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After twenty seconds or so, you've calmed down enough to enjoy yourself. Headspace might be evil and explosion-worthy and so on, but does that make all of their ideas bad? There's a pleasant breeze in here. Sliding down a tube is faster and less tiring than walking down a million flights of stairs, and if it gets you to the same place, what's the issue? Getting back up, you suppose. Unless they flip the gravity? Or unless...

"Lottie!"

...unless they had something pushing you back up, which would essentially be an elevator, so... unless it wasn't a platform? Maybe they could install a gigantic...

"LOTTIE!!"

...fan! The breeze! A breeze to you, anyways: to Gil, a tiny fraction of your weight, it must be a galestorm. Ahead of you the pipe forks off uphill, and around you beetles are slipping, are flurrying, are— are being sucked into— "Gil!" You scrabble with one hand to stall your descent and lunge out with the other. Your fist closes around a handful of beetles, and you stuff them in the pocket of your overalls before twisting and lunging again. Another handful, and then you're both gone: you down your tube, him up his, wherever it goes. Which is fine. It's fine. You've gotten separated before, and you gave him the gulfweed, and he'll get the chance to stick up the siphons, and you still have him. You think you have him. You're not actually sure how many beetles you grabbed. "Gil?"

Nothing. It's not a good time, anyways, as you're swirling around and around— down the drain— and out, finally, and your ears pop and your vision blurs so you can't see anything but light.

—

It smells sickly sweet. You are boxed in on your left and right by eight-foot translucent barriers, and behind and ahead of you are people. They are not identical and are not dressed identically, but they wear identical glazed expressions. Dark shapes move behind the barriers. The harsh lighting washes everything out. You are in line.

At the end of the line, a dozen people ahead, is a eight-foot machine in glossy Headspace orange. Without complaining, the person at the front shuffles inside, and the orange sliding door clinks shut behind them. A musical chime plays, and a light on the machine blinks green. Fat white tubes feed into the machine's top, and one of them rattles. The person is gone when the doors open. The next person steps in. The chime this time is unwelcoming, and none of the tubes rattle, but when the doors open they are still gone.

You are Virginia Shearer, by which you mean you're Charlotte Fawkins. You don't feel glazed. There's something funny about your collarbone. The pocket of your overalls is moving, which means it has beetles in it, but you don't know if it has Gil in it. If it does, he should probably stay quiet.

It will be your turn for the machine soon. The line is moving efficiently.

(Choices next.)

>[1] Enter the machine.
>>[A] As Charlotte Fawkins.
>>[B] As Virginia Shearer.
>>[C] As Claudia Fawkins.

>[2] Attempt to get out of here.
>>[A] This is the second layer of this manse: time and space should be flexible. Just go anywhere else. [Roll.]
>>[B] You can manipulate a manse by thinking really hard... or not thinking at all. With some chemical help, the second one could be easy. [Consume your spacer.]
>>[C] You're fine with getting in the machine. You're not fine with letting it spit out whatever result it wants. You will go in there, and it *will* send you where you want to go. [Advanced Advanced Gaslighting. Roll.]
>>[D] Write-in?

>[3] Write-in.

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! I am WORKING FULL-TIME and getting up early this thread: please expect short updates and semi-frequent delays. Hopefully this is still preferable to no thread at all. In other news, I am still very slowly plinking at an original Drowned doc, I expect to get some new quest art later in this thread, and I have a long and autistic greentext of Redux from Ellery's POV: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1n-pcQfEylKvg3zM8xKapdx_WanBqlO1Sn-WHxvZUabQ/edit?usp=sharing. Also, Thread 40! Jesus christ.

