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"Did she talk like this before?" the other woman mutters. Not Madrigal makes a face in response, then turns her attention back to you. "I don't know, I just thought he might force his way along, or..."

"I didn't tell him I was going."

"Ohhh, shit. Makes sense." Not Madrigal pauses. "Probably for the best. So are you going to take the sword out of my face, or— and why the fuck is it on fire, by the way? Is that new? Did you get Eloise to do that?"

"No? And it's not new? You were just all crazy for a while?" You blink. "I mean Madrigal— the actual Madrigal was, before she was viciously and evilly snakenapped! And it was on fire during that whole thing, which is further proof of your imposterhood—"

"It was a snake borrowing, you bitch." The other woman's arms are tightly folded. "Sorry you decided to flaunt your—"

"I wasn't really focused on your sword, holy shit. How much convincing do you fucking need? It's not like we set up a password— is there something only I'd know? Can we just do that?"

Richard, is your first instinct. She's the only person who knows about— the only person from real life who knows about— and you're trying to say that, but your throat's constricting badly, and more than that your head's throbbing really really hard. Like she's bashing her awesome spear into it. "N- no," you say. "Nothing. You could be contaminated with her memories, after all, and—"

Not Madrigal stares at the woman. "Is that a real fucking thing?"

"Ehm... if you use untreated goo, or a lot of blood, you can get..."

"See?" You square your shoulders. "There is only one way to prove it, fool, and if you were the real Madrigal you would've said it first. 'Tis simple! I shalt henceforth taketh a sample of your blood, and— and— yeah. Gooplicates don't have it. So hold still and I'll—"

Not Madrigal predictably doesn't hold still: despite her best attempt to twist away, you deftly nick her cheek. Also predictably, the wound is shiny and bloodless— though the black smoke wafting from it is new. Are gooplicates wielding magyck now? (That's kind of exciting. You hope so.) "Ha!" you say. "Ha! Your true nature has been exposed! Prepare to be stricken down by the power of—"

Your dramatic overhead swing is intercepted by the other woman, who leans out in front of Not Madrigal and, with a squelch, grabs The Sword with her bare hand. While forcing its point to the ground, she raises her other hand— raises her pistol, and points it at your forehead. "Get the hell out of our way," she snarls.

"Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hold the fuck up— fuck you, Pat! Put that away! I'm all nightmare, and shit, it wouldn't have— give me that." Not Madrigal grabs the other woman's gun hand away. "We are not shooting Charlotte. Holy fuck."

"Pat?" you say.

(2/5)

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"I hired her. Uhhhh... fuck. Wait. We got the— shit, where'd I— here." Not Madrigal releases Pat(??)'s hand (it slumps to her side) and bends to retrieve a small box. "It's Matches, okay? Matches? The snake? Check it."

You reluctantly check inside the box. There's a tiny black-and-white snake inside. "...Uh-huh."

"I was in it, then she got me out and stuck me in some stupid goo... I mean, it's not stupid, I guess. It beats the snake. But that's the goo thing, alright? Then I busted out of there after a couple days, hired an assistant, problem solved. No need to go out of your way to— if you call me a 'damsel' again, by the way, I'm kicking your lily ass so hard it—"

"You're... Madrigal," you say. You're still side-eying the snake.

"Yes."

"You... escaped."

"Do I look kidnapped? I've got the snake right here, I—"

"Your kidnapper is right there." You jerk your chin toward Pat, who glowers at you. "How do I know this isn't some kind of—"

"Because I kicked her ass too? Pat, did I kick your—"

"I wouldn't describe it as..." Pat stares down the spear at her chest. "I was countered by absolute gullshit, sure."

"Kicked her ass hard. She was gonna shoot herself, I kicked her ass so hard, but we got that all cleared up— hell, you could say I unhanded her. Heh. Anyhow—"

Madrigal's in a good mood. How great for her. How great. Anybody would be in a good mood, having rescued themselves from a vicious and evil kidnapping without any help at all. No heroine necessary. None of it necessary— your research, your hand-selected team, the delve, the horrible trouble that followed, Annie, Richard, Richard. Your head pounds. You could've accomplished the same thing if you'd woken up this morning and gone straight back to bed. People would still be alive if you'd gone back to— if you'd— and there's nothing waiting for you that'd make it all worth it, no accolades, no adoration, no free drinks or marriage proposals. Maybe a "good job" from Monty or somebody, the "for trying" unvoiced. While Madrigal gets the handshakes and backslaps and gets to parade her fancy spear and pants around wherever she goes (seriously, where in the God-damned hell did she get those?!).

(3/5?)

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(Current ID: 1/13)
(Current SV: 4/???)

It's the kind of thing that drives a person to murder. Or at least to vividly imagining it: you grabbing Madrigal, shaking her, throwing her to the ground, kicking her teeth out, her eyeballs in, her nose bent and bloody, kicking all over until she didn't make noise anymore and only then stabbing, in and out, over and over— you're real good at this, got a lot of experience— stopping long after she was dead, only after the blood stopped spurting. And then you'd turn to Pat and do the same. Or not, maybe. Maybe you'd just make her watch, make her think she gets the same thing, but really you grab her gun and press it to her temple. Like she did with Gil. And then you'd make her beg her throat raw, make her cough blood, and only after that you'd shoot her. You know how to work a gun, in this fantasy, but you don't go for the head. You shoot her wrists, her legs, her shoulderblades. You shoot her ears off. You read somewhere that getting shot in the gut was slow and painful, so maybe you get that a couple times. Only when you get tired of the screaming do you shoot the top of her skull off. You hope it's not instant. You hope she can still think, all scared and scrambled, like Gil could. Only nobody's coming to fix her.

And then you'd gather up both bodies and lug them back to camp, and you'd point at Madrigal and say Pat did this to her. And then you'd point to Pat and say you did this to avenge her. Somebody would hug you. Somebody would rub your shoulder. You would speak at Madrigal's funeral. There wouldn't be any raucous parties or marriage proposals, but you'd gain a level of quiet respect. Maybe the people Madrigal was close with would grow closer with you, instead. Maybe you'd be appointed deputy. Maybe you'd have a cool, scary nickname. Like "The Avenger" or something. You'd need to workshop it. You'd have plenty of time.

In the present day, in some stupid sewer, with very-much-alive Madrigal and Pat facing you, you feel sick. You couldn't do any of that, but you're scared about why: that it wouldn't make sense. Neither of them have blood, you're pretty sure, and you're not sure you can overpower two at once. Not without Richard. (God, your head.) And it wouldn't be practical to drag two corpses back over God knows how much distance, and nobody would believe your terrible lying, and probably Lucky would drag you off and torture you. Or if he's busy, you'd just be exiled, and Gil doesn't have a body yet so you'd be completely alone. And then you'd die, because that's what happens when you're alone in the middle of nowhere underwater. You'd vanish into thin air.

(4/5?)

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All very sensible. Good job, Charlotte, your father would be proud of you. Entirely missing from any of that is any feelings: that it'd be wrong to kill them, uncivilized, unheroic, inhumane, inhuman. You're thinking these things. You're upsetting your own stomach. You know— loud and clear, no interference— that Madrigal doesn't deserve to die like that, or at all. She hasn't even been mean to you yet. And you know, more quietly, that Pat doesn't deserve— you might be okay shooting her, honestly, but she hasn't tortured anybody. The only reason you'd torture her back would be your own sick, perverted, unGodly—

You don't actually know if God would disapprove. You are actually worried that God has spared your head and wrapped Its weird growths around your heart. Some part of you is pleading to do it, do it, damn all the consequences— that you'd relieve all the pain that way. And you can't even disagree. Murdering the people in front of you in the most brutal ways you can think of would, for some indiscernible period of time, make you feel much better.

There's no way to pick between screaming and crying so you settle on the middle ground of retching. For a moment you think too-sour lemonade is going to come out, but nothing happens. Pat and Madrigal's stares are hot on your neck. "...Fucking hell," Madrigal says. "Are you ill?"

Showing weakness to Madrigal? She'll mock you forever. But you are ill, that's the only word for it, mentally and emotionally and maybe metaphysically. Your second wind was all saved up to rescue Madrigal, and now that that's done you've got nothing. You can't muster much regular thinking, much less the positive type. If you weren't sure it'd lead to mockery, you'd lay down exactly where you were and die: saying something is the lesser option. "I... don't feel great."

"No shit! Were you hurt? In, uh, wherever the fuck you came from? You're real pale..."

She needs to mock you as soon as possible. This is terrible. You're not imagining it anymore so much as remembering yourself imagine it, and the longer she goes without mocking you the more curdled you feel. "I'm fine," you say weakly. "Geez. You're hysterical. I just need a... a nap, and then I'll be ready to engage in heroic— heroic-type— my usual stuff. Obviously."

"Well, damn. I woke up real fucking early today—" (Pat sighs.) "—so I gotcha. I gotcha. We can do a quick little hike back to camp, easy peasy, I can say hi to Monty, you can take a nap. Bam. Done. So—"

(5/6)

"Where's your camp?" Pat says.

Madrigal hesitates. "...Near Fenpelok?"

"Yeah, we're a day out. This—" She jabs a thumb upward. "—is Hell. Sorry."

"Son of a bitch, Hell? Can we just drag her back through—?"

"She's not going in my manse," Pat snaps, but shifts under Madrigal's look. "...We're not far from Hellsbells. I can get there from here, you can find a place to crash, you can leave tomorrow morning and get back before dark. Fine?"

"Fine, whatever. Haven't been to Hellsbells in yonks." She glances your way. "Charlotte?"

"...It's fine, I guess." You wanted to go there eventually for something, you think. You can't remember right now. "Cool."

"Cool!" Good-mood Madrigal disgusts you. "So which way is it?"

>[1] Zone out. [-1 ID] This will put you at 0 ID. Richard is not present, so you won't be possessed. Think of it as a "timeskip until Charlotte is less depressive" button; I'm not planning any surprises here.

>[2] Power through. Try to convince Madrigal to tell everybody that you personally rescued her— you can attempt this later, but the sooner you get the idea in her head the better, in your opinion.
>>[A] Just, like, convince her. You know. *Convince* her. And Pat, you guess, since she's here too. (Advanced Gaslighting.) [Roll.]
>>[B] Play to her apparent sympathies. Tell her about your horrible travails just getting here, and that you were completely prepared to endure even more just to save her. You *basically* rescued her. In spirit. So... [Roll.]
>>[C] Attempt to play to her sympathies but just kinda break down instead. Tell her that nobody likes you and you don't know why and this was supposed to be your *big break* but now it's all ruined. And you'll never ever have another chance. Possibly start crying. [No roll but extremely embarrassing, ???? reaction]
>>[D] Write-in.

>[3] Power through. Make small talk. Or... you guess it's not really small talk when you have actual pressing questions? You can ask these later, but they'll be less pressing then. (Pick up to 2.) [You, as readers, already know the answers to these. Please only pick the options you want to read Charlotte's reaction to— you can assume she'll be filled in on anything else in summary or offscreen.
>>[A] So, seriously, what is up with the pants? And the spear? And the mystery smoke?
>>[B] Why would she bring her **kidnapper** along? She knows Pat shot Gil almost to death, right?
>>[C] So, uh... a goo body, huh? How's that working? You've got somebody who might be interested in one of those.
>>[D] Did she at least learn anything useful about Namway? Or "Management"?
>>[E] Write-in.

>[4] Write-in.

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! I didn't finish any of the projects-- I kept procrastinating, then worrying about procrastinating, then finally figured it wasn't much of a break if I was thinking about the quest all the time. We'll see what happens. Also, sorry for being a day late.

>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 eventually
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 may help with context in very early Redux threads, but ultimately is not required.

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

---

>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX

As Madrigal, you wake up in the middle of the night and decide to go adventuring. You slip under the door to the storage room and discover it covered with... flesh tendrils, which seem to be attempting to get into the Lester Food. You rip a sack open and feed them, causing all the tendrils to merge and break open a hole in the floor. Noisily. Pat wakes up and starts to search for you, so you dive into the hole to escape. Landing in a dark room, you come face-to-face with a tentacled flesh... blob... thing, which describes itself as "Lester One." You strike a deal with it to escape.

As Charlotte, you decide that the best thing to do with a cursed, bloody pool of water is to drink it, then resurrect Annie in it. You are filled with a whole bunch of red stuff, and Annie absorbs all the water and swells to twice her usual size. This causes some concern among the locals, so you warp the manse to smooth it all over... and find yourself as Claudia, off in the woods, plotting something.

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As *Gil,* Charlotte (and her worm) have vanished. You nervously watch Lucky and Arledge hatch a plot to "put down" Charlotte (and her worm) for the greater good. Lucky tells you that Charlotte's a wanted criminal, known to be involved in the deaths of at least 5 people, but you don't really care. You intervene, channelling... reality... or something... to change their minds. Then you have a conversation with Us, calming it down, briefing it on the situation, and convincing it to pitch in.

As Madrigal, you poke around in the basement briefly before running into Pat by accident. You opt to catch her by surprise, tackling her to the floor. The two of you tussle. Pissed, Pat prepares to enter her final form(??), and you retreat into the shadows. Stressed and desperate, you do something crazy: absorbing the darkness through your skin. You become Nightmare Madrigal (exactly the same as normal, but with an awesome spear and cool pants) and confront an entirely untransformed Pat, who can do nothing to stop you. She pleads with you to either go and leave the snake or to take the snake and kill her: she doesn't want to risk Management taking her. You opt for neither, convince her that coming with you is her best option, and take Pat *and* the snake with you as you escape. You leave behind the Lester blob, though.

As Gil, you and your newly helpful squad mates confront the possessed Charlotte... who murders her accomplice and resurrects a gigantic worm. Who immediately swallows Lucky whole. Arledge transforms into a (less giant) worm of his own and tackles Charlotte's worm, while you release Teddy from your grip and fly up to Charlotte. You attempt to magic her, which does nothing, then attempt to shove some of your beetles down her throat. As the beetles, you wind up in an enormous chamber of red stuff, with Charlotte unconscious inside a pustule. You bite her out, but she's swept away in a rush of red water, so you abuse your unrealness to safely drag her up and out, both of you flopping onto a... mind beach?

You realize that you haven't purged the red stuff from her, and that doing so would require your death. You try to convince Charlotte that it's the optimal thing to do, but she tells you you're stupid. You wake up.

As Charlotte, you wake up to discover that Lucky has exploded your worm. You are unhappy about this. Arledge and Lucky leave, you have an awkward conversation with Us, and you finally escape the manse.

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

Short-term goals:
- Use, extract, or otherwise deal with the Wyrm stuff you got going on
- Break into Ellery's manse (with Gil's help?); extract answers

Long-term goals:
- Procure permanent, non-melting body for Gil
- Cure your [SUNSTROKE]
- Resurrect Annie from the dead
- Regain your missing memories (...if possible)
- Find the Gold-Masked Person and their snake; reclaim the Crown
- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (4/16)
- 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(?) did Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you?
- What was 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?
- Is Richard actually dead?

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

--

Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>5527513
Heavens, what a shitshow it's been.
>[C] So, uh... a goo body, huh? How's that working? You've got somebody who might be interested in one of those.
>[D] Did she at least learn anything useful about Namway? Or "Management"?
I propose that Charlotte concentrates on achieving at least something out of this snafu, to then be able to pretend it wasn't all completely for nothing.This something being a body for Gil and info on Namway. Yes, even over asking why the heck is Pat here.

>>5527513
>[3] Power through. Make small talk. Or... you guess it's not really small talk when you have actual pressing questions? You can ask these later, but they'll be less pressing then. (Pick up to 2.)
>>[B] Why would she bring her **kidnapper** along? She knows Pat shot Gil almost to death, right?
>>[D] Did she at least learn anything useful about Namway? Or "Management"?
2 would work if we had more ID and Richard around to juice up the gaslighting. But we don't, and he isn't. So we're not picking that.

>>5527513
>>>[B] Why would she bring her **kidnapper** along? She knows Pat shot Gil almost to death, right?
>>>[C] So, uh... a goo body, huh? How's that working? You've got somebody who might be interested in one of those.
>>>[D] Did she at least learn anything useful about Namway? Or "Management"?

>>5527860
>Pick up to 2
Or at least two you want Charlotte to learn about right now. As mentioned, she'll get automatically filled in on the rest later (since you guys already saw this from Madrigal's POV).

>>5527866
Exclude [B]

>>5527579
>>5527676
>>5527860
>[3D]

>>5527579
>>5527890
>[3C]

>>5527676
>[3B]

Called for [3D] + [3C] and writing.

>>5527513
>3B, C
If Pat brings it up, we always intended to honor our snake promise. It's just that finding a snake was way harder than we thought it would be. Then one seemed to fall in our laps with the Matches and Madrigal situation, but then we discovered Mads was in it so we couldn't hand it over just yet, and then Pat shot our friend and robbed us which was totally unjustified.

>>5528216
I can't count this vote, for obvious reasons, but your input has been noted. (I don't expect it to come up in the current update, but it probably will in the future.)

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>Detective mode

You don't particularly trust Pat, known repeat-snakenapper/murderer, to navigate you anywhere— but it's not as if you know where you wound up, and you lack the verve to argue. Madrigal's got it handled, you guess, just like she's got everything else handled. She doesn't need you. Nobody does. Richard needed you, and he's gone; Gil needed you, and now he's gotten all dumb and independent and mouthy. How dare he say nasty things about your father? You bet he was just trying to show off, rescuing you. You bet that the minute he gets a real, proper body he'll be out of here. After all, he doesn't know you— he's just stuck with you. You're his ride and his roof. If he's ever indicated otherwise, you've seen firsthand how much of a big, fat liar he can be. That's been his whole life, practically... and you'd probably be way too stupid to notice.

