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He's a mindless creature that lives in the ground. Annie is your friend, or at least was your friend, and you also think it would be super cool if you rescued Madrigal on the back of a giant worm. Right? Surely he has to agree it'd be—

«How conscious will you be.»

Super conscious. Because you've learned from last time, and— and yeah. It'll be fine! You'll just put Gil in charge if anything happens. And as for everybody else, Monty doesn't hate you— he's your mentor! Officially! And Lucky doesn't hate you, because why else would he invite you to drinks, and Eloise isn't... probably isn't useless, and there, that's his entire argument shot down. Ha. This is the greatest plan you've ever come up with.

Why does your mouth hurt?

No, seriously, it's been sort of background-aching since you woke up. Did Henry force-feed you some cult stuff while you were unconscious? Thanks for the help, Richard... oh. There's a new tooth in your mouth. Larger. Thinner. Pointier. It's curved back toward the roof of your mouth, but when you bare your teeth experimentally it slides forward.

«I told you it would come in overnight.»

Great. Thanks. Now you have a matching set of fangs. Was there a point to this?

«You are in the habit of biting people.»

You sigh.

>[A] In what order do you recruit your party members (Gil, Monty, Lucky, Eloise, Annie)? Who's first, second, third, etc. (Write-in.)

>[B] Do you tell each of them about who else you're planning on bringing along?
>>[1] Yes. It'll be fine (positive thinking!)— and maybe they'll trust you a little more for it.
>>[2] No way. You'll let them know when it's too late to back out and work out problems as you go along. It's the only way to ensure the *dream team.*
>>[3] You'll tell some but not others. (To whom do you tell the whole plan? Write-in.)
>>[4] Write-in.

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! Sincere apologies for the delay: I was all ready to post on Saturday, but my 4chan Pass acted up and I only managed to fix it today. In other news, Redux is now 3 years and 2 weeks old, and I will be reposting all but one of the celebratory AMA answers in this thread for the benefit of Twitter haters/archive readers. The AMA will also remain open into the future: I'm just gonna make it part of the OP now.

Also, I made anon's Thread 25 cookie recipe before I left for college. Very good, ty anon if you're still here

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

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

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

>Mechanics
The MC has a pool of 13 Identity ("ID"), which may be considered both HP and the measure of her current sense of self. It may be lost through physical, metaphysical, or emotional damage. It may be regained through write-ins, designated options, and at reasonable narrative points, including sleep. It may be spent on a flat +10 bonus to rolls, as well as on more elaborate metaphysical effects. Dropping to 0 ID is bad.

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

>Twitter
https://twitter.com/BathicQM

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

>Ask the characters (or the QM), get a drawn response
https://curiouscat.live/BathicQM

>"Redux"?
This quest is a loose sequel to the original Drowned Quest, which ran for eight short threads in 2019. Reading the original is nice but not required.

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

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>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX

You set about getting as drunk as possible, beginning with announcing your presence to the crowd at the Better Than Nothing. Though you're initially received poorly, a rousing speech (and a little help from Richard) gets you more attention than you bargained for. You retreat to the back room, where Richard downs an entire bottle of wine, picks glass shards out of your hands, and explains his brand new nihilistic outlook.

You are rescued from this by a pair of Courtiers, who escort you to the Wind Court table. You're greeted warily and challenged by Molina to drink "firewater," some sort of traditional fermented Court beverage. You do so and manage not to fall over (apparently impressive), instead becoming highly sensitive to the world around you. You set about learning about your forgotten Courtier past, nearly enter a firewater-amplified depressive spiral, and rally by telling yourself that your past self sucked ass. You then have a pretty good time, and nothing weird happens.

Post-party, you enter your manse, only to discover that whatever you look at (including Gil) vanishes from existence. You solve this by putting on a blindfold, then attempt to make Gil like you by telling an awesome and cool version of your depressing life story. In turn, he tells you he feels like you don't trust him. You attempt to tell him that nothing bad has ever happened to you in your life, but instead admit that you have no plan ever and Richard is a horrible snake version of your dead dad.

Gil is both horrified and mollified, apologizes, and invites you to his manse, where the other 2/3rds of him has been working out some pent-up feelings via smashing stuff with a sledgehammer. After some arguing with himself, he invites you to watch-- and you do, until he knocks a wall down and finds Richard in a closet. Richard is unbelievably drunk and mostly incomprehensible, but spouts some more nihilistic GS and tells you to placate his snake form by focusing on alterations. Mid-sentence, he's replaced with himself, only significantly less drunk: this Richard attempts to coerce and flatter you into re-focusing on the Crown. You tell both to piss off, slam the door on Richard, and sledgehammer some walls until you get tired. You sleep, have some weird dreams--

--and awake, buried alive. You manage to ensnare a mysterious figure surveilling you, let him go, and dig yourself out, only to find your gravediggers nowhere to be seen. You carry on along an underground tunnel and are ambushed by weird doctrine-spouting red-clothes-wearing people and also Horse Face: this is apparently the meeting he promised you. He leads you to the leader of these blatant cultists-- your father's friend Henry, who apparently drowned some years back. Henry is pleased to see you, but you are less than pleased to see him, and leave without making any promises. You sleep again, and when you awake you set about planning your expedition to rescue Madrigal.

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>TO-DO (Completed goals and solved mysteries: https://pastebin.com/3Q3nPDis)

Immediate goal:
- Recruit your adventuring party

Short-term goals:
- Meet back up with Annie the worm
- Work with Gil to break into Ellery's manse
- Find Pat's private Namway entrance

Long-term goals:
- Rescue Madrigal
- Procure permanent, non-melting body for Gil
- Regain your missing memories (...some of them)
- Find the Gold-Masked Person and their snake, reclaim the Crown
- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (4/16)
- "Convince" Richard to be nice to you
- Make friends??? More friends? You don't know if Gil counts now

Mysteries:
- Who or what drove Ellery into self-imposed exile?
- Who or what is Namway Co. and Headspace Corp.'s “Management”? What did they want with the clone of a snake?
- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you?
- What is Richard actually like, behind the whole... dad thing?
- What is the meaning of Jesse's spiral tattoo?
- Who is Horse Face investigating, and why?
- Who is the Gold-Masked Person? Why did they want your Crown? Where are they now?
- Why is Ellery going around assassinating people?
- Why was Henry going on like you knew the all the cult GS already?
- Okay, seriously, why is everybody talking about the apocalypse now?

Ongoing assignments:
- Inform Eloise (and the Wind Court?) about anything you discover about Namway Co
- Meet up with Horse Face's mystery contact
- Escort Eloise to Hell (...maybe)

--

Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>5404794
>[A] In what order do you recruit your party members (Gil, Monty, Lucky, Eloise, Annie)?
Gil, Eloise, Annie, Lucky, Monty

>>[1] Yes. It'll be fine (positive thinking!)— and maybe they'll trust you a little more for it.
They'll be more pissed if they find out we're omitting info.


OH SHEIT you made the cookies. That actually made me smile like a madman-- glad you enjoyed them!

>>5404793
>>5404805
+1 to this. Seems solid enough! Also welcome back!

in the event of a tie or whatever, i defer to the first guy

>[A] In what order do you recruit your party members (Gil, Monty, Lucky, Eloise, Annie)? Who's first, second, third, etc. (Write-in.)

ideally, have everyone agree to meet you at a time and place, then surprise them by arriving atop Annie

>[B] Do you tell each of them about who else you're planning on bringing along?
>>[3] You'll tell some but not others. (To whom do you tell the whole plan? Write-in.)

Gil gets all the info bc he's our trusted retainer! Eloise and Monty we can tell about everyone but Annie. Lucky... Lucky can be surprised.

>>5404843
>ideally, have everyone agree to meet you at a time and place, then surprise them by arriving atop Annie
This is fine... but you're still going to have to go talk to them in some order before they can agree to anything! [A] essentially exists for my convenience, so I don't have to spam you guys with "but where do you go next???" after every quick little chat.

>This is fine... but you're still going to have to go talk to them in some order before they can agree to anything!

ahhh ok

in that case i'm down for the order initially proposed but might suggest Lucky first, in case he's hung over

>>5404793
>A
I'm ok with >>5404805 but let's move Annie to first or last place, in case things go wrong.

>B1
Except only tell Gil about Annie

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Okay, lemme disentangle this.

>>5404805
>>5404842
>Gil, Eloise, Annie, Lucky, Monty

>>5404883
>Lucky, Gil, Eloise, Annie, Monty

>>5405359
>Annie, Gil, Eloise, Lucky, Monty OR Gil, Eloise, Lucky, Monty, Annie

Simple majority would dictate the first write-in takes it, but given that >>5404843 mentions riding in on Annie after the fact and >>5405359 makes the excellent point that going WORM MODE could lead to difficulty recruiting everybody else, I'm gonna make the tentative order Gil, Eloise, Lucky, Monty, Annie. There's nothing diagetically stopping you from changing your mind about this, so I suppose you can write-in a revised order later if something comes up.

>>5404805
>>5404842
>[1]

>>5404843
>>5405359
>Tell Gil about Annie, don't tell anybody else

>>5404843
>Tell Lucky squat

I think not informing people about your worm plans is also sensible, so I'll executive tiebreak for that but not the Lucky thing.

>>5404843
>in the event of a tie or whatever, i defer to the first guy
I am also making an executive decision to ignore this, since these are fine write-ins that deserve the same amount of consideration as everybody else's vote.

Writing. I expect this to be on the shorter side, but God only knows.

>>5405525
oh wow
snake richard is cringe when he's earnest

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>>5405579
This is not snake Richard-- aka Correspondent #314-- but his coworker(??) Correspondent #301, the one that took the Gold-Masked Person under his wing. Richard has a solid black back and solid yellow belly, not the splotchy kind of pattern this snake has. Unless you're referring to #301's descriptions of Richard, in which case... I mean, yes.

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>Gil!

Anyhow, there's only one logical place to start: with Gil, who is after all your best retainer and therefore the most important person on the list. (It's a narrow margin with Annie there too, but he does come out ahead.) While it's also true that Gil is the least likely to laugh in your face and/or reject you outright, this played very little role in your complex calculations and can therefore be ignored. Richard.

«What.»

Nothing. Can he just do the thing where he— or no! You don't need him. You've never needed him. You slide off your cot, find the model where you left it, and hold it to your good eye. It's not too difficult to imagine yourself inside— it's weirdly easy, actually, unnervingly easy, and if you hadn't made this with your own hands you'd be concerned about what wicked compulsion lay inside the thing; instead you imagine yourself remembering the whiteness crowding in on your vision, and imagine yourself telling Richard not to let you hit your head, and you can't tell if you're imagining or remembering or actually physically slipping forward. It's altogether far too confusing, and you are prepared to (will? have already?) succumb to the wicked compulsion or whatnot and die or whatever-the hell (maybe you have? would Richard have...?) when you

like an awakened sleeper jolt upward. Your eyes are bleary. Eye is bleary? Eyes? You don't know what the eye status is anymore. There is something in your hand. You look. It is a small immaculate model of your tent.

And you are in your manse, of course, of course. God. You don't need Richard, but you have to admit that his method offers a more dignified means of entrance. Were you actually contemplating if you were dying? You knew full well—

"Your mind," Richard says, "is extremely primitive, Charlie."

You squint at him. He looks terrible: better than last night, since he's standing upright, but that's about it. "How hungover are you?"

"What a stupid question." He frowns down at you. "By all official standards I cannot be 'hungover.' Therefore I'm not. Yes?"

"That doesn't really answer the..." You trail off. "If you drink some more it ought to fix it, you know. Something about dogs?"

"Yes, Charlie, I am aware. Now cease wasting your time on— I know very well the nonsense you came for, and per usual my hands are tied, so—" Richard gestures impatiently. "Beetles is over there, doing infant's first fingerwork. Go on."

"Does hearing me talk make your head hurt?" you say.

He glowers at you through his sunglasses— are they darker than usual?— until you saunter off in the direction he's pointing.

(1/3?)

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Gil is indeed there, though you see his disembodied head before you see him and let out— not a shriek, but a bit of a ladylike yelp, which provokes him to come over and apologize profusely. "It's okay," you say upwards of four times, before he gets it into his... uh... well, not his head, clearly, but maybe he gets it into the transparent round pot-thing he has instead of a head. Which you do gain the courage to ask about, after the apologizing is done with.

"Oh, um..." Gil's body adjusts the pot-thing. The beetles inside it swirl. "I-I-It's— sorry, it's— it's weird, you probably don't want to, um... I-I was just trying to figure out how to have limbs, and stuff, without feeling so... um... I don't know. It's kind of dark inside, usually, and... which i-isn't your fault, but..."

You try and make sense of this. "So it's like a— a big window? For the beetles? So you don't have to ditch the body I made for you."

"Yeah." Gil sounds relieved. "Um, i-it's working pretty well, I think. I'm gonna add some airholes when I can, but, um... i-i-it screws into the neck... look." He demonstrates, flipping the pot(?) upside-down after unscrewing it so the beetles don't fall out. "Neat, right?"

"Ye- yes." You silently will him to screw it back on: a pot is one thing, but a walking talking wholly headless Gil is a bridge too far for your tastes. "So what's the rest of this?"

You mean the mess behind him: a couple of workbenches and a jumble of stuff you couldn't identify with a gun to your head. You'd probably just deem it "garbage." Gil clasps his hands, though, and his tone of voice makes you glad you didn't say that out loud. "Oh, I-I just— the body's modular, right? So I-I've been trying to make some... modules. You know, um, stuff I can screw on..."

"Like the flamethrower," you say.

"Yeah!"

"Good news," you say, and then tell him you may use for a flamethrower, or various other things, in short order. You explain the expedition plan.

"Oh shit," Gil says, when you finish. "And... you want me to come along?"

"No way. I just told you all that for no reason, stupid." You cross your arms. "You're my retainer. This is, like, your entire job."

"Oh. Okay, I-I-I'll do my best, if you think I..." He finishes screwing his proper head on and squints on eye. "Um, last time I got shot, though. I-I'm not sure I'll be of any..."

"You have a flamethrower," you say.

"Oh yeah." He rubs his mouth. "Um, okay. Will it just be us, then? And— and Richard, I-I guess..."

"No." You pause. "Monty's coming."

"Monty? He—" Gil looks sideways. "I-I don't know if that guy likes me very much. We've kind of had a... weird..."

"He likes you," you say. "Especially since you'll be in, you know, your own body. Also I'm bringing Eloise, so—"

"She seemed... fine. Lots of questions..."

"And Lucky."

Gil looks at you. "The— the Wind Court guy?"

(2/3?)

You cross your arms. "I need to make him like me. And he can set things on fire. Like you!"

"Yeah! Like me! I— I-I-I'm not— I'm not normal." He's dropped his voice. "Lottie, I— I'm— I've run into these guys. He's going to want to goddamn exterminate me. I-I-I-I'm not just not normal, I'm— I mean— I-I-I don't think these guys think talking goddamn beetles are fine and dandy, okay? How the hell do you think—"

"I'm not gonna let him kill you," you protest.

"Are you gonna have a goddamn choice? Guy's gonna take his torch— woosh—" He gestures broadly. "I-I-I'm flammable!"

"I'm not gonna let him torch you! Gil! He— he won't even know, okay? Because you have a nice human body? He won't even know. You're going to walk around, you're going to talk out of your human mouth... it'll be fine. And besides, he'll be distracted by Annie."

"Who the hell is—" Gil stops himself. "Oh, shit, no. You're not talking about—"

"The best worm that has ever... wormed? Indeed I am. She will provide—"

"Do worms have sexes?"

You think about this. "Um, I don't know. She will provide invaluable transportation services, and can kill large mammals, and— and yeah. And Lucky will be too distracted by the worm to worry about you. Problem solved."

"That's—" You don't like Gil's expression. "I-I— Lottie, last time you went insane. I mean fucking insane. You bit some guy—"

"So I've learned from my mistakes!" You spread your hands. "And I've already decided that if something happens, you're in charge. So it's all good."

"All good. All good." Gil sucks in his cheek. "Well, I-I-I... I mean... is there any way I can help with the insane part? Because I-I think we'd all be better if that didn't... I don't want the Wind Court guy to see you biting people."

This is a fair point. "Um, I don't know. Hmm."

"Because I think last time I— I-I don't want to say I talked to it. We didn't talk. But I-I-I felt like there was some sort of recognition, or... I don't know. Um, i-it was really stupid. But..."

"You talked to Annie?" you say.

"That's not what I-I-I... no. I-I don't know what I did. Forget it." Gil's foot drums incessantly on the tile. "I-If you start biting people I-I-I guess I'll just shoot the Wind Court guy. Did you want me to pack a module, or—?"

(Choices next.)

>Gil only has time to finish one of these before you go. (Pick one.)
>[A1] The flamethrower, duh. No explanation needed. Gil thinks he can hide it in his arm most of the time, but in use it'll visibly protrude.
>[A2] Finger gun(s). Good for slipping past Lucky, useful— Gil says— for shooting him on the sly once you start biting. (You dislike the switch to the definite here.)
>[A3] "Um, i-i-it's not really a module, but-" He offers to internally beef up his 'carapace'. "So I-I-I won't, um- so I-I'm bulletproof. Ish. Mostly."
>[A4] Gil turns beet red when you point out what's on the workbench behind him. He refuses to talk about it. Not that it needs much explanation: it's obviously rudimentary human-scale beetle wings. [ROLL to convince Gil these are cool and not hyper embarrassing]
>[A4] Write-in. Can be implausible but not wildly OP. Must be mechanical and fit onto/into a body part. Subject to veto.

(The [B]s are optional.)
>[B1] Attempt to convince Gil that talking to your worm is cool and not hyper embarrassing. (Write-in arguments if desired??) [Roll.]
>[B2] Invite Gil to come with you when you commune with Annie.
>[B3] Figure out some method of communication should you get split up (or start biting people). Rope in Richard if necessary.
>[B4] Write-in.

>A4
god i want a flamethrower but how could i pass this option up. and anyway a less-blitheringly-unconfident gil without a flamethrower might be more useful than current-gil with a flamethrower (cope)

self-modding is rad, look at how cool lottie's fangs are! although gee if lottie could do it herself i bet she'd pick something way cooler, like wings

>B1, B2, B3

talking to worms is incredibly cool, it's a rare skill that it seemed only lottie had. i bet richard can't talk to worms. (wouldn't talk to worms. being willing is part of the skill!)

>>5405679
>A4
we've got fire already, we don't need to double up
also flying is awesome

>B2
>B4
convince yourself you aren't jealous that Gil also talked to Annie

>>5405678
>A4

>B2
>B4

>>5406031
>>5406023
>>5405932
Called for [A4]. I'll leave the [B]s open for a couple more hours.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 20 (+10 Irrepressable Earnestness, +5 Got Vulnerableish, +5 Redundancy) vs. DC 80 (+20 Lottie You Don't Understand What Cringe Is, +5 It Was A Dumb Idea, +5 A Childish Idea, +5 It Makes No Sense, +5 Doesn't Even Work, -5 Want To Trust You, -5 Have To Trust You)

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? Having slept (again), you are at 13/13 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 97 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>5406184
>[N]

Rolled 95 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>5406184
N

Rolled 65 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>5406184
>Y

>>5406186
>>5406194
holy moly
watch me ruin those with a 1

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Rolled 54, 37, 56 = 147 (3d100)

>>5406186
>>5406194
>>5406214
>117, 115, 85 vs. DC 80 -- Enhanced Success
>SUNSTROKE

Rerolling :(

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>>5406352
>74, 57, 76 vs. DC 80 -- Failure
>No spendy

Drowned dice are cruel masters. At least this is narratively interesting. Called for [B2] and [B4] as well and writing... uh, briefly. There's not a chance in hell I'm going to be able to finish this update at a reasonable hour, so please expect a continuation tomorrow.