>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 14 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

>Archive (nicer)
1-4: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-IhGrvvy5DAGXpk1VWBeSLN19IIDjP4YnUjroUEplDo/edit?usp=sharing
5-9: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1BFsue8klDevUAuCvVb2V3ktsBvdvYmAhGIDhhscKHDE/edit?usp=sharing
10-14: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NFrr6hT9Ho8ThW-n86zqzf9SxTzya65c2XRBSaWZIhU/edit?usp=sharing
15-19: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1XE8ygoN6nWucvZEqmBeoQ9jKNdc6V_FOvrrIitRi3dU/edit?usp=sharing
20-April Fools: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NqCgQYDq5NajT36m9dxkpZE85mqMMjClsz-gu9FYKtQ/edit?usp=sharing
25-29: https://docs.google.com/document/d/11aZ013qySgw0wWawb2SHra3ExtJrs6FLQaCp9S7udUU/edit?usp=sharing
30-34: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1COMiZB7lKEu756_CS-lfaID2oMtHVMGBVLjXrXmMBHQ/edit?usp=sharing
35-38: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZkI18l-PNI7i-HQdQmqTJJvUM-iLKBBCNpvSC-POhk0/edit?usp=sharing
39: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1asjG0cNqn1nlyqoxHxr5nV6BiIHu2YAFS6LhZR5zjkw/edit?usp=sharing

>Twitter
https://twitter.com/BathicQM

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

>Recaps
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VPJwXzTpv4lO_t6R3jA32NLbKjdIZjtJlRFsWQgBMnM/edit?usp=sharing

(1/2)

>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 is not required.

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

---

>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX
You wrap up the last of your Headspace prep, beginning with speaking to Eloise. She hands over her dossier on local Headspace employees, and you chat about rescuing Pat from Management. Eloise doesn't believe it's possible for Management to be snakes, though she doesn't have many better ideas. She also doesn't believe that giant intelligent snakes are lurking underground, though Gil suggests they could be effectively hidden inside a AUX space outside of reality. You pressure Gil into testing out the box he got from Headspace, with Eloise supervising. He's embarrassed and ticked off about it, but eventually admits that he may have overreacted.

You install Gil's new 'refractor,' which enables his beetles to fly much further apart than they used to, and divvy up all your supplies before you go to sleep. Your vague nightmares are intercepted by the Herald, who gives you a pleasant dream for once.

You dream about relaxing at a swimming pool with Gil and Teddy, who (unbeknownst to you) have cooked up a plan to chill out about Teddy's presence. Gil almost gets cold feet, but goes through with it, convincing your dream self that you should swear Teddy in as your retainer. You awaken, overjoyed, and rush to do so for real. Though you continue to feel a little weird about Teddy's presence (especially the fact that he can physically inhabit Gil's goo body), you resolve to treat him better.

Gil and you set off to find Virginia Shearer, your possession target. After explaining that she has a double trapped in Headspace, she's shaken enough to voluntarily let you into her head. You awaken inside Headspace, only to find yourself tied up and ready for memory extraction. You summon Gil, who helps incapacitate your captor and breaks you free, and the two of you knock out and paralyze two more Headspacers who come to investigate. You discover that you're able to completely overpower Virginia's self-concept, leaving you safe from possible identity confusion.

Having won your freedom, you and Gil continue to the waiting room of the clinic you're in. You encounter "Fred," an octopus-headed imaginary Friend, and attempt to extract some info from him. After applying a little pressure, Fred tells you about the Glass Shards, a revolutionary cell inside Headspace, and about a tour Casey Kemper is currently giving to... Mr. Kurz, an "envoy of the Hero-Queen," AKA Jean Ramsey the Crown thief. They're due to head back to your location, a sort of private apartment complex for Headspace executives, in short order. A suspicious Fred saves your inquiries to a "log," and you and Gil beat it.

File: casey - @bubbykat.png (1.88 MB, 2163x1743)

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You intend to head to Virginia's penthouse: she's not an executive, but was put under house arrest here after allegedly "exploding" somebody. Rather than send her Below/Under/Down There, the place where all 'downsized' employees go, Management took an interest in her case and let her stay here for questioning. On the way, though, you and Gil run into caterers setting up for Casey and Mr. Kurz's return. You send part of Gil (as beetles) to sneak into Casey's penthouse, while you and the rest of Gil continue on to Virginia's place to look for a means of concealment. While inside, you catch a glimpse of a person in a diving suit descending on a rope and sneaking on to the elevator to Below.