"Charlotte?" Madrigal says. "Can you— can you walk okay?"

They've started to walk, you guess. You haven't. You've been digging your fingers into your thighs. "Yes," you snap. "I can walk fine."

"Holy shit, Mrs. Pissy, I just thought maybe you got hurt? You're acting like you got hurt? Fucking shoot me for caring—"

"Maybe I should." Don't say that. You're thinking about it again. But it's not like you have a choice.

"What did I say?" Pat says, not even quietly. Madrigal shoots her a foul look and steps out in front of her, arms folded. "Okay, did you get hit over the head? Did your fucking dog die? Because—"

"My worm," you mutter.

"What? Because you've always been a bitch, but not— you have been a smug little bitch, right? Smug. Not whatever the fuck— are you even Charlotte? Charlotte was going on about her dumbshit hero stuff a couple minutes ago, and now..." Madrigal's eyes narrow. "Is this Richard again? You fucking hijacked her? Middle of a conversation, real fucking classy—"

No! God, why— "NO!" your mouth says. "NO! SHUT UP! I'm— I'm— I'm fine. Let's just go. I'm fine. Let's go."

"O-kay," Madrigal says, and half-shrugs at Pat. Pat sighs deeply and leans off the wall.

You go. You are in the back. You keep a white-knuckled grip on The Sword's hilt, partially in case Pat tries anything and mostly because it's the only thing you can rely on. The Sword always works like it's supposed to. The Sword can't die, or lie, or leave you. The Sword can't do much of anything, granted— can't tell you everything's going to be okay— but it's at least keeping you kind of stable. You don't think you're about to do anything crazy.

(1/4?)

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Stable doesn't mean good, though. You are, probably, ill— but even that doesn't cover it, implies too hard that this is all some gross invader's fault. The red stuff isn't helping, but it's wrong to assign it blame: this is you. This is what's wrong with you. This is what's always been wrong with you: you have never not been broken and stupid and worthless inside, and none of your desperate attempts to plaster it over can fix that. Everybody can sense it. Your aunt did. Your mother did, occasionally. (She said there were demons inside of you.) Enid and her stupid little gang did. That was all Richard did, though he had it way worse— he had to live in it. You're sorry about that. You wish somebody normal opened that stupid box. You don't know if he knew that whenever he called you useless or slow or dumb or whatever, you were protesting just for show— that way down inside you were nodding along.

Anyhow. Lucky can sense it, and so can Monty, and Anthea, and clearly Pat. Probably also the Elleries. You're not sure if Eloise has caught the drift, but it's a matter of time. If Gil didn't know after today, he definitely does now. And Madrigal has sensed it from the very start, since the moment she laid eyes on you, practically, but you've been good at keeping her off the scent. If she knew, knew-knew, she'd be crowing it all over the place. She'd win.

And you might be drifting off the edge of the world about now, but there's nothing that makes you madder than letting somebody else win. God-damn her! It's one thing to be all broken and stupid and worthless on your own time, but Madrigal realizing destroys everything. You'd be packed out of town. God-damn her to hell: there's only one thing to do. You don't care how you really are, or how you really feel. You only care about that involuntarily, when the plastering caves in under repeated blows. That's fine. You've gotten real good at putting it all back up.

(2/4? 5?)

Positive thinking, Lottie. No sweat. Just follow the worn-in groove. Positive thinking. Madrigal hasn't realized anything yet— she blamed it on Richard. (Your head is just throbbing by default now.) And Pat's opinion doesn't matter. Positive thinking. Gil does need you, at least for now. And his impertinence was under awful pagan influence. He'll probably apologize if you ask him to. And if he tries to leave, you can... bribe him, probably. Yeah. The whole relationship might be hollow inside, but at least you'd have somebody. (You ran out of chit again, though. Maybe Horse Face will hire you to rob another museum? You should ask him.) Um... positive thinking. It's a good thing that Madrigal isn't dead, or you really would be packed out of town. Maybe she heard some things about Namway? Things relevant to your sort-of investigation? Nobody's left to complain about that— that's positive, sort of. And even though you're dumber than Madrigal, you're still way better at detectiving than her. That's why she hired you. So you'd probably connect all the evidence way better, too.

That's the plan, then. You like it: it's safe, productive, positive. The kind of thing you're supposed to do automatically— Charlotte Fawkins-copyright. You quicken your trudging pace and pull up next to Madrigal, who looks over. "...Yeah?"

Just say the things you always say. You clear your throat. "Ahem. I was wondering, in the depths of my, um, prodigious mind, if you have ascertained in your travails anything regarding the inner functioning of the sinister company Namway, and/or the sinister groupage Management...?"

"I'm right here," Pat says. Madrigal furrows her eyebrows. "You want to know if I dug up any shit about Namway?"

"Y— yes. Yeah."

"Not really? It's not like Pat was all 'hey, here's the dirt'... uh, she told me a little about Management? They're real scary fuckers, sounds like it— kidnapped her side piece— uh, not human? Pat? You said not—?"

"I don't know for sure," she mumbles.

"...Not human?" You hadn't considered this. "Like what, like fish, or—?"

Pat folds her arms. "Not fish. They look human, but they just... they're wrong. They move funny. Lester was the one that dealt with them, so I haven't interacted that much, but... if you saw it, you'd know. I'm not a crackpot."

That's really interesting. Isn't that interesting? Isn't this a— a thing, a hand you can cling to? Don't get ahead of yourself. "I didn't say you were. Um, is your Management the same as Headspace's Management?"

"Headspace?" Madrigal says, as Pat exhales. "Why am I telling you this?"

"Because I want to know too, and I kicked your ass? Fucking Headspace? That's the creeps Ellery—"

Pat's fingers tighten. She says nothing.

"Wait," you say. "You knew about him and Headspace?"

(2/4 or 5?)

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"I'm not a complete fucking incompetent? It's not like he had a lot of options for a gig around here. But he signed some shit, so he couldn't talk, and the secretary bitch doesn't tell anybody shit, so it's not like I— we didn't stop fucking because of Headspace, Charlotte. Come on. I was cool about it."

"...Uh-huh," you say. "You had a tour scheduled with them?"

"They wanted to market their shit in camp, and Monty was busy— I think they were trying to grease me up? I... fuck. Did I miss it? Did they send their guy over, or something, and—?"

"Uhhhh," you say. "Uh, Pat, do you know anything about Headspace?"

She snorts. "Bunch of cunts."

"You don't need to, um..." You blink hard. "Wow, that's... anything else?"

"It's accurate. They get all the funding and all the help while we're stuck with impossible godsdamn deadlines and pittances. Management's perfect, golden— and their main guy is weird, too."

"Casey?" you say.

"Of course you know him. Oh, yeah. He's all—" Pat waggles her hands sarcastically. "—and it doesn't feel like an act, yeah? Comes from his weird little heart. But someone displeases him, and it's like snap, like he— I mean, he loses it. Brutalizes the guy. Then goes right back to usual. It's creepy! I think he's got one of those split personality things, maybe. Or Management's messed with his head."

>[+1 ID: 2/13]

Also... really interesting. Damn. You guess you are good at the whole detectiving thing? (Or not. She's clearly been pent-up about this stuff. But you're positive thinking, God-damnit, and it's going well.) "They do that?"

"I'm guessing. I don't know how else to explain some of the Headspace— by the way, say what you will about me and Lester, but at least we ran a normal workplace. Admit that. We didn't dope anybody, trap anybody, send anybody to any reeducation—"

"Sorry—" Madrigal cuts in. "—what the fuck are you talking about? Who's doping—"

"You just cut people's faces off," you say.

Pat throws her hands up. "Okay, you bitch, it's in the contract. It's for security purposes, it's safe, it's essentially painless, it's not a cut— that's barbaric— it takes one subcutaneous injection. What do you want from me, a kiss on the booboo? I don't operate on the nonconsenting. Ask Madrigal."

(3/4)

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"Oh, yeah. She just goes nuts, tries to blow their heads off. But she didn't scalpel me, if that was the question."

"You're made of goo," you say suspiciously.

"Well... yeah..." Madrigal flexes her fingers. "Don't get me wrong, I want my body back, but I guess it's not terrible. I look just like me, right?"

"...Ye-es, but you're wearing, um—"

"And I feel... mostly normal. There's some freaky shit, but I guess there's freaky shit with regular bodies too, if you think about it really—"

You hate how casual she's being about the whole disgusting topic. (And you're glad for it: it means you're sufficiently focused on the topic at hand, not...) On the other hand, though, this is great news for Gil— so his abandonment will be nice and frictionless— great news for Gil! You knew goo bodies existed, but never what they were like, really, and if they're mostly normal to be in? That's it. That's the solution. (It can't be worse than beetles.) And you have an entire expert right in front of you.

You hate Pat, though. And she hates you back, whether she answers your questions or not. You don't think she's just going to... help out.

>[1] Appeal to her skientific sensibilities. She's probably never tried using goo on beetles, right? Wouldn't that be interesting? (You don't want her to *experiment* on Gil, but that's a later problem.) [Roll.]
>[2] Appeal to her morals, if they exist. She *shot* Gil. She would've *killed* him if you hadn't intervened. She owes him a big one, basically. (Just leave out the fact that there was a spare Gil.) [Roll.]
>[3] Appeal to the fact that Madrigal has her whipped, apparently. In other words, appeal to *Madrigal,* then get her to get Pat to do it. [Roll.]
>[4] Just tell her you'll owe her a favor later. Done.
>[5] Write-in.

>>5528360
>[3] Appeal to the fact that Madrigal has her whipped, apparently. In other words, appeal to *Madrigal,* then get her to get Pat to do it. [Roll.]

>>5528360
>>[3] Appeal to the fact that Madrigal has her whipped, apparently. In other words, appeal to *Madrigal,* then get her to get Pat to do it. [Roll.]

>>5528360
>4
how can we turn down another sidequest opportunity?

>>5528365
>>5528609
>[3]

>>5529064
>[4]

Called for [3]. Need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 5 (-5 Acting Weird) vs. DC 40 (-10 Chipper, -5 Enjoys Bossing, +0 Who?, +5 Working Relationship) to get Madrigal to get Pat to chip in!

>>5529064
I'm so sorry, anon. I know this is really hard for you.

Rolled 26 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5529585
Watch THIS

Rolled 54 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5529585
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Rolled 25 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>5529585

>>5529604
>>5529611
>>5529640
>21, 49, 20 vs. DC 40 -- Mitigated Success
Drowned dice return to haunt us all. Writing.

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>Delegation
>21, 49, 20 vs. DC 40 — Mitigated Success

So you don't ask Pat. Duh. "Um, that's good. So you— was it easy for her to make you that? How long did it take? Did it hurt?"

Madrigal side-eyes you. "Richard gave up, huh?"

Your footsteps echo against the walls of the sewer.

"Uh-huh. Well, it didn't seem that hard, it didn't take that long... well, not that long to be functional. Took a couple days to look spiffy. And it didn't hurt, but it was a— a shock to the ol' senses, I'll put it like that. Being stuck in a snake was..." She takes a deep breath. "I can't remember it that well. Think that's probably good."

You don't care about the snake thing, or more accurately can't— if you start thinking about more than one thing, you're going to think about all sorts of things. "That is good. I guess. Um, that all sounds like... er... you know, I know someone who might need a body, actually. So that's funny."

"How convenient," Pat says. Madrigal side-eyes you harder. "Like a... ghost someone?"

"No! No, I just— um, he got stuck in a manse, basically, for a long time, and he can't get back to his real body, so he's been, um, hanging out... in my, um..."

"What the fuck? How many men do you have in there?"

One. "...Two. Though he's not really a— a man, uh, per se— he's a lot of beetles? Not on purpose, it just—"

"Bug guy! Oh, shit! I remember bug guy! Sorry, I— you know, it's all blocked off— he used to be a normal guy?"

"Yes."

Madrigal whistles. "That's some shit. No, yeah, I think this'd be an improvement over bugs. Pat, would it be that hard to—?"

"Piss off," she says flatly.

"Oh, come on, don't start shit. Why? You got something against bugs? Charlotte says he wasn't bugs on purpose—"

"Does he have blood?"

Madrigal looks at you. You look down. Richard said... "No."

"Then it's unreliable. Too much trouble."

It'd be more plausible if her voice wasn't so hard. You look pleadingly at Madrigal, who cocks her head. "Don't think I had blood."

"You were easy to extract, champ.."

"So fucking what? Come on, it's not like you don't have materials— I saw all the shit you had pumping through there— don't you want to do something decent for somebody, since you're such a decent fucking person?"

Pat's fists clench.

"I'm just saying, as your new boss, it'd be a good look to— you know— show some fucking initiative—"

"Okay," she snaps. "I'll do a basic treatment. I've never done it on bugs, so I can't guarantee anything. If there's complications, that's your problem. I wash my hands of it."

If there's complications, he'll have to stick around long enough to get them treated— or forever, if they're really, really bad. Madrigal looks about to protest, but you cut in. "That's fine."

"Great." Pat jerks her head. "Take a left."

(1/2?)

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The sewer tunnel has, up until now, fallen under the header of "things you can't think about"— helped by the fact that it looks mainly like every other sewer tunnel you've seen, including the one you briefly ventured into before the destroyed facility. It is definitely very round. You suppose it must've smelled sulfurous before, but here, near the juncture of the sewer and a smaller offshoot, it reeks. It doesn't stop reeking when you step into the smaller tunnel, but it does feel like the temperature raises a good five degrees. You would like to lay down very badly.

Thank God it really is a short walk from there. The smaller tunnel yawns into a small, dim cavern— natural once, maybe, but visibly hand-enlarged. The ceiling's painted bright blue, with glorbs installed into drilled holes in the stone. Like stars, you realize. They're laid out like stars. Somebody's little project.

>[+1 ID: 3/13]

Nobody's in the cavern, but a wooden sign— really a couple planks of wood— reads: "WELCOME TO HELLSBELLS / POP: 1̶7 1̶8 19"

Four tunnels snake off in different directions, each labeled by their own plank. Pat strolls into the leftmost one without stopping, and after a moment's hesitation you follow. The new tunnel is even dimmer (not that it affects you much), but a rope's been tacked against the right-side wall. You brush against it and it jingles— it's strung with little bells.

Did the name come first, or the rope? You don't have the energy to ask. Pat stops in front of a door (of sorts) embedded into the left-side rock. It's brightly painted, too, with crudely-rendered animals on it. That's probably a shark, there, but you have no idea what the thing with all the legs is.

For the first time, Pat seems doubtful. "...Not sure if he knows what happened."

"Who?"

"BK."

Ah. Not that you'd be upset about Pat getting chewed out, but you're desperate for a place to sit down. "...Do you want me to knock?"

She inclines her head and backs a little ways down the tunnel. You knock. "BE RIGHT THERE!" a man calls back, and shortly afterwards the door flies open. "Wow!" Earl says. "Charlotte? Is that you?"

"Hi," you say.

"I wasn't expecting an in-person visit! And you brought your lady friend? That's—"

"Wait." Madrigal stares. "You're fucking— you're Polasky. You're Bran's buddy, aren't you? I've seen you—"

"I am! Earl's fine, though, or BK, or— whatever you like, ladies. Come in! I— no. Nettie?"

You're in the hallway with Madrigal and a woman you recognize. A woman you last saw holding Gil at gunpoint. "Hi Earl," Pat says. "There was a little snafu. Can we stay overnight?"

(2/3)

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Yes, is the answer. Earl doesn't even blink. Yes, of course, he loves having friends (and friends of friends) over, it's small in here and he doesn't have much to sleep on but whatever you need he'll— mind the step. Did you avoid the vents okay? It's been a hot week. Is anyone scalded? He has medical— oh, that's just Buster, he's harmless, eats garbage.

"Buster," presently meandering about on the wall, is a plate-sized pill bug. Earl's "house" is bigger than your tent, by dint of having multiple fingerlike "rooms," but it's still cramped— and worsened by the amount of stuff Earl keeps around everywhere. The walls are packed with stained prints, torn paintings, and hand-cut newspaper photographs, not to mention the shelf of chipped vases. The settee is mercifully empty, if weathered, but the low table holds, among other things, an empty gilt candlestick, another vase, and a bowl of colorful rocks. "Sorry for the mess, ladies!" Earl doesn't sound all that sorry. "I don't get friends over too often... make yourself comfortable wherever you can. All I can say is I find something new every time I head past the junk field... would any of you like something? Roger in B makes his own brew, it's not bad—"

You claim the settee before anybody else thinks to. It feels good to sit.

>[1] You're not in good shape (to put it politely), but Earl is so aggressively friendly you'd feel antsy begging off. And he appears to be offering some sort of alcohol. Stay and... chat?
>[2] Damn Earl: you need to lay down. You promised Gil you'd check on him, and you have good news to deliver on the body front— say hello.
>[3] Damn Gil: you need to sleep. Now. Find somewhere quieter and pass out.
>[4] Write-in.

>>5529955
>[2] Damn Earl: you need to lay down. You promised Gil you'd check on him, and you have good news to deliver on the body front— say hello.
The mechanism of bodily travel through manses interests me extremely

>>5529955
>>[2]

>>5529955
>1
Earl seems like he has ID to spare, maybe we can absorb some of what he's radiating.

>>5529955
>[1] You're not in good shape (to put it politely), but Earl is so aggressively friendly you'd feel antsy begging off. And he appears to be offering some sort of alcohol. Stay and... chat?
I was about to pick 2 but this seems more fun.

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Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5530293
>>5530691
>[1]

>>5529975
>>5530141
>[2]

Flipping for it and writing. I've been working on this AMA question for a long time and finally got it "done"-- not completely happy with it, but it's good enough.