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...Or please expect the full update tomorrow. I had a long and complicated evening today and attempting to write at 1 AM after all that was probably a lost cause. Apologies for flaking out so early in the thread-- will do my utmost not to make a habit of it.

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>I am cringe but I am free...
>74, 57, 76 vs. DC 80 — Failure

Of course you want Gil to pack a module. You don't know why he bothered asking. And though you'd very much like to see that flamethrower in action, some overriding mixture of curiosity and spite (he talked to Annie? and didn't tell you?) leads you to the half-assembled wings on the workbench.

"What do you mean, you don't want to talk about them?" You run your fingertips along the glossy surface of the outer-shell-thing. (The wingcase?) "Why are they sitting right here, then? You should've hid them if you—"

"I-I-I wasn't expecting you to come now! I would've—"

You dislike this answer. "Well, that's— that's stupid. Why did you make these in the first place if you hate them so much?"

Gil can't get any redder, but his chest is making a noise like a pneumatic drill. [spoilerhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tp0k6VDXUOQ[/spoiler] You shoot him a look. He squeezes his eyes together. "Because I-I-I-I'm goddamn stupid? I-I don't know what you want me to—"

"But you're not," you say bemusedly. "So... what's supposed to be the matter?"

He can't seem to look you in the eye. "I-I-If you can't figure it out for yourself, then I don't..."

"Um, I can't." You tug at the corner of one of the actual wings, thin as a sheet of paper. "They look pretty cool to me. Is it that they aren't finished? Because you're the first person I came to ask, you have loads of—"

"They're not finished because I-I quit."

"Oh. Well, that's dumb. Was it too hard?"

Gil is rocking back and forth on his heels. His thumbs are hooked into his pockets. "It's not—"

"Because you can ask Richard for help if it's too hard. I know he's, um..." You struggle for an adjective. "...Richard, but I think he likes doing, um, that kind of stuff. So he shouldn't be too mean about it. Oh. Except he's hungover right not, but if you can catch him—"

"It's not too hard! It's not— I-I-I-I wasn't even really building anything, I-I-I was going through the goddamn motions, and it still— it still— I quit. Okay? So please... do you want me to figure out how to install the flamethrower? I can install the—"

"No way," you say. "I can light stuff on fire myself. I want to know what's so bad about these."

"I-I-It's not that complicated! I-I-I don't understand why you don't..." Gil waves his hands at the wings. "They're— they're fucking useless!"

"Do they not work?" You squint at the mechanism in the center joint as if it'd reveal anything to you.

(1/5?)

"No, they— they should— i-if I finished them, they should— I don't need them. Okay? They're— they're pointless. They're useless. I-I can already— I-I-I have wings. I-I-I-I have more goddamn wings than I know what to do with, Lottie. I— I— aw, look." He claws fiercely at his chest: a concealed hatch springs open, and a great deal of beetles whirlwind out. (The Gil-body is suddenly blank-eyed.) They hover in an roiling cloud just above your line of sight. "What the shit am I doing?"

Richard has made you vigilant for leading questions. You sigh. "Flying?"

"Yeah. So where's the point i-in bolting on—"

"So you can carry stuff with you? Or pick things up? Or work fiddly things like handles? Or— or shoot people? With your gun? Since you'd be way up high, and, um... correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you can work a gun as beetles, right? Gil?"

Except for the omnipresent drone of wings, Gil is silent.

"Did you... did you not think about all that?"

He's sort of bunched together, now. Still silent.

"See," you say. "This is the problem with negative thinking. You're so focused on all this made-up bad stuff that you don't even—"

"I-I-It's not made-up." Gil flexes. "Okay? I-I'm not making up— i—i-i-it's objectively stupid, Lottie. Objectively. I-If you can't see that—"

"Then what? I'm stupid?"

The beetles jitter. "I-I-I didn't say..."

"You were going to," you say authoritatively. "Because you're being stupid. I think these are very cool, and I'm sort of an expert on that kind of thing, so—"

"They're not cool. They're goddamn embarrassing. They're a goddamn— they'd make me look like a freak, okay? Or not even that. They'd reveal me as a freak. Because I-I-I can't go thirty seconds without—"

You fold your arms. "You're not a freak."

"Lottie, I-I-I'm not going to argue this with you— without fucking trumpeting to the entire world that I'm not normal— I didn't even make them, I don't know, normal wings. No. They're goddamn bug wings. Because—"

"Because you have a motif?" you say.

"A— a what?"

"A motif? It's like a— a sort of themed— you know how Richard puts snakes on all his lighters and whatever? It's awesome. It's very symbolic. I don't really have a motif yet, but you have one built in, which is— well, it's awesome. I said that."

"It's not awesome..." Gil spins in circles.

"Yes it is. I'm an expert. And you're not a freak. Is Richard telling you this stuff?"

"Richard?"

Doesn't sound like it. Weird. "Okay, so who is, then?"

"Nobody's telling me... i-i-i-it's just true. Objectively. And I-I-I know that, so I-I don't know why I even thought it was a cool idea... I had a lapse of judgement, and I'm sorry, Lottie, but maybe we can just move on from—"

"Nobody's telling you?" you say. "So you're just... making it up? In your head? Or heads or— you know."

A pause. "People think it. They just pussy out of saying—"

"Um," you say, "well, I don't think it, and Richard is way freakier than you, and— and I think Eloise thought you were cool, and Monty is way too busy with his own problems, and who else have you met?"

"...Ellery..."

"Ellery is also way freakier than you. Done. So I think it's just you."

"Then maybe I-I-I'm the only one who can properly see it, okay? I-I don't see how, because it feels pretty immediately obvious, but—"

"That you're a freak?" you say.

"Or— or all of the above, but yeah, obviously, I-I-I—"

"Because you're what? You're beetles or something? Are you weird-looking beetles, or— I thought you looked pretty nice, as far as beetles go, you're, um, a lot of different colors..." You gesture. "You're not just boring black or something like that, right? That'd be terrible, getting to be beetles and being stuck with black— I bet Richard would be black beetles. You know I'm right."

"Um," Gil says, bewildered. "I-I guess so?"

"Oh, you— he's a black snake, by the way. With a sort of yellow belly. I know you haven't seen him for real." You wave a hand. "Anyhow, he totally would be. And look, I woke up with a new tooth today—"

"What?"

You show him. "Rihahd puh ih in. 'ee? Ih ih fheakish oh—"

"What?"

You stop showing him. "Is that freakish? Or is it a marker of my distinctiveness, which sets me apart from mere normal-toothed mortals..." (Privately you're more ambivalent about the whole thing, but Gil shouldn't know about that now.) "Do regular people show up on book covers? Do they get free drinks? Do regular people avert possible impending apocalypses? Regular people lead sad and boring lives, and then they die, and then everybody forgets about them. Am I wrong?"

Gil doesn't say anything.

"No. Of course not. So what the hell is wrong with some wings? Wings are way cooler and more distinctive than some dumb teeth. Everybody loves wings. And if they catch people's attention, that's a good thing, because it proves that you're special. Which you are, by the way, because I wouldn't pick some dumb normal person to be my retainer. I have way better taste than that. Are you gonna say I have bad taste?"

You've done it. You can feel it. You're not sure if you're sensing some inscrutable shift in Gil's bod(ies) language, or if his mood is actually permeating the air— you would not be surprised if it were. In any case, you can just about congratulate yourself on a pep talk well done. How many are you up to? Four? Five? If you'd known Gil were such a little bitch before you took him on, you might have had second thoughts, but he's yours to keep now and you're now duty-bound to fix his weird, incorrect worldview. Or at least to adjust the pessimism to tolerable levels. God, if he were stuck with Richard for years, just imagine—

(3/5?)

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4.02 MB PNG

You are realizing that Gil has not yet responded. Hmm. Maybe he needs one final little push? You open your mouth—

A sunbeam glances through the window—

Nothing comes out of your mouth. It's too dry. Your sinuses are dry, too, and irritated, like you're breathing hot sand. Maybe you are? Your lungs are packed full of hot sand. Your skull is packed full of hot sand, and it's withering the skin of your face, and you... you...

Gil rams himself sideways through the chest-hatch and jerks forward just in time to catch you in a swoon.

-

"—just a memory-splinter. Should be extractable, but it'd be a delicate—"

You open your eyes. You are lying flat on a table. You are wet on your face and all the way down your front: somebody has splashed you with water.

Gil and Richard stand over you— it was Richard speaking, though he cuts himself off and straightens as you sit up. "Hello, Charlie."

"...I..." Your mouth is still dry. "...What..."

"You had a little incident. There shouldn't be any long-term damage, fortunately. Beetles stopped you from cracking your skull open on the tile."

"...Thanks?" It feels a little like your skull's been cracked open. "...Why I am I wet?"

"You were really hot!" Gil sounds frazzled.

"...Was I?" You feel a normal temperature, now. "...How long has it been?"

"Twenty minutes or so. I believe the locale amplified your symptoms, this being nominally your own mind. It's more literal." Richard adjusts his sunglasses. "As I stated, you ought to be fine. Try to stay out of direct sunlight."

You fail to mention that he made your eyes hurt in bright light, anyways. "Um, okay. So am I clear to keep, um, talking to people?"

"If I were feeling sensible, I would tell you no." Richard looks upward. "...There shouldn't be anything physically stopping you. If would say 'good sense,' but I know full well you lack that."

"Yeah, yeah." Gil scootches away as you slide off the table. You look up at him. "Um, Gil. You said you could talk to Annie, right?"

"No," Gil says.

You squint at him. "Uh... well, do you want to come along? At least to watch me talk?"

"I-I-Isn't the worm, um—" Gil looks at Richard. "—real? Like, it's in the real world?"

"Yeah... oh." You frown. "You could use Madrigal's still."

"Lottie, I-I-I'd rather shoot myself in the dick and call myself a lady than— no. No. I-I can't— no." He shakes his head vociferously. "Unless you have some other idea... sorry."

>[A1] You have some other idea for getting Gil there to see Annie. (Write-in.)
>[A2] You don't.

-

"You want me?" Eloise says.

She was easy to find today: she looks like she just woke up. You don't think your barging into her tent woke her up. You're assuming it didn't. "Yes? Why else would I ask—"

(4/5)

"Kiddo, I'm— I'm flattered, but..." She wipes sleep from her eye. "I don't really do the high-octane stuff. Never have. I'm a lover, not a fighter, blah blah blah— and I mean, I'm really not a fighter! Can't use a gun. Can't use a— what do you have?"

"A sword," you say.

"Oh, yeah! None of that. Not sure I've ever held a sword, frankly. So, while I'd love to see poor Madrigal back safe and sound, I'm not sure I'd be anything but a burden on the— the swashbuckling, eh? Who else are you planning on inviting?"

"Gil," you say.

"That's your buddy? Makes sense, makes sense. ...Will this be in Madrigal's body, or—"

You haven't decided. "Uh... probably not."

"Okay. Probably for the best." She purses her lips and nods. "Is that it?"

"Monty," you say.

"Oh, god, you can't be— Monty? After we talked about— you're going to give him a license to go endanger himself. Really?" She studies your face. "Really, Charlotte? You're enabling him."

"He's good," you say. "And he's my wise and— he's my advisor now. We decided."

"Your advisor! Because that man really knows how to manage—" She throws her hands up. "You realize this solidifies me not going, right? Because if he tries to go off and get himself killed, which he will, and I'm there, and I get myself killed, which I might— the camp's fucked. Excuse me, but that's the only word for it. It's fucked. So it's him or me, and my personal advice is neither— have you offered it to Monty?"

"...Not yet."

"Make it never." She tilts her head at you. "I don't care how good he is. He's not stable. And you intend to put him in a dangerous, emotionally charged—"

"Okay, I get it." You dislike just-woke-up Eloise. "Do you have any genius ideas for replacements? Because—"

"...Mmm... maybe. I have an acquaintance from a few years back— decent guy, very capable. A little too self-serious." She smiles. "But who isn't? He knows Madrigal too, so I'm sure he'd be willing..."

>[B1] Attempt to convince Eloise that both her and Monty should go. (Write-in arguments for bonuses.) [Difficult roll.]
>[B2] Attempt to gaslight Eloise that she believes something relevant to the present situation. (How? Write-in.) [Roll of variable difficulty.]
>[B3] UGH. FINE. Change your plans. (Swap out Eloise and/or Monty for anybody you're able to contact *in person* [so no manse people], Eloise's acquaintance, or nobody. Write-in the new party composition.)

>>5407817
>A2
>B3
Honestly our party size is too big already, we'll need to split up. I'm cool with dropping both Eloise and Monty for the acquaintance. Cast size++ too.

>>5407816
>[A2] You don't.
>>5407817
>[B3] Swap out Monty and Eloise both for her acquaintance
IIRC we have too many people for a manse dive anyway
Also, we need to do something about this sunstroke before it makes us fail a more important roll.

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>>5408201
>>5408208
>[A2]
>[B3] (swap Monty and Eloise for the acquaintance)

Easy enough. Writing.

>>5408208
>Also, we need to do something about this sunstroke before it makes us fail a more important roll.
You've had one or two chances to talk about it with Ellery, which you guys avoided-- you can still bring it up, but you'll have to wait for the next time you see him. You can also talk about it with Richard if you can catch him alone.

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>Mystery box

You wave a hand. "Okay, sure, whatever. Fine. This isn't a trick, right? This is a real—"

"Last I checked, yeah. He's a real person." Eloise yawns. "Excuse me. The only problem is that he doesn't live around here anymore, but if I understand you correctly— this is unreality? Where you're headed."

"Yeah."

"Then I should... hm. Hmm. When were you going to head off?"

You hadn't given it much thought. "As soon as possible? But it might be a couple hours..."

"Hmm. Gotcha. I have some ideas— I'll get back to you if I manage to round him up." She cocks her head. "Good luck out there. Don't get yourself shot... or kidnapped."

"Uh," you say. "I won't."

"Good! That'd be depressing. Kind of funny, but depressing— and say hi to Gil for me, would you?"

You nod slowly. She waves you out.

-

Something's been itching at you since Eloise mentioned Gil, and as you round the last bend into town it finally occurs to you: he never actually agreed to finish the wings. Damn. Damn! And it'd be weird to bring it up now, wouldn't it? You'd look weird. You just have to hope he got it through his thick skull that they actually are cool, though you've got a sinking feeling about that. Can you get wings, Richard?

«No.»

Why not? If he's going to mess with your teeth and your eyes and hands and whatever else, why not—

«It is conspicuous. Unnecessary. Generally stupid.»
«It would also, if it were even possible, be disabling and extremely painful for days if not weeks.»

Um, not if he pumped enough—

«It is called 'alterations.' Not 'enormous additions.'»
«Forget it.»

God. Well, you have to forget it, because if you look shifty walking bang into Wind Court headquarters you're going to be pinned against a wall and forced to deep-throat a torch. You pause outside the door and attempt to look normal.

«Always a difficult prospect for you.»

He's the one who gave himself that hangover, just so he knows. After sufficient concentration, you step inside and meet Kichima's apathetic gaze.

"Need Lucky?" she says. She's chewing on something. A toothpick?

You were expecting to have to argue. This feels too easy. "...Yeah?"

"He said you were coming to escort the detention room thing."

Oh. Well, that too. "...Yeah. Can I just talk to him first?"

Kichima shrugs noncommittally, then turns toward the hallway. She plucks the toothpick from her mouth. "FRANK! WHERE'S LUCKY?"

"I THINK HE'S STILL—"

"GO GET HIM!" She turns back to you, propping her chin on her fist. She's looking past you. You look, too—

"Okay," you say. "Why is that still up?"

Your wanted poster is hanging exactly where it used to. Kichima shrugs.

"I'm not a— you know I'm not a criminal, right?" (That was you. That is your wanted poster.) "I've never done anything wrong in my— in my life. This is frankly an, an outrage, is what it is, an outrage, and I won't stand for—"

"Then take it down." She chomps at the toothpick.

(1/3)

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You look back at the wanted poster. "I— I mean, I will, I just—" (You don't want Lucky to see you taking it down.) "I think you should take it down. Since you guys falsely accused me, and—"

"You knocked Lucky's tooth out."

"No I— you can't prove that." You place your hands on your hips. "You weren't there. Maybe he just—"

"Maybe I what?" Lucky strides in. "Hello, Ms. Fawkins."

"Uh... hello." You don't want to get set on fire. Is he hungover at all? He doesn't really look it, but...

«Do not ask him if he is hungover.»

You weren't going to! God. Lucky tilts his head. "You've come for the detainee, I assume. I'm happy to relay that the bulk of the recordkeeping was done before our little outing, so she may enter into your attentive custody as soon as you're ready. Shall I go—?"

"No!" you say. "No. I mean... not yet. Um. I had other business— related business. But other business, um, with you."

"With me?" His smile is close-lipped. "Should I retrieve my axe?"

"No! Hey— no, it's a- a good thing." You cross your arms. "Can we talk about it somewhere else?"

"Such as...?" You don't have an answer. "Well, Ms. Fawkins, we will have to go to detainment eventually. It may as well be now."

So you follow him down the corridor— Kichima watches you go impassively— and halt in front of a familiar door. Lucky tucks his hands into his front pockets. "What is this good thing?"

You explain. Lucky looks marginally surprised. "You believe Ms. Fitzpatrick remains kidnapped, that you have a lead as to her location..."

"Yeah?"

"...and you're enlisting the Wind Court's help?"

"Uh," you say. "Well... your help. Specifically. I'm not asking for—"

"I don't work alone, Ms. Fawkins. Why would I? I have a team of highly capable people, all of whom would be pleased to lend a hand to a challenging and specialized task like this." He gazes at you. "You weren't planning to attempt this, were you?"

What kind of question is that? You can barely wrap your head around it. "Uh... it's my expedition? Why would I not—"

(2/3)

"You're a layman, Ms. Fawkins. You're simply unequipped to handle the challenges a malevolent and unnatural group like this poses. I mean no offense." (You don't know if you believe that.) "But we can take it from here. Ms. Fitzpatrick will be returned safe and sound as promptly as possible... and free of charge. We work for the greater good, contrary to what most seem to expect of us."

He sticks out his hand to shake. You stare at it. "It's— it's my expedition. You can't take over my—"

"Why else would you bring this to us, Ms. Fawkins? This is what we do. I can't in good conscience allow you to endanger your life, can I?"

"You..." You have a rising urge to do something, to scream or maybe hit Lucky in his smug face, but then you'll get arrested and you really won't be coming along. "You— I mean, you can't. You don't know where anything is. You need me to—"

"You said the detainee provided you with this lead? We can keep her in custody a little while longer, Ms. Fawkins. If she spoke to you, I'm sure she'll be eager to speak to me." You could be jumpy right now, but you could swear there's a hint of threat in Lucky's voice. "Yes? So that won't pose an issue. I appreciate your concern, though."

His hand is still outstretched. You clench yours.

>[1] God-damnit!! Do your level best to argue that you *need* to be here. (And Gil. And Annie. And Eloise's guy. But you have enough sense to leave those out.) (Write-in arguments.) [Roll.]
>[2] He doesn't think you're capable?? That's the stupidest thing you've ever heard. *Prove* you're capable, um, somehow. (How? Write-in.) [Roll?]
>[3] To hell with arguing! You have better methods. (Advanced Gaslighting. What do you say? Write-in.) [Roll.]
>[4] To— to double-hell with arguing! Take Lucky's hand and *show* him what exactly he's messing with here. (Communion.) [Spend 1 ID.]
>[5] Okay! Okay, whatever! They can't actually stop you from going on your own. You'll just have to *beat* them to Madrigal. Which you can easily do, because you're awesome and Lucky is horrible. This is objective truth. Just go see Guppy.
>[6] Write-in.