You eventually remember that you brought a backpack along, and you hide your half of Gil inside it. Returning to Casey's penthouse, you discover the caterers on the way out, and the Gil hiding inside lets you in. He wasn't detected by the caterers. You and the now-recombined Gil search the penthouse for clues, but come up with nothing, literally: despite Fred claiming otherwise, Casey doesn't actually seem to live there. Before Casey and Mr. Kurz come by, you and Gil hide yourselves in the air vents. They take so long to show up that you're able to commune with Virginia, whom you trapped way down inside somewhere: she's terrified of you, but tells you that she exploded-- or rather, witnessed the fatal explosion of-- Rudy Doheny, the employee you possessed previously. She has no idea why it happened, and you don't either.

Casey and Mr. Everard Kurz enter, and you eavesdrop on their conversation. You learn that the intended launch of the SUPER-M.A.N.S.E. has been slightly delayed because of an "intruder," who's been evading an understaffed security team with a "cloaking device" and "inside knowledge." Casey leaves to take a call, and you follow him through the vents to continue eavesdropping. You overhear Casey yelling at somebody about the intruder, as well as the "diver" you saw earlier, then watch as he apparently falls asleep... only to get up, start speaking into the walkie-talkie in a different language, sit back down, and 'awaken' like nothing happened. Gil thinks that the language sounds like the one Richard spoke while drunk, but you don't know what this means: is it a snake language and Casey was possessed by a snake, or is it a Management language and Casey was possessed by Management (and Richard is Management?), or... both?

Casey and Everard Kurz leave, and you use Branwen's mantis shrimp to shatter the penthouse's glass windows. You and Gil leap out of them, trusting that you'll land Below.

File: charlotte - @bananasqm.png (257 KB, 2000x1978)

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>TO-DO

Immediate goals:
- Navigate "Below"
- Re-locate Gil
- Find a way to harvest your memories of Annie
- Put up the rest of the siphons (15 remaining)
- Optionally, do something about Jean Ramsey's vile lackey

Short-term goals:
- Blow up Headspace

Long-term goals:
- Resurrect Annie
- Return Claudia
- Regain your missing memories (...if possible)
- Attend your richly deserved Game Night
- Use, extract, or otherwise deal with the Wyrm stuff you got going on
- Find Jean Ramsey and her snake; challenge her to epic single combat (probably); reclaim the Crown
- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (4/16)
- Make friends (who are not named Gil)

Mysteries:
- Who or what is Namway Co. and Headspace Corp.'s “Management”? What did they want with the clone of a snake? What do they want with a massive store of Law? If they're snakes... what does that mean? Who or what is Casey Kemper, exactly?
- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you? What is its relationship with Management? Did Richard know about Management the whole time?
- Who is Horse Face investigating, and why?
- Who wiped three years of your life from your memory? Why? Can Richard really not remember them either?
- What is the Herald? Why does it keep showing up? What does it want? What are you supposed to forgive yourself for, exactly? (You haven't done anything wrong!)
- When is the world going to end? How?
- Do you have a destiny? Is it God-related? It's a good destiny, surely?
- Why does Richard keep developing stab wounds?

---

>Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>6041233
>0/100 = Critical Failure / Critical Success [regardless of other rolls]
Thank goodness crit fails are impossible since we can't roll a 0

>>6041232
>2A
"Sorry guys uh I need to use the restroom real quick I'll be right back I promise no need to save my place in line haha"

Rolled (1d0)

Jesus, folks. I can hardly keep up with the pace of these votes.

>>6041484
>[2A]

Called. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s (+5 Density) vs. DC 65 (+15 Preventative Measures) to avoid the horrors of standing in line!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 8/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N


>>6041484
>Thank goodness crit fails are impossible since we can't roll a 0
Haha, what a goofy mistake, surely I messed it up in the copy/paste somewhere, let me just check the first thread where I included that section in the OP and I'll...
>It's exactly the same in Thread 14 and presumably every single thread in the three-and-a-half years since Thread 14
Wow! Well, as a reward for catching my INTENTIONAL TEST TO SEE IF ANYONE WAS PAYING ATTENTION, Charlotte gains a new skill.

