tomorrow!]

>>5360499
No rush, QM. Looking forward to it!

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>>5360637
“Meat eater, born and raised.”

Paul nods, heading back over towards the kitchen door. Seems like you’re not getting a choice with your meal, but at least it’ll be protein-rich. While it’s tempting to invite someone else over to join you and Lilianna, you don’t want to impose on her too much as somebody you’ve known for less than an hour.

Idle conversation fills the time, from which you learn Lilianna was born in Ireland and got her comedy start at small clubs around the country. She recounts a story of drunk hecklers and burly bodyguards, while you throw back your own strange tale of an absurdly-rude client. Gradually, people begin to filter into the cafe. There’s Kathy, accompanied by a few others. Hank nervously pokes his head inside and goes to sit on his own. You see Gilbert and Paul shake hands with a smile. The cafe goes a little quiet when a tall, mustached man with a grim look walks in. Lilianna whispers to you that he’s the bounty hunter she referred to.

He walks over to you almost immediately after he spots you. A hand extended, no trace of a smile, but still pining for a shake. “Vic Virgilios. Good to see you awake.”

>Shake his hand. It’s polite.
>Don’t shake his hand. They’re filthy.

>>5361201
>Shake his hand. It’s polite.
No sense in starting any unnecessary drama yet.

>>5361201
> Shake

>>5361201
>Shake his hand. It’s polite.

>>5361201
>>Shake his hand. It’s polite.

>>5361451
>>5361297
>>5361262
>>5361206
Despite the grime caked all over it, you do the polite thing and shake Vic’s hand. This earns you an affirmative nod from him. Before you get a chance to converse any more, he has left to go and sit on his own on the far side of the room. Lilianna quietly quips that he’s a terse sort with a stick up his ass most of the time.

The last few attendees, Quinn and a scraggly man with a creased shirt, enter and find their places. Lilianna voices her hunger, but also her disdain for foreign food, considering it to be “mostly muck made by people with heads full of air”. To her delight, the meal that Paul brings out to the two of you is remarkably reminiscent of home. Medium-rare steak with fresh garden vegetables, creamy mashed potatoes and a sprinkling of some variant of chilli salt.

It tastes divine, every bite must be savoured! Occasional whoops and hollers are made around the room, largely directed at Sven the portly chef. He saunters over, licking something from his fingers with a big grin. “You’re enjoying? I put much love into my food, and much food into my belly!”

Admittedly, quite a funny thing to hear, if Lilianna’s chuckles are any indication. At least he’s in good spirits about his size. He definitely has a prominent Helminet attitude; the people of those lands being known for their culinary craft. You give an eager declaration of satisfaction amidst your chewing of steak, to which the chef pats you on the back.

Before you know it, the meal is over, and those less concerned with chit-chat have taken their leave. It looks like Paul might want a word with you: he keeps side-eyeing you when there’s a lull in conversation with Lilianna. On the same note, Vic still lurks on the far side and your keen eye picks up on his observation of you.


>Continue idly chatting with Lilianna
>Make a premature exit
>See what Vic wants
>Inquire as to what Paul needs

>>5362312
>>Inquire as to what Paul needs

>>5362312
>Inquire as to what Paul needs

>>5362312
>Inquire as to what Paul needs
Lilianna has a bit of a stick up her own ass about foreigners, eh?

>>5362636
>>5362517
>>5362514
You excuse yourself from Lilianna’s company after another questionable joke on her end. Paul is wiping some plates but clearly has his focus on you, giving a very faint smile as you approach. He wipes off his hands and places the now-clean plate onto the countertop where Sven whisks it away into the kitchen.

“Mr. Whitehorse, yes? Mind if we sit down for a moment? I’ve got some observations that a man of your distinguishment may find… pertinent.”

Information is like audible gold, especially in this situation. Once again seated, Paul crosses his legs on his chair and makes sure to neatly tuck himself into the table before he begins his relay of intel.