>>5408612
You've had one or two chances to talk about it with Ellery, which you guys avoided
I don't remember such a prompt - did you expect us to do it in a write-in? (You probably shouldn't have since you've painted Ellery as pointless and incompetent in everything)

>>5408697
Nope, it's been an explicit dialogue prompt. I think it was a situation where it was "Pick 3" or something like that and it didn't make the cut. You guys have mentioned taking the Sunstroke stuff to Ellery multiple times previously, too, so it's not like it's just coming up now.

>you've painted Ellery as pointless and incompetent in everything
I think Charlotte's pervasive POV has painted Ellery as pointless and incompetent in everything, because she can't stand and is jealous of the poor guy. If you take an objective look at what he does in the quest, he's pretty competent at a lot of things... he's just kinda fucked up psychologically, for reasons of "being a suicidal amnesiac mirror clone" and "being physically immortal and also very bored and lonely" respectively.

Also, pls vote!

>>5408697
>>5408704
I was curious, so I went back in the archives: there's been two prompts to ask about the sun, i.e. [SUNSTROKE]. One with Richard, which didn't win: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2021/5018317/#p5028510

And one with (Fake) Ellery, which also didn't win: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2022/5306388/#p5332011

And here's someone bringing up asking Ellery about [SUNSTROKE] last October: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2021/5018317/#p5023076

If you guys had talked to Real Ellery in this time, there definitely would've been a prompt there too, but you've been ignoring him for almost a RL year at this point. You'll have a shot whenever you do see him. And now I'm going to bed, kek.

>>5408695
>[5] Okay! Okay, whatever! They can't actually stop you from going on your own. You'll just have to *beat* them to Madrigal. Which you can easily do, because you're awesome and Lucky is horrible. This is objective truth. Just go see Guppy.
I just realized we'd have to explain to Lucky that Madrigal wasn't *physically* kidnapped, and we knew all along, and led the Wind Court around by its collective nose. I don't want to do that. Let's recruit Anthea instead or something.

>>5408704
Charlotte's pervasive POV has painted Ellery
You're saying it like the players aren't gleefully leaning into it.

>Also, pls vote!
Speaking of this, I keep having a constant issue with posting. First I get a "mistyped captcha" message even though there was no mistype, then I try again and get rangeblocked. Has anyone else experienced anything like this?

>>5408718
>>5408715
>I just realized we'd have to explain to Lucky that Madrigal wasn't *physically* kidnapped
Well... sort of. Her physical human body didn't get kidnapped, but she is (last you checked) inside a snake, which did get physically kidnapped. Leaving out the snake stuff in general is not a great look, but you have some deniability.

>Let's recruit Anthea instead or something.
Per the options in >>5407817, I'm restricting the belated recruitment of 'manse people,' since they're significantly more complicated and time-consuming to speak to. You're welcome to "replace" Lucky with any of: Fake Ellery, Branwen, Horse Face, Guppy**. You may also go ahead with 4 (You, Gil, Acquaintance, Annie) people, which wouldn't require a party split-up.

**will require additional roll(s) to retrieve from Wind Court custody

>You're saying it like the players aren't gleefully leaning into it.
The players gleefully lean into nearly everything Charlotte thinks, regardless of factual correctness. There's nothing wrong with that (I'd expect no less), but it doesn't make her any more factually correct. Reading between the lines is important sometimes too.

>Speaking of this, I keep having a constant issue with posting...
Damn, dude, that sucks. I can't help-- I (am forced to) use 4chan Pass-- but I hope somebody knows a workaround.

>>5408695
>2
We're competent because we took down the goopicate that was running circles around their entire group! If anything they're the incompetent ones, they can't even take down an out of date wanted poster. What if someone saw that and got the wrong idea? They're damaging our reputation and putting our health at risk, if a particularly daring observer decides to try and apprehend us. Deeply irresponsible of them.

>>5408946
>>5409045
also we stopped their boy C.M. Garvin from summoning some dead pagan god and doing weird time shit

that's how he gets all his helpful informative tips by the way, weird unnatural time shit, he's been playing them all for fools all this time and they didn't even know

>>5408695
>[2] He doesn't think you're capable?? That's the stupidest thing you've ever heard. *Prove* you're capable, um, somehow. (How? Write-in.) [Roll?]
I'll back this for what we say
>>5409045
>>5409050

>>5408695
>>>5408695
>>[2] He doesn't think you're capable?? That's the stupidest thing you've ever heard. *Prove* you're capable, um, somehow. (How? Write-in.) [Roll?]

>>5409045
>>5409050
Yeah these are extremely good takes. Gonna support these as well.

>>5409045
>>5409360
>>5409363
>Give it a shot

>>5408715
>Take the L

Called for >>5409045 >>5409050's [2] and... these are excellent points, but I don't think they quite push this into rollless territory. Therefore I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 7 (+10 Gooplicate Slayer, +7 Wanted Poster Whoopsie, -10 Baseless Badmouthing) vs. DC 58 (-10 ???, -2 Seed Of Doubt, +5 Tooth Knocked Out, +15 ???) to convince Lucky you should be a valuable contributor!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 13/13 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 86 + 7 (1d100 + 7)

>>5409407

Rolled 50 + 7 (1d100 + 7)

>>5409407
Y

Next roller, spend on ID so we can have a success.

Rolled 53 + 7 (1d100 + 7)

>>5409407
>[1] Y

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>>5409414
>>5409417
>>5409423
>103, 67, 70 vs. DC 58 -- Enhanced Success
>[SUNS-- just kidding it only triggers once per thread
>Spendy

You guys are on a hot streak! Great work. Writing shortly.

>Flex on him
>103, 67, 70 vs. DC 58 — Enhanced Success
>Spendy

"You appreciate my concern," you say.

"I do." Lucky holds your gaze.

Oh, God, you just— you can do this, Charlotte. If you flip out at him, he can shove you into that room to rot with Guppy. Unless you stab him first. But if you stab him, that's the gooplicate goodwill gone, and the (prospective) Madrigal goodwill gone, and you'll be packed out of town assuming the rest of the Courtiers don't stab you back. So no flipping out, no calling him a stupid smug bastard, or telling him his skull looks like an egg, or anything. Even if he is and it does. Just— just think positive. Focus on the positives. Focus on you. "But you don't appreciate me at all? Just my concern?"

"I don't know if—"

"Because last I checked, your team of highly capable people completely failed to capture or kill or in any way stop the gooplicate? One of them died? And I seem to recall there was someone out there saving your stupid tails... huh. Was there? Or did the gooplicate just spontaneously—"

"We have recognized your contribution, Ms. Fawkins." He shifts his stance. "I don't believe—"

"You've recognized my contribution? You've recognized it. And that's why there's still a wanted poster of my fine self up on the— a false poster, may I add, a, a libelous smear on my good name and reputation— a travesty, is what it is, a travesty. What would happen if some enterprising fellow took a look at that, wrongly believed I was to blame, and slew my innocent self in my sleep?!" (Not that this would happen. Richard would wake you up, or if he were too drunk your heroic vigilance would. But it's about the spirit of things.) "My blood would be on your hands, all because you were too incompetent to—"

"Ms. Fawkins," Lucky says evenly, "I believe it's a 'Wanted: Alive' poster. The worst that'd happen is this fellow hauling you in to us, us clarifying the miscommunication, and you being let go."

You pounce. "So you've thought about this! You've thought about this poster— you've noticed it, and you still leave it up? To waste everybody's time? Is that the neecessary skillset?"

Some irritation is creeping into Lucky's expression. "We will take care of it, Ms. Fawkins. There's no need to resort to insinuations. On the topic of skillsets, however, I was attempting to say earlier that the skillset for a single-target takedown is significantly different from that of a search-and-rescue. Including but not limited to the ability to work in teams."

"In teams," you say.

"Yes."

"Like how you work with H— with Garvin? C.M.S. Garvin?"

"I don't believe Mr. Garvin has the requisite skillset either, Ms. Fawkins. I had no intention of involving him." Lucky clasps his hands behind his back. "But since you bring him up, yes, our collaboration is an example of working in teams. Thank you."

(1/3)

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"You're so welcome. And that's interesting. Really interesting." Is bringing up Horse Face's 'special qualities' kind of a scorched-earth option? You doubt Horse Face will be pleased with you. But then again you don't actually care about anything he has to say, and being the one to rescue Madrigal is several leagues more important. "That you'd work with Mr. Garvin. I wouldn't think he's in line with your— your values."

Lucky narrows his eyes.

You raise your voice. "Seeing how he consorts with things most unnatural. Like dead gods, for instance?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

He doesn't remember. Well, of course he doesn't. "Not that many nights ago, your trusted associate crept out into the Fen under the cover of darkness. There he found a temple of great significance, and conducted a foul rite, sacrificing his life essence to con- consort— I said that. To consort with things MOST UNNATURAL, i.e. an actual dead pagan god fish man thing, who then summoned a great tempest and perverted the flow of time itself..."

"Let me rephrase that," Lucky says. "What the hell are you talking about, Ms. Fawkins."

"Uh," you say. "This— this happened. Pretty recently. There was a giant current, which was like a real current, and also a time current, I think, and I got to the middle of it and Horse F— and Garvin was there summoning the fish man thing. Which said it was a god. And I'm pretty sure it was a god, because I convinced it to make it like none of that ever happened. And then it didn't ever happen, except in my— in my memory, I guess. Also, you were there. You and Jesse. I don't think you ever made it to the middle of it, though, or you'd remember all this."

"Ms. Fawkins..." Lucky wipes the inside corner of his eye. "You have an active imagination. Have you considered you're recalling a dream you had? Or a fantasy?"

>[-1 ID: 12/13]

"Uh," you say. "It was real, though. It actually— it did happen. The god just made it not happen after the fact. Was I not clear about explaining that? I thought I was—"

"Ms. Fawkins, we can't— this is ludicrous. Do you have anything besides hearsay to back this up?"

Gil: out of the question. Monty: dicey. "...Horse Face can— I mean, Garvin can confirm it. He remembers."

"Then we will ask him posthaste. I suspect we will then be at an impasse." He shakes his head slightly. "What did any of this story have to do with your objections to the search and rescue team?"

(2/3?)

What did it have to do? You were hoping to set his sights on a more juicy target, but... "I was just saying, you trust him, the stupid god-summoner— do you know he's also stuck in a loop? Time keeps resetting for him every time he dies— the time-loop god-summoner, and you don't trust me, the good-hearted young lady who single-handedly stopped the gooplicate and the god-summoning fiasco. Single-handedly! I think you're— you're just being stupid, at this point. I think Garvin is playing you like a fiddle, and if you can't see that—"

Lucky's face is set. "That's quite enough, Ms. Fawkins."

«He is bothered by that.»

What?

«Can you not see it.» Richard coils around your neck. «The eye-twitch. At 'being played.'»

Maybe Lucky got something in his eye. Why is Richard being helpful?

«This man is a nuisance and an obstacle. Do you not recall the circumstances under which you obtained the Crown.»
«And no. This man does not trust you. He did not trust your boyfriend.» (Your— Jesse? Hey! He can't just go and—) «He does not appear to trust much of anybody. Or at the least he is not prone to it. Would you allow me.»

Does it matter if you allow him?

«I do not understand why you keep asking this. The answer remains the same.»

>[-1 ID: 11/13]

The shock travels from your tailbone to the nape of your neck and dissipates outward from there, leaving your gums and teeth tingling. Is Richard going to tell you what to say, too?

«If you like.»

Okay. Uh. Maybe to kick you off. You clear your throat, and even that noise is smooth and rich. "That's fine. I wasn't trying to say anything, I just—"

«You are concerned about the security of the Wind Court. If somebody as bad as that can make it through the vetting process.»

"—am concerned about security, you know. If somebody as unnatural as that can just waltz right in, gain the confidance of the chief..."

"Mr. Garvin," Lucky says, "has extensive credentials, including but not limited to previous cooperation with other branches of the Court."

Of course he does. "I'm sure he does. I'm just saying, did he get those legitimately? And if not..." You spread your hands. "Doesn't that cast some doubt on the whole process? How do you know your team of highly capable people are who they say they are? Jesse was liasing with the gooplicate, by the way."

"That doesn't surprise me." Lucky shuts one eye.

"No. It shouldn't. Because he was untrustworthy." You don't know if you know that, but your voice alone is enough to convince you to believe it. "So that's one compromised. How many more? Are you really going alone with—" You gesture back into the reception area. "If anything, I'm not Wind Court, I'm not compromised. I couldn't possibly be. So that's something. Anybody else... who knows?"

He looks down at you. He looks sideways. He rubs the top of his egglike head. "I don't know if I accept your reasoning."

«He accepts it.»

(3/4)

"Well," you say brightly. "You can think about it while we talk to Guppy, huh?"

Lucky brusquely nods, steps forward, and opens the detention room door. He peers in. "Detainee. Your escort is here."

"Oh, thank HELL. Only took you guys, what, a WEEK—"

"It has been less than 24 hours." Lucky glances at you. "I believe we have some questions first. If you answer promptly and truthfully, nothing further will have to be done."

>[1] Any questions for Guppy (Namway's ex-security guard)? You'll always ask where the door was, roughly— this is for anything more specific. (Write-in.)
>[2] No extra questions. Get on with the wormening.
>[3] ...Write-in?

Now that it is not 3 in the morning I have a better idea for options, and since nobody has voted I feel like I can freely tack these on.

>[A1] Any questions for Guppy (Namway's ex-security guard)? You'll always ask where the door was, roughly— this is for anything more specific. (Write-in.)
>[A2] No extra questions. Get on with the wormening.
>[A3] ...Write-in?

>[B1] When you're done, drop Guppy off at Monty's door and skedaddle. It's not really your problem, and you don't want Monty to ask what you'll be up to today.
>[B2] Actually come in with Guppy, introduce her, and explain the whole situation.
>[B3] Doesn't she have a home... somewhere else? Just turn her loose to find her way back. You're already done with the whole 'good deed' part.
>[B4] Write-in.

>>5409663
>[1] Any questions for Guppy (Namway's ex-security guard)? You'll always ask where the door was, roughly— this is for anything more specific. (Write-in.)
if she could draw us a map that'd be swell
any traps? security? automated defenses to watch out for? passwords or credentials we might need?

>B2
yeah monty we're going on an adventure and YOU'RE NOT INVITED

maybe don't tell monty about the adventure actually, just tell him how we rescued guppy and now she's homeless and needs refuge

>>5409945
>[A2] No extra questions. Get on with the wormening.

>[B2] Actually come in with Guppy, introduce her, and explain the whole situation.

>>5409663
>[A2] No extra questions. Get on with the wormening.

>[B2] Actually come in with Guppy, introduce her, and explain the whole situation.

File: wyrm AMA 2.png (3.87 MB, 1759x956)

3.87 MB PNG

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5410001
>Perfectly good questions

>>5410030
>>5410293
>Do not ask these questions

Uh... democracy! I guess you'll be going in BLIND, as all TRUE HEROINES do. Yeah!

>>5410001
>>5410030
>>5410293
>HI MONTY

And you'll be having a brief chat with Monty. Rolling to see if he asks about the expedition 1=yes 2=no and writing.

File: guppy - @dantalion.jpg (833 KB, 2197x1553)

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>You're just not a "questions" kind of gal

"Yeah," you say. "So that door you were talking about. Where is it?"

"The... door? Oh." Guppy lifts herself out of her slumped position. She still looks like herself, thank God. "Pat's door. Um... I don't know if the geography's going to be the same. I thought the whole place was coming down around our EARS, basically, so—"

"Doesn't matter," you say.

"If— if you SAY so. It was on the very upper level. Right in her office. The basement's all storage, the ground floor's production, then upper's security and the break room and stuff. Her office is... I don't think she ever uses it, except to come in and out of. But it's the one with the big weird statue just outside it. Can't miss it. If they got into security to lock stuff down, then the passcode's 8-33-177. They let ME pick it, so it's my birthday. 8-33-177. Same code for everything, actually."

Lucky clasps his hands. "That is very convenient, Ms. Villalovez."

"What the hell do you want from me? They didn't hire me for CREATIVITY. Nobody told me to make them different." She slumps back down. "It should be good for most of the doors, the alarm system, the—"

"Hey," you say. "Hold on. You can't just go— you can't just tell us this."

"What?"

"It's— it's not—" You have undefinable feelings about the matter. "Um, it's— it's cheating. That's what it is. It's cheating! We're supposed to be using our— our wits and prowess to figure everything out, not just hear the stupid answers—"

«What are you talking about.»

"This isn't a game, Ms. Fawkins," Lucky says. "A woman has been kidnapped."

"Shut up! I know that. But that doesn't mean we have to—" You place your hands on your hips. "You know what, I think you're so busy working in your dumb teams that you don't know how true adventuring works. Huh? And- and why do you even think the information would be good in the first place? She worked for them! She got paid by them! You got paid, right?"

"Yeah," Guppy says.

"She got paid! Her loyalties could be slanted, Lucky. Slanted. And even if—" Lucky has opened his mouth. "—even if you use your horrible truth torch thing, it only makes you say what you think is true. I know that for a fact. So what if they lied to her? What if they— they brainwashed her? Huh? She's probably brainwashed. And your slavish reliance on her fake facts would've gotten us all killed, if I wasn't here! So go ahead. Do you want to hear the fake facts? Do you want the evil propaganda to enter your mind? You—"

"I assure you, Ms. Fawkins, I'm quite impervious to... evil propaganda."

"So you're going to ask her about the fake facts?!" You're unsure why you're so heated up about this.

(1/3?)

"...I accept that the detainee may be compromised. Fortunately, she is now in your custody. If her 'brainwashing' flares up, consider it not the Court's problem." Lucky steps past you, into the room, and proceeds to unlock Guppy's manacles. (Looking in, you see the newspaper spread over the ground— or half of it. The other half appears to have been folded into little paper creatures.) He steps back as Guppy creaks to her feet and swings her arms back and forth. "SHIT! Finally!"

"Ms. Villalovez: the appropriate papers have been filed. You are now released to Ms. Fawkins. I recommend to the utmost that you stick with the face you presently have." Lucky leaves the 'or else' hanging silently. "I would like to speak with Ms. Fawkins briefly before we leave, but otherwise you are free to go."

"Gee. THANKS. Only took you 24 godsdamn— more than 24! It's GOT to be more than 24. More than 24 hours to release an INNOCENT—"

Lucky drags you aside. "Ms. Fawkins. Charlotte. I have been considering."

Just like Richard said. "About?"

"To put it succinctly, you are correct. Ms. Villalovez is not the only one who may or may not be compromised. Former Harrier-Lancepesade Lai almost certainly was. The corruption runs deep, as I'm certain you're aware."

You don't know what's up with the big emphasis there, but whatever. "...Yeah?"

"So I don't think it would be wise to pull from within for a sensitive operation like this, if you understand what I mean. I think it would be better to pull from capable outside sources."

Lucky is always a little intense, but this is something else. His eyes are boring into you. "Like— like me."

"Consider it a live test of your abilities. You can rest assured I will be paying close attention to your capabilities. You proposed we leave midday?"

No, but it works for you. "Yes. Definitely. Midday."

"Then it's settled. I expect prompt attendance in full gear. Here."

"Here," you say.