>[Lucky 0: Rolling a 0 now counts as a Critical Success, rather than a Critical Failure.]

Congratulations!

Rolled 22 (1d100)

>>6041849
>[2] N

Rolled 13 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>6041849
>No spendy

>[Lucky 0: Rolling a 0 now counts as a Critical Success, rather than a Critical Failure.]
Um, cruel and unusual?

Rolled 25 (1d100)

>>6041849
y

>>6041853
>>6041854
YOU BOTH SUCK.

>>6041863
Throwing stones from a glass house there bro

>>6041853
>>6041854
>>6041863
>27, 18, 28 vs. DC 65 -- Failure
I knew your rolls were too good last thread. This would have failed any DC I could've set, lmao.

Writing.


>>6041854
>Um, cruel and unusual?
I just doubled your chances of critsucceeding! Ungrateful players, baka.

>Gotta dip
>27, 18, 28 vs. DC 65 — Failure

It's entirely possible that the unlabeled Headspace person-disappearing device is benign. Maybe all it does is scan the linegoers, then it sends them through the tubes to their real destination. (Headspace might be sinister, but you don't think it's Hell: they wouldn't make people stand in lines forever for no reason, right?) Alternately, maybe all it does is set them on fire, and that's their ashes going up through those tubes, and you are not going inside that thing— you're not. Sorry, you're not. You are exiting the line, and you are graciously allowing the person behind you to take your place.

No matter how developed or populated or maintained Headspace is, it's still a manse, and you are down far enough in it that the rules should be looser. Not gone. You can't just wave your hands and be at the core of it, or somebody would've blown the place up ages ago. But slipping out of here? Look how many people are in this line. Look how doped-up they all are. Virginia wasn't even slated to be here, at least until Management was done with her. Will anybody miss you? Will anybody care at all? These walls don't look that sturdy, or even that solid. Why should they be solid, when everybody inside them is too shot to notice? They're translucent white, like fog or like jelly. It's cold like fog or jelly when you drag your fingertips along the wall, and it's colder when you plunge your fingers in. You don't need the mantis to break through this time. You don't need to break anything. You will push through, and through the wall will be— okay, you don't know what, exactly. Gil? The rest of Gil? A clue to his whereabouts? You're not desperate yet. Something like that.

You plunge the rest of your hand in.

DWEEP DWEEP DWEEP

Hell! Damnit! You withdraw your hand and wipe it on your side, but it's no use: the squawky alarm continues. DWEEP DWEEP DWEEP. The line-dwellers don't stir— one shuffles into the machine like nothing happened— but the dark shapes behind the wall are swarming. Double-damnit! How do you get out of here? Can you run? You're blocked in. Climb? The walls are slick, and you have no rope. Hide? The machine is occupied, and you have nothing to hide yourself with. A tine of the Crown, but an empty one. No power. No escape. DWEEP DWEEP DWEEP. Rubber gloves yank you by your shoulders backwards, through the wall.

"BPQA WVM BPQVSA QB'A KTMDMZ."

(1/2)

File: faceless individuals.jpg (27 KB, 480x720)

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The room is grey and smells of nothing. You stare up into two non-faces: dark ovals of spider-mesh inside crumpled lime-green hoods. Two individuals suited head to toe. Not 'people'. 'People' is unconfirmed, especially with the processed voice filtering from one oval. Total gibberish.

"QB QA KTMDMZ VWE. BPIB KIV JM BISMV KIZM WN," gibberishes the other, and does something behind you you can't quite see, then circles back around holding a face-mask in one hand and the face-mask's ridged hose and tank in the other. They mean it for your face. They mean the tank for your lungs, you think, or for your brain. So you'll shuffle into the machine. Right? Your hands are being held securely. You should be able to change this.