“As a detective, I have no doubts you’ve become acutely aware of the lack of life on this island excluding us guests. Truthfully, I’ve got my own worries about this too. Worries that I feel the other guests are, most respectfully, not taking seriously.”

“I feel much the same, Paul.” you reply. It’s good to know that not everyone is just accepting this strange situation as a fact of the holiday package. Paul continues:

“I had to move several mannequins that were in this cafe for the safety of us chefs, so I used a sharpened wooden branch to spear them and move them safely away. They’re remarkably pliable and soft, even the interior. I also noticed the portion of the branch that entered the mannequin came out rather… well, twisted. It was curled up, as if a shrivelled and dead limb.”

A piece of wood curling like that? It certainly sounds unusual. Paul proceeds to recount that he consulted the staff ledger that was left in the kitchen, presumably for the head chef to make notes and track important information about those working under him. However, while the book was clearly old with a tattered cover, not a single record or note was made within it. Furthermore, there were clear name labels on some of the unused aprons hanging on beside the kitchen’s rear exit, showing that there were indeed staff at one point.

As you converse with him, Lilianna gives a goodbye, leaving to go out on her own. Vic remains, however, seeming to listen in intently on the conversation you both share.

>Move this conversation somewhere else, discreetly. It’s reasonable to be concerned that someone on the island may have ill designs.
>Directly tell Vic to stop listening in. He’s being intrusive and you’re not fond of it.
>Invite Vic to share what he’s clearly waiting to share. Maybe it can help further the understanding of the situation.

>>5364189
>Invite Vic to share what he’s clearly waiting to share. Maybe it can help further the understanding of the situation.
We've no reason to be suspicious of the other guests... Yet. And Vic's like us: an investigator, of sorts.

>>5364189
>>Invite Vic to share what he’s clearly waiting to share. Maybe it can help further the understanding of the situation.
Dude's a bounty hunter-he's a good guy to have on our side for the time-being. Not to mention he'll no doubt take offense if we keep him out... and he'll probably still find a way to eavesdrop regardless.

>>5364189
>>Invite Vic to share what he’s clearly waiting to share. Maybe it can help further the understanding of the situation.

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>>5364254
>>5364208
>>5364207
You bite your lip a little, sucking down any paranoia that might be festering in your mind and turning to Vic. “You want in on this?” is all you say, a hint of attitude in your voice that you didn’t intend. His expression remains largely unchanged, a small nod being all that he responds with before he gets up from his side and comes to join the two of you.

“You’re both alert people. I heard what you said before, is there anything else?” he asks matter-of-factly.

Neither of you have anything more to offer. While the sample from the mannequin may prove useful in the future, it hardly seems like a big point to note that the strings are woven in an odd fashion. You keep that information to yourself for now.

“Okay. I’ll say my piece. I’ve scoured most of the buildings on this island and found traces of life without anyone to match them to. Same deal as you, chef. There are clothes and nameplates and other things. There’s a manager’s office above the Scarlet Matinee Lounge that had a cigar in the ashtray. It was still smouldering. Now that suggests to me that wherever the staff went, it was either very shortly before or during our arrival.”

This IS useful information. Vic, cigars clearly on the mind, rifles through his pocket and pulls out some chewing tobacco that he slips into his mouth without comment. Paul speculates on the nature of the timeframe and the fact it is surely irrefutable proof of staff presence, eliciting another one of Vic’s nods.

You interject with a query for Paul, asking if in his years of being a valet he ever saw any similar affair with his clients. He admits that he hasn’t, but that lower-class workers in exclusively high-class resorts do tend to steer clear of the guests unless explicitly serving or attending to them. His speculation is that perhaps the prestigious and exclusive nature of this resort means the staff are instructed to remain entirely unseen.

It’s a flimsy theory once the three of you begin to poke holes in it. Why would they not break this rule to attend to a collapsed guest? Why put mannequins everywhere in place of staff? If they did this, would there not be fresh food prepared rather than the task being left up to the guests? The more the three of you discuss, the more you all conclude that something has happened to the staff that may possibly be out of their control.