"...No, you're right." He rubs his chin. "If you walk due north from this location for about ten minutes, you'll run into what appears to be half of a vessel of some kind. It has yellow flags. Meet there at midday."

He still seems to think he's in charge, but— you don't know what you expected from Lucky, really. There's plenty of time later to put him in his place. "Vessel... like a boat? A boat with yellow flags. Easy."

He nods curtly.

-

Guppy pumps your hand as soon as you're out of Lucky's eyeline and thanks you for being a real good sort of person. You are trapped between gloating (as is deserved) and deferring (as is polite for a young lady) and wind up saying very little. Guppy spends most of the way back shaking out her wrists and ankles— they ache like HELL, she says.

(2/3? 4?)

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Monty is not home when you make it back, so you kill some time watching Guppy make an ambiguous creature ("a squid," she says) out of the leftover newspaper. You make covetous eyes at the squid and are rewarded when she presents it to you— "The LEAST I can do. SHEESH."

Richard, meanwhile, spends most of the time murmuring to you about "working with the enemy" (Lucky) and being lazy and unproductive, to which you remind him about last night, and he shuts up. He switches to critiquing the squid-in-progress, to which you ask if he just wants a paper snake instead, and he shuts up again.

Finally Monty returns, looking... well, sort of haggard, honestly. Not great. His SPOOKY ARM twists limply. He doesn't look excited to see you, but not overtly angry, either, which you suppose is a step up. He quirks an eyebrow at Guppy. "New acquaintance, Charlotte?"

You explain the situation. He appears confused. "This woman looks nothing like Madrigal. No offense."

...You explain further. Guppy cobberrates. Monty runs his hand through his hair not once but twice, but when you come to the end of it he seems more-or-less resigned. "I'm glad it seems to have ended well, I suppose. The gist is that you're homeless?"

"I HAVE a home," Guppy corrects. "I'm just not AT it."

"And nowhere near, I'm guessing. Well... we're tight on space, but I'm sure we can squeeze a cot in somewhere. Provided Eloise will pitch in for a cot, but I'm sure she wil. You're welcome to stay for however long it takes to get your bearings. We take care of each other." Monty looks sideways at you. "Or try our best to. Is that all, Charlotte?"

You've been on tenterhooks waiting for him to ask about rescuing Madrigal, but it doesn't seem to have occurred to him that you'd do so so soon. "Yes! That's all!"

"Then I'll assist Ms. Villalovez as best I can." He pauses. "Thank you for doing the right thing."

>[+1 ID: 12/13]

Once again you're caught in the gloat/defer trap and can only nod mutely. (But in a way that, you hope, expresses triumph and vigor.)

-

On your way out, you inform Eloise that you'll be leaving properly around midday. She flashes you a thumbs up, then reconsiders. "Charlotte. Do you have a blood sample?"

"What?"

"Just a drop! Not enough to do anything nefarious with, I promise. I need some way to sync the two of you guys up— my acquaintance and you."

You look down at Richard around your neck. Richard flicks his tongue at you. «...A droplet should not be damaging. Particularly of your blood.»

You sink a fang into the pad of your thumb and obligingly drip onto a piece of cloth Eloise provides. She flashes you another thumbs up.

(3/4)

File: worm mode.png (322 KB, 474x356)

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-

You stand on the edge of the Fen. You have a worm to locate— simple enough— and also befriend. Difficult. Difficult without losing your mind, at least.

You need tactics.

>[1] Ideas? (Write-in.)*

*This is a placeholder because I am flat out too exhausted to write interesting balanced options for worm wrangling, and I have somewhere to be tomorrow morning. (Writing interesting balanced options is one of the hardest parts of QMing for me.) Check back for interesting balanced options circa 12-12:30 PM PST, and in the meantime feel free to dump your EPIC WORM WRANGLING IDEAS here. The more epic the better your roll bonus will be, per usual.

>>5410514
>Do not ask these questions
This is what I get for not writing "I have no particular questions but maybe other anons do". Copy-paste kills.

>>5410588
>Find out what worms eat (probably in the archive) and tame it with its favorite food.

>>5410588
I can back >>5410621
I was just gonna leave some random food out, can't imagine they're picky eaters

>>5410621
>>5410762
>>5410621
>>5410762
Due to your SPECIAL BOND, you already know what worms eat: large game, up to and including humans. These bad boys are ambush predators.

Further thoughts?

>>5410621
>This is what I get for not writing "I have no particular questions but maybe other anons do". Copy-paste kills.
Or even just a +1 to anon's original questions vote. When you vote "don't ask questions" with no further elaboration or support, I have no choice but to interpret that as you not wanting to ask questions, despite them being available (for some reason).

>>5410835
Get a large game that is not a human, ofc

File: Lucky AMA.png (895 KB, 870x2876)

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>>5410621
>>5410762
>OFFICIAL WORM WRANGLING PROMPTS
>All of these will require roll(s). Difficulty of these rolls may vary.
>Existing write-ins will be taken as votes for [3] unless changed.

>[1] OPERATION TRIED AND TRUE: You already did this once. Why fix what isn't broken? [Commune] with Annie, attempting to transmit vague positive associations about yourself. Try not to go feral. (Spend 1 ID.)
>[2] OPERATION SNOW WHITE: It's obvious to you that your nobility and natural goodheartedness makes you a friend to all innocent creatures of the forest, including large worms. Channel this as hard as possible until Annie and/or reality itself recognizes this.
>[3] OPERATION BAIT AND SWITCH: Go hunting. (You've never gone hunting before.) Ensnare some manner of large beast. Lure it over to Annie. Repeat if necessary until you're recognized as a friendly food source.
>[4] OPERATION CULT GS: Annie is a worm. You have god blood(??) from a Wyrm(?). These are essentially the same thing. Conduct a ritual (not a pagan one, in the name of God) to ensorcell Annie, enlisting Richard's help if required.
>[5] Write-in.

>>5410962
>[4] OPERATION CULT GS: Annie is a worm. You have god blood(??) from a Wyrm(?). These are essentially the same thing. Conduct a ritual (not a pagan one, in the name of God) to ensorcell Annie, enlisting Richard's help if required.
This seems like the most funny one.

>>5410962
>4
cult related, I feel bad about how we were to henry. the actual text was way angrier than I thought it would be

>>5410962
>[4] OPERATION CULT GS: Annie is a worm. You have god blood(??) from a Wyrm(?). These are essentially the same thing. Conduct a ritual (not a pagan one, in the name of God) to ensorcell Annie, enlisting Richard's help if required.

>>5410991
>>5411019
>>5411132
>Cult stuff is cool when I do it

Haha. Alright, I need dice. I'll add the modifiers manually (justification in spoilers). I'm looking for **3 3d100s.**

>Please roll me 3 2d100s to 1) succeed in the "ritual" and 2) stay safe and sane during it.
>An Enhanced Success on #1 will provide a retroactive bonus to #2. A Mitigated Success on #1 will provide a retroactive malus to #2.

Roll #1: 3 1d100s + 12 (+15 Walked The Spiral Road, +5 Recently Buried, +3 Thingtouched, -10 Rejected The Road, -1 Firewater Residue) vs. DC 75 (+25 Forces Beyond Your Understanding)
Roll #2: 3 1d100s + 20 (+10 Not Your First Rodeo, +10 Richard Supervision) vs. DC 75 (+25 Forces Beyond Your Understanding)

Spend ID for bonuses to Roll 1 or Roll 2? You are at 12/13 ID. (Richard will always offer advice; this designates metaphysical assistance.)
>[1] Spendy: write-in which rolls you want to boost (1 ID per roll)
>[2] No spendy


>>5410991
>This seems like the most funny one.
This is an objectively good reason to pick options as I often design them based on how funny they'd be to write

>>5411019
>the actual text was way angrier than I thought it would be
Yeah, sorry-- sometimes my updates go off in directions I didn't predict when writing options beforehand. I more-or-less felt that if Charlotte was going to spurn Henry (as was voted for), she'd have some pretty big feelings behind it. If it helps, you haven't locked off Henry or anything, his offer of welcome remains on the table

Bathic is having 4chan pass problems. You'll have to trust me on that, because obviously, Bathic can't post. I'll be posting in lieu of your regular QM for the next few days, at least.

Rolled 87 (1d100)

>>5411435
Spendy

>>5411451
That's 3 3d100s, not 3 1d100s.

Rolled 70, 33 = 103 (2d100)

>>5411460

Okay... here goes two more.
Still on for spending.

Rolled 46, 88, 13 = 147 (3d100)

>>5411435
Heh... check THIS out!

>[2] NO SPEND

Rolled 96, 26, 98 = 220 (3d100)

>>5411435
what's roll 3 for?

also no spendy

>>5411451
>>5411475
>>5411477
>>5411492

>99, 58, 108 vs. DC 75 -- Success
>90, 98, 46 vs. DC 75 -- Success
>33, 13, 98 vs. ??? -- ???
>No spendy

You're pretty good at making up weird magic stuff, turns out. Thank you to NotBathic for helping me out yesterday and apologies for the lack of update-- will update today and carry on as usual, since I miraculously got my 4chan Pass stuff worked out.

File: richard s5.jpg (70 KB, 500x333)

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>A good idea
>99, 58, 108 vs. DC 75 -- Success
>90, 98, 46 vs. DC 75 -- Success
>33, 13, 98 vs. ??? -- ???

You are somewhere in the Fen: somewhere where barnacles scale the scabby trees and the water's tinted greyish. You are tracking the characteristic vibrations of a 16-foot worm. You haven't yet decided where to go from there.

"What if," you say, "I trapped a big— an octopus, or something. I trapped it. Then I lured Annie out, and fed the octopus to her, and then she... was tamed? Since I'm the food-provider, you know, I'm the—"

«How do you propose to trap an octopus.»
«Assuming you did so, why do you believe this animal is intelligent enough to be 'tamed'.»
«You had to abdicate your higher functions to begin to interface with it. The few you had. And it was disastrous.»

Disastrous? It wasn't— it went fine. 100% positive outcome, except for Annie dying, but she didn't really so it doesn't count. Was he concerned for your safety?

«No.»

Okay, but you know he can lie as a snake, so that's not credible at all. "Fine," you say. "What if I unlocked my secret worm-taming ability, which has lain dormant in my very—"

«This is asinine.»
«I am embarrassed about you, Charlie. The sole reason I am not physically intervening is because I know you will fail miserably.»
«Then we will return to the matter at hand.»

A), you don't think snakes can get embarrassed. Can they? Maybe the really big ones, but Richard isn't really big, so. B), is he actually talking about the Crown? Like, actually? After everything?

«There is no matter more pressing.»

Um, the worm? Your best friend Annie? (Gil's your retainer, so he's not a best friend. It's different.) How is that not 100x more important than some stupid crown you might never see again? Even regular Richard understands this.

«I am regular Richard.»

No, he's worse Richard. Lobotomized Richard. And you're definitely doing the worm thing, so unless he plans to stop you or has any suggestions to make it not a disaster you're not sure why he's bothering to complain. It's just impotent. Does he want to help you unlock your secret worm-taming ability?

Richard flicks his tongue. «You do not have a secret worm-taming ability.»

Okay, but that's what he said about all the other secret abilities. Can he use his secret snake abilities to— you don't know, make your voice box worm-compatible?

«No.»

He can't or he won't?

«Worms do not have language.»

Tell that to Gil, who—

«He explicitly said that he did not converse with the worm.»
«This endeavor is fruitless. That is all there is to it. I will not allow you to risk your sanity for—»

(1/2)

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Okay! Okay, fine. What if you— you snatch Richard out of the air and dangle him above your face— what if you... you... did a ritual, or something. Not a pagan ritual. A good ritual, for God-fearing young ladies. Like the things your Aunt Ruby attempted and failed to drill into you. Then God could grant you the awesome magyckal powers necessary to tame Annie without risking too much.

And YES Richard you KNOW God is a big stupid snake or something but the concept still applies. Opinions?

«...»
«...You want to invoke the Progenitor, the Worldbearer, the Shield Against The Void...»
«...to be able to speak to a worm.»

To befriend a worm. So? Will he help?

Richard is silent for long enough that you sort of jostle him around, just to make sure he's still in there. He twists in your hand. «Stop that.»

Then he should tell you what he thinks!

«I am attempting to determine whether this would be sacreligious.»
«...As well as if it falls under my purview. This could very well qualify as relevant.»
«...»
«...Yes. This is relevant to the mission at hand. It may prove beneficial for you to establish a voluntary relationship, no matter how frivolous the reasons.»

So that's a— that's a yes? You peer into Richard's snakey eyes. He thinks this is a good idea?

«I would not call it that. But regardless.»
«I am not accustomed to conducting 'rituals' personally, but I will lend assistance in terms of theory.»

Great! A nice, proper, Godly ritual it is.

...So how do you go about this?

>You have already succeeded on your ritual rolls, so all [A] options below *will succeed* without lasting harm to your person. In this respect there's no 'optimal' option. This is therefore a pick for flavor and possible other effects down the line.

>[A1] INVOKE THE CLOSED SPIRAL. It cannibalizes itself. Drink of your own blood.
>[A2] INVOKE THE PRINCIPLE OF ADDITION. Allow Richard to operate upon you, conscious. Try to find transcendence in it.
>[A3] INVOKE THE WORLDBEARER. You are being tugged deep under the earth. What if you go willingly?
>[A4] INVOKE YOUR FATHER. Who should've known about this kind of thing, says Richard. Who never taught you, says Henry. You need teaching now, don't you?
>[A5] Write-in. Ideas can be broad or granular. Subject to veto.

>[B] After the ritual is completed and Annie is successfully recruited, you will have everybody in place for the expedition. Is there anything you would like to do before you meet Lucky and set off? (Optional. Write-in.)

>>5412571
>[A4] INVOKE YOUR FATHER. Who should've known about this kind of thing, says Richard. Who never taught you, says Henry. You need teaching now, don't you?

>>5412571
>[A4] INVOKE YOUR FATHER. Who should've known about this kind of thing, says Richard. Who never taught you, says Henry. You need teaching now, don't you?

we went with A2 in the past but how can we possibly pass up the DADDY ISSUES option

>>5412571
>>[A4] INVOKE YOUR FATHER. Who should've known about this kind of thing, says Richard. Who never taught you, says Henry. You need teaching now, don't you?

>>5412571
A4, because I think the snake will like it the least.

Richard snake taught us we should never give something without taking something else away.

Isn't he happy that we're learning from him? Feeling some paternal pride?

>>5412589
>>5412814
>>5412829
>>5413171
>A4

You got it. Writing.

>Daddy issues

How do you go about this? Maybe you could use some theorizing from Richard. Or, alternately— what the hell does he mean, he's not "accustomed" to conducting rituals "personally"? He told you and stupid Henry confirmed that he was conducting a— a ton of rituals. Personally. He ought to be an expert in—

«What are you talking about.»

Your father. Who is Richard.

«We have been over this, Charlotte. That is a hypothesis.»
«An <unconfirmable> one, given that I possess zero extant memories, nor any desire to possess them.»

Right, yes, you know. Because he's a stupid lobotomized snake and all that. (You slump down against the nearest tree.) But none of that changes the fact that he is your father, or whatever remains of him, and therefore he ought to possess some muscle memory or something. You can't erase that. Muscle memory, or— or— you don't know. He should be able to teach you this. He should want to teach you this. He's your father, for God's sake, he's— who else are you supposed to learn the arcane secrets of the Fawkins from? Henry? Some creepy distant family friend? It doesn't work like that. It's supposed to be a... a bonding experience.

«A bonding experience.»

Yeah. Where said arcane secrets are bequeathed from father to eldest daughter, ensuring the appropriate utilization of incredible magyckal potential, and that it won't all be forgotten and never mentioned by people who knew about it the whole time.

«It was never mentioned because it does not exist. You do not possess 'incredible magyckal potential.' You have inherited nothing. You are remarkable in nothing but pigheadedness.»
«Unfortunately, you have deluded yourself into believing otherwise, which has produced some minor effects consistent with the nature of semi-reality. You have latched onto these as 'evidence,' which fuels more delusion. It is therefore a pathetic self-perpetuating cycle. That is all there is to it.»

Forget it! (You throw a fistful of sand in Richard's direction.) You don't know why you bothered. You knew he was useless. He's always useless. The only Richard worth a damn— okay, a tiny sliver of a damn— is person Richard, because at least he hears you out!

«I heard you out. I then offered my assistance in the manner that is possible for me.»
«I do not understand what else you could possibly ask for.»

You know he doesn't understand. (You are lying nearly flat on the ground. Richard hangs in place above you.) Obviously he doesn't, because he's scaly and dead and his brain is the size of your little finger. You need person Richard here and now.

«No.»

(1/?????)

And you can make him be here. Easy. If you think about how he should be here: because you need him, because he's supposed to help, because it's his natural state, anyhow, his original state, and the snake is a hollow mockery. If you envision him standing above you. He can't stop you, no matter how much he bares his fangs and thrashes— you have done this too many times now, you are used to it, and there is a warp-pop out and in and he is there.

His sunglasses are still too dark. "Charlotte Fawkins."

"What?" you say, and sit up.

"I do not— indeed, I cannot— feel symptoms of veisalgia when I am a snake."

"Symptoms of what?" You pause. "Does that mean hungover?"

Richard folds his hands behind his back.

(You assume 'yes.') "Okay, well... should've thought of that before you got so drunk. I thought you could expel toxins from your body?"

"From this body," he says shortly.

"Did the— what? Did the snake get drunk?" God, do you really want an answer to that question? "Okay, whatever. Welcome to the world of having a normal-size brain. Now will you teach me the arcane secrets of—"

"No." His mouth is pinched together. "I was telling you the truth and nothing but it. I do not possess direct experience or knowledge of... of rituals. It is not in my department. Have you ever seen me conduct a ritual?"

"You do weird snake magyck," you accuse.

"I do not, and that is a 'no.' Now consider that we are together for the vast proportion of your waking hours. I sleep when you sleep. Therefore if I were conducting rituals..." He leaves the ending unspoken, and looks irritated when you don't finish the sentence. "...you would know, Charlotte. This is not exactly a skillset in wide demand. So why would you expect this of me?"

"Because..." You feel like you've explained everything, and he still doesn't understand. Maybe it wasn't a snake problem at all. Maybe it was just him. Just Richard. Who for all his sallow overweening smugness doesn't ever understand you or what you want or what you need from him, who can't comprehend that it's not about the ritual, it's— it's— you don't want to dwell on it. You need something he can't provide, you think.

"No," Richard says, not even bothering to hide the fear. He can feel it coming. "Charlie. Charlie. You don't comprehend what— the gravity of the—"

You father can provide it. And Richard can provide your father. Okay, so it's not literally your father— does it matter? You just need help, and if it means forcing Richard to playact you're okay with that. Last time you found it manipulative and disgusting, but that was last time. That was Richard doing it to you, to try and make you feel things. You're doing it to him, now, and you'll feel however the hell you want.

(2/???)

Richard's face is contorted badly. He is backing away. "This is an evil thing to do," he says. "A cruel thing to do, Charlie. An evil thing. I- I am my own person, you have to understand, I am not your father, you're not summoning him! You can't summon him. He's dead. It's an illusion. The only thing you're doing is writing over me, which—"

See? He doesn't understand that you know that. You knew that the first time he did it. You're not dumb. Sometimes, like now, you just need an illusion. A magic trick.

Besides, you're hardly doing anything at all. You're just looking at him and thinking: of the last time this happened, of Henry, of your father at the party, at your made-up stories of who he was before he died of illness. That's all. It's embarrassing how susceptible he is, honestly. "I'm not going to make it permanent," you say. "That'd be weird. I just need him to teach me the ritual, then—"

"Primr—" He beats his fist into his side. "You bitch! You are torturing me for a worm?!"