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>>5531100
[2] takes it, but if it's any consolation to the [1] voters this won't be your last chance to hang out.

Writing.

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>Beg off

...But lying down would feel better, and drinking some stranger's untrustworthy moonshine— with how bad your headache is already— is what Richard would've deemed "a poor life decision." If he were here, and you hadn't committed a different poor life decision. If your life wasn't one big poor decision, essentially.

There's no staying in this cramped room with these people: the atmosphere is sweaty and oppressive already, and they haven't even begun to talk loudly and touch one another and spill drinks on the settee; haven't even begun to celebrate the grand success you had nothing to do with. Hell, they don't seem to have realized that you don't belong at all— that you're a passing acquaintance at best, a hated enemy at worst, here at the wrong place at the wrong time with nothing of value to offer them. You're not intelligent. You're not charismatic— anti-charismatic, says Richard, said Richard. You're not witty, except on accident. You're a waste of space in the most literal possible sense— there is one settee and you are taking up all of it.

You are worried that if you drink anything you are going to cry. You are worried that if you drink anything you are going to kill somebody.

You stand up and mumble something about it being a long day and Earl doesn't bat an eye at that, either, just waves you off into the warren. You hate him for not being saddened and even more for not being angry: why is nobody angry at you? There's always been somebody angry when you did nothing wrong (for your whole life, nothing wrong) and when you do the wrongest thing imaginable, things imaginable— Gil's supportive, Lucky smug, Arledge resigned. Madrigal and Pat and Earl oblivious. Maybe you could rip the bandage off and tell them direct that you're not supposed to be here, that the right and good action here would be to scream at you and call you names. That you'd actually really appreciate it if they did that, because you're going crazy. There's God in you, and you're going crazy.

You can't do that. That really would be crazy. Your headache is so bad. You fumble into and out of rooms you don't care enough to recollect until you find one with an unmade makeshift bed and lay atop that. You lay there for what feels like a long time until the thought comes into your head that maybe Gil would be willing to yell at you, if you asked nicely enough, and then you plunge your hand into your pocket and come out with the model of your manse. It's pristine.

(Two things, then. The Sword and it.)

You wrap your fingers around it and think about opening — about [OPEN]ing — about Richard holding it in his palm and doing something with it, and your chest pangs and your head twists around and you sit up inside of your manse. Red light streams through the windows.

(1/2)

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"Lottie!" There's a cluster of beetles on the lip of the font. "Geez, I-I-I-I wasn't expecting you so soon! I-is everything alright? I—"

You squint against the light. "Where's the rest of you?"

"...My, uh, manse... um, I-I'm really sorry, I just— i-i-it's kind of gone all creepy in here, no offense, and I, um— well— I thought I-I could make more progress on—"

"I don't care." You wet your lips. "Can we go there instead?"

"Oh! Um, sure, I— i-i-it's probably nicer in there— not that i-it's not nice in here, but, um—" You stare at him. "Okay, um, I-I'll just lead you..."

He does, though he pauses frequently to make sure you're following. You're not sure why, since your footsteps boom against the empty ceiling. One of the inexplicable doors in the back wall is propped slightly open, and Gil waits for you to enter before darting in over your shoulder.

Gil's manse is not red. Gil's manse is a hill and a large leafy tree and the sky at dusk. And Gil, of course, up the hill, against the tree, sledgehammer propped up next to him. There's nothing left but a few chunks of concrete and a lot of dust to indicate there ever was a house.

You want him to know you're here without having to yell up at him, and somehow, miraculously, he does: gets up and cracks his shoulders and ambles a little ways down the hill. Behind him, beetles rain from the tree and gather up and zip past him. "Hold on," your Gil says, his voice going a little smeary— then he darts past you to join them. The beetles bunch. Gil, singular, walks through them.

He's wearing a sweater, for some reason. "Hey, Lottie," he says. "...I-Is everything alright?"

"You already said that," you say. "Why are you... why are your beetles out?"

"Huh? Uh..." He rubs his nose. "...I-I-I always thought it'd be too tough to split my attention, um, but I... but it works, actually. I-I-If you think it's weird I can, um—"

"It doesn't matter."

"Oh. Uh... alright. Are you alright? Did something happen?" He's trying to study your face. "...Did something happen to Madrigal?"

Yes. Something happened to Madrigal.

(Choices next.)

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>[A1] Tell him the truth: that Madrigal escaped just fine without you, and that the whole nightmare was essentially for nothing.
>[A2] Tell him what you'd like to be the truth: that you swept in and rescued Madrigal real quick just now. You're coming to tell him it was a success.
>[A3] Dodge the question: you don't know. You just found somewhere to rest real quick before you do the whole rescuing bit.
>[A4] Write-in.

(The [B]s are OPTIONAL. Pick as many as desired. There may not be room for all of them in the next update, but they'll be included when it makes sense.)
>[B1] Ask about his new sweater.
>[B2] Ask if he still has magyckal powers.
>[B3] Ask if he's angry at you. (Hope he's angry at you.)
>[B4] Ask what happened while you were... out.
>[B5] Tell him about the goo body offer.
>[B6] Demand an apology for his rude impugning of Richard's honor!
>[B7] Ask if you can take a nap under his tree or somewhere.
>[B8] Write-in.

>>5531473
>[A1] Tell him the truth: that Madrigal escaped just fine without you, and that the whole nightmare was essentially for nothing.
>[B1] Ask about his new sweater.
>[B2] Ask if he still has magyckal powers.
>[B3] Ask if he's angry at you. (Hope he's angry at you.)
>[B4] Ask what happened while you were... out.
>[B5] Tell him about the goo body offer.
>[B7] Ask if you can take a nap under his tree or somewhere.

>>5531473
>[A1] Tell him the truth: that Madrigal escaped just fine without you, and that the whole nightmare was essentially for nothing.
>[B1] Ask about his new sweater.
>[B2] Ask if he still has magyckal powers.
>[B4] Ask what happened while you were... out.
>[B5] Tell him about the goo body offer.
I don't want to gaslight Gil anymore.

>>5531472
>>[A1] Tell him the truth: that Madrigal escaped just fine without you, and that the whole nightmare was essentially for nothing.
>>[B1] Ask about his new sweater.
>>[B2] Ask if he still has magyckal powers.
>>[B4] Ask what happened while you were... out.
>>[B5] Tell him about the goo body offer.
>>[B7] Ask if you can take a nap under his tree or somewhere.

>>5531100
Heh... I got a good kek out of this lore tidbit...

>>5532055
>>5531473
Oh shit it's back and I'm supporting this one.

Also A2, congratulate Gil on finding new stuff with his beetle powers.

Heads up everybody: I'm heading out tonight, so the vote will be called on Sunday. Have a great day.

>>5532327
>Also A2, congratulate Gil on finding new stuff with his beetle powers.
Would you mind clarifying this a tad? What "new stuff"?

>>5531473
>A1
we're depressed enough to be honest

>B1, 4, 5, 7

>>5532356
Didn't he just learn to split himself?

> "Huh? Uh..." He rubs his nose. "...I-I-I always thought it'd be too tough to split my attention, um, but I... but it works, actually. I-I-If you think it's weird I can, um—"

>>5532622
>>5532356
You gotta feed, walk, AND praise your pets or else they leave you.

>>5532622
Ah, yeah, I figured it was that after I thought about it some more, but I wasn't sure what [A2] had to do with it. Technically speaking he didn't really "learn" it-- the implication is that he was always capable of this, but only realized that after manipulating Teddy+Teddy's beetles without difficulty. Charlotte wouldn't know or care about that, though.

>>5531536
>>5532019
>>5532055
>>5532327
>>5532368
Looks like we have majorities for
>B1, B2, B4, B5, B7

Called. Might try and do some writing on the airplane, update tonight.

>>5533800
Uh, and [A1], obviously. Same deal.

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Unpacking and cleaning took several hours, didn't eat dinner until midnight, complex update. It'll be tomorrow, sorry folks. Possibly midday.

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>>5534272
Meme related.

>>5534594
I just had a stress dream about not being able to update for a third day in a row and I'm going to assume it's your fault. Thanks, saved

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>Best policy, etc.

You look down at the ground. "She's fine."

"Oh. Well, um, I-I-I guess that's... wait, how do you know?" Gil's eyes widen. "Did you get her out already? I-I knew we had to be close, but not that—"

"Please shut up," you say dully. He does. "She got herself out. And the snake, and... Pat, somehow. That's who shot you. They're best friends now, and she's not hurt or messed up at all, and she didn't need me for anything. Us for anything."

You're uncertain if the reedy whine of Gil's wings has grown louder or if the silence just makes it feel that way. His face has dropped.

"I'd like to sit down," you say, after a moment.

He gestures wordlessly up the hill. You nod and wrap your arms around you and walk; he follows at a small distance, still whirring. You sit against the tree where he was before (because what can you do but take up space), and he moves in two directions, flitting into the tree and squatting into the grass. The horizon is yellow.

"The only thing different is that she was wearing different clothes. Whoreish ones." You pull at a blade of grass. "I don't know. I guess that part's not different. What are you wearing?"

Gil flushes slightly. The tree rustles with beetles.

"...Um," you say, "you can... talk."

"Ah." He looks down. "I-I-It's not really— I-I-I just— if you want me to change it, I'll—"

"I didn't ask you to change it. I just asked what it was."

"...A sweater..."

"Why?"

He flushes harder, and opens and closes his mouth. "I-I-I just— does it matter? I-I really don't think I... look, I-I just liked it, and—"

He's lying to you, and not even trying that hard to hide it. You don't have to be smart to figure that out. He's lying to you because he doesn't trust you, and because he probably doesn't like you, after today— but realistically not from the start, either. He's been plotting his escape from the start, and who could blame him? You don't. You just wish, frivolously, that he'd be a little more subtle about it. So it wouldn't be so much like torture.

Gil sees your face and wrongly assumes you're about to cry. You're not. You're past that. But he goes all live and panicky anyways, nearly falling back onto his hands. "Shit! Lottie! I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I— I-I-I-I-I— I-I-I— please, I just— it's not— I— goddammit— Teddy had one, and I-I thought it was— cool, alright? I-I-I knew I couldn't pull off the slicker or the boots but I-I thought I could— I-I-I-I think I was wrong, though, I'll just— I'll go change, forget about it, it's not a problem, just give me a—"

He's standing up. You stare. "...It looks fine."

"Huh?"

"It looks fine. The color's good with your complexion. The material's..." You rise to your knees and grab ahold of his wrist, then rub the fabric between your fingers. "...high-quality. It's thick. There's nothing wrong with it."

(1/3)

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Gil is ruddier than usual, but mercifully silent. The hand you're grasping is glowing bright blue, which lingers even after you drop it and retreat against the tree. "What?" you say. "Trying to magyck me?"

"No! No, I—" He yanks his hand to his chest. "I-I-I can't control it, it just—"

"Maybe if you went on a vision quest you could control it," you mutter.

"Sorry... I mean, I-I wasn't trying not to go on one! I-I-I was trying to get rid of it, and then the tent guy went and goddamn fucked with my— I mean, I was fucked up, Lottie. Thinking and doing all sorts of stupid shit..."

Hah. "Like hugging me."

"Yeah! I-I-I mean, I— I think it drugged me, basically, and now I can't get rid of it— i-it just activates— and I-I think it's still got its goddamn hooks in my brain, because—"

Hah. "Shut up. What did it do? Did it make you hug me, or did it let you?"

He stops.

"Gilbert?"

The beetles have stopped, too. There's no noise from the tree. The breeze knocks your hair around. "That's not my name," Gil says under his breath.

"Gilbert."

"What does it matter? I-I-I don't—"

You dig your fingers into the soil. "GIL!"

"What do you want me to say?! I-I-I-I hadn't been touched in— and you hugged me! Just now! So I-I don't know—"

"Stop LYING to me!" There. Now he knows something's wrong with you— he can see it in your eyes. He's disgusted with you. "I have done NO such thing!"

"Yes you did? After I-I rescued you, you... and then I-I-I... is that why you're mad at me? Because I-I-I-I didn't goddamn kill myself? Because you told me not to! You can't tell me not to and then lose your shit, that's not fair— I-I know I should've, but—"

Frightened and disgusted, as he should be, and spouting more lies, as he always does— you haven't done anything like that, haven't done anything but wander dazed out of the smoking crater of your best friend— better than him— Annie wouldn't have left you. She didn't get a choice. Your head hurts like a shotgun blast. "Shut UP! Why did you— who gave you the RIGHT to rescue me!?"

He's gotten up, at this point, and has backed away. He's glowing all over. "What are you talking about?! You were—"

"I was HAPPY! And GOOD at things, and nobody was DEAD—"

"You killed two people?! I-I-I think you're delirious, Lottie, you're not—" He's blinking rapidly. "You've still got that stuff in you, alright? I-I was too much of a pussy to get it out, and I'm sorry, but we've got to deal with it still, and you've... but this isn't my fault, okay? You made some real boneheaded goddamn moves, objectively, and we can talk about those when you're not— you're not—" He takes a shaky breath. "Could you please hold still?"

(2/3)

"I'll do what I want," you snap.

"I-I-I'm just trying to help you. Please, I— and then we can talk? I-I'd really like you to promise not to do stupid shit like this, but that's— one step at a time— I-I-I don't think this'll hurt, okay? I-I know you're mad at me, for some reason, but you've got to trust—"

For some reason? He's going to leave and not even say goodbye.

>[A1] Trust him, somehow.
>[A2] Don't trust him, obviously.
>[A3] Fail to have a choice in the matter.

>You can't, or won't, make promises like this. While you're like this. Tell him...
>[B1] That there's no point in making promises to somebody who's going to be *gone* tomorrow.
>[B2] That there's no point in it, because everything you do qualifies as stupid.
>[B3] That there's no point in it, because it's impossible to rely on you.
>[B4] Write-in. Pls take into account Charlotte's current dogshit mental state

>>5535443
>[A2] Don't trust him, obviously.
>[B1] That there's no point in making promises to somebody who's going to be *gone* tomorrow.

>>5535437
I really like the palette you used for this painting— and the shading on the leaves/sunset. Very nice work! :-)

>>5535443
>[A1] Trust him, somehow.
>[B1] That there's no point in making promises to somebody who's going to be *gone* tomorrow.

>>5535465
Yeah the art there is very nice

>>5535443
>[A3] Fail to have a choice in the matter.
>[B2] That there's no point in it, because everything you do qualifies as stupid.

>>5535443
>A1
he's right, we've still got red stuff in us

>B2
we've been thinking all depressed, it fits

File: bad day expanded.png (2.66 MB, 1604x1077)

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>>5535465
>>5535897
>[A1]

>>5535459
>[A2]

>>5535507
>[A3]

Called for [A1]...

>>5535459
>>5535465
>>5535507
>>5535897
And there's nothing stopping [B1] and [B2] from being combined. Writing*.

*Or at least starting to write, no guarantees it'll be out sooner than "today sometime." Attentive anons might notice I've called this vote way earlier than normal, and the simple explanation is that I've begun my spring semester and I can no longer stay up late to write. I'm sticking to 1x update per day, but it's likely to be posted at different times than usual-- try and get your vote in as early as you can to make sure it gets counted.

>>5535465
>>5535467
Thanks, folks-- if I can't update properly, it's the least I can do to draw something up. I've attached a full-size version, since I think my crop came out too small this time.

>>5535921
Gil's hair is so much lighter than I always imagine it to be

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>>5536033
Yeah, he's a dirty blond.

>>5536051
A dirty, dirty blonde ;)

>Surrender

He's edging toward you, fingers curled unsubtly at his side. He thinks he can fix you, or something. Thinks he can plunge his stupid hand into the blackened wound at your center and sew it right back up. Maybe he hasn't realized how deep it goes, or how long it's been rotting. Your plaster was too good. He's going to touch you and find termites.

Maybe he's just stupid. That's the other explanation: he has realized, and he's stupid. He thinks he alone is immune. Surely he won't catch diseases. Or he thinks that you'll yourself refuse to touch him— that you've never done anything wrong in your life (until now), so you must be good and safe way down. You don't think he understands the facts about that. That "doing" isn't "being." That you can do and do and do all you want, but unless you were born in a buck novel under a lucky star it amounts to real life nothing— and you were born with something wrong inside, so for you doing everything right amounts to humiliation and death. Monty was right: you are like him, completely. He's wrong inside, too. He's just better at hiding it, enough so most people don't even notice, right up until it claws on out of him. You understand this now. You could strangle Gil if he comes closer, can envision it so freely and clearly it may well as be true— your bleached-out nails, his zipping, buzzing heart, his tiny noises, his grip leaving yellow dapple-bruises on your wrist. You'd have to explain them to Pat and Madrigal and Earl, maybe. Or maybe not. Would Madrigal care if you extinguished the man who stole her body? Would Pat and Earl shed a tear over the felling of an unrepentant jacker?

Would you? Can you cry? Is there something red in your tear ducts? You don't think you actually know. All the parts of you seem to be moving independently— your mouth, for instance, has taken to emitting a high-pitched whimper. And your stomach is churning again. Gil is almost within arm's reach, but there's still time to duck out of the way and take off sprinting, or to draw The Sword and send his head rolling off his— off his— you curl your neck to vomit onto your boots, but are halted by a hand against your cheek. The hand is calloused and clammy and as it brushes a lock of hair behind your ear it leaves behind snail-trails of flopsweat. Gil has stooped down before you. His expression is stupid.

"Okay..." he says, and wipes his hand on his pants. "Um... like I-I-I said, just hold still... sorry..."