>Mention your strange dream. It might just be nothing, but perhaps it was a strangely relevant vision. Or maybe just nonsense.
>Bring up the sample you took from the mannequin and your observations about it. Sure, it’s very irrelevant, but this conversation needs more fuel.
>Bring up the other guests. Are any of them suspicious? Are there any other guests taking the situation seriously?
>Ask Vic for any other important information he learned while exploring the island. Maybe there’s some detail he missed out?

>>5364327
Feels a bit silly to bring it up, but since we're light on observations to contribute...
>Mention your strange dream. It might just be nothing, but perhaps it was a strangely relevant vision. Or maybe just nonsense.
>Bring up the sample you took from the mannequin and your observations about it. Sure, it’s very irrelevant, but this conversation needs more fuel.

>>5364327
>>Bring up the sample you took from the mannequin and your observations about it. Sure, it’s very irrelevant, but this conversation needs more fuel.
I don't want to cast suspicion on any of the other guests yet, and if I did I'd rather someone else gossiped. We need to maintain our neutrality if we're gonna be detectiving here. Both Paul and Vic seem to have an eye for details, so there's no need to withhold what you've found about the mannequins.

>>5364327
>>5364331
Support. Also mention the fact that the invitation letter mentioned a ‘mystery game for those with sharp wit’, could this be it?

I have a question, QM. What happened to the plane after we landed? Did it take off again or did it park somewhere?

>>5364491
(Should've mentioned, but the plane left along with the staff on it.)
>>5364332
>>5364331
In the throes of discussion you decide that maybe it is worth mentioning the sample. Carefully taking it out of your pocket, you empty the bag onto the table and implore both men not to touch it. You go on to explain that you cut it from the mannequin, proving they're covered in a thin layer of thread that doesn't actually visually seem to be woven. Vic leans in for a closer look, taking care to not come into contact. Paul remains sat back and simply acknowledges your findings as being "potentially useful at some point".

"It's not damp with anything. Drugs, for instance." Vic says to himself. You were already skeptical of the idea of the mannequin being coated in something. While he closely inspects the sample, you ask Paul about his invite. Specifically, if it mentioned the 'mystery game' that was on yours. Paul pauses for a second before confirming that he does remember something of that nature being mentioned on the invite. In his distinctly-not Frentz accent, he speaks:

"Well, monsieur, something to that effect. When I read that, my thoughts turned to the notion of... something like a parlour game. Cluedo or a murder-mystery evening, that kind of thing. It's certainly worth looking into."

Vic scoffs, shaking his head. "They don't just leap into something like this without making you sign a document or giving you a reminder first. The legal troubles if a guest got hurt while they were off hiding somewhere. It's the same issue as his other theory."

With everything concrete or theoretical out of the way, the only thing you can think about sharing is your... 'vision' that you inexplicably had while unconscious. You're not exactly a massive believer in the supernatural, but you don't vehemently deny such things either. Still, with your present company being rational-seeming sorts, who should it be shared with?

>Tell Vic about the dream. It's likely that he might write me off as useless, but transparency of information is the key to any successful investigation.
>Tell Paul about the dream. He seems the more socially-capable and polite of the two, and probably wouldn't lose any respect for me.
>Tell both of them. Knowledge is knowledge, even if it comes from the blurred land of a dream.

>>5367238
>Tell both of them. Knowledge is knowledge, even if it comes from the blurred land of a dream.
It's probably nothing, but if the mannequins have strange branch-wilting and/or mind-bending properties, any such phenomena could reveal more about what they're made of and what they're for.

>>5367238
>Tell both of them. Knowledge is knowledge, even if it comes from the blurred land of a dream.
Fuck it--nothing's too out of the ordinary at this point and who knows what'll happen if we keep the info to ourselves?