It's not about the worm. Well, maybe a little. But mostly not. You frown slightly. "It'll be really quick, I promise. Just a little dip. Would you hang on?"

You can see that he wants to call you more than a bitch. To do more than stand there castrated and fuming. He can't touch you, though, because he is more and more your father and your father didn't hate you and want you to die. Your father lov- loved you. Yeah. You can say that. He did. And so Richard, caught unprepared, has no option against you.

You thought you were prepared for it, but the truth is that however long all of this was percolating in the background (earlier than Henry— maybe since the communing) it kind of exploded out of you at random. And so when on one hand Richard's face melts and reconfigures itself, and on the other nothing about it changes at all, and then there's a different identical person standing there, and you know that person...

You refuse to describe the noise that came out of you. But it catches the person-who-is-not-Richard's attention, and he removes his sunglasses. His eyes are blue and lucid. "Charlie?"

It's possible you overestimated your capacity for coolheadedness. What kind of plan was this? Was it even a plan? This is your father. (Richard.) Your father. Your face is heating up.

"Are you alright?" He comes a little closer. He's still in Richard's clothes. (His clothes. He is Richard. That's not weird.) "Primrose?"

Say something. It's just Richard faking it. You making Richard fake it. Say something! "Y-es. Yes. Thanks. Are you alright?"

"Am I...?" He stops to think, then smells his own breath. "Ah. To be totally candid with you, primrose, I seem to have gotten stinking drunk— and here I thought I was getting too old for that. Ah well. Don't tell Ruby, will you? I don't want an earful while I have the mother of all headaches."

(3/???)

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His voice is different. Deeper, and no stupid fancy radio accent. "I— I won't tell."

Your father cracks a smile. "You're a good girl. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, alright? Now, what time is it? I probably ought to—"

"I need your help," you say, before you forget entirely. "With a— with a ritual."

"A ritual?" He furrows his brow. "Like in one of your books? You know your Aunt Ruby told you not to—"

"For the Wyrm."

He falters. "Shit."

"It's important," you press on. "Very, very important. So don't try and talk me out of it. I already know about all that kind of stuff, okay? I just need you to teach me."

"Charlie—" he says, and thinks better of it, and strides over and takes you by the shoulders. "Charlotte Frances, I- I don't know where you heard about any of this, but it's not for you. It's not good for you. There is nothing to gain and everything to lose. There is meaning in life to be found elsewhere. Do you understand? Who told you about this? Henry?"

"Uh," you say. "No. It's— it's not important."

"It's extremely important, Charlotte. I need to know so I can beat the tar out of them. It wasn't me, was it?" He sounds guilty. "Drunk?"

You don't know how to categorize it, actually. "Uh..."

"Oh, hell. Then Charlie— listen to me. Whatever I said, forget it. It's not a fun adventure. It's not like in your stories. There's a lot of suffering and a lot of bloodshed and there's no point in any of it. Please say you understand."

"I— no!" This isn't right at all. This is your father. Where are the arcane secrets? "No. No. I— I need to do this. I don't have a choice, alright? If I don't, someone will die. Richard will die." This is kind of true. A half-truth. "Please teach me. I don't want to be responsible for—"

You stare. Your father has doubled over. "Um, are you—?"

He's clutching his stomach. "Primrose, I'm dying."

"You—" Your throat seizes up. "You're what? No you're not."

"I am." He straightens and removes a hand: there is a stab wound in his stomach. The blood leaking from it is brazen. "See? But it's alright."

"No it's not?" you say.

"It is. It has to be this way. This is how things work out. This is the story, primrose." His eyes meet yours. "I'd like it if you helped me."

"Uh." He is pressing a knife into your hand. A knife with a tortoiseshell handle. "No, I can't— you don't want me to—"

"It's the ritual. Suffering and bloodshed, Charlie. Carving away. This is what you want." He gently folds your fingers around the knife's handle. "This is what you need to do. It's for the greater good."

"You want me to stab you," you say weakly.

(4/???)

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"I won't blame you for it. I love you too much." He's looking right in your eyes. "More than I can express... do I sound like a cliche? Am I embarrassing you? I know you're a grown woman, Charlie, you don't need your sappy old dad. You can tell me if I sound like a cliche."

"I don't care," you say honestly.

"All the better. Then please go ahead. I don't want to bleed out before you have a go."

He steps back and stands there, chin up. "I don't want to kill you," you say.

"Part of being an adult is doing things you don't want to do. It's for the ritual, Charlie. You can't blame yourself."

It's for the ritual. And it's not really your father. You're not stabbing your father. You're stabbing Richard, which is way more palatable. Can he even feel pain? Probably not. So it's fine. It's for the ritual.

You shut your eyes when you do it, though. There's a sharp intake of breath.

"Again," your father says.

This is worse. You don't know why, but it's worse. You have to run through the whole motivational thing again and tack on some positive thinking. You'd forgotten about positive thinking.

"Again, primrose."

You do it seven times in all, never opening your eyes. It is worse every time. You don't know if he's dead the final time or if you're done and eventually the suspense is bad enough to force you to look.

The blood is everywhere. It isn't human. Your father seems pained, but not stabbed-eight-times pained. These are all good things, none of which explain the way you feel. "Good," your father says. "Good job. You're a good girl, Charlie, thank you. Hey! Hey, it's okay. Come here." You are crying a little bit. He embraces you. "You did the right thing. This is how it's supposed to end for me, okay? This is the end. But not for you. You get to keep telling that story, all right? So go tell it. But you have to finish the ritual first."

You sniffle. "How?"

"Here." He stoops and retrieves a big glop of mud, made all yellow-shimmery with his blood mixing in with it. "I will anoint you. But I need you to swallow this."

"The blood mud," you say.

"Yes, primrose, the blood mud. You wanted to get yourself into this. It's holy."

You refuse to go into details about the blood mud. After much positive thinking it gets swallowed: meanwhile your father daubs your face and your neck with the rest of it. You feel much grosser but otherwise no different. "And then what?"

"And then I die." He hugs you. He kisses the top of your head.

You look away after that. You try not to think about what this means for Richard. (You do anyways. He's not real, right? So he can't actually die.) You know the moment when he fake-dies, though, because that is the moment you scream: the mud has turned to molten brass, and something is entering through your widened mouth and slicked throat; it coils heavily in your chest and sits there in anticipation.

(5/???)

Your father/Richard lies dead, dead, fake-dead on the ground in the mud. The knife is still in your hand. You drop it and it vanishes.

—

>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]

You are—

There is screaming. You don't know how you know this, because you don't know anything else, who or what or where you are— you are screaming. It's you doing it. Because the world is too large or you are too large and too tangled and soupy and imprecise and terrified— you are god-fucking-damn terrified on a seething primal level, in a way that loops in on itself, because you have the vaguest (soupy imprecise) notion that this is new— that you've never screamed. Or couldn't have, or didn't want to. Which is really fucking weird, because you don't feel— you feel lived-in. Your springs are poking through your cushions. If you rooted around in the dark recesses of your skull, you'd find pocket change and—

Do you have a skull? You have a throat, or at least an orifice, or there wouldn't be screaming. You're still screaming, in between gulping gasps for air. You don't know what else to do, and it feels necessary, in-your-bones necessary, not to mention a big fuck-you to— something. To not being able to scream. To there not being a 'you' to do the screaming. There sure is a you now, fully alive, able to feel confusion-terror, which all things considered ranks pretty low on your list of feelings. But it's something.

Goddamn, it really is something. It's not that you've been dead. You're fairly sure of this. It's not that you're someone else. You've been this before— you were made to be this, meant to be this, you are flash-flooded with relief that you're you, and this might account for some of the screaming, now that you're half-thinking about it. Confusion-terror-catharsis. What an awe-inspiring earth-shaking nose-bleeding thing to be able to conceptualize, much less split asunder by; what a miracle; what a privilege. To live. To feel weird and bad, but more importantly to feel anything but numb. And closed-in: like the shittiest tiniest darkest fucking hole you've ever been in, but you're in the fucking walls of it, too.

But no more. You're out of the fucking hole, you don't need to worry about the hole. Your screaming has petered out, leaving you mostly just gasping: gasping wetly, gasping... soupily. What the hell? Dwelling on it, you do feel mentally all there, mostly. (You're still catching up a little.) Physically...

Shit. Something's bad, physically. Wrong. Soupy. You impel yourself to move and slosh. Shit. What's accounted for? Limbs?...

...

(6/7? 8?)

...Okay, you're— you're scratching the accounting, because it did not start strong and you will go back to screaming. No catharsis this time. How about this: can you see? Got eyeballs somewhere in... there? Can you open them? Open them. Okay. Okay, you can see, kind of. Sort of. It's like there's a thick soapy film over everything. If those are electrical lights, you're looking at the ceiling, so you're lying down in some sense. So you can sit up. Sit up. (You slosh.) Sit the fuck up!

With a godawful splorching noise you wrench yourself into a sitting-ish position. You have a torso, you think. And a head. You feel head-shaped. You can work on the limbs later, as soon as—

"Wow," says the woman in front of you. "Not bad."

She has on a thin blue doctor mask and rubbery gloves. She is very, very familiar.

"I hear it can be a real shock to the system, the whole... I was buckled up for, you know, hours of that stuff. If it even worked. I'm assuming it did work, given the whole—" She gestures up and down you. "Can you speak?"

Can you? Where's your mouth? You were screaming out of something, but it's not immediately apparent what— the orifice must've sealed itself back over. Your face is masklike. You wobble.

"Stupid question. Hold tight." She slides out a scalpel and leans over the edge of the container separating you two. You lean back instinctively and flop back instead, but she just steps around to meet you and deftly slots the scalpel into the flesh ("flesh") of your face ("face"). It is painless. She drags it across and retreats. "Try it out."

You look suspiciously at the scalpel-woman but try it out anyhow. "I... I..."

It's like talking through five gallons of snot. You don't try further. "Oh, right," the woman says. "Not physically. Not until we get you cured. Try thinking it out loud."

Fucking Ellery, you think reflexively, and pause. This is the first name you've been able to produce— it's not your name, or the woman's name, but it's a name for sure. That's good. That's progress. "Fuck," you attempt louder, and revel at it coming out of your face-slit clear as day. "Fuck. What the fuck. What... the... fuck... is... this."

"You got it." The woman looks down. She clasps her gloved hands. "Sorry, I— sorry. It's a lot to... you're a person, huh."

This you're pretty sure of. "Ye-ah?"

"That I've been keeping in a..." She shuts one eye. "That's... well, you're out now, and— I can't let you leave yet, but at least you're not... er, were you suffering?"

Were you suffering? You were numb. "...No. What the fuck is— what am I?"

(7/8)

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"Have you looked?" says the woman, but you don't want to. You've been avoiding looking. Because you're not a fucking coward, though, you glance down and see a great vat brimming with marbly blue-white slime, and yourself: you're extruded out of this vat, a weird quivering slime-protuberance. You have no legs. It looks as though you're sitting in a bath.

Your resolve weakens.

>[-3 Grit: 7/15]

The woman senses this, because she interjects before you can rev up the screaming again. "...Yeah, it's hard when you don't have a direct blood sample. That's what it really latches onto, is the blood, the ephemeral stuff isn't nearly as— I should probably start at the beginning. You were in the snake."

"Shit," you say hoarsely, because it's true. The numbness. The dark hole.

"Yeah. I don't know where your original body is. I'm assuming it's wherever home is for you. So I had to— I'm having to improvise somewhat, sorry. You're made of goo. In the very early stages of it, actually, when we're done you'll be all—" She fumbles with the scalpel, pulls up her sleeve, and scoops a chunk out of her arm. She holds the chunk out to you: it's quivering and translucent and a pretty sky-blue. "You shouldn't be able to tell the difference. You'll be in effect human. Okay?"

You stare hollowly at the goo-woman. She sighs. "I have nothing to gain from lying to you, Madr— is that your name? Hold on." She slides her glove off and peers at something scribbled on the back of her hand. "Madri...gal. Fitz-something. Fitzsimmons?"

Fuck. "Fitzpatrick."

"Fitzpatrick. Okay, got it. Remembering that." She scratches her neck. "Do you by any chance go by 'Maddie'?"

Double-fuck. You tense up. "Not to most people."

"But to some people," she says. "Alright... Madrigal, let's—"

Okay. You've remembered.

You are Madrigal Fitzpatrick. Your real body is somewhere else. Your friends— well, your acquaintances and your ex— are somewhere else. Maybe dead. You are in a vat, you are made crudely of goo, and your kidnapper is staring down at you.

Wat do?

>You may select multiple.

>[1] Call your kidnapper rude names.
>[2] Call your kidnapper extremely rude names.
>[3] Ask where you are.
>[4] Ask what she plans to do with you.
>[5] Ask what she plans to do with Matches. The snake.
>[6] Ask what she did to Ellery and Charlotte and the other one.
>[7] Ask why she bothered extracting you at all.
>[8] Write-in.

>>5413866
I hate myself for voting A4, I hate the dice for giving us a success and I hate you, Bathic. Fuck you.

>>5413875
>[3] Ask where you are.
>[7] Ask why she bothered extracting you at all.
>[4] Ask what she plans to do with you.
>[5] Ask what she plans to do with Matches. The snake.
>[6] Ask what she did to Ellery and Charlotte and the other one.

>>5413875
Lol. It's a shame that we can only hurt Richard by turning him into someone we don't want to hurt.

Then killing him as our Dad. But hey, we got a worm now!

>>5413875
> Be icily polite to your kidnapper.
>[3] Ask where you are.
>[4] Ask what she plans to do with you.
This makes 7 redunant.
>[6] Ask what she did to Ellery and Charlotte and the other one.

>>5413875
>[3] Ask where you are.
>[4] Ask what she plans to do with you.
>[5] Ask what she plans to do with Matches. The snake.
>[6] Ask what she did to Ellery and Charlotte and the other one.
Oh jeez

>>5413875
wow that all got way darker and more miserable than I was prepared for

i even felt a little bad for richard of all people despite all the abuse he heaps on us

i wish we could have voted to not stab dad
backed out and tried something else

>2
>4
>5

>>5414704
I feel bad for Richard, but the snake can go fuck itself. How many times has Richard wiped our mind? Overwritten our personality? And then they have the gall to complain about it being evil when we do it to them, when we at least are trying to return him to someone they were a part of, someone the snake stole from us?

Anyways, we killed our dad and Richard is probably still a fucking snake so hurray, a little pain for him now and he doesn't have to worry about being turned back into our dad anymore.

Personally, I'm okay with it even if Richard does die. Because that means the snake dies too. Sure, it'll be inconvenient but I'm sure we can get another snake. Maybe the Madrigal snake, at least people won't be confused about that one maybe liking Charlie.

Heck, in a way this is even healthy. Dad's been dead a looong time, gotta fully move on from that and Richard being made from him was just delaying the healing.

>>5414710
>Dad's been dead a looong time, gotta fully move on from that and Richard being made from him was just delaying the healing.
we can live in denial forever

>>5414728
It's not denial if we reshape the world to how it should be.

As I last discussed back around your Thread 16 drug trip, I don't believe in permanent and far-reaching consequences that couldn't have been reasonably foreseen and/or didn't result from terrible rolls. Please take this as you will.

>>5414704
>2

>>5413889
>>5413910
>>5414098
>3

>>5413889
>>5413910
>>5414098
>>5414704
>4

>>5413889
>>5414098
>>5414704
>5

>>5413910
>>5414098
>>5413889
>6

>>5413889
>7

Called for [3], [4], [5], [6] and writing shortly.

>>5413889
>I hate myself for voting A4, I hate the dice for giving us a success and I hate you, Bathic. Fuck you.
Taking this as a compliment.

>>5413910
>Be icily polite to your kidnapper.
Madrigal runs hot. She can be polite, but in more of an aggressively chummy customer service way than in a passive-aggressive icy way.

>>5414704
>wow that all got way darker and more miserable than I was prepared for
Good! I think it's important to treat serious topics in a serious way. Redux can be funny (sometimes, I hope), but it's not a comedy.

>i wish we could have voted to not stab dad
But that was how it was supposed to go. How it went. How it will always. There are sound reasons for not allowing a choice which I can't reveal to you now, but which will come up some time in the future. I suspect you'll know it when you see it.

>>5414938
I would have thought she would be in too mich shock to be outright rude, more like backbiting sarcastically polite.

Don't want to get put back in the snake, after all.

>>5414938
> Did Richard influence our dad persona to make us stab him as revenge?

Not the first time we stabbed him, if I recall didn't we stab him in the memory of our house?

>>5414958
>I would have thought she would be in too mich shock to be outright rude, more like backbiting sarcastically polite.
I think "backbiting and sarcastic" is a reasonable description of where Madrigal would be at the moment (along with "extremely confused"). My quibble was more with the word 'icy,' which I think implies some deliberateness and remove she wouldn't have while backed into a corner.

>>5414960
>Did Richard influence our dad persona to make us stab him as revenge?
I can't tell you this, but I appreciate the theorizing.

>Not the first time we stabbed him, if I recall didn't we stab him in the memory of our house?
After a brief skim of Thread 8, you don't kill Martin (i.e. your father)-- you do fight him, but he "dies" because the memory-construct gets destabilized. You consider stabbing your mother/the goo snake, but don't go through with it. You may be thinking of the last time Richard let himself go full Martin back in Thread 12 (https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2020/4417979/#p4444995), or alternately as a real deep cut your Man In White dream in Thread 4 (https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2020/3985031/#p3994527).

>Gimme the rundown

"—get you cured. The sooner the better, honestly, I know this isn't very dignified..."

For having kidnapped you, your kidnapper is not very menacing. She's of average height and build and is wearing thick Ellerylike goggles. (Don't bring Ellery into everything.) Thick goggles. Thick yellow gloves. You could overpower her easily if you took her by surprise— she doesn't look like she's seen a fistfight in her life. Maybe could spell it, though. Damn, kidnapped by a poindexter... how fucking embarrassing. How lame. Too bad you've barely got arms to swing with, much less the Fitz, so your dreams of ambush are just about shot.

Besides, be logical. If you did knock your kidnapper out cold, what then? Where the hell would you go? She'd hunt you down and stick your sorry gelatinous ass straight back in the snake, and then you'd be fucked. Up said ass, if you will. So no: you are going to sit here, and you are going to be nicey-nice to the poindexter until she gives you the scoop and whatever ulterior motive she's got behind that mask. Because the kind of people who kidnap other people don't let them go for free.

"No?" you say. "Just a little bit. Well, good thing you're going to cure me of it, huh?"

"Of it? I mean..." She thinks. "Sort of? You're still going to be goo— I sincerely have no idea where your actual body is. Sorry. It's just going to be altering the consistency so you can support your own weight. You notice how you're fairly liquid?"

No shit. "Boy, have I."

"Right. This'll make it thicker and springier, so it behaves a little more like real flesh. That's all. Can you locomote?"

"What?"

"Walk. Or should I get the scooper?"

You knew that. "I knew that," you say. "And I don't need the fucking... scooper. I just..." You just need legs. You've had legs every day of your life except— however fucking long you've been wherever you are. (Your sense of time is nonexistent.) So it's easy to pretend, if you don't look down, that you have legs now too: that you are fully capable of wading over to the edge of the vat, hooking a leg over, and hopping down. And you do, and it works, except that you promptly wobble and fall forward onto the cold tile.

"Told you it can't hold its weight," your kidnapper says, not meanly. "It's uncured. Would've dunked you in the cured stuff, but I thought the additives could cause complications... anyway, I'll run and grab the tank. It's just on the other wall. Try not to dry out, okay?"