>[1] Your hands are being held. Your mouth is not. Speak [OPEN.] [No roll, but this would be your one use/day.]
>[2] Your hands are being held. Your teeth are not. Attempt to bite the individual's hand when they go in with the face-mask, then overpower them from there. [Roll.]
>[3] Your hands are being held. Your eyes are not. You want to know what's inside those suits— and you can find out easily, even if it'd leave you vulnerable. (Communion. Spend 1 ID.)
>[4] Your hands are being held. Your heart is not. The red stuff sleeps in and around it, but you're sure it'd be happy to dispatch any vile manhandlers of your fine person. Maybe other things, too. (Spend 1 SV. You are currently at 1/? SV.)
>[5] Write-in.

>>6042027
>[3] Your hands are being held. Your eyes are not. You want to know what's inside those suits— and you can find out easily, even if it'd leave you vulnerable. (Communion. Spend 1 ID.)

>>6042027
>3
Hopefully it'll render them vulnerable too

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>>6042266
>>6042433
>[3]

Wow! Double as many votes! Writing.

Also, as of this post, Richard has taken the lead in the husbando tourney. Will The Crown finally be within reach...!?

File: why don't you write.jpg (119 KB, 640x396)

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Well, I don't know what it is, but despite it not being that late (I've stayed up writing much longer) I'm literally falling asleep at the keyboard. I'm going to take the hint and delay for a day, which hopefully will give more readers a chance to find us. See you tomorrow!

File: seen through.jpg (125 KB, 563x649)

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>Hand holding

Not by removing your hands, though. You're not going anywhere. After all, if they're holding onto you— aren't you holding onto them? Making contact? And can't you twist your neck around sharply and peer through that dark mesh and catch a glimmer of light? There's something in that suit, be it a person or otherwise, and if you can get through to it you can start putting the pieces together. Not "if." You will clasp their wrists and you will see through and through and through.

>[-1 ID: 7/14]

It's static.

In both ways it's static. There is no movement inside the thing inside the hood, no beating heart, no pumping blood. If it ever lived, it isn't living. At the same time, it isn't silent: it's dead air. Gibberish and crackle. A radio tuned to too distant a station. You listen and don't understand.

»»GWCZ BIASA IZM: UIVIOM BPM Y«CMCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV WZLMZ. QN BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM«. GWCZA BZCTG, BPM—UIVIOMUMVB.» GWCZ BIASA IZM: UIVIOM BPM YC«MCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV—« WZLMZ. QN BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM. GW«CZA BZCTG, BPM UIVIOMUMVB. GWCZ BIASA IZM: UIVIOM »»BPM YCMCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV WZLMZ. QN BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM. GWCZA BZCTG, BPM UIVIOMUMVB. GWCZ BIASA IZM««: UIVIOM BPM YCMCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV WZLMZ. Q»N BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM. GWCZA BZCTG, BPM UIVIOMUMVB.««

You try to see and don't understand. The inside of the skull of the thing under the hood is as shattered as it is sterile, like smashing a pot and coating it in concrete. It reminds you a bit of Namway, but Namway after you wrecked it: frozen chunks of almost-right scenery (it all looks backwards) in a cracked sea of nothing. Not friendly Namway blackness-nothing. You mean scalding white. It could burn your fingerprints off, touching it. Real nothing.

This is not a person, but you're not sure what it is.

(You have time for one thing.)
>[1] Listen harder to the static. Maybe you can piece something together.
>[2] Enter through the cracks. Maybe there's something inside.
>[3] Get out. There is nothing here for you.

>>6043636
>2
That static is the same thing repeated 4 times with erratic punctuation, maybe a cipher? Something to revisit when it isn’t 3 am.

>>6043659
>>6043636
It's a +8 step Caesar cipher. Punctuation omitted, one of the four sections decides into
>YOUR TASKS ARE MANAGE THE Q UEUE OPERATE THE ROUTER MAINTAIN ORDER IF THE GAS DID NOT TAKE SUBDUE YOURS TRULY THE MANAGEMENT

>>6042025
>>6042027
>>6043659
Still all +8 caesar. Their previous gibberish is
>THIS ONE THINKS IT'S CLEVER
and
>IT IS CLEVER NOW. THAT CAN BE TAKEN CARE OF

>>6043669
Hmm, can we do a prompt injection?