>>5367422
>>5367409
With some hesitation, you mention to them both that there's just one more thing that could be relevant. Prefacing it by saying that the three of you have already witnessed strange abnormal things like branches suddenly curling up or seizures from touching a surface, you explain how while unconscious you had a very strange dream that seemed almost prophetic. Describing the details of the spiralling red coils descending from the sky, and the seemingly-human figure, you're given a quizzical look from Paul and a downright irritated look from Vic. He immediately dismisses what you said as being pointless, with the added statement that he only cares about the actual facts and not dream-delving nonsense. Paul doesn't speak up, but you can tell he's skeptical of your belief in the relevance of your dreams too. Well, at least they know now. A few more words are shared between the three of you, from which you glean that Vic considers two other guests to be "serious people" who could be useful to investigating. A country singer named Imogen, and Umar, who you recall seeing previously as he took the initiative to steer everyone towards the main resort.

You leave the cafe along with Vic, who immediately goes his own way to search the island some more. Paul remains inside to help with clearing the dishes. Hmm... considering the information you've just learned, there are definitely some possibilities opening up. This could all be some kind of class thing, or a parlour game taken too far. The possibility of a bad fate befalling the staff is also there. For this brief time, however, you're satisfied with your sleuthing. It'll be evening soon, and you're still unsure of the state of your accommodations.

>Where will you go? (write-in)

>>5367467
Go to our accommodations.

>>5367542
Seconded. Might as well chexk them out before we get to investigating in earnest.

>>5367467
>our room

>>5367597
>>5367542
No point in putting it off any longer. You recall that you'll be staying in the first set of elevated buildings, down on the beach front. They've been in the distance this entire time, but they're not actually that far from the cafe at all. At a leisurely pace, you allow thoughts of your investigation to slip your mind for a few moments and simply take in the pleasant surroundings. It's only a matter of minutes before you stand before the two sets of buildings, kept high up by sturdy metal poles. Now that you're closer, you can see that each "building" is actually four individual ones tightly packed together. A metal walkway, ornate in design, connects them all and has a spiralling staircase that leads to the ground. Next to each of them is a flat metallic sign with either "1" or "2".

You make your way up the first set, a little tired by the time you reach the top. Some suitcases are outside one of the doors, and another is wide open. You can see the light on inside the third one, meaning that the final one must be yours. Curiously, it doesn't seem to be locked. No guests mentioned anything about keycards or actual keys. The interior is lavishly decorated in a half-tropical, half-surfer style. Paintings of the waves adorn the walls, while a finely-decorated surfboard bearing a depiction of a smiling ape is attached to the roof. There are latticed woven separators between the large bed and the small living space, and a lovely view of the sea from your exterior balcony. The bathroom seems to be pretty fancy too, with a power-shower and a bathtub.

>Relax for a while, you've earned it.
>Go and grab your suitcase from the first aid area.
>Talk to your neighbours, if they're inside. You've met Frankie and Hank, but not Ted.
>Something else (write-in)

>>5369573
>>Talk to your neighbours, if they're inside. You've met Frankie and Hank, but not Ted.

>>5369573
>Talk to your neighbours, if they're inside. You've met Frankie and Hank, but not Ted.
Continue gathering experiences and intel.

File: Ted Tandy.jpg (20 KB, 256x256)

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>>5369748
>>5369806
It'll be both entertaining and potentially useful to chat with your neighbours. You gently knock on the door with all the suitcases in front of it. Nobody answers, so you knock again. Once more you get no reply and so you move onto a different door, specifically the one with the lights flowing from inside. The door swings open almost immediately, and you're greeted with the scraggliest man you've seen so far. His greasy hair matches his unkempt beard perfectly, and he eyes you up with an incredulous and bewildered look. Offering a weak smile, you extend your hand and say you saw him at the cafe before. Hesitantly, he shakes.

"Ted. Ted Tandy."

Your hands are now distinctly dirty with... some kind of muck. The greasy man you now know as Ted invites you inside for some alcohol, to which you accept if only to get to speak with him. His room is pristine, largely because he's only just gotten there and hasn't had time to reduce it to a state of filth yet. He rummages through a plastic carrier bag on the ground and between piles of ragged clothing and moving empty glass bottles, he picks out a distinctly-large bottle of whiskey. Seating yourself in a plush armchair, he roots around in the bedside cabinet and pulls out some shot glasses that he fills up for the two of you. Does he ration out his alcohol carefully? Maybe he can't often afford it.