"The tank." "The additives." "Drying out." Why the fuck does she care if you dry out? Is it a ransom situation? You attempt to roll over: your eyes splorch out the back of your "head" instead. Whatever. "I'm worth more if I'm healthy? Makes sense."

(1/TBC)

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"What? No, I just think— have you ever seen a squashed slug in the hot sun? It looks and smells like that. It's a, 'scuze me, fucked up way to go, especially given I just extracted you— curing helps with water retention too, by the way. You still need some full immersion so you have the water, but it beats being carted around in a tank— speaking of."

"Water retention." "Full immersion." Where did this woman pick up the 'Maddie' from? Because you have a terrible, terrible feeling about that, but you don't intend to go into it now. You have enough to grapple with as is.

She leaves. You wait ignominiously on the floor for a minute or two until she returns, scrapes you up, and dumps you into the tank.

It's blurry after that. In retrospect you think the goo reacted with the water in the tank, maybe diffusing in it— to you it feels like deep relaxation then shallow sleep. If you'd known about it, you would've put in some kind of effort: asleep with your kidnapper? Who's wheeling you god-knows-where to do god-knows-what? You didn't know, so you doze even as fine-ground chit (among other mystery powders) is swirled into you, as the unincorporated water is drained off the top, and even as you're lifted and poured into the open metal mold. This, also in retrospect, was wholly for the best: if you knew your kidnapper were locking you into a close, dark, dense, hot prison, you would've done or said something stupid. But you didn't and you couldn't and your kidnapper watches closely as the steam billows out and unfathomable changes happen in you, and when the mold swings open you become aware again.

You don't scream. (Good on you.) You are confused and don't want to show confusion— would've liked to not show weakness in general, but that hope died with the first round of screaming. So instead you step out of the mold, cracking your knuckles, cracking your wrist, looking nonchalant so you can feel the same. You're doing great. You're doing normal. You have a stable body now somehow, which you're not going to ask questions about— not going to ask why it's cloudy blue, why it's someone else's (the fingers are too long, the wrists too dainty), why you're nude— not even regular nude, which you could chalk up to your kidnapper being a perv. Weird, inhuman, doll-like nude. And your smooth blue tits are too small.

You are not going to fucking ask about these things, because they're not relevant. Freaky, yes, distracting, yes, but you are a grown-ass woman and you're capable of sticking to your priorities. Meaning: scraping for as much info as she'll stupidly give you.

"Feel better?" your kidnapper says. "It's just the stock female mold, sorry. If I had your blood you wouldn't have to go through all this crap, but I still think— it should still adapt to your koss. May take a few days, though. Skin color should come in first, if I remember—"

(2/TBC)

'Koss?' Whatever. You don't give a shit. You haven't turned on the charm offensive yet— it's kind of hard when you're semi-solid, okay— but this kind of yammering on is a phenomenal sign. Means she's pent-up for someone to talk to: surprisingly common in shady types, and always advantageous for you. Especially if they start thinking you're friends. "That's fascinating," you say. "You know, I— I don't think I got your name."

She pauses. "I'm sure you did earlier, but... well, I don't know how much you remember. It's Pat."

"Pat." Easy to remember. Actually, now that you— shit. "From that— that fucked-up factory place?"

Her expression is hard to discern behind the mask and goggles, but her voice betrays some annoyance. (You should slow your roll.) "Namway? Yes. Though I don't know how much is intact of it."

What? Did— you remember, distantly, a white room and an evil ghost in Charlotte's body. "Wow, that sucks. Sorry about that. That's a— that's a legitimate profession, though. Wow. Being a goo... studier. Feels like most kidnappers these days are bums, but shit, I mean— what do you need me for? The ol' goo biz not making enough dosh for you?"

"I didn't have much of a choice." She laces her fingers. "I needed a snake by a deadline. You were a snake. And... unconscious, I guess, or in shock, and I didn't seriously believe a person could or would be in there, and I took you. And then my experiments kept fucking up, excuse me, because a person was in there. And now you're here. That's about the long and short of it."

This is a new one. "You— you accidentally goddamn kidnapped me. You thought I was a normal snake, and you accidentally—"

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Yeah. So— look. This isn't an ideal situation for either of us, alright? You don't want to be kidnapped, I don't want to have kidnapped you. So—"

"You're going to release me," you say.

"I can't. No offense, but if I let you go then you're going to round up your buddies, bring them back here, and shoot me in the head." She sighs. "I need you here until I wrap up with the snake, then I'll pack up and let you go. In the meantime, I can provide as much quality of life makes sense... I didn't sign up to be a prison guard, alright? I don't want to make this a prison."

>[1] Write-in? (Optional.)
I have been pulling some obscenely late nights recently and this is no exception. Stopping here since there's a big chunk of update left and I don't want to be up until 6 AM, will continue with the other prompts tomorrow.

>>5415071
>”You know, if she blindfolds you and drops you off near a location that you give her, you won’t be able to lead your crew of murderous buddies back here.”

>>5415071
>>5415080
This, but add in that they're probably hunting her down *anyways*. You have contacts, friends, who are the kind of people who deal with snakes and some of them are rough people - this wouldn't be their first time dealong with a kidnapping.

Letting Maddie go now means they won't have as much reason to to look for Pat. You don't care about the snake and would rather never see it again in fact. Pat DID get you out of it, in fact she did you a favor there so technically you could be even.

>>5415080
>>5415416
Sensible arguments. Continuing to write.

File: pat - @geeswest.jpg (2.31 MB, 2183x2817)

2.31 MB JPG

>Continued

"You have a real bleeding heart," you drawl, after a short pause. "Or, get this— you could knock me out and dump me in the Fen? Blindfolded, if you're feeling twitchy. I don't know where the hell I am, so if you don't let me find out I can't take my pals here or anywhere."

"The goo's traceable if you know what you're doing." She rubs her nose through her mask. "I see your point, but I can't risk it. I—"

"Look, Pat, it's like you said— we're on the same page here. We're reasonable people, right? We're honest. So when I say I'm not going to sic my pals on you..." You lean against a mold, your back squishing unpleasantly. "...I'm telling the fucking truth. Why the hell would I? It was an accident, you've done me a solid, you—"

You were going to say she hasn't been torturing you, but it occurs to you that you don't really know that. Your memories of the past days(?) aren't gone, exactly, but they're weirdly impenetrable. Like they're written in a different hand. "—you... I don't give a shit about whatever enterprise you've got set up here. That's it." You snap your fingers. "Do you know what my day job is?"

"Heard your name a bunch. He never got around to the job."

You're not unpacking that 'he.' Not now. "Okay, well, I'm a broker. I broker sketchy shit between shady people. So are you doing sketchy shit? Probably. Are you a shady person? You kidnapped me. Do I care...?" You shrug. "If you let me go, I sure won't. If you keep me here, I might fucking start. You know? If you release me after a month, I might start bitching to my shady dangerous friends about being trapped in the freak factory for a goddamn month. Or a year. Or any length of time, really, if you catch my—"

>[Pat didn't like that.]

"I was thinking a week." Her tone has hardened. "I have deadlines to hit, Madrigal. If I dragged it out for a year I'd be dead. If I dragged it out for a month I'd probably be dead. I don't have any more room for error, which is also why I need you here. As a control."

You don't know what this means, but you can take a wild stab at it. "So you are going to fucking experiment on me?"

"How do you define 'experiment'? I don't know how you've affected the snake. I don't know if I got all of you out of the snake. If I let you run off and I wind up needing you for something, I'm dead. That's how it is." She raises her goggles and pinches her eyes. "We're not in a good situation. I'm sorry. But I can't let you leave before I finish."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Your buddies aren't finding you here, anyway," she says like an afterthought. "Not without sourcing the goo. We're not in reality."

(1/3?)

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"What?" you say, but you half-know. Shit. Shit. Charlotte and her— her insane dream shit, and her incomprehensible explanations, and the snake and the- the- what the fuck is it? The mansion. Or whatever. What the fuck happened in the mansion? There was Charlotte, and some girl with a fucked-up face, and a bug man, and some random other woman, and Ellery. You remember Ellery, mostly. Wanting to throttle the fucking life out of him, more than that. Did you? (Shit.) There was the store too, for some reason, you were working the store... Charlotte was at the store. There were snakes in the storeroom. And ice, and— and all of this is horseshit, isn't it? No fucking way you were house-sized. That's horseshit. Might as well say a dream really happened.

The problem is, you can't remember anything between then and now. You were house-sized, your fake memories tell you, and then you guess you weren't, because you got kidnapped? This woman kidnapped you? But she wasn't in the mansion: you would've remembered the mask and shit. And now you're in her mansion? It makes no sense. "Yeah," you say. Coolly. Like you understand everything. "We're in your- mansion. No shit."

She cocks her head. "My manse?"

"Is that not the exact same thing? That sounds like the same thing." These people. "We're in your mansion, in dreamland. Cool. So where did Ellery and everybody go?"

"I shot Ellery."

No she fucking didn't. She shot him? Ellery? She didn't shoot— you're the one with the license to do that. You get to. This bitch doesn't— if she's his new ex you'll just go ahead and shoot yourself, but— no way. No fucking way. "You—"

"What? He's fine. He comes back from everything." She does a sarcastic little finger waggle. "Like the sun. But yeah. Shot him, had to shoot the demon thing— that one's not my fault. Charlotte was being a real bitch."

You give yourself a second, so you don't say something you'll regret. "...And you shot Charlotte?"

"Nope. Probably should've, but..." She tilts her head back. "Nah. Just Ellery and the demon, neither of which are real, so who gives a damn? It's not even collateral damage if there's no damage."

"Ellery's real," you say uncomfortably.

She chuckles dryly. "Sure. Anyhow. Do you want clothes? I see this stock body all the time, so it means nothing whether you do or don't, but I also have a couple jumpsuits gathering dust in that size."

You'd stopped noticing: maybe because you don't feel cold, maybe because this is the first Pat said anything. Maybe because it's so blatantly fake (you're fucking blue) that it hasn't registered as nude, really. Now that she brings it up, though, you have no choice— what are you, an exhibitionist? A fucking streaker? "Yeah, uh, sure, I'll go in for a jumpsuit. What's the color options?"

"Yellow. Sorry."

(2/3)

Well, hopefully you'll have snagged a change of clothes before you escape. Because that's the plan, isn't it? You're not getting imprisoned in some dream mansion by the bitch who shot Ellery, even for a week or a day or a fucking hour. You can do better than that.

Too bad you're unarmed, and unequipped, and uninformed, and you don't know where the exit is (or could be, in a dream mansion). But you're not stupid, either, you've got a lot of skills, and if you're careful about it you're pitch positive you can lie or wheedle or steal or maim your way out of this shithole. It may take a little bit of effort, that's all.

And look. This is a great place to start. Pat's telling you right now that she doesn't have the jumpsuit with her (way to go, genius)— she has to grab it from storage. And she'll talk about places you can go later, but right now she's locking you in the curing room. Alone. Up to your own devices.

Honestly, you're a little excited about all this.

>It is currently NIGHT, DAY 1.
>Your inventory consists of NOTHING.
>Your body's consistency is AVERAGE.
>Pat's trust in you is SLIGHTLY DISTRUSTFUL.

Available objects to INSPECT in the CURING ROOM: stock female mold (used), stock male mold, curing machine, big red button, wheeled water tank, ceiling pipes, floor drain, door (locked)

>[1] INSPECT
>>[A] something. (What? Write-in.)
>>[B] yourself: try to learn something about the way this unfamiliar body functions. It'll be good to know.
>[2] RUMINATE
>>[A] on what you're trying to accomplish.
>>[B] on your future steps.
>>[C] on something else? (Write-in.)
>[3] ENTER OTHER COMMAND. (Write-in.)

As you may have guessed, I'm going to be trying out a gamier format with Madrigal's POV. This is likely to include shorter, more frequent updates. Charlotte's POV will be business as usual in both format and length.

>>5416004
>[3] GENUFLECT
>[1] INSPECT floor drain. Can we squish our goo body through?

>>5416004
>3
Jumping jacks

>1
ceiling pipes - can we ooze out through them
same for floor drain
might as well try the door too

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>>5416026
>>5416231
>GENUFLECT
>JUMPING JACKS
To get yourself ready for the shit ahead of you, you PERFORM some DEEP STRETCHES. It doesn't feel as good as you would've liked it to, but you guess you don't have muscles or knots in them. Weird. Jumping jacks are equally unsatisfying but far more difficult, like these legs aren't built for jumping.

You discover that you are HIGHLY FLEXIBLE, able to contort yourself in unusual ways-- though not any more than a human contortionist could. Having never been very flexible before, you find this PRETTY COOL.

>>5416026
>INSPECT floor drain
Working on a hunch, you INSPECT the floor drain-- you are, after all, standing right over it. It's small, round, and circular, like most drains are, and perforated with holes, like all drains are. It is also crusted over with a clearish substance, probably goo.

You attempt to push a finger through one of the tiny drain holes. It squishes against it, but doesn't go all the way through-- after curing, the goo body is too sturdy. You suspect you have to be WAY MORE GOOPY to slide through a drain.

>>5416231
>INSPECT pipes
The bundle of pipes on the ceiling are clear, allowing you to see what's inside them. One is transparent: maybe water. The others are varying shades of opaque blue: probably goo. Most run from one side of the ceiling to the other, but one of the goo pipes appears to hook up to the CURING MACHINE.

If you could find a way to get into the pipes, you could probably get inside-- but just like the drain, you'd have to be WAY MORE GOOPY to fit.

>INSPECT door
Well, it's a door. Made of metal. There's a handle on it with a keyhole, and when you jiggle it (can't hurt to try) it's locked. Thinking back to watching Pat leave, you don't recall seeing her with a key-- she did pull her glove off, though. Weird.

>You suspect you have ONE SET OF COMMANDS left before Pat returns with the jumpsuit.

>[1] ENTER COMMANDS. (Write-in.)

>>5416385
lets go with
>inspect curing machine
for maybe a way to reverse curing
or become super cured

>>5416385
>>5416429
+1 to this. That or enter
>xyzzy

>>5416385
>[3] GENUFLECT
>[1] INSPECT BIG RED BUTTON

File: curing machine (along the(...).jpg (25 KB, 520x400)

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>>5416429
>INSPECT curing machine
The CURING MACHINE is the intimidating contraption taking up the bulk of the CURING ROOM. While your MECHANICAL KNOWLEDGE is basic, the functionality appears relatively simple: it injects MOLDS with UNCURED GOO, clamps down on them, and heats them to extreme temperatures until the consistency changes. The only MOLDS available to you right now are the male and female molds, but you see no reason why it wouldn't work for other types.

While you could re-enter the CURING MACHINE, it is DARK and CRAMPED inside, and you have MODERATE CLAUSTROPHOBIA. You would have to SPEND GRIT to do so. (You are at 8/15 Grit.) You also don't know what getting FURTHER CURED (if such a thing exists) would do to you.

You see no way for the CURING MACHINE to reverse the curing process. You guess it only works in one direction.

>>5416472
>SPEAK "xyzzy"
You don't know what this word is. Sounds like some gullshit. Like Ellery trying to spell 'scissors.'

You say it out loud, just in case, since you are in a dream mansion. Nothing happens.

>>5416484
>GENUFLECT
You've already done your stretches. You think you're good.

>INSPECT big red button
On the CURING MACHINE's flank is a panel of switches, dials, lights, and buttons. The largest switch is labeled 'on/off,' and is set to 'off.' The dial is set to the far left. None of the buttons are labeled, including the BIG RED BUTTON, but it is big and it is red.

>[1] USE the BIG RED BUTTON.
>[2] ENTER the CURING MACHINE. (Spend Grit.)
>[3] WAIT for Pat's return.
>[4] Do some other thing, or combination of things? (Write-in.)

>>5416518
>[3] WAIT for Pat's return.

behind the door, where we can ambush her

>>5416524

You RUMINATE on ambushing Pat. While potentially EMOTIONALLY SATISFYING, you are unarmed and do not fully understand the strengths and weaknesses of this goo body-- or, for that matter, of Pat. You find it UNLIKELY that you'd be able to kill her: you would also feel SOMEWHAT GUILTY about doing so, even if she did shoot Ellery. Meanwhile, if you KNOCKED HER OUT, you'd have to escape as fast as possible: if she caught you, you certainly wouldn't be allowed to wander around semi-freely anymore. Pat would be WAY TOO DISTRUSTFUL.

As you are a logical-minded person, you conclude that now is probably TOO EARLY to ambush Pat. You could, however, "ACCIDENTALLY" STARTLE her by hiding behind the door, potentially learning about her reaction to threats. You could also spend some time INSPECTING YOURSELF to learn more about your capabilities.

>[1] ENTER COMMANDS.

>>5416518
>GENUFLECT
>RUMINATE on what you're trying to accomplish.

>>5416555
damn, jumping jacks convinced us our physical condition was no good for ambushing huh

yeah uh accidently startle her for now
we can do pushups and other self assessment later

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>>5416596

>GENUFLECT
You think you're just gonna ignore commands to do this from now on.

>RUMINATE on what you're trying to accomplish.
You stop looking into the CURING MACHINE, since it's making you a tad nauseous. Having thought through and discarded the whole 'ambush' idea, you find yourself at a little bit of a loss for what your immediate next steps are.

Your primary goal at the moment is to ESCAPE Pat's dream mansion factory thing, or whatever the fuck she called it. Her MANSE. Having only seen two rooms of it so far (and one only barely), you find it unlikely you're ready to do so yet.

Instead, you need to GATHER INFORMATION and ITEMS to aid your escape. You may be able to do this by thoroughly exploring the rooms Pat lets you access, though unless she's DUMBER THAN SHE LOOKS she'll have locked you out of anywhere important. Therefore, once you have your bearings, you should probably figure out how to BREAK INTO anywhere you can.

You don't necessarily have to do this by BRUTE FORCE or even SUBTERFUGE. Despite your PRICKLY EXTERIOR, you have an extensive history of CHARMING AND BEFRIENDING shady people for personal gain. If you can figure out what makes Pat tick, you can probably WIN HER TRUST and encourage her to give you more and more access and freedom. You'd need to be careful not to get caught sneaking around, though, or all your progress will be ruined.

Since you're presently locked in a single room with not much in it, you get the feeling you can't do very much right now. Kind of like it's just an INTRODUCTORY AREA. When Pat returns (as she will do very soon), then you'll really be able to get cooking.


>>5416743

>"ACCIDENTALLY" STARTLE Pat
You take a moment to break yourself from the bizarre INVESTIGATORY MINDSET you have found yourself in. Fuck! You're blaming this one on Charlotte: she stuck you in a goddamn snake, she brought you to Notrealland, and now her dumbfuck detective gullshit is infecting you like the goddamn common cold. Thank god she isn't here right now— you can only imagine the trials of patience that'd ensue.

Anyhow, you're done looking at holes in the ground. You're swearing it off. And an ambush— despite it being more your style— is not in the cards: not when you don't have the Fitz on you, and certainly not when you can't do a fucking jumping jack. So now what? Sit and wait? Stick your arm into the curing machine and see what happens? You're leaning toward being unable to feel temperature (the room looks like it should be clammy as hell, but you sense nothing), but if you're wrong you'd rather not get melted alive.

(1/4?)

So then what? You still— you will admit it, you still like the ambush idea. Conceptually. It'd just be a dumbass move, since Pat would— hmm. She couldn't get mad if it were just a prank, right? Or a joke. Or an 'accident.' Give her a little scare as revenge for Ellery, get off with enough plausible deniability to walk free. Perfect.