You might be wrong, but you've been brought up properly enough to know you shouldn't vomit on another person— even under duress. You don't dare move. Gil rubs his hands together, as if to start a fire, and they flare up brilliant blue—

(1/4)

File: TRUST ME.png (5.35 MB, 1563x1629)

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You hear ocean. You taste ocean. Gil's expression would be stupid if his eyes weren't rolled up into his head, and if you were not being scoured through with fast, frigid water— lifting the grime and the blood and the sweat out of you, killing the termites, sterilizing the wound. It is not a cure. It is not making you right inside. (Maybe nothing can.) But you feel rawer, by the end, and wider awake, even as Gil collapses limply onto you. Beetles rain from the tree around him.

You check to make sure he's breathing (he is, shallowly) before beginning to weep. It is a long minute before the beetles flicker with motion and Gil rouses himself to a shaky sitting position. He surveys you. "Shit... did it hurt?"

It didn't. It did. "I don't know," you say wetly. "I— I— I'm sorry for—"

"You weren't in your right mind." He squeezes his hands together. "I-I'm sorry I didn't fix it. I shouldn't have listened to you."

You sniffle. "What are you talking about?"

The wind whistles. Gil dips his head.

"You were talking about... killing yourself? Earlier?"

"I-I wasn't going to die," he mumbles, "and I-I-I'd call it more of a sacrifice than a—"

"A sacrifice?" Your lip wobbles. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever— if you die I'll be alone! I'll just have— I'll just have— you're the best retainer I have, and— leaving's one thing, but dying—"

"I-I wasn't going to die! Geez!" He doesn't look as mad as he's trying to sound. "I-I-It was just the practical move! And speaking of practical moves, we need to talk about—"

You stiffen. "I can't make promises."

"I-I-It doesn't have to be a promise, per se, but we need to—"

"No." You wrap your arms around your knees.

"Lottie... I-I-I know it's been a lot, today, and I'm not saying you deserve— I'm not saying you deserve all the awful shit— I-I mean, the worm was just excessive. That was cruel. But we can't go on like—"

"But we're not going on!"

Gil looks on in bewilderment as you begin to sob into your slacks. "What?"

"We're not— we're not— there's no 'we'! You're—" You swallow down some mucus. "—you're leaving! Pat's going to get you a real body, then you're going to go back to your life, and I'll just be—"

"No! What? Aw, geez, Lottie, I— who's going to get me a real body?"

"Pat! She— she shot you! It's a long story..."

"Uh-huh." He blinks. "I mean, I-I-I-I'm not leaving?"

Maybe he is stupid after all. "Gil. It's a real body. I mean, it's... it's goo, but it's in real life, and—"

"I-I got that, I just— where would I go? Back west?" He flexes his fingers. "I-I-I'd be a freak just with the beetle thing, and now with the god shit... geez, I'd be a goddamn laughingstock. And that's if they even remember me."

"Oh," you say.

"See? And I-I've already kind of been meeting people around here... i-i-it's still sort of a shithole, but I'd rather be together in a shithole than alone in a city... you know?" He's not making eye contact.

"Oh." You furrow your eyebrows. "But you hate— you don't like any of the heroing. You're not cut out for—"

"I-I-I never said I hated it, I just— I think you overcomplicate things, Lottie, that's all. I-I-I think that if we just go about things in a logical way, and stop doing random stupid shit, then it'll run a whole lot— oh, come on, what?"

You've begun to sob again. (It's not your fault. It's been all pent up.) "It won't work! Everything I do is— is—"

"Is stupid? What?" Gil squints. "Geez, is that what Richard tells you all the time? That fucking guy. I mean, raised by him, anybody would—"

"He's dead! And he's right, anyways, I—" You tip your head backwards to rest against the tree. It doesn't relieve the throbbing much. "—she rescued herself, Gil. This was all one big dumb idea from the start."

"Okay, and did you know she would? Because if you knew she would, and you just thought you could beat her to it, that would be dumb. But if you thought she was trapped—"

"I thought she was trapped," you mutter. "But I should've—"

"Fuck 'should've.' You did what you could do, didn't you? Did more than I would've done, which is goddamn nothing— I would've sat on my ass and let her rot. But you got out there, and you put yourself through a lot of shit, and if that lady can't appreciate that—"

"She's kind of a bitch."

"Then let her be a bitch! Who gives a shit?" Gil's getting sort of heated. "You would've rescued her if you could've, so she can go shove her thumb up her ass. You can tell her you objectively did the heroic thing—"

He thinks that's why you did it? The heroic thing? Heroes are born, not made, and if they are made they're made from results. If they set out to save somebody, they save them, and that's what gets them the drinks and the friends and the courteously declined marriage proposals. Success. Not good intentions.

...Maybe. To be totally fair, you've never properly met a hero(ine) in real life, so you don't have a lot to go off of. It's possible the requirements are less stringent than they appear to be— maybe all it takes is enough people agreeing? Or a couple people really, wholeheartedly believing it? Gil seems to, for some reason. You don't think he was like this before. You hope you didn't hit him over the head while you were out. But you don't have a lot of choice but to take it. "...Okay."

"Okay?"

"I guess it was good I went in the first place..." You sigh. "But I still bungled it! It all went horrible! So I don't know what—"

(3/4)

"It didn't all go... it started okay, and then it started going, um..." Gil scratches his nose. "The point was, it wasn't all stupid. Nothing you do is all stupid. It kind of looks that way, sure, but then it usually works out, so— you've got some method going on, right? It's just that some things really are stupid, and that's what we're gonna weed out. Okay?"

You don't know why he's so confident about this. Or in general. "I guess?"

"Yeah! See? We don't need Richard. You and me, together—" He gestures broadly. "—we can do some shit, okay? And we'll get your problem under control..."

"Yeah," you say wanly. "Yeah, that... sounds good. Can we do that after I take a nap?"

"Huh? Uh... here?"

You look around. "Yeah?"

"Oh. Um, I-I-I don't have anywhere to— to sleep—"

"The ground? I'm not... I have a really bad headache, Gil, I..."

"I-I-It's fine! You can go ahead and— I-I don't have a problem with— um, I-I-I finished with the sledgehammering, so that's not a—" He wrings his hands. "Just go ahead."

"Okay." You slump further against the tree. The beetles chirr above you. "...Oh yeah. Did I really hug you? Earlier?"

"...Yeah," Gil says.

"Was it prompted? Did you ask me to, or—?"

"No," Gil says.

You contemplate this. "...Did you reciprocate?"

His face contorts— in regret? Embarrassment? Did he do something he shouldn't have, or not do something he should've? You're not even sure what you want to hear from him, or what you're asking in the first place. It's untoward. He's unmarried, and your age. But you're finding yourself more concerned with something else— with him drugged on pagan nonsense and you perplexed; with you drugged on who-knows-what and him terrified. Two half-hugs does not a whole one make. It makes things strange.

Gil thumbs at his sweater. You look at him.

>[A1] Hug.
>[A2] Do not.

>[B] Say something? (Write-in. Optional.)

>>5536449
>>[A1] Hug.

>>5536449
>>[A1] Hug.

>>5536449
>>5536551
Oh my shit I forgot that I voted... my bad.

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>>5536546
>>5536551
>Rigging the hug vote
I see how it is. just kidding I'm gonna assume lag--

>>5536553
That works too, kek.

>>5536086
I don't know what you're talking about, anon, Gil would never have heterosexual impulses...

>>5536449
>[A1] Indulge in tactile human contact long denied to us.

>>5536449
A1

We will have the most awkward of hugs.

>>5536449
>A1
give him the rib breaker

>>5536546
>>5536655 (checked)
>>5536657
>>5537014
Writing shortly.

>Human(?) contact

Maybe you're not thinking about this right. Maybe the half-hugs— they're actually worth negative. (That's why they're so strange.) Therefore two negative halves together makes one negative whole... right? Are you remembering your unwilling mathematics tutoring properly? And to cancel that out, you need one, er, positive whole. Yeah. Which means, in this case, one regular non-pagan hug.

You're a little proud of figuring this out, given how you rank mathematics somewhere around sewing in terms of pleasure and usefulness. It's all very objective, which you think Gil will approve of. You doubt he wants things to be strange either, so you ought to be partners-in-crime here. Jolly cooperators. You're glad you didn't tell him you were thinking of strangling him, because...

(Oh, God, you were thinking of strangling him. Oh, God. Oh, God.)

...because that would've made things way more difficult! And also very strange. But all you have to do now is clear your throat and explain all the positives and negatives, and get Gil's approval, and it will be fixed. He'll agree, and it'll be fixed, and you won't want to strangle him or anybody. Nothing will be the matter. Positive thinking.

"Ahem," you say, and wipe your eyes on your sleeve for good measure. "So, I was thinking—"

You explain the positives and the negatives. Gil doesn't seem to follow until you get to the 'canceling it out' bit, but after that he looks sideways and starts to fiddle with his suspenders. "Well, i-i-it's logical..."

"Yes!" you say, and straighten up. "I thought so!"

"I-I-I-I guess we don't really have any choice, the way you put it..."

He really is your best retainer. He understands perfectly. "Absolutely no choice. It's actually sort of a— a dire—"

"It is, actually."

His tone was more serious than you were expecting, and you flinch as he lifts himself to his feet. You don't notice him approaching until his hand's already in your face. "So come on. Who knows how long we have, Lottie? Can't waste time."

"That..." Your lips quirk. "...That is logical..."

He waves his hand, and you take it and grip it. Even as he pulls you to your feet he loses his nerve— his arm goes limp and his eyes very white— but by then you've gained yours, launching yourself into him hard enough to bang your forehead against his chin. "Ow," you say. "Oof," he says, and stumbles back a bit. It's a couple of seconds before he places his hands delicately over your shoulderblades— no, your upper back— no, one and the other? He's figuring that part out. You suppose he has it harder, being slightly (but not enormously) taller than you are: your hands just went straight around, and your head sort of over his shoulder. This is good, in your opinion. Less looking at each other.

(1/4)

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The problem, you quickly discover, is that other things filter in to replace the looking. Facts, you mean. Fun facts. For instance, Gil isn't that warm. (Not like Richard is, or was.) He's room-temperatureish, which after some thinking you chalk up to the beetles. He's also kind of rubbery feeling, way up close— like his skin isn't quite skin, like you can dig your fingers into his neck and find a seam. Both of these are true, of course. You made this body. (Don't think about how you made this body.) This also explains why his chest is so rigid, underneath the sweater, and why when you press your ear to him there's no heartbeat. There is a faint humming like a motor and a deeper buzzing like several dozen frantic beetles, or possibly vice versa. (You are thinking about how you made this body.) Gil's grip on you has firmed. He does breathe.

>[+1 ID : 4/13]

Surely he doesn't have to breathe, and you think about querying before deciding it's unlikely to be a choice. More likely, he doesn't know what else there is to do. You don't know what else there is to do, either. You're also breathing. His not-skin is beaded with sweat, you guess from the sledgehammering. You wonder if he's choosing his beetles to flit down on top of you, your shoulderblades and upper back and his solid hands cradling them, or if it's more like breathing. They tickle your neck. You can't remember what it was like in his head, with the you and the beetles, so you can't know for sure. Something about stars.

>[+2 ID: 6/13]

The sweat is odd, though. Surely that doesn't happen automatically? It's getting your cheek all sticky, not that you'd say anything. Gil hasn't said anything, and you think it's best to follow his lead. (You wish you hadn't wanted to strangle him.) You won't tell him how he smells, either, primarily because you can't pin it down: do beetles smell like anything? No, right? But he doesn't smell much like a person, either, not even a sweaty person. It's grassy and musty and dusky, you suppose, but mostly... oily. He smells strongly like lamp oil.

>[+3 ID: 9/13]

But you can't tell him that, right? You have to keep it bundled up with the other facts, all the ones you vaguely feel you shouldn't know about a person. They never describe this hard in the novels, or you skip over it when they do. (Maybe you can tell him later.) He's squeezing you slightly. It's entirely possible that his body is the one heating up. Is he sweating oil? Is that it? That has to be it— you're sure that if you looked carefully it'd be yellowish. It's viscid enough. But you can't look, because you're locked out onto the unchanging sky, and if you asked he'd get all dumb and stuttery. But you can't just not confirm it, either. You need something to be correct about today. Fortunately, you know exactly how lamp oil ta...

(2/3)

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Gil doesn't just stiffen: he goes corpselike. Gravelike. His fingertips dig painfully into your back— "Ouwh," you say, tongue out— and he ceases to breathe, which would worry you if not for the continued hum of the motor and/or chest beetles. "Lottie," he forces out.

Geez. You're kind of in the middle of something. "Mm-hm?"

"You're not... licking me...?"

"Ouh tah lih lah oil," you inform him.

"...What?..."

You retract your tongue. "You taste like lamp oil. Or maybe not lamp oil exactly, but some kind of—"

Gil releases you. He's gone an actively concerning shade of red, something like a third-degree sunburn, and has begun to scrub at his neck with his sleeve.

You find this somewhat offensive. "Um, okay. Good regular hug. Good job. Are you sure you don't need to lie down? By the way, I'm thinking it might be flammable— your sweat— so you might want to incorporate that into the flamethrower design. Just saying. Also, do you actively control your beetles all the time? Also— ow."

That wasn't a question. That was your head panging brutally. Gil won't look at you at first, having sunken back onto the ground, but when you switch from "ow"s to "AUGH"s he does. When you sink to your own knees, he cups his face in his hands. "What i-i-i-is it?"

>[-3 ID: 6/13]

You don't know. How are you supposed to know? It just got worse, way way way worse, like he took a chisel to your skull. There's something happening around your chest, too, weirder than pain. There's no explaining that. "I think you have poison sweat..." you say semi-coherently.

"What?" He's grimacing. He hasn't gone much less red. "What the fuck are you— how do you live like this? How are you an actual—"

"How do we live like this..." The headache is excruciating, but you're more concerned about the chest thing, which is building all too fast. "Gil..."

He laughs sharply and ducks his head and when he looks back his expression changes. "Oh, fuck. What the fuck."

"...Gil...?"

"Don't look down. Please."

You look down. There is a hand sticking straight out of you, a pale one, with manicured fingernails. Your chest is sunken in a little bit around it. "Ah," you say. "Ah. That doesn't... that doesn't usually..."

"Okay, cool. Cool goddamn fucking shit. I-I-I-I'm glad you don't— shit!" The hand lurches toward him. There's a whole arm, now, with wristwatch and shirtsleeve— with brass wristwatch, with white shirtsleeve, with fine blond hairs striping it. Gil is red and paralyzed until you grip the grass and yell "GRAB IT!" into his face, and then he bolts and grabs the hand and strains. It takes a second arm forcing itself out of your chest, and him grabbing that one too, before there's a suction noise and all-of-a-sudden two different men flying backwards past you.

(3/4)

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The pain has ceased entirely. Your chest is fine. One of the men is Gil, and the other is limp and sopping wet. When Gil stands— he's acquired a tight-jawed kind of look— the other doesn't. He's wearing a crumpled wet shirt and crumpled black pants and black dress shoes, and a tie. It's wet. It's yellow. It has a tiny scale print on it.

You make a noise.

A puddle has formed around the other man, and he splashes a little when he twitches. He also makes a noise, though not a particularly human one.

Gil goes off to sulk against the tree.

The other man attempts and fails to rise, and makes a definitely inhuman noise; he tries again and manages at least to flip onto his back. Richard, wet, stares up at the sky. His fingers tap the grass. His throat bobs.

"You're dead," you say, and his head flops over to look at you. "You're dead," you say, and his eyebrows go down. He gargles something, to no result. He tries again. "Kharr-he—?"

That isn't Richard's voice— you'd be hard-pressed to even call it a snake sort of voice, though you suppose you wouldn't know. It's gutteral. He sounds like he just crawled out of the mud somewhere.

Then again, he just crawled out of you. And that is Richard, unambiguously. You glance on Gil, who's laid himself out on his back, and swallow. "I'm Charlie. Yeah."

"Kharrrr-he." He's smiling as best he can, but there's way too many teeth. His hand grasps in your direction. You feel bad for him, or something, feel— you don't know. You might've run out of good, describable emotions for the day. But you pick yourself up and crouch back down in front of him, in any case, and don't flinch when he cradles your temples. You do when he punches six fingers into the skin of your face, but fall blank immediately: the next thing you know he's pushing the holes closed. Your head is full of colors. You feel rifled-through.

Richard is still sopping, but his lips are pulled back over a regular amount of teeth. "Charlie," he says softly.

You are definitely out of feelings.

>[1] He's dead.
>[2] He's wet.
>[3] He sounded like a lizard or something.
>[4] He came out of your chest???
>[5] He gave you a headache.
>[6] You were doing just fine without him.
>[7] You **and Gil** were doing just fine without him.
>[8] You were going to take a nap.
>[9] You think you need a doctor. Like, a god doctor.
>[10] You killed him.
>[11] Write-in.

>>5537793
I like that Charlotte's reaction to strangling impulses is "Oh God oh no" and not "He deserves it but I will control myself". This is the sort of thing many "better" people would fail to do in her circumstances, I suspect.

>>5537798
Goddammit Charlie.

>>5537799
Goddammit Richard.

>[1] He's dead.
>[10] You killed him.
>[4] He came out of your chest???
>[9] You think you need a doctor. Like, a god doctor.
>[8] You were going to take a nap.

>>5537799
>11

> "Richard." Just a statement. This is happening and you are here and while it's unexpected, you aren't really surprised.

Should you kill him again, now while he is weak? Do you really need him?

>>5537799
>>[1] He's dead.
>[10] You killed him.
>[4] He came out of your chest???
>[7] You **and Gil** were doing just fine without him.
>[9] You think you need a doctor. Like, a god doctor.
>[8] You were going to take a nap.