>>6043669
>>6043672
Noice

>>6043669
>>6043683
Nice work-- but don't forget to actually vote! I will accept write-ins, but please note that you have limited time and they may require a roll.

>>6043636
>[1] Listen harder to the static. Maybe you can piece something together.

>>6043636
>[3] Get out. There is nothing here for you.
I think we are being subdued

>>6043636
>>[2] Enter through the cracks. Maybe there's something inside.

>>6043659
>>6044176
>[2]

>>6043957
>[1]

>>6044016
>[3]

Called and writing. I have work, so we'll see if I finish in time. Blanket reminder that updates this thread may be very spotty, sorry in advance.

File: whitespace.jpg (20 KB, 892x896)

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>Smoke that white crack(?)

If there's any way to find out, it'll involve the cracks. You've seen something like them before, deep inside other manses, though never so extensive. A violence has been done here.

You are not present in this place— your real body is a reality away, and you have not brought your borrowed one along. The cracks don't know this. Draw close, and you wobble into shape, more yourself than Virginia, though liberties have been taken. Scales. Whatever. You'll take anything, as long as it shields you from the whiteness long enough— look how the edges of it bubble. You hold your breath as you slip inside, tilt 90 degrees, and land on your feet.

There is a corpse on the floor. "Corpse" may be generous. There are wispy dark-colored remains on the floor, and a stain. When you draw The Sword (there are no flames on it here) and prod it, the tip of your blade catches on scrap of fabric. It's orange. It has letters stamped on it. "—DSPA—"

You've seen this shirt before. Gil's wearing it right now, wherever he is. It says HEADSPACE. Meaning that this is somebody who was, completely concidentally, wearing a Headspace-branded promotional shirt— or that it's an employee. Was an employee. You guess the thing in the hood is still an employee, in a sense. Even more productive than they were before.

You're not sure what to do. The remains don't look alive— you hope they're not alive— but where's the actual point where a person in whitespace dies? When enough of their Law gets sucked out? Should you stab them just in case? Should you...

Should you...

You...

It's very bright here. Ha-ha. You... where are...? Where... you feel floaty, like the light and the whiteness are filling up your head. Why are you holding a sword? Whose sword is this? Why are you... you think you're floating away. Up, and... gone.

...

—

>[ELSEWHERE]

You are Gil Wallace. You are finding it—

[You are a HEADSPACE FRIEND.]

—just a little goddamn difficult—

[You OFFER ASSISTANCE to the employees of Headspace. This may include tasks like ANSWERING PERMITTED QUESTIONS, OFFERING DIRECTIONS, and PROVIDING ENTERTAINMENT.]

—to concentrate—

[You are always FRIENDLY, POSITIVE, WELCOMING, ENGAGING, and SHOW HEADSPACE SPIRIT. If employees around you are NOT SHOWING HEADSPACE SPIRIT, you will ENCOURAGE THEM TO DO SO. If they continue to NOT SHOW SPIRIT, you will RECORD THEIR FULL NAME AND DEPARTMENT.]

—right now. Fuck!

Do you think you have a handle on things?

Teddy is more ghosty than usual, which could be Headspace interference or something. If he vanishes, you're going to fly off the fucking handle. Losing Lottie was one thing—

I wouldn't say 'lost'.

Yeah, sure, you didn't lose her. She lost you, because you got blown off course, like some goddamn weak-ass—

(1/2)

File: gil - @realiste.jpg (213 KB, 707x893)

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What were you supposed to do?

Huh?

Is this something you should've anticipated? What were you supposed to—

Shut the fuck up, Teddy. Not lose her, is what. Not let her jump out a goddamn window! She's off drinking some crazy-making poison god blood water, you guarantee it, while you're here—

[You should refrain from using PROFANITY. Choose language that reflects the positive Headspace brand.]