"So, Ted... um, what do you do for a living?"

"Scroungin'. Bin divin'. All sorts really. Whatever gets a meal in my belly."

"Forgive me if this is rude, but are you homeless or in a bad situation?"

"Eh, I belong to the streets. Got me a little empire of dirt, like that one song. People answer to me, other tramps. They call me the King of the Streets. It's... eh, definitely not criminal though. So you understand."

He says that last part rather cautiously, possibly having overheard your career as a detective. You and Ted speak for a while and drink the cheap whiskey, a burning sensation tingling your throat as you do. In the course of conversation, Ted speculates that the invites weren't actually for notable people and were just totally random since he's "just some king of hobos". When you query him for his thoughts on the status of the staff, he shrugs and says that less staff means less rules. With a blackened grin, he throws his now-empty shot glass at the wall, shattering it into multiple shards that skid everywhere all over the floor. You're more than a little alarmed, and soon find an excuse to vacate yourself from his company.

Next, you...
>Poke around the room with the open door
>Get your suitcase from the first aid room
>Relax for a while, you've earned it.
>Head to a specific location (write-in)
>Something else (write-in)

>>5369875
(Also, anyone want to take the liberty of archiving this thread? I'm not *entirely* sure I understand the process.)

>>5369875
>>Get your suitcase from the first aid room

>>5369875
>Get your suitcase
>Keep an eye out for thick gloves for mannequin-handling, too

>>5369877
Process is pretty simple:
Head to this site: https://lws.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html, click 'Click For Request Interface' under Add Thread, then fill in the info with your thread # (the post # next to your first post, in this case '5338893', then add in the other deets and click submit. It'll upload after a few minutes.
I can do it for you if you really like--I'd just need a brief description of the thread, any tags you'd like, and a title. I recommend you try it for yourself though to get a little practice! But I digress:

>>5369875
>Get your suitcase from the first aid room

>>5370217
>>5370050
>>5369917
You elect to fetch your suitcase from the first aid room, which takes the better part of twenty minutes. As the evening begins to roll in, you unpack and stuff your attire in the correct places. You take off the Cool Shades, putting them on your nightstand. Your inflatable service weapon is there too, in case of an emergency where a very mild beating would be in order happens to spring in the darkness. Some chewing gum gets slid into the drawers, along with the bottle of ethanol you snatched from the first aid room. Finally, you neatly place your rotary phone atop the in-room bar.

You still have a napkin with your own vomit on it in your pocket. Remembering this fact makes you hesistant to reach in and remove it, but you do so. To your horror, the heat has caused it to stick to the inner fabric of your pocket, making the continued wearing of this shirt completely untenable. You change and make sure to place the old one in the "try not to wear again" pile. You take a moment after this to lean out on the balcony, witnessing the deep orange of the evening sun and how it paints a beautiful picture with the few clouds in the sky. The longer you look at this scene, the more you begin to notice that the clouds are closer to a deep red, and the sand on the beach... wait. This... it looks just like your strange dream. Down to the exact spot on the beach, you find yourself pointing at it.

>Head back inside. This is an uncomfortable feeling.
>Keep watching the sunset. You don't want to pull your eyes away.
>Head down to that specific spot on the beach.

>>5371456
>>Keep watching the sunset. You don't want to pull your eyes away.

>>5370217
(Thread is now archived, thanks for the information.)

>>5371456
>Keep watching the sunset. You don't want to pull your eyes away.

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>>5371478
>>5371459
Something about this sight is... enthralling. You feel the worry that initially filled your body slip away, like your very essence is being scrubbed clean of concern. A comforting layer of separation from the world, one just like your dream, begins to envelop you. You're soothed and safe here, taking a few steps back from the balcony. While the pleasantness is welcomed, your legs are beginning to feel almost weak. Eyes still fixed on the skies, your peripheral vision picks up someone from your own building and a few people from the other elevated building also stepping onto their balconies, basking in the great sight of the setting sun.