>>5537798
Great amounts of spaghetti were dropped in this update...

>>5537799
>1
>10
>4

>7 if he starts getting all uppity

>>5537802
>>5538061
>>5538095
>>5538151
Majorities for [1], [4], [8], [9], and [10], plus I'll take >>5538061's write-in and [7] if Richard gets uppity.

Writing...ish: will be sporadic, update likely to come out sometime in the evening.

>>5537802
>>5538095
Aren't you glad we're getting back to normal? :^)

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>Welcome back!

"Richard," you say back to him. Your mouth still tastes like Gil's sweat.

Like you, Richard might've run out of feelings: he's not discernably angry or self-satisfied or anything else you'd imagine, unless he's hiding it. He might be cleverly hiding it. Or it might be an imposter— a Richard gooplicate. (Except he came out of your chest.) Or, more reasonably, he's just not all there yet. Hasn't realized you killed him yet. That'd explain the doe-eyes.

He hasn't responded to you (not that you said much of anything)— he's just struggling to sit up right now, dripping all over himself, leaving a square of crushed grass under him. Grass litters the back of his shirt. You don't know if you've ever seen Richard dirty before, unless the blood counts. You are going to say it doesn't.

It occurs to you that you could try to kill him again. Your sword's at your hip, after all, and he's barely formed. There can't possibly be much resistance. Gil said you didn't need him, and he's— you— he's right, of course. You don't need Richard. Richard is mean to you, is obsessed with some stupid secret plan, has shocked you a couple times. He wears stupid clothes. He chain-smokes gross cigarettes. By all those standards, his redeeming traits are pretty thin on the ground. Maybe that means he deserves to die. You don't know. You just wish he weren't so wet and so dirty. You wish his first words weren't "Charlie" three times. He's sat up finally, and has taken your wrist. He's not doing anything with it. He just holds it in his cold damp hand and looks at you.

You should kill him. More importantly, you should hate him— his reappearance should be inspiring revulsion and fury. You ought to be screaming in his face, and maybe waving your sword around. But he's moved his grip up a little, to make your hand all wet, and it's probably a deliberate ploy and you're probably a fool. But you can do nothing but think about how he's saved you, over and over, long past the point of reason— when surely it'd be easier to throw you out and get some other girl. And yes, he's an ass about it. And yes, Gil can replace him. (If he isn't too mad about the licking thing.) That doesn't change how sick you'd feel— how sick you felt. You killed him once, and it wasn't on purpose, and it created one of the worst days of your life. Killing him twice wouldn't just be evil; it'd be suicidal.

Also, you don't know if it'd stick, and then it'd just be embarrassing if he showed up again. You don't technically know if he died, even. He vanished. You feel like you should clear this up.

"You're dead," you say.

"Yes," he says. "Well. I was."

Okay, you don't miss the portentous statements. "Fine. You died, and now you're, what, not-dead—"

"Yes."

Or the unhelpfulness. You bet he already knows— he's just trying to get you to admit it. Fine. "I killed you."

"No, Charlie, you really didn't."

Or the self-contradictions. "But—"

"I've told you I can't be killed." He strokes his thumb against the back of your hand. "And I wasn't. There was nothing to worry about."

This is so evidently wrong that you struggle for a response. "But I stabbed—"

"Yes. What exactly did you stab?" (You sigh out your nose.) "I'll levy a guess. Was it this body?"

Leading questions. You should've killed him. You narrow your eyes at him, to make sure he knows it.

"There's your problem, then. Remember that this body isn't real? You created it, primrose. If you destroy it, you simply create it again. No trouble." He pats your shoulder. "Well, a little trouble for me, I suppose, but nothing drastic. Just a swim."

"...Uh-huh." This bit's GS. Richard died. Even if he's concealing every ounce of smugness, he shouldn't be passing up the opportunity to pass the blame your way. "I didn't create anything, though, I was just— I was going to take a nap, actually, and then—"

"Ah, that's life, isn't it. Full of interruptions to naps." He cracks a smile. "And I'm not saying it was conscious, Charlie, but I am— I am a creature of your mind. Yes? Were you thinking of me frequently?"

God-damnit. "N...o."

"Really? I'm hurt." (He should be hurt. But he sounds like he's joking.) "Nevertheless, I'm sure I take up a lot of passive space... family tends to, as a rule. So—"

You freeze. "You're not my family."

"No? Does your father not count as—?"

Okay, so Richard is probably-certainly-definitely your long-dead father, except a snake and mean. You've got that. You thought you both moved past that, thought he did especially, given how he seemed to hate the whole concept— hate your father in particular, even. That's why it was always a "theory." A "possibility." He left room for error, and what a colossal, terrifying error it would've been. To be wrong about it all.

He didn't just go and say it. Especially not lightly. You rise to your feet and step backwards. "...Richard?"

"What is it, Charlie?"

So he responds to the name. That's weird. "What's the last thing you remember? Before this?"

"Before this?" He hooks his arm over his knee. "You wanted help with a... ritual, I believe."

So essentially everything, short of the murdering and the being-dead. That's really weird. "...Okay. Just for fun, can you do something Richard-y? Like make something appear out of thin air, or—"

He tilts his head and brandishes a soggy cigarette. Then he frowns. "Oh, that's no good."

"No," you say. "...That's not good."

"One moment." He closes his hand around it, then reopens it to reveal a soggy book of matches. "Hm. Might need to dry off."

(2/4?)

"Y-es." You're fairly sure your real father couldn't make things appear, soggy or not. And Richard sounds like Richard— his voice isn't deeper. And yet. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Could be better, Charlie, could be better. Could be much worse, too, given the circumstances— I believe I'll be able to stand up fairly soon! Thanks for asking," says Nice Richard.

He's not supposed to thank you for anything, unless that anything is "lying to his boss for him." It's A), a trick, or B), an impostor for real. Albeit a God-awful one. Or it's C), something has gone terribly wrong in Richard's brain, but you'd rather... you're going to go with A), for the time being, and keep an eye out for slip-ups. "Sure thing," you say, and clear your throat. "So where does the— um— so why did you come out of... me? ...Physically?"

"I'm inside of you," Nice Richard says matter-of-factly. (There is a strangled sound from the tree.) "Meta-physically. But this space is unreal, so there's a conflation of the two."

"Okay," you say. "Great."

Nice Richard smiles beatifically up at you and rises shakily to his feet. "Indeed. Thanks for your service, primrose."

On your to-do list: get him to stop calling you that. Also, more thanking. This has to be his twisted revenge. "Sure thing."

A period of silence follows. Richard adjusts his tie, which doesn't do much to help it. "Well, I suppose I ought to go shake Beetles' hand. Or legs, as it were. Seems as though he did quite a lot to—"

You envision Gil being offered a handshake. "Um, I— I don't think that'll be necessary— I'm sure he can—" He's on the move. "Richard! Just hold on a—"

You catch up quickly (he's moving at a shamble), but have the ill foresight to blink, after which he's already at the tree. The conversation is ongoing by the time you hustle over: Gil, unlit cigarette in hand, makes eye contact with you. "I-i-it's alright, really," he says pleadingly. "I-I-I-I didn't do much of—"

"Nonsense! I have it on excellent authority that—"

"What?" you say. "I can't remember him doing stuff either. Um, not that you didn't— I know you did stuff, Gil, it's just all blanked out." A cleaned and bandaged wound. "But I'm not an excellent authority, and you were dead, Richard, so—"

"Alright, alright," says Nice Richard. "So I may have over-exaggerated! But you're clearly in good health, Charlie, after quite an ordeal— or so it seems— and I think that's worthy of—"

Gil hasn't broken eye contact once. You swallow. "I don't know about... um, I still have god stuff, Richard. I think."

"Sorry?"

"I got it from... you. The ritual."

A shadow passes over him. "I see."

"Yeah," you say. "So—"

"Well, I did inform you that 'rituals' weren't exactly in my— I don't dabble in religion, Charlie, it's not really my—" He's blinking a lot. "Excuse me."

(3/4)

He turns and walks a few paces away. Gil raises his eyebrows meaningfully at you, and all you can do is shrug back. No. You don't know what's wrong with him. (It could still be nothing.)

When a minute passes and Richard doesn't come back, you plop down in front of Gil. The cigarette is clenched in his teeth; he's striking it up. "Doesn't that knock you out?" you say.

He shoves it into the corner of his mouth. "I-I-I-I really need something. This is the weirdest day of my goddamn— are you sure that's Richard?"

"Not really." You cross your legs. "Maybe he'll get better."

"You mean worse?" he mumbles.

"...You know what I mean. You're honestly going to knock yourself out? Doesn't it hurt?"

"I-I just go numb."

That actually sounds kind of nice, not that you'd tell him that. "Oh."

"Yeah." He inhales, and his eyes go a tad glassy. "Need something?"

>[1] Yeah! Richard is either EVILLY TRICKING you, or he's gone INSANE, and either way you need to fix it as fast as possible. You'd like backup.
>>[A] Whenever Richard's acted suspiciously nice before, he's resolved it by getting very drunk. Also, you wouldn't mind getting very drunk. Coincidentally. Enlist Gil's help in procuring alcoholic beverages.
>>[B] Having been distracted by much nastier and less fun magyckal powers, you haven't recently had a chance to utilize your bloodline-granted Magyckal Powers. Correct this by communing with Richard to ascertain his inmost turmoil, or whatnot. [Communion. Spend 1 ID.]
>>[C] Something something, hair of the dog: so you killed Richard for god powers, right, and now he's acting weird when you bring up god powers. So possibly god powers will fix him right up, and Gil can defibrillate you if it goes south? [-1 SV]
>>[D] Write-in.

>[2] No. You guess not. Just take a nap on the grass near him. Richard can wake you up if he has something to say— God knows he's done that plenty of times. (And maybe it's okay if he's nice for a little while. Or a long while.)

>[3] Write-in.

>>5538885
>[2] No. You guess not. Just take a nap on the grass near him. Richard can wake you up if he has something to say— God knows he's done that plenty of times. (And maybe it's okay if he's nice for a little while. Or a long while.)

>>5538885
>2
this is awesome
maybe we killed the evil snake part and now only the nice dad part is left

>>5538885
>[2]

>>5538885
> Write in

Fix the three of you some drinks. Clearly alcohol is needed.

Also it looks like Richard is having trouble figuring out who he is. Fair is fair, see how he likes it. Maybe we should ask him if he wants us to try and turn him back, or finish the process. Maybe let him know that being the snake means we're gonna kill him for good sooner or later so he can either be Richard the metaphorical but not actual snake or our dad-figment.

Had enough of his shit though and I for one don't regret murdering his sense of self and would do it again in a heartbeat.

>>5539193
There's the snake, then there's the semi-independent "Richard" identity overlay, and then there is our Dad software that we overwrote the Richard identity with.

Kill the snake, fuck Richard, cry because our dad is fake and we know it.

I personally could tolerate the Richard identity becoming the real one instead of the snake, but he has to shit or get off the pot regardless of policy or what his superiors want. Either he wants to be real with all the mess that entails, or we're gonna pick a less powerful but more helpful and non-memory erasing option of our Dad.

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>>5538916
>>5539193
>>5539223
>[2]

>>5539343
>[3]

Called for [2] and writing.

>>5539343
>>5539349
You won't be able to use any of this this update, for obvious reasons, but keep it in your back pocket.

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>Naptime

"No." You pause. "Can I lie down?"

Gil loosely pats the grass. You locate a spot at a decorous distance, pick a few rocks out of the way, and lay yourself down. There's a handful of stars out, but it's still awfully bright outside. You rest your arm over your eyes.

"Oh," Gil says sludgily. "Sorry. Give me a..."

The breeze turns a little cooler, and you lift your arm to discover the night sky. Richard, silhouetted against it, hasn't moved. Gil's hand slumps into his lap. The cigarette glows.

"...Thanks," you say, and wrap your arms around yourself. You close your eyes. "Gil?"

"Mmm."

"I just thought you should know, um, that you weren't stuttering earlier. For a while there, I mean."

"Mm."

"Okay," you say. "...Good night."

Gil doesn't make any more noise after that. Shallow sleep comes fast for you, and, with the dark and the smoke, deep sleep follows.

You dream.

-

You are kneeling on the sand of a white beach. All around you are footprints and disturbances, but you have swept away an area for yourself. You are cradling a tortoiseshell-handled knife.

Some things can't be forgiven.

There is something red inside you still. You have to get it out of you.

Some things can't be forgotten.

You wrap your hands around the slick handle. You stare out at the yellow horizon, and it stares back. The red water froths.

It's okay. I love you, Charlie. I forgive you. It's not your fault. It's okay.

You breathe deeply and plunge the blade down into your stomach. It bounces off.

...You, er, you plunge your blade into your— it bounces off again. You slash your shirt open and prod your stomach desperately, only to find it riddled with fine white scales. You poke them with the tip of the knife. They make a 'tink' noise.

Do you expect me to stand idly by while you get stabbed in all your soft fleshy body parts. Charlotte.
You don't own armor. Now you won't need to.

Damnit. Damnit! You try again for good measure, to no success, and throw the knife to the ground. It lays there. You haul yourself up furiously and brush the sand off and look out at the water.

Hey. It's not time yet.

(1/2)

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Something lays a hand on your shoulder, and before you even register that it's scaled you whip around. Something is behind you, a... lizard thing, white all over, crowned with spines. One yellow eye, one blank one. Twice your height, but most of it is neck.

(Even dreaming, this registers as highly unusual. In your sleep you mumble and roll over.)

And you shouldn't be doing that, either. The lizard-thing's voice is vaguely feminine, but it's hard to discern more. It sounds as though it's coming from very far away. It wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself.

"What?" you say.

You claw yourself up inside, even if you don't know it. You make yourself bleed. No wonder you're prone to infection.

"Richard's back," you say. "He's normal." You don't like to tell the truth to lizard-things.

He's dead. He was killed brutally, in cold blood, by his only daughter. A murder-suicide.
And I have come to tell you that you have to forgive yourself for it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say. "He's back. As of literally just now."

He is never coming back. He will always be missing from you.
...But I might have misjudged my timing.

The lizard-thing, grand high poobah of reading your mind (apparently), drags its tail around itself. It leaves a sweeping circle in the sand.

I will offer you a gift instead.
...I know you like gifts.

You don't know if you like gifts. You don't get a lot of gifts. You like the idea of gifts, maybe.

It's the same thing.
What would you like?

>[1] Its name.
>[2] Its absence.
>[3] A pink paper umbrella.
>[4] Can it get rid of your red stuff?
>[5] You have these... fangs. And you think Richard was supposed to hook them up to something, to make them worth the trouble, but he's gone all weird. (Not dead. Just weird.) It seems like a fang expert, being a lizard and all that. Could it... er... help?
>[6] A good night's sleep. No interruptions. No snake on your neck. No horrible disaster to discover in the morning. Just rest.
>[7] Write-in.

>>5540094
>[4] Can it get rid of your red stuff?

>>5540094
>>[4] Can it get rid of your red stuff?
>>[5] You have these... fangs. And you think Richard was supposed to hook them up to something, to make them worth the trouble, but he's gone all weird. (Not dead. Just weird.) It seems like a fang expert, being a lizard and all that. Could it... er... help?

Can we pick more than one?

>>5540094
OH SHIT that's Charlotte's final form from the future, isn't it?

>>5540306
You can pick as many as you want, but you probably shouldn't be tacky about it.

>>5540319
I dunno!

>>5540094
> To be fixed. Get our eye back, be able to see again, to have mental clarity and our lost memories returned to us.

>>5540094
>[5] You have these... fangs. And you think Richard was supposed to hook them up to something, to make them worth the trouble, but he's gone all weird. (Not dead. Just weird.) It seems like a fang expert, being a lizard and all that. Could it... er... help?
>[7] If it could get rid of the guilt, that would be swell.

>>5540094
I'll also support this >>5540366

>>5540094
>5
ah yes, the grand high poobah of our mind, excellent

>>5540207
>>5540306
>>5540366
>>5540531
>>5540589
>>5540613
I can combine these. Writing, likely to be a quick update as long as I don't get distracted.

>Presents

The lizard-thing sounds earnest. You don't have a lot of people to turn to.

"I— I need help. I, uh—" The knife. You scoop it back up and offer it out. "I— I can't get it through my skin. Please. Could you—"

...Sure.

It leans its neck all the way down, unhinges its jaw, and unfurls a slender forked tongue, which spirals around the knife's handle and draws it back into the thing's mouth. It grips the handle carefully between its teeth for a second, makes eye contact, and crunches down. The metal warps. The tortoiseshell shatters.

Your lip wobbles. "I needed that!"

Like hell you did. The thing spits the remnants onto the ground. That thing is tainted. It's evil.

"You're evil!" You step back. The sand crunches beneath your feet. "I— I— you don't understand. Please, you don't— I'm SICK! I'm sick, and I need to— I- don't know how else to fix it. Please. I need to get it out of me. Please give me my—"

You're not fixing anything. You're just hurting yourself. Please.
I just want to give you a gift.

"My knife," you say.

Lottie.

"Get the red stuff out of me."

You're the one keeping it inside. It's feeding off you.

"Fix me."

You're not broken.

The unseen sun beats down on you. You can do nothing but scoff.

Or wrong. Or diseased. Or defective. I know what goes on in there.
You've just... differed. You've changed, and you'll change more. You will have to change more.
But nothing can take you back to what was. What's been stolen is lost. Forgive yourself it and move on.
...I hate to see you suffer.

"Then take that," you say, "if you hate it so much. Cut it out."

It'd kill you.

"Good," you say, before you know what's out of your mouth, and then you ball your hands and stare at the ground. The lizard-thing drops onto its haunches, swinging its ridged head all the way down to eye level. It makes a soft hissing noise.