Fuck you. Here, sat down, in your shitty swag-bag tee, having been identified by— what— the locus itself?— as a Friend(tm), one of their sad mass-produced unpeople that populate their sad and now-revealed-to-be-stupidly-evil templates. It's not even exactly wrong. You're not a real person. Teddy's probably a realer person than you are.

I don't think that's true.

It's true. Probably. It doesn't matter. Is he getting all these instructions?

Through you. I don't have my own set, if that's what you mean.

See? He didn't get twigged as fake. He didn't even get jammed into a Headspace tee. Not that Headspace did that to you. (Lottie did.) None of your other "friends" are in them, which is a little surprising: you thought they'd love that shit. You're in a waiting room, or a holding cell (difference unclear) with a load of other Friends, fresh off the assembly line. Boy, they like their cutesy animal heads here. You're in with a rat, a seahorse, and some type of fish. You don't mean the fish-guys. You mean a grouper or something.

You have not struck up conversation, though you're sure they'd all be FRIENDLY, POSITIVE, WELCOMING, ENGAGING, and SHOWING HEADSPACE SPIRIT, whatever that entails. Goddamn it. Thank shit for Teddy, pretending to sit on the chair next to yours, even though he doesn't have a real body or anything. No offense.

None taken.

Anyways, you're in a pink room. There's a table with some pamphlets to read, and a locked door out (you tried). And all the other fake guys. You could have a cutesy animal head too if you wanted. You're pretty sure the beetle-goo distinction is even more fluid than normal down here. You'll think about it.

You assume somebody is coming for you all eventually. Wat do?

>Pick one.

>[1] Lottie gave you some kind of nasty herb that'll ring her up long-distance. She is long-distance, that's for certain. Chew it and ring her up.
>[2] Read some pamphlets. Are they advertising Headspace inside Headspace? Of course they'd do that.
>[3] Stick up some mini-siphons. The other Friends will see you do it, but you doubt they'll be volunteering that info unless asked directly. And it needs to be done.
>[4] Let Teddy do what he wants to do, even if there's nothing much to do. It's nice making somebody else deal with your fuck-ups.
>[5] Write-in.

No update tomorrow night. Vote will stay open.

>>6044497
>[3] Stick up some mini-siphons. The other Friends will see you do it, but you doubt they'll be volunteering that info unless asked directly. And it needs to be done.

>>6044497
>Lottie gave you some kind of nasty herb that'll ring her up long-distance. She is long-distance, that's for certain. Chew it and ring her up.

>>6044497
>3
>5
Give yourself a cutesy animal (beetle) head

>>6044634
>>6044790
>[3]

>>6044697
>[1]

Just kidding. Not guaranteeing an update, but I'm going to do some car writing and see where that gets me.

>>6044790
You'll do the beetle head too. Writing.

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>Do what needs doing

You cross one leg over the other. You should be breaking out of here, most likely— you're not much of a lockpick, but you could shoot the door handle off, even if it'd spook your roommates. You're just not that motivated. While you've long since accepted the necessity of this whole operation (Headspace deserves it, plus nobody can stop Lottie once she's started on something), it's hard to say you're enthusiastic about it. All this sneaking/skulking/ambushing/breaking-and-entering/jumping out of windows stuff scares you, frankly— not that you haven't done it plenty before, but you were paid back then, and it screwed you over back then too! That's why you're here! Goddamn it. Does Lottie realize the shit she does? Or... grasp its risks? She doesn't act like she grasps its risks.

If she did, would any of it get done?

No. You're not implying you could do any of it solo. You wouldn't've bothered in the first place. Not that you ever would've thought a lot of innocent people suffering was cool, or anything, but it would've been none of your business. Somebody else would deal with it. Lottie is dealing with it. And you are sitting here, enjoying your break from the action, like the piece of shit you are. Are there any cursed blood pools inside Headspace?

They seem to have a little of everything.

Ace. You'll have to rev up the defibrillator, then. At least the godsdamn worm's dead. Goddamn worm. Does Teddy remember the worm?

The big one?

There isn't any other worm. It didn't start off quite so big. Still big, though.