And you already have the ideal place in mind for it. If you hid behind or inside the curing machine, it'd be obviously a set-up. She'd just be pissed. But if you make her think she fucked up—

You sidle up next to the door and lean casually there. If you pressed your ear against it, you're sure you could hear Pat's advancing foot steps— you've got nowhere to be, though, and are content to bide your time. It only takes a couple more minutes before the door handle rattles and clicks and Pat swings the solid metal door directly into your face.

You'd been expecting this, but still have to stifle a "Shit!": it's a heavy-ass door, and you'd have blooming bruises and a killer headache if you had flesh and a skull. Instead, you're slammed backwards into the wall and ooze out of place.

"Madrigal?" Pat says. (Your eyes must've oozed through the doorjamb, because you can see her okay.) "...Are you still in here? Don't tell me you..." She's scanning the room. "Shit. I thought I locked..."

You make a muffled noise. She pivots on her heel, her eyes narrow, but apparently doesn't see you: stymied, she tears off her right glove and does something. You can't tell what it is, whether her hand ripples or gapes, whether the gun comes out of her palm or is made from it or falls inexplicably out of her sleeve, but in a matter of seconds she's holding a shiny pistol. She flicks the safety off.

"I recommend you come out now," she says. "What were you thinking? That you were going to fool me just like that? I'd leave and leave the door wide open? You'd have the run of the place?"

Sometimes the best thing to do is to let the other person talk it all out.

"Well, newsflash." She peers into the female mold, pistol-first, then shoves the male one open with her foot. "I'm not that stupid and you're not that smart. I mean, what a bonehead move. Taking my open hand and spitting on it? Planning to stab me in the back, Madrigal? Lots of people try that."

She pays the water tank a cursory glance before sticking her head into the curing machine. Her voice echoes. "Charlotte tried that. You know Charlotte, right? Do you want to guess where that got her? I offered her so many fucking chances, too, Madrigal. That's all I ever do. Offer 'chances'. Give 'benefits of the doubt'. And all they do— all you do— is stab me in the godsdamned back."

(2/4?)

You're not in the curing machine, or behind it, or atop it. Pat glowers up at the pipes. "Alright, look. I'd say it's not personal, but it actually is, Madrigal. Because all I ever try to do is be DECENT, and you are the latest godsdamn person to take advantage of that. I know you're up there. If you come down now, I'll shoot you quick. If you don't—"

This'd be all highly comedic if it wasn't for the genuine rage rolling off her. Now might be a good time to intervene. You cough, or make a squelched-sounding cough-noise, and now Pat pinpoints the source: she wheels around, pistol outstretched, and stares at the door. Stares, maybe, at the bits of you dribbling from the door.

"Madrigal?" she says.

You make another noise, and here she comes— she swings the door shut and stares at you spattered over its interior. You stare back.

She lowers the pistol. "...You were there the whole time?"

"You opened the door on me," you say, though it comes out a little mangled. "So yeah."

"..." The pistol melts back into her hand. She lifts the goggles and rubs her entire face. (You attempt to peel yourself off the door.) "...Gods."

"I've heard most of it before," you say encouragingly. (Many times. Feels like most jobs are 5 minutes transacting, 40 hearing out resentments.) "Shit sucks."

Pat gestures meaninglessly. "I... yeah. Um, forget about it. Don't stand next to doors next time. You'll knit back into shape since you're cured... this actually might accelerate the koss-shift. That'd be interesting. Um, I did— can you stand?"

You're a little flatter than you used to be. You wobble severely.

"That's okay, it's temporary... uh, here." She picks up her dropped glove, paces over to the water tank, and fills it like a balloon. She brings it back over. "Absorb this."

"Absorb...?" She splashes it underhand onto your feet and legs, which swell almost instantly. "Oh, fuck. What?"

"Goo has a lot of fascinating properties." She steps back. "I brought the jumpsuit, but maybe we better get you situated first... give some time for you to get back into shape naturally. Too much water bloat is bad for you. Okay? I've prepared a little area for you in the lobby... it's not very homey, sorry. I'm not really set up for..."

"Hostages," you provide.

"...Guests." Pat slides her goggles back on. "Walk with me, would you?"

Why not. Your walking still isn't great— your center of gravity is weird— but you get along tolerably well, and Pat is hasty to help out when you teeter. (You suspect she has something to prove.) You are led through a long, sterile-looking corridor, all off-white walls and linoleum floor and tersely-labeled doors. You make note of the ones you spot: "LESTER STORAGE," "LOOMERY," "COURTYARD," "QUALITY CONTROL," "VATS." A stairwell is "LAB FLOOR/CATWALK."

(3/4)

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The corridor bends sharply, the lighting warms, and you swiftly find yourself in a strange beige room. In contrast to the hallway, the floor is thinly carpeted, while the walls are hung with (kind of shit) abstract art. There are several couches, one long low table, a few sad potted plants, and a... reception desk? It's unstaffed. There's also a big water tank parked in the middle of the floor: the carpet is stained around it. A stepstool lies next to it.

Pat sounds a little uncomfortable. "We're here. Sorry, it's... it just looks like this. Didn't pick it, don't have enough time to..."

"What's with the tank?" you say.

"Oh. Oh, that's where you sleep."

"No I fucking don't," you say. "Do I look like a fucking fish? There's couches—"

"You need hydration. Goo isn't built for long stretches in air." She rubs her mask. "From personal experience, I guarantee it'll be more comfortable than a couch. Or a bed, for that matter. Also speaking of, I'm going to be retiring shortly, then I'll be out and about for most of the day. Lester Six will keep an eye on you, so don't try anything— I'll tell him to let you in the gift shop and the courtyard so you don't go stir-crazy. I'll be back in the evening to run some tests... do you want anything?"

"What?"

"To do, or..." She looks uncomfortable. "I don't want this to feel horrible for you. Do you have any hobbies, or—?"

>*Do* you have hobbies?
>[A1] ...Not really? Any time you're not on the job, you're dealing with camp shit, and vice versa. Hobbies are for people with no work ethic.
>[A2] ...Does Game Night count? You have to set it up and run it by yourself, and it's only twice a month (fuck, you're late!), but you do enjoy kicking Monty's ass in blackjack. (And Monty kicking your ass in poker.)
>[A3] Well, you do, actually. You just don't talk about it very much. (What's the hobby? Write-in. Subject to veto.)

>Do you have questions before Pat retires to her chambers? OPTIONAL. [Pat may be unwilling to answer certain things until she TRUSTS you enough.]
>[B1] Um, who is Lester Six? (...You thought Richard exploded Lester?)
>[B2] Why does her dream mansion have a gift shop?
>[B3] What the hell is "koss"?
>[B4] Is she really going to lock *all* those other doors?
>[B5] Does she want to tell you a fun fact about goo?
>[B6] Write-in.

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>Forgot the image I spent [redacted] amount of time drawing
FML

>>5417178
>[A2] ...Does Game Night count? You have to set it up and run it by yourself, and it's only twice a month (fuck, you're late!), but you do enjoy kicking Monty's ass in blackjack. (And Monty kicking your ass in poker.)

>[B1] Um, who is Lester Six? (...You thought Richard exploded Lester?)
>[B2] Why does her dream mansion have a gift shop?
>[B3] What the hell is "koss"?

>>5417178
>Also [6] Ask why Pat is in a goo body too, because we don't see any advantages compared to a normal body right now.

Before I go to bed, I'd also like to note that my RL schedule this week is hectic, so it's possible I'll have to skip a regular-length update or two in the interest of preserving my grades. Things should ease up somewhat Friday. Thank you for your understanding in advance.

>>5417178
>A2
gambling yes

>B1, 2, 3, 5

>>5417178
A2

> Who is putting the squeeze on her so bad for a snake?
> if they can turn people into snakes like you were, why didn't they just pay someone to do that instead?
> What's she going to do after all this snake business

Not a question, but

> Comisserate with her over how much of a bitch Charlotte is.

>>5418315
>>5417178
Also maybe try to lead her to venting about getting stabbed in the back. Sounds like she needs to talk and apparently Maddie has a lot of experience with this sort of thing.

>>5417263
>>5417266
>>5417493
>>5418315
>>5418316
>B1, B2, B3, write-ins
Alright. I'm beginning on the late side due to the aforementioned hectic schedule, and you guys have asked a lot of questions, so it's a toss-up whether I'll make it to a good stopping point. We'll see what happens. Writing.

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tomorrow

>RE-ACTIVATE inquisitory mindset

"I don't fucking know," you say. (You've trodden over to a couch and sat down. You refuse to touch the water tank before you have to.) "...I play cards? Sometimes?"

"With other people?" She sees your look. "Uh, dumb question. I... don't know if that's going to be feasible... like I said, I don't get a lot of guests, and I don't know if Lester 6 is capable of—"

That name again. "I thought he got exploded."

"What?" (Shit.) "...No, he's definitely not... are you talking about a different Lester?"

Shit. There's multiple? "Yeah, obviously. So Lester #6 is nonexploded? Good for him, glad to hear it. Which one is he again? He's the—"

"You really don't remember anything, huh. He's the..." Pat looks sideways. "I don't know how to... he's technically my boss. My boss, in the spirit of let's say intellectual inquiry, has over the years commissioned 14 goo-duplicates of himself— I think it's 14. I know of 14. Barring the ones lost in accidents, none of them have been decommissioned or tampered with, because Lester doesn't— didn't— doesn't like to see them tampered with."

Maybe it'd be better if Charlotte were here. So she could lightning-rod all this dumb shit for you. You close one eye. "So there's 14 weird goo copies of your boss running around?"

"No, some of them got..." She waves her hand. "...exploded. Or fell in a tank, or an intern pushed them onto the belt, or whatever. And beyond those, they're not really— the fidelity in the older models is pretty poor, since we didn't know what we were doing. It got a lot better. Unfortunately..."

"Six of 14 isn't great," you observe.

"...the older ones were a liability in the facility, and I wasn't allowed to melt them back down, so I transferred them here. Six is the best of the bunch, but he's still not all, uh, there."

"Shit," you say. "And you can't run and grab the newer ones, or—?"

"They got exploded." She sounds bitter. "With the facility, last I checked. Or haven't you heard?"

You assume this is Charlotte's fault. Or Richard's. Same thing. "No, I— sure. That's fair."

"So anyway... he'll be supervising. While he's supervising, Madrigal, I need you to do one very basic thing, and that is to not tell him he's not Lester." She pauses to make sure you're listening. "I know he's not Lester. You'll know he isn't Lester. But he doesn't know. He got the blood shot, he developed the koss, and now he's dead-set on it. Got it? As much as I'm sure you're dead-set that you're Madrigal. So if you try to argue it even a little, he is going to lose it, and he makes a mess when he loses it. Which I have to clean up. So if I come back and find a giant mess..."

She doesn't have to finish. "Don't tell him." (Before it's convenient for you, at least.) "Got it. Am I supposed to know what a koss is?"

(1/3? 4?)

"Oh! Oh, damn." She collapses down on a couch perpendicular from yours and tosses her goggles down on the low table. She rubs her forehead. "Sorry, I'm used to a particular crowd of— it's not 'koss,' it's cee-oh-ess. 'C.O.S.' Conceptualization-of-self."

You just look at her.

"...Which is to say, uh..." She flexes her fingers. "Well, I'm not sure. What's your experience with metaphysics?"

What is your experience? You've heard more about it than you ever wanted to. You've retained nothing. You're not keen on hearing any more, though these days it doesn't seem you have a choice. "Zilch."

"Then—" She stops. "You were inside a snake."

"Do you think I fucking did that to myself? Blame Charlotte. And her... ghost magic." Or whatever. "Don't ask me questions about the ghost magic, by the way. I don't know what the fuck's going on with that."

From the silence, Pat is having to rejigger some of her planned questions. "So it's her fault," she says finally. "This situation. Is her fault."

"Well, I assume she didn't—" Did Charlotte mean to get you kidnapped? No, you'd thought, because she's not capable of lying that long to your face— but can you rule it out? With her? You don't know what drives her. "I don't know, I guess? Sure. I thought you were kind of the one who kidnapped me, but—"

"I wanted a snake."

"Tell that to a magistrate." You cock your head. "And regardless of the kidnapping, you still straight-up burgled a snake, which I— I don't get. Were there no better snake options? Could you not have paid somebody a lump sum to hatch a snake out of their ass? You don't get to piss on Charlotte, so I get it, but surely it'd be easier than—"

"What?"

"Okay," you concede. "It wasn't my ass. It was my thigh. Same idea, though."

"I'm not following," Pat says weakly.

"Do you not— do you not know how snakes fuck?"

"Should I? I know snakes are an absolute bitch to work with, and I know they trap you in memory hell if you shut the lights on them. That's about it." She shrugs. "I work with goo."

Now you're not following. "And with snakes. You stole a— you stole two snakes! You stole Bran's, too! So what do you mean, you don't—"

"The snake stuff wasn't my idea."

"Then—"

She sits upright, then thinking better of it stands. She scoops the goggles off the table. "It wasn't my idea, Madrigal. That's it."

>[Pat doesn't TRUST you enough to talk about the snake biz!]

You relent. (It doesn't really matter, after all. At least not right now.) "Okay. You still haven't told me what 'cos' is. Or whatever the fuck. Concept-of—"

(2/4?)

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"Conceptualization." She swings the goggles by their strap. "The version for dummies is that everybody possesses, whether they know it or not, a kind of holistic idea of who they are as a person. The COS. It's manipulated by the mind but somehow stored and disseminated through the blood. This causes a hell of a lot of knock-on effects regarding interesting uses for blood, some of which I'm positive you've—"

Ellery burnt through a full creepy blood phase, yes. "Yeah."

"Yes. The only relevant one to me is the way goo reacts with blood, which is to say extremely strongly. I won't bore you about why, but it does."

"I hope that's strongly in a good way," you say. "Or I don't see what the perks are of—" You indicate yourself. "It beats a snake, sure, but that's a fucking low bar. I assume you had a nice regular body at some point. Why—?"

"It's my job?" She sounds confused. "I don't understand why I wouldn't, frankly. Once you get past the adjustment period, it's nothing but upgrades."

Are you in the adjustment period? You're way less freaked out by all of this than you're telling yourself you should be, but it's not because you've gotten used to being fucking blue— it just doesn't feel real. It's not real. The real you is conked out on some cot in real life, having some fucked-up dreams— special dreams, l-dreams, whazzat, lacy dreams, licit dreams. Whatever. Someone told you about them once, where you're asleep but sort of think you're awake, so in your head you're walking around and talking like normal, flying, fucking some dream stud, whatever. And that blew your little mind at the time, but right now you're glad you heard about it, so you sort of know what's going on now. So you're not fucking losing it. Which you would've, because you sure didn't understand whatever shit Charlotte spouted earlier.

Anyhow, you guess that makes you emotionally adjusted, but she probably meant physically adjusted. Which is kind of exciting, if there's badass goo stuff out there after all. You wonder if you can figure that out for yourself, if you just sat down and tried stuff out, or if you'd need to enlist Pat in it. Would she help? She seems eager to repair her little kidnapping oopsy-doopsy, but she might start suspecting you were just trying to beef up your skills pre-escape. Which you would be, to be fair. Still, she seems to be willing to trust—

Oh, shit, she's leaving. (Fuck. You really just blanked out there. Bad look.) "Wait!" you say. "Wait. Sorry. I just had— I had one more question. Why is there a gift shop? You said you don't get—"

"I let Lester Six pretend to manage it. He likes having the illusion of control." She tucks her hands behind her back. "You're welcome to browse, though. Anyhow— like I said, I'm retiring for the night, and I think it'd be best if you did too. So we don't have any incidents."

You think about earlier's outburst. "Sure thing."

(3/4)

"Everything's already locked down regardless. Alright. Have a restful night, Madrigal."

Unsure you're able to reciprocate the sentiment, you nod. She nods back. You listen to the clip-clop of her boots down the hall, until she rounds the corner and the sound fades.

>[Pat liked that conversation a little bit.]

You'll freely admit it: when you said 'sure thing,' you were probably lying.

>Available objects to INSPECT in the LOBBY: jumpsuit, couches, shit art, magazines, potted plant, reception desk

>[1] SLEEP. (++PAT'S TRUST.)
>>[A] In the tank. (+GOOPINESS, +???)
>>[B] On a couch. (-GOOPINESS)
>[2] ENTER OTHER COMMAND.

>>5418315
> Comisserate with her over how much of a bitch Charlotte is.
You need to build up some TRUST before you can do this in a non-weird way.

>>5418771
If only it were that easy ;_;

>>5419381
>[2] We've seen how Pat created a gun out of her hand. She probably created a key too to unlock the door. Is that one of goo's upgrades? Try to do something similar.

>>5419381
>[1] SLEEP. (++PAT'S TRUST.)
>>[B]

we need trust points
I'd be cool with trying >>5419385
as we're nodding off though

>>5419685
>>5419379

Support!

>>5419381
>>[1] SLEEP. (++PAT'S TRUST.)
>>[A] In the tank. (+GOOPINESS, +???)

We got a real body out there, but no reason to not work with what we have right now.

>>5419685
>>5419687
>[1B] + Write-in

>>5419385
>Write-in

>>5420004
>[1A]

Calling for [1B] + >>5419385 and writing.

>EXPERIMENT

Probably. Probably lying. You lie down flat on the couch and gaze up at the ceiling. It wouldn't technically be lying if you didn't move, would it? Even if she has secret windows or motion cameras, she'd just see you on a couch. You'd be off scot free. And you can plot in the meantime.

You haven't had the chance to examine precisely how everything's "locked down," but if it's anything like the curing room Pat probably has a key. Or does she? You couldn't see the door-unlocking in great detail, but she pulled her glove off to do it, same as she pulled it off to manifest(?) the gun. So either the key's secreted inside her body somehow, and she's pushing it out into her hand, or there's no key at all and she's making her hand into one. These are all sentences you never thought you'd think.

You're not sure which scenario is worse. 1) means you can get your hands on an actual key— if you dug it out of Pat's arm or wherever the hell she keeps it. 2) means there is no key, or Pat doesn't keep it on her if there is— and it's not like you can make your hand into a key, so you're up shit creek without a paddle. Great. You could try to pick the locks, but that's time-consuming and consequently risky. The doors appear to be solid metal, so you can't break them down if you wanted to. You could slide under them if you, well, could slide under them, but at that point you may as well take the drain. So it's like you thought. Shit creek. No padd...

What if you could make your hand into a key? You're fucking dreaming. Why not? You're just as much of a freaky goo thing as Pat (apparently) is, she's just been one for way longer— and you don't see how that would stop you here. You just have to take it systematically.

Test 1: You raise your hand above your face. You think about keys. Nothing happens.

Test 2: You think about your hand being a key. Nothing happens.

Test 3: You do your best to envision the physical hand—>key transition. You feel a little squicky. Nothing happens.

Test 4: Your arm is getting tired. You sit upright and prop your elbow against your knee. Are you missing something? Did Pat let anything useful slip? Sleep in the tank, don't fuck with Lester, the COS shit— the COS shit. She said your body would adapt to your COS, which is some poindex word for self-image. That's what you got from her. So if you fix in your head yourself (the real you, not blue stuff) hanging onto some key...

Your hand does something. Twitches. Splurches. There's no key, not even the beginnings of a key, but it's something and you'll take it. Means you're on the right track. So what's the problem? Not cossing hard enough? Or is it that you've been cured? Pre-curing you were a lot more liquid. Hmm.