...I should've known it'd go like this. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come.
You don't even know what I'm talking about.

"I don't actually want it to kill me," you mumble.

I know.

"I was just saying that."

I know.
I'm sorry I can't be of use. I'm not that much more than you are, no matter how much they'd like me to be.

"You're..." You tighten your lips. "You're a... big lizard? You've got, um, claws, and a big tail, and scales— I mean, I only have scales in a couple of places—"

Er. Yes.

"—and big fangs— I guess I've got fangs, or whatever, but they're not good for anything. I can't chew knives—"

...Have you tried?

"Um, no." You pause. "Maybe I will. But I bet you've got lizard venom, and I don't— Richard never got that wired up— so mine are just worthless—"

The thing straightens its neck. Well, that's a problem, isn't it?

"Yes?" you say. "Yes."

(1/2)

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I have picked up a few tricks. I think I can do this much.
You really want this? It can be a real pain.

"I already have the teeth," you say.

Okay. I owe you this one.
Open up.

>What kind of venom do you get? You will be mildly immunized to its effects, but can still dose yourself with it if you really make an effort.

>[1] Paralytic. Like a proper snake.
>[2] Sedative.
>[3] Hallucinogenic.
>[4] Hypnotic. Induces suggestibility, not mind control.
>[5] Write-in.

>>5540953
>[4] Hypnotic
Finally, no more spending ID!

>>5540965
I mean, you still have to bite and/or surreptitiously inject somebody with venom, so it's not a freebie-- Richard or Advanced Gaslighting are typically going to be easier, less potentially violent options, even if they cost ID. (Not trying to warn you off the vote, but want to give complete context here.)

>>5540953
>>[1] Paralytic. Like a proper snake.

>>5540953
>[1] Paralytic. Like a proper snake.
we are proper!
3 is tempting though

I am not actually going to call the vote yet, since 2:1 could be swung pretty easily, but since the content of the update is largely noncontingent on what venom wins I *am* going to get started on writing. Update most likely in the morning.

>>5540953
>[4] Hypnotic.
We can always hypnotize ourselves.

>[1] Paralytic. Like a proper snake.
Sedative is a personal favorite but I'd rather have the funny haha paralysis shenanigans then let the hypnochud win *~*

>>5540979
>>5541091
>>5541811
>[1]

>>5540965
>>5541393
>[4]

Called for [1] and posting the update.

>Dental work

You open your mouth.

No, sorry.
I meant [OPEN] up.

There's no choice in the matter. Your neck cracks backward at a 90 degree angle. Your jaw flips open like a book. You feel nothing at all as the lizard-thing cranes its head over you.

That should work.
I won't need that long.

It hardly matters how long it takes, since you may as well be carved of stone: it's impossible for you to move, speak, or react. You can only assume that the lizard-thing is mucking around in your mouth, and that it hasn't just vanished. All you can see is sand.

If there's one consolation, it's that your neck isn't sore— but you're still relieved when your jaw snaps shut and your head swings forward. Your tongue, dry and swollen, fits oddly against the roof of your mouth. There's something soft on either side of your palate.

Glands.
Assuming it went well, at least. I think it went well.

You wish the thing operating on your body had a little more confidence, but it's too late to quibble. Your saliva is strangely astringent, and when you spit into your palm it's tinted yellowish. You suppose this is a good sign, though you don't feel very good looking at it.

Of course it went well! Yes. Careful with that. It doesn't take a lot.
Except for you. You'll need a lot. Just keep pumping until you're woozy, got it? If you... if you wanted to do it on yourself.
Not sure if I'd recommend that.

"Noted," you say thickly. "...Thanks. I guess."

No need to thank me. The lizard-thing coils its neck up. Something to remember me by. Forgive yourself, that's all I ask.
For my sake, if not yours.
Good luck in the coming months, Lottie.

"...You too."

I don't have any time left. I have something to finish. But thank you.

You might've responded if the lizard-thing hadn't vanished just then. Instead your ears start to ring, and you—

-

—sit upright. You are in a strange dark room, and you cycle through several probabilities— kidnapped? different manse?— before it dawns on you that you're in Hell. In Earl's hovel, or house, or whatever it is. In... you didn't spare much time to consider who's bed this was, but it must be his. (No way there's any room in here for guests.)

It's nighttime, if it wasn't before, judging from the lack of glorb-light from the other rooms. (And from the ricocheting snoring.) Nobody's kicked you out of here, meaning you have tacit permission to stay. Also, you don't want to move.

Your spit still tastes funny. You try to ignore this and succeed. You sleep.

(1/3)

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-

>[ID: 13/13]

Daylight's filtering in from somewhere, and after you roll out of bed you discover there's a few small holes bored into the ceiling. Clever! you think. Ingenious! You feel indescribably better than previous, refilled with heroic spirit and vigor and verve and pep and everything else you can think of. Today is going to be a good day. You can feel it. Mainly, there's no possible way it can go any worse than yesterday, and that's something you're holding close to your heart. Also, you can hound Pat about Gil's new body, and Gil can actually get a body, and that's— that's a big deal, isn't it? That's enormous. You feel awful about being so crabby about that.

...You mean, you feel fine! You feel great. You're already squeezing down the barely-even-a-hallway with a pep (zest, zing, brio) in your step, flouncing into the room you first—

"Oh, hey, Charlotte." Madrigal's seated at a tiny yellow table, picking at a tin of... something.

"Hello, Charlie." Richard is— Richard, a person, is sitting directly across from her. He's got a dressing gown on, and he's sipping at a mug of... something.

Your eyes dart between them. "Hi?"

"Have a good rest? You must've been laid out like a sack of shit, since we got fucking loud. And speaking of—" She points her bent fork at you. "—better keep it down, because Pat and Earl are still sacked out. If you catch my drift."

"...How much did you all drink?" you say. Richard's mug smells bitter.

"Ha!"

You wait to see if a real response follows, but Madrigal just goes back to her tin. You narrow your eyes. "You don't seem hungover."

"Oh, yeah, that's the best fucking— I feel fine. I think the nightmare shit sopped it all up for me. Do you want some pears?"

"Huh? ...Real pears?"

"Yeah! I mean, canned, and god-fucking-knows how long they've been— they're salvage, is what I mean. From the trash fields. But if you can live your whole chest gored open, you can live bad fruit, huh?" Madrigal shakes the tin. "You can at least sit down. Claim the primo real estate while it's open. By the way, I admire your colossal swinging balls, sniping Earl's bed like that—"

There are two tiny chairs at the tiny table. Madrigal is in one. Richard is in the other. "...There?" you say, and point square at Richard.

"Uh... yes? Do you fucking see anywhere else? If you don't want the pears, just—"

"I haven't decided about the pears," you say, and glare at Richard. He sips back.

(2/3)

"Okay, geez. They're going fast, is all I'm saying. Uh, other news... too late to leave for camp, sorry. Stuck here for another day. We can see the fucking sights, hang with Earl, whatever. Oh— oh, shit, and—" She bangs the table with her palm and sits back, looking proud of herself. "—we're going to go see Ellery today. That fucker."

"Um," you say. "What?"

"Oh, yeah. Got it all decided last night. Get this— you'll never believe it— Earl knows the guy, too. I mean the real one. And I have heard some shit. So the way I see it, it's just about my sworn duty to mosey over and sock him in the fucking eye."

You don't disagree with the socking, necessarily. It's just everything else. "I— but— it's my case?"

"And you did a great job! Never would've found out he was a sniveling piece of shit without you, seriously. The whole double thing..." She waves her fork in a circle. "Fucking figures. But I've got the rest from here, I think."

Ah... hah.

>[A1] Convince Madrigal that you deserve to be taking point here. Since you do. What has *she* done for the investigation, exactly? (Optional: write-in arguments for bonuses.) [Roll.]
>[A2] "Convince" Madrigal that you deserve to be taking point here. (Optional: write-in rationale for bonuses. Advanced Gaslighting.) [Roll.]
>[A3] If she wants to be in charge to sate her filthy, bloated ego, fine— but you insist on coming along to watch, since you did all the work. She can't turn that down without looking like an ass, right?
>[A4] You... you already committed to this being a better day. So you're not going to let this affect you! In any way! It's better for your health to never see Ellery again, quite frankly, so if Madrigal wants to catch diseases that's her business. (You'll take Madrigal POV when the confrontation happens.)
>[A5] Write-in.

>[B1] Consume pears.
>[B2] Engage in power struggle over pears.
>[B3] Decline pears.

>[C1] Kick Richard out of the chair.
>[C2] Inform Madrigal that Richard's already in the chair. (She knows about him, so it's not weird. That weird.)
>[C3] Stand.

>>5541829
>[A3] If she wants to be in charge to sate her filthy, bloated ego, fine— but you insist on coming along to watch, since you did all the work. She can't turn that down without looking like an ass, right?
>[A5] By the way, we DID do all the work. Isn't this how plucky heroines usually happen upon plot-critical stuff? Serendipitously? Madrigal probably doesn't even know what "serendipitous" means. She can't even pronounce it, we bet.

>[B1] Consume pears.
>[C1] Kick Richard out of the chair.

>>5541829
>A3
>B1
good thing gil isnt here to hear about these pears
>C2
richard is now too nice to kick out, and maddy does know about him
i wonder what would happen if we sat in the chair anyway, he's not solid

>>5541829
>[A3] If she wants to be in charge to sate her filthy, bloated ego, fine— but you insist on coming along to watch, since you did all the work. She can't turn that down without looking like an ass, right?
Charlotte likes to watch
>[B1] Consume pears.
Something something pair of deez nuts.
>[C2] Inform Madrigal that Richard's already in the chair. (She knows about him, so it's not weird. That weird.)
Maybe mention that he's back.

>>5541858
>>5541974
>>5542152
Calling for [A3]+write-in, [B1], and [C2]. Writing soon.

>>5542152
>Maybe mention that he's back.
Madrigal has no idea he was gone in the first place, so there's no need to do this.

>Capitulate

You exhibit an impressive degree of restraint, in your opinion, in that all you do is scowl viciously. Madrigal leans back. "So I'm thinking that's a 'no' on the pears?"

"I didn't say that," you hiss. "I want the damn—"

"Wow. Language." She's smirking. "Well, I'm not gonna throw them at you, so if you'll sit like a regular person—"

You bare your teeth at her and at Richard, who rests his elbow against the back of the chair. "Manners, Charlie."

"Holy fuck. It's not fucking booby-trapped, Charlotte." The smirk has dropped. "I go out of my fucking way to be polite—"

And here's where you get into the petty insults, the raised voices, somebody punching somebody else in the nose— you hope she'd know you'd win a fight, but you don't think that'd stop her. And then hungover Earl kicks you both out, and you slog back to camp without Pat, and Gil doesn't get a body, and Madrigal tells everybody she broke herself out, and that she won the fight she didn't win. And then they all believe her, and not you, and maybe you're kicked out of camp for good measure. This is how it goes with you and Madrigal. If she thinks Ellery's done with, then the truce is over. It's inevitable. You lose.

And you know it's inevitable, because you can feel your hackles raising— it's not what she says so much as how she says it, some aspect of her voice precisely tuned to piss you off. You can't help it. These are the sacrifices one makes when facing down a sworn rival, a—

"You could just use your words, primrose. All this brooding's going to give you an aneurysm."

Your eyes fix on Richard. "Huh?"

"Your blood pressure's spiking," he says, and drains the last of his coffee. "I worry about you, that's all. I think it'd be healthier if you learned to let go of—"

Just a stupid trick. You blink hard. Madrigal stands. "Okay, what the fuck. This is a whole new—"

"Richard's there," you say tightly.

"What?"

"I can't sit down. Richard's in that chair." Richard, in your peripheral vision, is flashing you a thumbs-up. "He's drinking... kaffee?"

"Coffee?" Madrigal squints across the table. "Are you yanking my chain?"

"No."

"What the fuck..." She leans across the table and waves her hand in Richard's face. He cranes himself away decorously. "Here?"

"Um, yes."

"Why didn't you just say so? Tell him to get the fuck out of your chair. What does a ghost need a fucking chair for—"

"...He's not a ghost..." You look at Richard.

He's already lifting himself out, and pats you on the shoulder as he goes. "You could've just asked, Charlie."

(1/3)

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You press your lips together and sit quickly. You cross your legs. The chair is still warm, and Madrigal pushes the tin across the table. "He's standing," you say by explanation, and examine the pears. They're pale, like skin, and shellacked-looking. Madrigal's gaze is hot on you, so you pick one up between two fingers and bite in.

The tension dissipates nearly as fast as the pear: you don't know if it was the canning or the seawater or its unknown age, or your saliva, but you end up swallowing a sweet particulate mush. It might or might not taste of pear. Madrigal, relaxed, leans back in her chair. "Well, it's still some shit. I'd tell you to get it operated on, but I don't think— I don't think Ellery was all that pleased with his results, honestly. So maybe lesser evils. I dunno."

Lesser evils. "Yeah," you say, and wish you had a mug or a fork of your own. Something to twiddle.

"Well, anyways. I figure I'll go kick the shit out of Ellery a little later, since I think I— think Pat's gotta wake up for that. Or Earl, I can't remember. Or both? Someone's been in his head before, so they've got the— the combo, or whatever it—"

"I've been in there," you say defensively.

"What? Really? ...When?"

Did you tell her about it? You can't remember, so you guess you're glad she can't either. "Back at the start. After you first contracted me to—"

"Sheesh." Madrigal taps on the edge of the table. You swallow another pear, your stomach tightening.

"Your words, Charlie," Richard says.

You hate him. "So I should— I should go. See Ellery. Since I've been there, and I did all the work, and before you say I didn't do any work I'll have you know that serendipity is a, a, a time-honored skill of heroines everywhere, and I masterfully utilized it to uncover—"

"Okay. Slow your fucking roll." Madrigal places her hands flat on the table. "It's my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend."

"I don't want to court him," you mutter. "I just want to see you punch him in the eyeball."

"Oh." She frowns. "You're not going to fuck with it?"

With what? "No."

"...If you're not going to fuck with it, I guess you can watch. Serves him fucking right, having an audience." She folds her arms. "But I call the shots, got it? It's my boy... ex-boyfriend."

This means that you have to talk to Ellery less, so according to Richard it's probably good for your blood pressure. "Fine. Sure."

"...Great! Well, I guess we—"

(2/3)

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"Ladies!" Earl has appeared in the hallway, awfully jovial for being hungover— though his face is redder and puffier than usual, and he's holding the top of his head with one hand. He is not wearing a shirt. You avert your eyes. "How are we doing on this fine morning? I see you've found the tins— wonderful— and how was the bed? I was told you've been sleeping on cots this whole time—"

"Where'd you wind up?" Madrigal says.

"Oh—" He waves his free hand. "—found a rug, found a rug. Enough meat on your bones, drink in your system, anywhere's cozy. Have you seen Buster?"

"On the wall."

"Phew. Ow." He clutches his head a little tighter. "Always hope I don't step on him. Same color as the ground... what's going on with you ladies?"

>[1] Engage in frivolous ""social interaction.""
>>[A] Show Earl your teeth. He was highly impressed the first time, so you're sure he'll be pleased with the upgrade.
>>[B] Ask why he keeps a bug in his house.
>>[C] Ask how the "night jobs" are going.
>>[D] Thank him for the tip about Ellery's private meeting.
>>[E] Ask what he thinks of "Nettie"— since his opinion is untainted by the kidnapping.
>>[F] Ask how much they actually drank last night. (You need to scope out your competition.)
>>[G] "Ask" that Earl put a shirt on, immediately, so he ceases to assault the eyes of young women. Is he even married?
>>[H] Hey, where did Matches go?
>>[I] Madrigal keeps mentioning stuff about nightmares. What is she talking about?
>>[J] Write-in.

>[2] Let Madrigal talk while you hunt down Pat— you're not going to make Gil wait a second longer than he needs to!

>[3] Write-in.

>>5542392
>[1] Engage in frivolous ""social interaction.""
>>[A] Show Earl your teeth. He was highly impressed the first time, so you're sure he'll be pleased with the upgrade.
>>[B] Ask why he keeps a bug in his house.
>>[E] Ask what he thinks of "Nettie"— since his opinion is untainted by the kidnapping.
>>[F] Ask how much they actually drank last night. (You need to scope out your competition.)
>>[H] Hey, where did Matches go?
>>[I] Madrigal keeps mentioning stuff about nightmares. What is she talking about?

>>5542392
>1A, C, E, H, I, J
Apologize to Earl for commandeering his bed, we were too tired to realize

>>5542392
1a, b, d

> Ask Richdad what he knows about Earl

Yes in front of Earl. See his reaction to Richdad being in our snake soul.

Honestly it hasn't been long but this new Richard/Dad is an improvement.

>>5542392
>A, b, e, h, i, j

Wew. Let's count.

>>5542407
>>5542733
>>5542795
>>5543394
>[A]

>>5542407
>>5542795
>>5543394
>[B]

>>5542733
>[C]

>>5542795
>[D]

>>5542407
>>5542733
>>5543394
>[E]

>>5542407
>[F]

>>5542407
>>5542733
>>5543394
>[H]

>>5542407
>>5542733
>>5543394
>[I]

>>5542733
>>5543394
>[J]

Called for A, B, E, H, I, and J. Like the vote earlier with Gil, these topics may or may not be split up over multiple updates. Writing.

>>5542795
>Ask Richdad what he knows about Earl
Charlotte might not be all that socially adept, but she's spent a long time covering up Richard's existence-- I don't think she'd be comfortable holding a full verbal conversation with him in front of other people! (Yes, Earl does know about the "Dread and Terrible Beast," but only vaguely-- plus Charlotte doesn't know him that well.) If you can provide more IC rationale for this, I would be more willing to accept this as a write-in. Alternately, you can ask Richard what he thinks in private a little later, or try to sneak in some mental conversation if/when Earl gets distracted.