The clouds seem a deeper red than before. And... are there more of them? It's hard to focus on coherent concerns and thoughts when this numbness is in you, but it feels so hard to want to fight against it. It's like you've never seen a sunset before. You can't put your finger on why this feeling is here, but it just is. Maybe it's okay to not understand this, for now. Maybe you can soothe your soul fully, allowing this bliss to just swallow you whole. Ants on the ground, at least that's what the other guests down below look like. But they're out in the sand too, staring up. Most of them. Enthralled, like you.

You feel like whatever you do next, for some reason, will be an important decision.

>Keep staring. This is just pleasant.
>Pull away from it. Something is seriously wrong with this.

>>5371577
>>Pull away from it. Something is seriously wrong with this.
No thanks, BRO

>>5371577
>Pull away from it. Something is seriously wrong with this.

>>5371577
>>Pull away from it. Something is seriously wrong with this.

>>5371584
>>5371597
>>5371581
This is... not right. No! Stop it! You shout out aloud that this isn't right, and turn your head away from the blood-red sky. The moment you do, there's the sound of thunder. Rapturous, roaring thunder booming from high above. You slide the glass door open and step back inside, casting a slight glance back to see if everyone else is still gazing. Your decision to do so reveals something that makes your mouth hang wide open. It's those strings. The spiralling, twisting threads that you saw in that dream... no, that vision. You swear you aren't going insane.

They're dipping down from the darkest, most crimson clouds, and making their way towards... everyone. A few people have broken their gaze on the sky and are running away, but others are just standing there like nothing is wrong. You need to do something to get their attention, or the unnerving visage of that figure in your dream will be replicated with one of these people. Darting out of your room, you grab a plastic apple from the decorative fruit bowl that sits atop a little table right next to the exit. You're about to dart down the stairs when you remember the people on the balconies, like you. Shit! With only a moment to think, you make your choice.

>Rush into one of the rooms and see if the occupant is transfixed, so you can shake them out of it.
>Rush down the stairs and throw the apple at the nearest person, hoping it snaps them out.

>>5371626
>>Rush into one of the rooms and see if the occupant is transfixed, so you can shake them out of it.

>>5371626
>>Rush into one of the rooms and see if the occupant is transfixed, so you can shake them out of it.

>>5371626
>Rush into one of the rooms and see if the occupant is transfixed, so you can shake them out of it.

File: Not Good.jpg (12 KB, 256x256)

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>>5371631
>>5371663
>>5371721
You run into the nearest room, the one that had the suitcases outside. There's a figure out on the balcony. It's... Frankie. The girl from the restaurant. Her room is pretty much untouched so far, but you don't have time to take in the details right now. You're throwing her balcony door open and shaking her in an instant, to which she shakes her head, blinks a few times and gives you a confused look.

"Frankie! You need to go wake up the others in the other two rooms, alright? Look!" you point up to the ever-nearing tendrils that snake their way towards the beach. She doesn't say anything, eyes widening and a look of terror enveloping her face. But she does as you say, pushing past you to run out of the room. You follow shortly behind, still clutching the fake apple. With her aware of her surroundings, the people on this building might have a chance of being woken up quickly.

It's straight down the stairs for you, sprinting step-by-step as fast as you can without tripping. You only make it halfway down before you see it. One of the mannequins. It's coming up the stairs, and moving. Quickly. Moving towards you. Arms outstretched. It has... eyes. Two eyes. Beady. Dark. Staring at you.

>Run back up.
>Kick it down.
>Leap over the railing.
>Panic.

>>5371751
>Leap over the railing.
Parkour!

>>5371751
>Leap over the railing.
I hope we haven't let ourself go in our middle (?) age!

>>5371751
>>Leap over the railing.