(1/4)

Test 5: You stick your finger in the water tank and watch it gradually swell: you think you're absorbent. Fucking dreams, man. Finally it droops and drips and when you pull it from the water it persistently folds toward your palm. You do the you-with-key thing then, concentrating hard on it, and this time it kinda-sorta works: the offending finger warps before your eyes. Except you'd be hard-pressed to call the result a key. It's got the shape-ish of one, but it's still blue, and more to the point it's gooey— you can bend and stretch it exactly like you could your waterlogged finger. It'd never open a door.

So how did Pat do it? You can only think of two things: 1), that she's able to change the goo's consistency at will, softening it to make the change and hardening it inside the keyhole, or 2), that something else is at play. Maybe she does have the key in her fucking arm. Maybe she absorbed its... keyness. You don't know how this shit works.

It feels within reach, though, is the important thing. Not impossible. You've sweated away at this for 30 minutes and made solid progress. And now, since you can't deconfirm the hidden windows and/or cameras, you should probably plonk down and try to catch some shuteye. If that's how it works. Aren't you sleeping now? Can you sleep while asleep? Will you wake up in Dream #2? Maybe you'll be fucking green.

God, you don't know how this works. You don't know how any of it works. This was supposed to be Ellery's stupid schtick, and now he's fucked off to go be paper mache while you're stuck with it. Well, fuck him. You can escape this better than he ever could, and you will, and you're going to rub that in his pointy-ass face the first chance you get. As soon as you wake up.

Contented with this knowledge, you lay yourself out on the couch and sleep.

---

>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]

You are Charlotte Fawkins. You have murdered your father to make friends with a giant worm.

You don't know if this is true, exactly. Richard isn't your father. He wasn't your father, either. He was faking it. And you don't know if you killed him. You know he died. But it's Richard, and when you kicked the body it vanished. You don't know if that's a good or bad thing. You don't know what "good" or "bad" would be in this situation.

(2/4?)

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He hasn't come back. But that's not unusual— he's needed time to recuperate before. But he hasn't come back: not to mock you while you sat on a log and cried, not to needle you as you wiped your face free of mud and blood and tears and resumed tracking Annie, not even to watch silently as you drew her from her burrow and impressed upon her that you were predator and master. Did you say you did that? You didn't want to do that. You wanted to be friends and equals. But the stuff coiling in your chest didn't recognize that as a state of being, or at least an acceptable one, and it just sat heavier and heavier until you sank to your knees and let it be expunged from you. Mostly. A small amount lingers. But you are now predator and master to Annie and she obeys your slightest command.

You don't feel good about this. You attempt to tell yourself that Richard is right and it's just a worm and it doesn't have feelings or free will in the first place, but then you think about Richard, and then you don't want to think about anything. You can't bring yourself to ride Annie, so you walk and she tunnels beneath you. You can feel her through your feet.

Lucky is armored: it's homemade-looking Wind Court armor, but armor nonetheless. He also has a bandolier, a canteen, and at least two unlit torches. He seems annoyed at your total lack of material preparation, but this is quickly overtaken by a look of disbelief he seems unable to mitigate. He stares into your eyes. He says that you have balls of brass, Ms. Charlotte Fawkins.

You would rather never hear of brass again, so you snippily dismiss this. He asks where the entrance to this facility might be found. Down Branwen's well, you don't say, and instead— once you've got far enough away from town— bring out Annie.

Lucky shoves you aside ("Hey!") and is about to charge when you dodge back in front of him. You tell him it's tame. You've tamed it. With your... you're about to say magycks, but you remember your audience and say 'taming skills.' You give Annie some rudimentary spoken commands to demonstrate this, and Lucky's eyes go like saucers.

He has acquired a look of glee. It is a weird and scary emotion on him, and it doesn't dissipate once you instruct Annie to tunnel at a walkable angle into (and through) the sewers. Even worse, it's purely the expression— his manner of speech is normal, even constrained. You don't get Lucky, you decide.

(3/4?)

The worm-tunnel is dim and after some time pitch-black. You expect Lucky to light a torch (or glorb— are those "natural"?), but he never does. It feels like a crime of omission. But maybe the Court doesn't think darkness is unnatural? Even though it doesn't work like this up top... you don't know. Charitably, you'll assume he's conserving the torches. For your part, you can see well enough (though there's nothing notable, just roots and pebbles and a fat worm tail), so there's nothing for you to do.

A massive crunch tells you you've hit the sewers, but there's little that can stand up to 400 cubic feet of worm. You don't know how to re-find the specific spot that led you to Namway, but you're hoping it doesn't matter. You tell Annie to slam against the far wall of the sewer, and you pray to— to— to nobody in particular (your gut roils) that it's paper.

It's paper. Behind it is blackness, and you tell Lucky to grab onto Annie and hang on. He stares at you inscrutably and does so. You do too.

You blink in and out of the interim. You enter the Namway facility.

Or, uh, you think you do. Maybe. It looks nothing like last time: it looks like nothing at all, frankly. You weren't even sure you left the interim properly. It's all black in here, not dark, just black and empty— more-or-less empty. It's littered with chunks and islands of spinning debris. You've exited onto one of them, half of somebody's office, and appear to be at present upside down.

It's into this particular situation that Gil makes his entrance. He comes through the half-office's useless door and appears surprised at himself that this worked. His face is cleaned, his hair re-gelled, and you don't spot a single stray beetle. Or any wings.

"Hi," he says, and stops. He focuses. He fidgets with the door's handle. "Uh, I— hello. I am Gil. Wallace. Gil Wallace. I am here to— SHIT! That's a big fucking— that's the worm! You really got the— I-I-I thought you would, I don't know, not find it, or— are you sane?"

That is a fantastic question. "...Yes."

"Wow, okay, that's— that's— good. That's good. I-I-I, uh— so you have the worm. And you have... you've got to be Lucky. Since I-I don't know you."

(4/5)

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Lucky takes a moment to choose his words. "I don't believe I know you either. Charlotte?"

You would've answered (his tone of voice is veering towards dangerous) had a separate man not warped into existence a foot from your face. You startle, clamping a hand to your mouth so the coiled-stuff won't escape you. Lucky startles, grabbing his tomahawk. Gil startles, making an sudden echoey whirr— Lucky doesn't seem to notice, though, his attention caught as it is on the new arrival. It's a man you've never seen before, square-jawed and severe-looking, late twenties or early thirties. His dingy blond hair is drawn back in a tight ponytail.

"Arledge?" Lucky spits, at the same time the newcomer says "Dib?", and they stare at each other until you clear your throat. Then they stare at you, instead, and you're not sure that's a better state of affairs.

>[1] Write-in?

>>5420223
Oh God, Bathic, did you absolutely have to make this even sadder? Was there truly no alternative?

>Be authoritative, greet Arledge, tell Lucky we enlisted his help. Don't leave them any space for doubting us.

>>5420223
>>Be authoritative, greet Arledge, tell Lucky we enlisted his help. Don't leave them any space for doubting us.

>>5420223
>"I'll introduce Gil to you if you introduce this guy to me."

>>5420855
>>5420223
Oh, I like this.

>>5420223
Or, just introduce ourselves with one word and pointing at ourselves. Then do the same for Gil and Annie.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Seems like we're split between Arledge being your guy (>>5420274) and being Lucky's guy (>>5420855). These are pretty fundamentally different angles, so I'm flipping for it. Writing after.

>>5420274
>Oh God, Bathic, did you absolutely have to make this even sadder?
Yeah, kinda. You guys fucked around with genuine real-deal magic and Charlotte's deep-seated not actually very funny trauma and are in the process of finding out. I'm not interested in cheapening that, or in contradicting the Wyrm's established traits. I'm not saying the situation with Annie isn't changeable, though.

>>5421139
Predator and Master? We can work with those concepts, make it more of a parental and progenitor role.

Eventually, Annie will be the little girl just you wait. This is my new goal. We can change our body, and since we own Annie that makes her body also our body. The brain is part of the body, and that is where the COS resides physically so if we develop that than she fan develop more as a person capable of changing their conceptualizing of relationships.

I mean, they're a giant worm. Predator and Master might be as close as they can get to an equitable relationship, at least we have one that is clearly defined.

> Fucking with ritual magic goes wrong

I mean. Do we not have IRL and in setting many examples of that happening even when people actually know what they're doing?

I regret nothing.

>>5421145
>Eventually, Annie will be the little girl just you wait.
I, uh... I don't know what kind of fetish "making the 16-foot worm into your loli imouto" is, but I don't think Charlotte has it.

>where the COS resides physically
It resides physically in the blood. It's subject to debate whether it's generated by the brain or not.

>>5421154
Fetish? Disgusting. It's mostly a reference to old /tg/ "secretly wants to be the little girl" and more along the lines of slowly humanizing Annie into an actually fully conceptualized person instead of a worm as Charlie's first friend. Given the imbalance of power, though, it'll probably take on a sort of parent/child style relationship.

Now we have the uncomfortable question - does Annie actually have a gender, or is it a penis fencing scenario? Regardless, if we're gonna eventually gave Annie worm take a human form Charlie doesn't seem the type to have them take on a male persona/body and it's very unlikely Annie would pick that up on their own from Charlie either.

As for COS, blood, brain, heart whatever by changing the shape of the cup you can shape the liquid inside it.

But yes. This 16 foot worm is now the pseudo-family Charlie lost, at least twice over now, so I'm fully expecting an irrational level of defensiveness and posessiveness about her safety. With a dash of maternal instinct.

>>5421181
Alright, man, while I'm typically fully supportive of voter creativity and theorycrafting, I am going to have to take out the big bad no-fun QM hammer here before it gets out of control. I think you've misread the situation pretty badly.

>it'll probably take on a sort of parent/child style relationship.
It won't. That would be extremely weird in a lot of ways. Annie is an animal, and not even a smart animal. Charlotte is an emotionally stunted 23-year-old who has never been in a relationship that she can remember. She's not capable of being a parent, metaphorically or otherwise, and in particular not to a (...fully grown...) worm: at *maximum* this is a pet/owner or rider/steed relationship.

>does Annie actually have a gender, or is it a penis fencing scenario?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eunice_aphroditois#Life-cycle

>Regardless, if we're gonna eventually gave Annie worm take a human form
You're not, and if you somehow achieved the godlike control over reality necessary to do so then you'd be inflicting existential horror on an innocent animal.

>As for COS, blood, brain, heart whatever by changing the shape of the cup you can shape the liquid inside it.
No comment on whether this is true, but again, you have no means of fleshcrafting a 16-foot worm into a human. You don't have the Crown, and the Wyrm's not gonna back you up here.

>This 16 foot worm is now the pseudo-family Charlie lost
It really, really isn't. Charlotte is weird and sad and desperate but she is not actually mentally ill enough to see a mindless animal as a family substitute. She's lonely. She wants a friend. She is almost certainly projecting this desire onto a worm that can't reciprocate.

>an irrational level of defensiveness and posessiveness about her safety
I mean, probably. But Charlotte behaves this way about anybody she likes (see: Gil).

>With a dash of maternal instinct.
Charlotte does not have a maternal bone in her body, my dude.

>>5421190
> Annie is an animal, and not even a smart animal. Charlotte is an emotionally stunted 23-year-old who has never been in a relationship

Sounds like classical protagonist/pet dynamic.

> inflicting existential horror on an innocent animal.

Definition of parenthood.

> censored text

With magyck anything is possible, including making your unhealthy delusions real.

> Charlotte does not have a maternal bone in her body, my dude

Telling me that when she treats Gil like a child all the time?

>>5421190
Wait


> The lifespan of E. aphroditois is believed to be three to five years

We have CONCERNS. The clock is ticking, gotta get that Crown before the deadline is over. Oh god, what if she's already 4?

>>5421195
>Sounds like classical protagonist/pet dynamic.
Yeah, that's what I said.

>Definition of parenthood.
kek

>With magyck anything is possible, including making your unhealthy delusions real.
Well, no. With magyck limited tweaks are possible, because it's about conning reality into 'thinking' whatever you're doing is legitimate. This is why you can find a lighter in your pocket but not a bazooka launcher, and why Advanced Gaslighting wears off after a conversation, and why you can't cast Fireball no matter how much Charlotte wants to or even deludes herself into. Some things just break the rules too hard, and that very much includes turning a worm into a person.

>Telling me that when she treats Gil like a child all the time?
I don't think bossing a subordinate around and worrying about a subordinate's/friend's??? well-being is equivalent to being motherly.

>>5421196
>The clock is ticking, gotta get that Crown before the deadline is over.
The clock's ticking a little faster than that. Richard gave you two months.

>>5421206
> I don't think bossing a subordinate around and worrying about a subordinate's/friend's??? well-being is equivalent to being motherly.

I mean, have you met some people's mothers?

Also what about goo bodies. I mean, we gonna put Gil who is imaginary beetles into a hunan body. A worm already has meat to mess with.

Can goo be compressed? Or like, foamed?

Can a 15ft tall foamy goo Pat sit on my face? I might have been drinking some.

>>5421220
>I mean, have you met some people's mothers?
Sure. But it's not traits exclusive to mothers.

>Can goo be compressed? Or like, foamed?
Ask Pat! (As Madrigal.)

>Can a 15ft tall foamy goo Pat sit on my face? I might have been drinking some.
...This explains so much. Jfc. Get some rest.

>>5421206
After this whole conversation, do you still wanna expect anons to take genuine real-deal magic and Charlotte's deep-seated not actually very funny trauma seriously?

>>5421228
I mean, I don't personally care whether anons take it seriously. I like writing horrible rituals and sad Charlotte. I would recommend voting differently if you don't like reading that, though.

Alright, folks. Admittedly in no small part to conducting the conversation you can read above, I've only managed to crank out just over 3000 characters, and it's getting to the point in the early morning where I'm finding it difficult to legibly continue. Not posting it as a [TBC] since it's too short and doesn't end on an interesting note: will instead do my best to promptly finish it up and day-update. Wish me luck.

>>5421228
Humor is a common reaction to trauma and PTSD.

Source: Was a medic. Probably the hardest I laughed was at a suicide by hanging when my partner and I were taking down the body and he said "I hope he doesn't fart" because my partner was A) holding the legs and B) short.

Adjusting the body resulted in gas being expelled.

Holy fuck was I glad the family wasn't there. Dude hung himself between his sports cars, had a wife and two daughters. Left a goodbye note to his dog because he felt it was the only thing that loved him in life. His wife and kids were fucking wrecked. Anyways, if you're considering suicide don't it's the worst thing you can do to people in your life no matter how much you convince yourself they would be better off without you. People don't want to be "better off".

But I digress.

>Quid pro quo

Gil looks about as lost as you are, which is some consolation. Did Lucky invite somebody without asking you? You guess you did the same thing to him, but— well, you're in charge here! You're allowed to do that. "I'll- I'll introduce Gil if you introduce whoever this is."

"Who's—" Lucky glances over his shoulder. "Ms. Fawkins, are you saying you did not invite Mr. Graves?"

"Who's Mr. Graves?! No, I didn't— are you saying you didn't? How is that even—"

"I'm Mr. Graves," says Arledge, who is biting down on a toothpick. He's stepped back out of your face, thank goodness.

You stare at him for a moment, then switch your gaze to Lucky. "Just— just tell me who he is."

"He's a magician—"

"And he's psychotic." Arledge's tone is matter-of-fact. "I was invited by Eloise Crenshaw, if that clears anything up. I'm assuming you must be Charlotte."

Oh! Damn! It's the acquaintance! The surprise is enough to shake you out of your stupor, at least briefly. "Yes! That's— I'm Charlotte. You do magyck?"

Lucky snorts unkindly. Arledge gnaws at the toothpick. "I'm not sure you understand that's not the kind of thing you ask," he says finally.

"Meaning yes. Flagrantly. Make no mistake, Ms. Fawkins, the man unrepentantly injects unnatural and illegal leakages of—"

"I like that." More gnawing. "'Leakages.' That's a fun one, Dib."

You're not sure if you imagined Lucky's eye-spasm. "—of long-dead divinity, to mutate his natural form in perverse ways. I have firsthand witnessed this, Ms. Fawkins, and I assure you—"

"Oh, he's a pagan." But he looks so normal, at least on cursory inspection. This is hugely disappointing, and kind of a bad look on Eloise, to be honest. "You should've just said that. I mean, I guess as long as he doesn't leak pagan stuff everywhere..."

"Am I to understand," Arledge says (ignoring your last comment), "that Dib has somehow been incorporated into this plan I was told about."

"You mean Lucky? Because, uh... yes." You would flourish here, but can't find the energy for it. "Indeed. You three— you four, actually, have been hand-selected to form a... a..."

"A retrieval squadron," Lucky says. "I would've liked to be informed of this hand-picking beforehand. Do you condone flagrant unnatural practices, Ms. Fawkins?"

"Do you condone being a sadistic tolitarian, Ms. Fawkins." Arledge rests his hands in his jacket pockets. "Don't tell me, the other two squadron members are Court, too."

"What? No, they— Gil!" Gil has sidled back against the door. "Come over here. This is my retainer, Gil, he's very helpful. And that's, um, Annie." She has been floating in the blackness near your chunk of office. "My worm. She's, um, tame."

Arledge was about to shake Gil's hand when you pointed out the worm. "That's yours."

Yours. "Yes. I can, um— I can demonstrate the tameness, if you—"

(1/2)

"I don't think so." The corners of his eyes are creased. "But thank you. Have you introduced this worm to Dib?"

"Yes," Lucky says.

"And what did he think of it?"

There's a pause. "I thought it was well-behaved."

"It does seem to be well-behaved," Arledge concedes. "Does the Wind Court condone the taming of massive worms, or have you gone soft? Don't tell me you've gone soft."

"I assure you, Mr. Graves, that any apparent concessions I make are in complete service to the mission of the Wind Court."

Arledge looks at him. Lucky looks back, smugly complacent. Gil, who has not come over, appears sweaty. Nobody has remarked on your apparent upside-downness, which you can gauge only in relation to the other pieces of debris. The atmosphere is weird and fractious and you can't help but feel that the only thing between now and an outright brawl is some kind of strained mutual commitment to propriety. Why did Eloise have to recruit a pagan? This is all her fault, you decide, so that you can't entertain the idea you're being cosmically punished, that your crime is unforgivable and inescapable, that you didn't really wipe the blood off your face, maybe some of it sunk into your—

"I'm sure they are," Arledge says matter-of-factly, and spits out the final splinters of the toothpick. He turns to Gil and reaches out a hand. "Anyway. It's nice to meet you, Gil. I'm Arledge. I'm an acquaintance of Charlotte's acquaintance."

"Ah," vocalizes Gil. His eyes flick to you before he accepts the handshake, and you're not sure if Arledge's grip is pincerlike or if his hands are oiled or something because Gil's pupils go small and he inhales sharply and doesn't exhale until Arledge releases him. Arledge leans in then and says something too quietly to hear: Gil stares vacantly up at him. "No," he mouths.

Only then does Arledge break away, and when he wheels around he looks a smidge rattled himself. (Gil is covering his face with his hands.) He blinks, then refocuses on you. "And you as well... it is Charlotte, right? If I remember? Bad company notwithstanding, it's nice to meet you too."

He reaches out a hand.

>[1] Shake his hand. Shaking hands is a normal thing to do. You'll look weird if you don't. Weird and suspicious. He'll start thinking you murdered somebody or something if you don't shake his hand. Or maybe he just won't like you.
>[2] Don't shake his hand. He probably has pagan diseases or something. You've heard about those— you get them through the blood, or something. Dirty needles. Maybe he just gave Gil a disease, you don't know. You don't want that.
>[3] Don't shake his hand, and also accuse him of magycking Gil just now.
>[4] Write-in.