>>5543418
Well, what better way to introduce the great and terrible beast AND regaining control of the situation by unveiling knowledge esoteric and strange about Earl that only our Dad would know.

Also it would suss out if we could trust him, and if Richdad is actually an independent entity or the mental manifestation of our maddened self loathing and insecurities.

>>5543450
Not bad, but I think I'll put this up to a vote, since "regaining control of the situation" is fairly separate from "engage in normal social interaction." I'll try to work it in as an option at the end of the upcoming one, how about that?

File: isn't he a darling.jpg (163 KB, 1024x768)

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>Normal conversation

"Got her up to speed on Ellery," Madrigal says, and forks a pear out from across the table. "Not much else... I think she just woke up, too. How are you—"

"Why do you keep a bug in your house?" you say.

"A bug? Hahaha! Ow." Earl winces briefly. "Buster's pretty big to be called a bug— what wall was he on?"

Madrigal points, and he shuffles off, returning shortly after with "Buster" cradled in his arms. It looks undoubtedly like a bug. "See?" says Earl, holding it out to you. "He's a big guy! Don't know what he is, exactly— I've been thinking a sort of lobster?"

"Dunno about that. No claws." Madrigal swallows the pear. "Too fat, too, I think."

"But he's got the shell, doesn't he? I keep meaning to ask Morris about him, but she's not really a... talker. Great lady, very reliable, not a talker. Would you like to touch him?" He's registered your gaze. "He's a sweetie! Doesn't bite, or sting, or—"

Do you want to touch Earl's bug? It's a stupid ugly bug— nothing at all like Annie, God rest her. There's no love in those beady little...

"I didn't raise you to be squeamish, Charlie." Richard rests his forearms on the back of your chair. "It doesn't seem likely to hurt you, and if it does it's easily repairable. Besides, think of what message you're sending to your friend Gil? He's 'bugs,' surely?"

He didn't raise you. And he doesn't call Gil 'Gil,' and he doesn't call him your friend, which— you— well— he's your retainer, which takes precedent over all states of friendship or non-friendship, and doesn't make any embarrassing assumptions about anything. But you're splitting hairs. More important than Richard's stupid trick are Madrigal and Earl's reactions, and right now they're staring you down. Patiently.

You touch the bug. It's smooth. Its feelers and legs wave about aimlessly.

"Easy to take care of?" Madrigal comments.

"Oh, yeah! He takes care of himself. Eats scum off the walls, whatever I throw him— hardy bugger. Guess you'd have to be, to come from Hell. Huh, buddy?" Earl coos at the bug. "Who's a tough—"

Something occurs to you. "Where'd the snake go? Madrigal, your—"

"Matches? In the alcove. Thing's in a tank, it's not going anywhere."

"Oh," you say.

"Put it up there before we started drinking, not to worry." She smirks. "Sorry you missed all that. His neighbor's shit is— I mean, it's some shit. Though with how you were feeling last night, I dunno, maybe Earl's bed—"

Richard leans in near your ear. "Charlie, you should apologize."

Apologize? (You definitely hate him.) He said he was fine with it, and nobody kicked you out, and it's not like there was a sign on the stupid—

"Just because people say they're fine doesn't mean they are. People lie, primrose." He's touching your hair. "And even if he is fine, it's still the proper thing to do."

(1/3)

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What is he doing? Pulling the Aunt Ruby card on you? Fine. "Sorry about that," you mutter. "I wasn't really concentrating on whose bed it was."

Madrigal arches her eyebrows. "Geez. Is Hell freezing over?"

"Shut up," you mutter quieter, as Earl plops Buster on the table and pounds you on the back. "Aw! It's no big deal! I've heard it's good for the spine, sleeping on flat surfaces. Guests come first, that's what I think—"

"He was basically asleep on the ground as-is, Charlotte. Not sure he could've found bed." She props her chin on her hand. "Still not as bad as Pa— as Nettie, though. Fucking lightweight. Basically turned to sludge."

"Really?" Maybe you are a little sorry you missed this. "Um, literally?"

"Kinda literally. She bowed out early, put it like that. Didn't even see the teeth necklace."

You blink. "The teeth...?"

"Do you wanna see? It's what it sounds like. Man lost all his fucking teeth—" She points at Earl. "—decided to string 'em all up— how did we even get on that fucking topic?"

"Body parts," Earl says.

"Body parts falling out! Shit, yeah. Like my eyeballs. Crazy stuff, crazy—"

She's probably tricking you here, just like Richard. It'll all turn out to make you look foolish. But you can't not ask. "Um... your eyeballs fell out?"

"Oh! Yeah! Fuck! I never told you about—" Madrigal beams, digs her fingernails into the corners of her eyes, and pops her eyeballs out. Her eye sockets are inky pits.

"Watch the blood pressure," Richard says soothingly.

Gee. Thanks. If he weren't so committed to the bit, he could administer you calming drugs like a normal snake, but instead you get useless platitudes while Madrigal rolls her literal eyeballs around on the table. They are presumably smearing eyeball gunk everywhere, and you're trying not to look, but if you look into her lack-of-eyes instead your throat starts to tighten. So there's that.

>[-1 ID: 12/13]

"Pretty fucking great, huh?" She is unaware of what she's inflicting on you, or she's reveling in it. One or the other. "I don't even know what the point is. Same with the digs. Best I can tell, it just comes free with all the rest of the nightmare—"

"You keep saying that," you mumble.

"Oh! Sorry. Yeah, long story short, I sucked up some spooky... some nightmare shit, basically, some darkness, please don't ask how, and then I kicked Pat's ass with it. And now I can do this! At least for now." She waves the eyeballs between her fingers. "Not sure if it'll stick once I'm back to the real deal, but I'll—"

(2/3)

She what? She absorbed something? And then she got spooky powers, enabling her to kick Pat's ass without needing your help at all? Madrigal? That's not— who the hell decided that was okay? Madrigal doesn't get powers, and she doesn't get cool, scary, thematically coherent powers, and she doesn't get to enjoy them. You just— you're sorry, does she have a noble bloodline you don't know about? Does she have a grand destiny? Or even a budget one? You didn't think so. You were kind of thinking that that's what gave you the edge in the rivalship, that if she got to be the bitch-in-a-cool-way and you were just a bitch, at least you could punch her in the face harder? At least you had an awesome sword? Except she— God-damnit. She had an awesome spear, back in the sewer. Way better than her old one.

"It's not that bad, Charlie. The eyeballs aren't real." Richard's still toying with your hair. Is he putting it up? "You could do the same thing, if you had that body and enough detachment— she won't be able to replicate it when human. She'll hurt herself if she tries."

No! That isn't good enough! She has taken her eyeballs out right now, right in front of you, and Earl in your peripheral vision is loving it, and his stupid bug is loving it, and— no way you can let this stand righteously unchallenged. No way. It's against your nature.

>You will always show off your awesome teeth. Please vote for any additional things you'd like to attempt to do in order to own Madrigal epically. (Rolls and ID loss stack.)

>[1] Demonstrate your *venom.* You assume that it actually works. (How do you plan on doing this?)
>[2] Convince Richard to help you unhinge your jaw. You know for a fact that Earl's a fan of this. [-1 ID.]
>[3] "Commune" with your Dread and Terrible Beast, drawing from its horrible power strange... um... wisdom? Secrets about Earl? Madrigal will know what's up, but she's not the one you're trying to impress, and if you do it right you can keep her quiet. [Roll.]
>[4] Actually commune with somebody. From your experience with Guppy, it's got to be pretty intimidating on the receiving end— and you bet *Madrigal* can't do it. (Do you commune with Madrigal or Earl?) [-1 ID.]
>[5] Cut the knot and Advanced Gaslight them both. Done. (What do you try to convince them of?) [Roll.]
>[6] Just the teeth, ma'am.
>[7] Write-in.

>>5543544
>[2] Convince Richard to help you unhinge your jaw. You know for a fact that Earl's a fan of this. [-1 ID.]

>>5543544
>[2] Convince Richard to help you unhinge your jaw. You know for a fact that Earl's a fan of this. [-1 ID.]
Inb4 Maddy replicates that and we lose more ID

>>5543544
>4
Maddy
Maybe we can pick up exactly how she rescued herself, and convince ourselves we could have made it go better if we rescued her

>>5543544
2.

Communing can wait until after he loses a dick measuring contest with a woman

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>>5543547
>>5543552
>>5544259
>[2]

>>5543794
>[4]

Called for [2]. Unfortunately, I'm weirdly exhausted right now, to the point where I don't see myself physically making to the end of this update; I think I'm going to make myself some tea and see if that improves matters, but if it doesn't I'll have to push this to tomorrow. Consider the update a "maybe," and my apologies.

>I am feel uncomfortable when we are not about me?

You feel bad for Madrigal, really. You laugh at her. Ha! She might be all disgusting and smug now, but she hasn't realized that you have a trick up your sleeve— a definite, proven way to establish your superiority. Taking out eyeballs is all well and good, but there's only one path to "Toothless" Earl's heart, and that's by having giant, awesome teeth.

Or so you're hoping. But he did respond well to you showing off the teeth back when you first met him properly, and you have gotten them... upgraded, so you— yes. It's foolproof! But you, being enfilled with heroic vigor, refuse to settle for mere foolproofery. There is no glory in foolproofery. No: you must dash Madrigal's ego into little pieces, and grind the pieces under your heel, and this requires something bigger and better than merely opening your mouth.

...Primarily bigger. As big as it can go, really. Er. Richard?

"What can I do for you?"

Why doesn't he talk to you in your mind anymore? Is it spite? Um. Ahem. Could he unhinge your jaw real quick?

"Your jaw?" He touches your chin. "I think it's beautiful just the way it is, Charlie, but if you really—"

Beautiful? God-damned— (You exhale.) You don't want it permanently unhinged, thanks, it's for— it's for righteous purposes, and does he know he used to leap at these opportunities? The day before yesterday, he would've leapt—

"I know I haven't always treated you the best, primrose. I'm sorry." He sounds sorry. "But if you feel strongly about it, of course I'd be happy to help. It might feel funny—"

"I know," you say.

"Huh?" says Madrigal, who's pushing one of her eyes back in.

"I'm just making sure. Let me know when, and I'll take care of it."

Great. (He could've just agreed. You don't know why he had to be so weird about it.) You swivel your shoulders, then stand up out of your chair. "Ahem! Attention! While removing eyeballs and suchwith is a— a intriguing party trick, I fail to see its practical usages. So sad. I must query of you, Madrigal Fitzpatrick, did you receive anything of practical purpose?"

She's looking up at you strangely. "Uh... I mean, there's the hangover thing, and I got shot a couple times and—"

"So sad! Nothing remotely useful. Pure glitz, and frippery, and—" You don't know what you're waving your hands for. "Nothing like this!"

Richard! Richard, Richard, Richard— Richard slips his hands around your face, pressing his pointer fingers into the skin just under your ears. Something thins. Something slackens. You attempt to look like you're in control of the situation as your lower jaw slip-slides off the top of your skull, exposing two hypodermic fangs and a whole thornbush of teeth.

(1/TBC)

File: normal jaw unhinging.png (110 KB, 516x347)

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Richard tucks the skin of your cheeks back to expose your gums. Your tongue lolls midair. And bafflingly, nothing hurts. It hurt last time. Shouldn't it? Pure instinct aside, pain's a sign that something's gone twisted— that whatever's happening to your body is wrong. Your jaw is unhinged. But here you are, drooling onto the table, and Richard has convinced your nerves that everything's according to plan.

>[-1 ID: 11/13]

You did ask for it. You're not denying that. And Earl and Madrigal are reacting: "What the fuck?" she says, and he's chuckling. This is good, you guess. You're a little lightheaded.

>[1] Write-in? (Optional.)
>[2] Continue.

>>5544545
>[2] Continue.

>>5544545
> Whaaa 'o 'ou think (ow) of this?

Check out what our daddy taught us how to do.

>>5544545
>Make sure to show off the new and improved Fangs™

>>5544545
>>[2] Continue.
> Whaaa 'o 'ou think (ow) of this?
>Make sure to show off the new and improved Fangs™

Be the smug. Embrace the smug.

>>5544550
>>5544760
>>5544765
>>5544847
Writing.

>Continued

God, you— you need to focus! You're squandering the attention on you. Say something clever, or at least interesting, or— don't set the bar too high. Say something.

You make eye contact with Earl and try to get out something like "What do you think of this?", but it doesn't work: all you make is a long, wet, thin noise, somewhere in the vicinity of a gargle. Or a hiss. Your lower jaw hangs there, dead and dripping. Madrigal grimaces; Earl's chuckle dies somewhat.

'Do not be concerned, I am merely demonstrating my noteworthy teeth, which you should be suitably impressed and amazed by' also doesn't pass muster, though you do make Madrigal shift her stance. Oh well. Your teeth are being demonstrated, whether you explain it or not, and you're fairly sure the venom is too— all the drooling can't just be spit.

"Okay, Charlie, I think that's plenty. You don't want to frighten them, do you?" Richard slides his fingers under your jaw and presses, hitching it back into place. "There we go."

Still no pain— hell, barely even a twinge. You work your jaw in the vague hope it'll clench or spasm or anything, but it's exactly as if nothing ever happened. If it weren't for Pat and Earl still looking at you, you'd be convinced nothing did.

"Ta-da," you say.

Earl claps vigorously until Madrigal kicks his ankle. "Don't encourage her."

(She's just jealous. Ha! Ha-ha! Positive thinking.)

"Aw, come on, it's not something you see every day! I enjoyed it! Now I'm feeling like I don't have any special talent to show you ladies—"

"We don't need a third freakshow member. It's okay." Madrigal pushes her tongue around her cheek. "I mean, your tattoos are pretty killer."

You haven't noted the presence of any tattoos, as you've been studiously averting your eyes from any region below Earl's neck, but you'll take her word for it. "Thank you!" Earl says. "Some of 'em are old, but some of 'em I got done custom down here! And by the way, I don't like that word in my house— 'freak'— I don't think there's any need for that here, if you don't mind. Even if you're using it about you ladies—"

"Yeah!" you say. "I'm not a freak, I'm a—" (You squint.) "—a— an upstanding member of society, unlike yourself and Nettie. I mean, if you want to talk freaks, she's right—"

"You're not wrong," Madrigal drawls, but Earl looks affronted. "Hey! I said not in this house!"

(1/2)

"Do you not consider her a fucking f-word, Earl?"

"No?" He folds his arms. "Nettie is a... we all have our quirks, but she's always very reliable. Admittedly got a bit of a stick up her—"

"I'll shove a stick up through your rectum, BK, if you don't lower your voice. Thanks."

You startle: Pat sounds awful, and her voice is coming from right behind you. When you spin, she's craning her head out from a doorway. "We're talking at a normal volume," Madrigal says. "It's a small fucking place, if you haven't checked. Need another drink?"

Pat makes a rude gesture and vanishes back inside. "Well," Madrigal says. "Problem solved? I wouldn't mind a little something to start the—"

"Because you're nervous about Ellery?" (She might be horribly jealous of you, which you'll accept, but you would've liked more of a reaction to the unhinging nonetheless.)

"No?" She jabs her fork into the last pear. "But that reminds me. Get the fuck back here, Pat."

No response. "GET THE FUCK BACK—"

Pat reappears, looking slightly worse. "Fuck you."

"Will do, but we need to talk Ellery first. Gameplan. Yada yada. You can take a little snoozer after—"

You scootch sideways as Pat sidles in next to you, arms folded. "I want it quick and quiet."

"Sure! Whatever." Madrigal leans back in her chair. "So—"

>[A1] Demand that Pat get Gil's body sorted out before any shenanigans with Ellery. She *owes* him.
>[A2] She's not... feeling too hot, clearly. Hold off until afterward. [Fair OOC warning: this could push it to next thread, depending on how long everything else goes. It'll definitely happen still.]

>[B] You and Madrigal are going to go see Ellery. That's settled. The major question at hand right now is who *else* is going— if anybody. You're voting for... (Pick as many as you like, but Ellery will react differently to different party sizes and compositions.)
>>[1] Gil. Not that he knows anything about Ellery, but you're going to want his jacking knowledge to help break down the manse defenses— plus you'd like him around if things go south.
>>[2] Earl. You don't think he's too close to Ellery, but he does know him, and he's a hard person to hate or avoid. Plus, he knows his way around a manse, and he has horrible blood drugs... just in case?
>>[3] Pat. Unfortunately, she was one of the only people in on Ellery's secret assassination mission(?), so she clearly knows *things* about him. You might hate her, but you really need to know things.
>>[4] Anthea. You left on a bad note, so she might take convincing, but from what it sounds like she's been around Real Ellery more than anybody. She clearly cares about him, too, *and* she was on the secret mission. You need her.
>>[5] Nobody else. Just you and Madrigal.

>[C] Write-in.

>>5545636
>[A2] She's not... feeling too hot, clearly. Hold off until afterward.
We cannot allow her to work on our retainer's body with anything but her peak performance.

>[B2] Earl
Pat is not feeling well, Gil will stammer something that'll make the situation worse, and Anthea won't let Madrigal just punch Ellery.

>>5545636
A1 but with room to negotiate A2 after making sure Pat understands his suffering longer is her fault.

B1 through to B4. We can get info to ask Earl about from Richard and use his responses to figure out if he really is our Dad ghost or a product of our mind. Ask Richard then Earl about hijinks they used to get up, etc.