>>5371760
>>5371763
>>5371781
You don't even have to think about it. Without looking down, you vault over the railing and plummet just over a story and a half into the sandy ground. It hurts a lot, your entire body feeling like someone had battered it with a heavy bat, but nothing feels broken. Somehow, you're able to get onto your feet and nervously look up, only to see the mannequin rapidly descending the staircase. It moves in an erratic, twisted fashion, like its' limbs are just obstructions in the way of a serpentine beast. The bloody clouds above shroud the sky as you sprint towards the guests gathered on the beach, kicking up sand behind you as you do. The coils are only a few seconds away now, horrific tendrils waiting to do... something... to the people here. You toss your apple, hitting a bulkier guest that you think might be Vic. You don't have time to verify, because you're lifted up into the air by the coils. A searing pain runs through you, far worse than the physical one provided by your long fall. As you're lifted up, you see more mannequins descending upon the beach from the treeline, as well as guests snapping out of their hazy state or staying affixed and being lifted.

>Struggle.
>Stay perfectly still.
>Bite the tendrils.

>>5371932
Dump our bottle of ethanol on the coils.

>>5372599
Supporting. It's worth a go!

>>5371932

>>5371932
>>5372599
+1! How about a DRINK, creep!?

>>5372599
>>5372650
>>5372664
(Alas, it was mentioned that your bottle of ethanol was placed into the drawers just a few posts ago. If you want to recast your votes, go ahead.)

>>5372674
Ah, damn, you're right. Have we got anything else useful on our person? use it, if so. Otherwise,
>Struggle.

>>5371932
>Struggle.
Alrighty then

>>5371932
>>Struggle.

>>5371932
> Bite!

Be savage!

>>5372896
>>5372682
>>5372677
>>5372676
You struggle, you really do. It's a futile effort, but you try your best to break free of the constricting threads that coil around you. Inside, you know that it's in vain. They feel like the steel grip of a gauntlet around your body, nothing that you could merely pull away from. The others are the same, too. Lifted up, bound and surrounded. The threads, though their strength is unmatchable, have a strange ethereal quality to them, as if they could pass right through you if they wanted to. You're not getting any higher now, just suspended in place by them. They're weaving... something, inside you. It's not a process you can see, but something you feel. Like being the silk in a spider's web, you're being reshaped in some way that you can't place a finger on. This force is getting stronger by the second, but not painful. It's nothing you've ever felt before, and every attempt to equate the feeling to something else is beginning to fall short. At the peak of this, the very climax of your brush with this horrible descending entity, you close your eyes...

Everything goes dark, reminiscent of your brush with that mannequin. The whole world immersed in black, and you at the centre of it. Your waking mind falls into a state of loss, and time flies by in a mere instant. Your eyes are open again, sand particles flecked between your eyelashes. You spit out mouthfuls of warm, wet sand and push yourself onto your back, gazing at the now-clear night sky. You're on the beach, just laying there. The others are up, you hear them walking around. It only takes a slight lean to witness the mannequins, now immobile, littering the beach front. Nothing feels too different about you now, the same old Wallace that you've always been. But internally, something has changed. Not in the physical sense, but a tie. A tie that binds you to... a force you can't understand yet. The fates have changed, for you and everyone else here. You take one last look at the sky, soaking in the clarity of what has just occurred. Then you stand.

(End of the first thread! Thank you all for playing, please leave any feedback you have, otherwise I'll see you in the next one whenever it goes up!)

>>5374747
Spooky! Interested to see where it goes next. Thanks for running, QM.

>>5374747
And here I thought people were going to be murdered! We're just elderitch touched! What could go wrong!

>>5374747
Thanks for running, man, no negative feedback from me yet. Your descriptions are rich and detailed and the story's definitely keeping me engaged in what happens next... I guess we'll see how it goes next thread!

Speaking of, any estimate of when the next one will be?

>>5375521
I'll start it up once this one gets bumped off the board. It's nice to have a little rest period between running them. Since my other quest is dead in the water, I'll just be focusing on this one now.

New thread is up, players!
>>5380457