>>5546296
A-ha. I was a little confused about the plan earlier, but this has cleared it up for me: you're mixing up Earl and Henry. Earl (aka BK or "Toothless" Earl) is the friendly bodymodder guy you met in Thread 10 and explored the beetle manse with, then met again in Thread 15 and realized he was also one of your heist buddies (albeit on a lot of magic blood steroids at the time). He told you about Real Ellery's meet-up and told you you could visit him in Hellsbells anytime; you haven't seen him since. *Henry* (aka the Man In Red) first showed up sporadically in your dreams in the early threads, then revealed himself to be your father's friend when you "met" a facsimile of him in Thread 8; you saw him again in real life in Thread 27, when Horse Face's "meeting" with his "contacts" turned out to be you getting buried alive by Henry's suspiciously Wyrm-culty "support group." You yelled at him a bunch, he told you to stop by anytime.

As far as you know, the two of them have no connection outside both being nice to you, and you're fairly sure that Richard (or "Richard") has no reason to know secrets about Earl. He's just a guy. If or when you see Henry again (and with the red stuff, that's more of a "when" than an "if"), you're welcome to ask Richard about him, but there's nothing to do about it right now.

>>5545636
>A1
maybe not demand, but politely request?

>B4
needs more screentime, and will hopefully de escalate the situation if it gets too heated

>>5545636
>>5546296
+1

>A1
>B2
We need to give good ol Earl some love and affection

>>5546296
>>5546467
>>5546671
>>5546471
>Polite [A1]

>>5545666 (checked)
>[A2]

>>5546671
>>5545666
>[B2]

>>5546467
>[B4]

>>5546471
>>5546296
>All of the above

Called for [A1] (polite). Because [B] is multifaceted, I'm going to treat it like this: we have 3 votes for bringing one person and 2 for bringing the whole party, so bringing one person wins. At some point before the Ellery thing happens, I'll hold a runoff between Anthea and Earl, so everybody gets a say on which of the two they want. Sound good?

Writing.

>Body building

"—how the fuck am I getting in to see him? That's what I don't get. I know you said he was in some dream thing—"

"Not a dream thing," Pat says.

"Whatever. Some dream thing, and it's in his skull? But he's not here right now, so I don't see how— unless it can be done remote? But..." She folds her hands in front of her face. "...that's not him? The little bitch one, that's a fucking copy— so does he have this dream thing? Or does his actual body? Where is his actual body? Do you know, Charlotte?"

"Er... no." It feels like an oversight, but you're pretty sure you've never seen anything about where his actual body went. "Maybe it got taken? By somebody? Or it went into the manse with him—"

"What the fuck? Can that happen?" She pauses. "I mean, I guess I just stepped outta... whatever. Point is, we don't have him or the fake, so I'm not sure..."

"You can get between manses if you have the trick for it. We've stopped by his plenty. It's a dump." Pat folds her arms. "Earl can get you in, if he wants. I'm not getting involved."

"Wow," you say. "Really helping your—"

"Helping?" She sneers. "I'm not stopping this. That's your help, you bitch. I'd stop you if I were loyal to the cause, but I think that guy needs a good decking, so do what you want. Just keep me out of it."

Earl raises his hands placatingly. "I'd be happy to pitch in, ladies, that's no problem at all. I'm glad that Ellery has so many women who care about him. Wouldn't take him for a chick magnet, but—" (Madrigal's giving him the stinkeye.) "Kidding! Kidding. Whatever you need."

"Can you get in?" you say.

"Sorry?"

When you tried it, even Richard couldn't manage it. He said he'd need hours. "His manse is all barred up. I mean really barred up. Finding it's one thing, but we've got to—"

"Huh. Shit." Earl rubs his chin. "I could try a couple things, but—"

Thank goodness. "That's okay! Gil can help. ...Bug guy."

Madrigal clucks her tongue. "Bug guy? What the fuck does he have to—"

"He's good at that kind of stuff! It's his whole job, practically, or it used to be! He—"

In your peripheral vision, Earl stiffens. "You're still in touch with that fucking jacker?"

You stiffen back. "Don't be rude. He's my sworn retainer, I'll have you know, and—"

"Jacker, hah. Well, beggars can't be choosy, BK." Unlike the two of you, Pat slouches against the wall. "Unless you want to gentleman your way into cracking that thing open solo."

(1/3)

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Earl makes a face. You seize your opportunity. "Ahem! Indeed, my intelligent and beneficent retainer, Gil, would be thrilled to help with the breakage and entering into the manse. There's just a teensy problem! At this current moment, he is thoroughly unbodied. If a certain someone would only help him out, then this could be solved immediately. If not, I am afraid that—"

"Fucking look at me if you're going to talk at me," Pat snaps.

"Charlie, she's right. Passive-aggressiveness only brings things to a boil later on."

Richard's taken up a post nearish to Pat, leading you to conclude that there's way too many people for this one little room. Also, words of wisdom from the uncontested king of passive-aggressiveness. You roll your eyes and swivel around to look at Pat. "I'm just saying, it's really something that has to be done sooner versus later, and—"

"What does a jacker need a body for to open up a manse? Don't gullshit me." She narrows her eyes at you. "I'm not really in the mood."

"You owe him. And who says he'll be in the mood to pitch in if he knows he's being deprived of a body? Maybe he'll just refuse. And then it'll be all your fault if we can't get in, and Madrigal can't punch Ellery in the face, and that's really not good employee behavior, I think—"

"Don't drag me into your shit," Madrigal says. "But also, yeah. It didn't fucking take that long for me, so I don't get the holdup. Are you custom-modeling him a dick?"

"That's not how it works. The goo models itself after the C.O.S.. But okay." She spits out the word. "I am taking a damn aspirin, and I am getting 45 more minutes of sleep, and then I will look at it. Again, I've never done it on bugs, so don't expect a perfect outcome. Everything settled?"

45 minutes is longer than "right now," but you're not rolling in options for new bodies. "...Fine."

"Great." And she leaves.

-

You spend the next 45 minutes forced into further conversation, by dint of having nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Fortunately, you've all moved out to the settee. Double-fortunately, Madrigal and Earl carry on most of it: you make occasional comments and throw glances at Richard, who has yet to crack.

When Pat emerges, she looks marginally less sour. "BK. Can we co-opt the bed?"

"Haha! Together?"

You dislike his tone there, and apparently Pat does too: "Shut up. We're sacking out for this, and I don't want knots when I get up."

Earl throws his arm across the back of the settee. "Sure! Why not? I'm not using it."

She nods curtly and beckons you to the bedroom, where she remains standing as you plop onto the bed. "Charlotte."

"Pat," you say.

"I'd firstly like to make it clear what an enormous favor I am doing. I really should shoot you on sight. Secondly, this business requires you and your jacker buddy to enter my manse."

"Yuck."

(2/3)

"I feel the same. I'm telling you this so you don't stab me, because the little process for this is stupid. I've been meaning to try and take the mess out of it, but I haven't had the time, for some reason."

You stare up at Richard, who's standing in the doorway. "I don't think she's lying," he says. "As far as I know, the current methods are still primitive. Skin contact, eye contact, symbolic objects, mixing blood... some combination of those."

"Hm," you say.

"So if you want this done, you're going to have to tolerate your way through this. I'm not going to try anything funny. If you screamed, I'd have the whole neighborhood on top of me."

"Uh-huh."

"That's all I have to say. Are you not gonna stab me?"

>[1] Fine. Unless she stabs you first, in which case it's completely fair game, and you'll win. (Enter Pat's manse. You'll have to cough up beetles once you're there. Gil will be disoriented.)
>[2] Not fine. You don't care what the hell she says: you are *not* getting sucked into the manse of a kidnapper/murderer. Make her enter yours instead, so you can warn Gil in advance... though she might notice the red lighting. [Roll.]
>[3] As A2, but assert your dominance— trick Pat into thinking you're entering her manse, but suck her into yours instead. Muahahaha! [Harder roll.]
>[4] Write-in.

>>5546841
>[1] Fine. Unless she stabs you first, in which case it's completely fair game, and you'll win. (Enter Pat's manse. You'll have to cough up beetles once you're there. Gil will be disoriented.)
I want to achieve something without dumb self-defeating shenanigans for once.

>>5546841
>1
we are surrounded by ... friends?

>>5546841
>[2] Not fine. You don't care what the hell she says: you are *not* getting sucked into the manse of a kidnapper/murderer. Make her enter yours instead, so you can warn Gil in advance... though she might notice the red lighting. [Roll.]

>>5546841
A1,

Does Pat know about Richard?

>>5546841
>>[2] Not fine. You don't care what the hell she says: you are *not* getting sucked into the manse of a kidnapper/murderer. Make her enter yours instead, so you can warn Gil in advance... though she might notice the red lighting. [Roll.]

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>>5546859
>>5547151
>>5547426
>[A1]

>>5547432
>>5547320
>[A2]

For once, we're not going for pic related. Called and writing sporadically.

>>5547426
>Does Pat know about Richard?
Nope. She might recognize him if she saw him (as Martin from the goo snake cocktail party), but I don't think she ever actually has. He doesn't have to be visible unless he feels like it, so it shouldn't affect things. For what it's worth, she also doesn't know that he was possessing you when "you" wrecked her facility.

>>5547567
Aw man, I just realized we ain't gonna do shit just to spite Richard any more.

Man, this murder was really good for the soul.

Like, even if new Richard is just old snake learning that being an asshole to us all the time was a bad plan it's still a huge improvement.

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>No stabby

You can't rule it out. What if she does it first? Lures you in close, then stabs you in the heart? Or shoots you, you guess. Then it'd be completely justified to stab her back, and you'd definitely be able to, owing to your heroic vigor and/or Richard's re-existence. You'd get her right in the gut, then slash her open from navel to sternum— or no, you'd have to get the throat first, so she didn't scream. You're not stupid. Just the throat real quick, then—

"Charlie?"

No. No. No. You can rule it out. No matter what creepy things Pat does to you, you are not laying a single finger on The Sword, and that's the end of the story. If she shoots you, Richard can do whatever he wants in revenge. Or Madrigal can use her stupid fancy spear to gut Pat, if she wants. But you can't be trusted, and you really wish Richard would stop making that expression at you, all fake-worried, like he wouldn't throw you a big party if you up and murdered Pat. Or like he doesn't want to invade you and parade you around, if you were the one getting murdered. This whole thing's a win-win for him, frankly, so if he'd like to give up and start gloating in your face, that'd be—

"This is a yes-or-no question," Pat snaps. "And I'm not lifting a finger until you—"

"I'm not going to stab you," you say.

"Wow. Okay. Don't know what took you so long, since it's your buddy, but maybe you don't like the guy too much. Give me your hand."

What if she doesn't stab you, but she drugs you instead? Or uses this to get inside your head? No. Richard's there. You stretch an arm out, and Pat seizes your wrist, sticking your palm with something pointy. "Ow!" you say. "Hey! I thought we said—"

"We said you wouldn't stab me. It's just a scratch." She pockets a scalpel and swipes a bead of blood off with her finger, then sticks it in her mouth experimentally. "Holy gods, that's weak. What's wrong with you?"

You're dumbfounded. "What? Nothing! I—"

"Whatever. It's not totally inert. Here." She takes your palm, presses it against her forehead, and holds it there. Her eyes are closed. Richard is nodding reassuringly at you, which is the only reason you don't scream for Earl or Madrigal in the space it takes for Pat to open her eyes again. When she does, her pupils are dilated.

You look into them and rapidly away: they were pulling at you. Pat lowers your palm and shifts her grip forward, into more of a tight handshake. "Look at me."

"Uh..." You're looking just to the left of her. "Are you sure that's part of the process? Maybe it's some dumb fluff you've got to—" She's stepped to the left, directly into your field of view. Her pupils are dilated, eyes are more black than white. You look at your boots.

Next thing you know, her face is right in yours, and she's forcing your chin up with her fist. "Look at me, you bitch, so we can get this over with."

(1/3)

There's really nowhere else to look, so you do. You make contact with Pat's creepy tar-pit eyes and feel yourself stuck in them, exactly like you thought, and the only reason you don't scream then or maybe hit her (not a stab) is Richard's hand on your back. Still, you resist sinking in as long as you can manage, but you know when your limbs grow heavy that you've lost. Even as you collapse backwards, you fall forwards toward the pit: vertigo claims you.

-

You're upright. It's beige all around you, and the settees— those are settees— you are standing right next to a whole parlor-set of scrawny, varnished settees. They make your tailbone hurt just looking at them. "This is your manse?" you say.

Pat's pupils are normal. She crosses her arms. "Yes?"

"It's..." You can't think of anything nice to say, but no half-decent insults are coming to you, either. "Don't you decorate?"

"There's a plant?"

So there is, in a pot near the wall. It's dying. You press your lips together. "...Did you pick this wall color yourself?"

"Shut up about my wall color. Where's your guy?"

Richard? Gil? Gil. (Though "where is Richard" is still a pertinent—)

«I'm with you, Charlie.»

Oh. So he can still talk in your mind, and he just wasn't doing it to be annoying. You got it. You guess it's a good thing he's around, though, in case Pat tries to melt Gil into a horrible goo monster or whatnot. Anyhow. "He's, um... he's in my manse..."

Pat's fingers tighten. "I see."

"...I can get him?" You don't want her to do any more scary eye things. "Uh, just give me a..." Richard? Riii-chard.

«What's the magic word?»

Oh, damn. Why would he ask that? There's no one consistent magyck word— usually there's not even one at all. If sorcerers do shout things while flinging magycks, it's either a sign of terrible quality or a legitimate classic, no in-betweens. But again, nothing consistent, so if he wants you to try and compile a list—?

«Please.»
«It's please.»
«But that's okay, Charlie. This isn't as complicated as you're making it out to be. Gil is already inside of you.»

Does he have to put it like that?

«Like what? He isn't real. He currently exists, in a literal sense, inside of your head.»
«It should be relatively simple to expel him. You've done it before on multiple occasions.»
«Would it be helpful if I stimulated it?»

Sure? As long as—

You are beset with a powerful urge to sneeze, sniff twice, and expel several hundred beetles into the nearby wall: they smack against it and largely drop to the floor, though a couple stay clinging.

"Ow," Gil says. "Wha—"

«See? Relatively simple.»

Pat's mouth is open. You hasten over. "Gil! Hi! So if you remember the whole thing about the goo body, um, we're— that's happening, so—"

"Lottie—?" A few beetles take flight. "Where... what the fuck's... I-I-I was just in the—"

"That's Bug Man?" Pat says. "What the hell?"

(2/3)

You scoop up a palmful of beetles gently and shoot her a look. "Yes? What did you expect when you heard—"

"More man? I'm sorry, was I supposed to get this? Last I checked, you made me execute a thing, not line up an adorable little row of fifty bugs and shoot a bullet through—"

"That's her!" Gil's on a little bit of a delay, you guess, because he's just now plastered himself between your back and the wall. "Lottie! Holy shit! I-I-I swear to— did she kidnap you? Are we kidnapped? I-I-I-Is that what's happening? I-I-I was just in the manse, I swear to god, but—"

You sigh. "Nobody's kidnapped. She's helping."

"She killed me!"

"She did, really," Pat says dryly. You see her face kind of ripple before looking hastily away, and when you look back she's not Nettie anymore. "This help?"

Beetles claw into your neck. "No?! I-I-I don't know what— are you one of those goo people? What the hell? That—"

"You're slated to be one too, champ. Don't get too excited."

This manages to quieten Gil, and you go and sit on the horrible settee. "...Um, you might have to walk him through it."

"Can't. Not sure how to do it on bugs yet. I'd need to do an examination." Pat adjusts her mask. "Which is not happening on fifty billion squirming insects, so you know... I need a sedative, or you need to calm this guy down. If it is a guy. Not convinced this isn't some shitty practical joke."

Fifty billion squirming insects are, at the moment, biting compulsively into your clothing. You sigh.

>[A1] Recommend a sedative. For Gil's sake. (What? Write-in.)
>[A2] Try to calm him down manually. (How? Write-in. Possible roll.)

>[B1] Insist on watching the examination. For Gil's safety. Not because you're curious. [Pat disapproves.]
>[B2] Twiddle your thumbs until it's over. [Pat approves.]
>[B3] Twiddle your thumbs... but make Richard go spy on the whole thing, just in case. [I will roll to see if he's noticed.]

>[C] Write-in.

>>5548108
>[A2]
Gil, she can't do shit to you when you're bugs. Nothing that you don't agree to. You're safe. And we're here too.

>[B3] Twiddle your thumbs... but make Richard go spy on the whole thing, just in case. [I will roll to see if he's noticed.]

>>5548108
>[A2] Try to calm him down manually. (How? Write-in. Possible roll.)

We've all made mistakes, Pat was in a bad place because of her bosses and now it's her chance to make things right. Everyone deserves a second chance, it's part and parcel of being GOO(D) GUYS even if she's being unreasonably unpleasant about it.

We're sorry he has to deal with someone being an unlikeable spiteful bitch seemingly on purpose despite peoples good intentions.

>B1 and immediately be an unlikeable spiteful bitch about it.

>>5548108
Also point out Gil is a person who happens to be in bug shape.

As well maybe Pat can help sell the goo thing. I mean she did it to herself and there must be some benefit besides evil plots to replace people like they tried to do to us with a goo clone. Did Pat make that one by the way?

>>5548389
Don't mention the gooplicate! Apparently she was well-liked in Namway.
Also she wasn' a full goo person

>>5548108
>>[A2] Try to calm him down manually. (How? Write-in. Possible roll.)

Supporting this calming method >>5548387

>>5548394 (not sure if this is >>5548117, disregard if you are)
>>5548511
You guys got a [B] vote?

>>5548387
>GOO(D) GUYS
kek