I wonder how it tastes. Feels like you could boil it, crack open the shell, you know. Eat it with lemon.

That'd have to be one big pot. Godsdamn. Plus Lottie would completely lose her— (You are receiving a vivid mental image of Teddy with a thumbs-up and a ladder and a big fucking pot.) Okay, okay. Maybe it would taste good. If you say that around Lottie she'll actually blow her top, so you won't. She basically wanted to fuck the worm and have worm babies, she loved the thing so much.

I think it was a female worm.

Aren't worms both?

Not this one. I think.

Thanks for the fact check. She wanted to fuck the worm and adopt worm babies. Improvement?

You should show more solidarity with your fellow invertebrates.

You show plenty of solidarity. You used to squash bugs, Teddy. You had the thing with the shrimp. You talked to the worm before Lottie talked to the worm. Not talked. Why can Lottie talk to worms? You mean, that's not a— that's not normal. For a real human person. That's not normal. You know it barely hits the top 20 of least normal things she's done, but you can make up explanations for a lot of the other ones. The possession stuff too: that's fucked, right? You're not crazy? She's Richarding this lady around like it means nothing— and it's not like you can say anything, because it got you in here, but—

It's unnerving.

(1/4)

Yes! And there was the other thing, with the— with Garvin? Not recognizing her? What was that about? You're both stupid lucky you could see through it, because you don't think she realizes the amount of completely justified paranoia that could—

Teddy's looking out into the room, but he has one leg crossed over the other, and his arm over the back of your chair. Do you think she's good?

What? Like... personally? Cosmologically? Competence-wise? She's competent, even if you'd literally never know it looking at her. Or listening to her. Or observing her. It's purely results-based, you guess.

On the side of goodness.

Wow. Cosmologically. What the shit kind of throwback question is that? You're from the future, Teddy. The gods don't exist anymore. You get stomped into the dirt from cradle to grave. You're sure two centuries ago everything was neat and shiny and there were good guys and bad guys, but it's just guys now. So.

...

Struck a nerve? Look, you're sorry, but it was a dumb as shit question. Even if there were good guys, you're not a good guy. If the crown thief lady had bailed you out and given you a a pat on the head and a new body and a cookie, you'd probably be following her around instead. So who are you to judge Lottie? What does it matter? You have multiple life debts. What were you talking about before this?

...Invertebrates.

Right. Aw, that reminds you. Cutesy quirky animal head. You'll stick out like a sore thumb if you don't have one, is what you're thinking, and with the goo you don't have any excuse to not at least try. Better your head quirky than blown off. Should it be a beetle?

Is there a different animal you'd rather do?

No. You like beetles. (Go back in time a month and tell yourself that. Goddamn.) Also, honestly, you don't know that many animals. There's not a lot of kinds anymore. What does a beetle head even look like?

I'd imagine it's the top bit.

Did he ever consider ditching fishing for stand-up comedy? It's like having Alfie stuck up here. Not that you... not that... shit. Forget it. Change the topic.

I didn't mind.

You know he didn't mind. It wasn't an insult. You just— you don't— you don't want to talk about them. You can't. Any of them. And you know literally everybody he know died, so you guess he gets it, but you feel like he can't get it. He doesn't remember them. It was so fucking long ago. For you it was...

It doesn't matter. You're not special, Teddy. Ask anybody down here, anybody, and they all have the same exact story. It was your fuck-up, too, because that's what you were and are. A fuck-up. You need to get this beetle head started. It shouldn't be tough, right? You definitely know what a beetle looks like. Uhh. Or your body does, because it has a load of them inside, and— you're just going for it.

(2/4)

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You're not saying it's impossible you could ever do this elsewhere, but normally you think you'd have to try at it. Not here. You think about it, then— goddamnit— grip the edge of the chair as your mouth melts shut, your vision pops and blackens, and your entire skull twists in on itself.

It only takes a second. Right?

Yes.

It only takes a second, but it's a nasty fucking second, and the aftermath isn't much prettier. It's like you have a doll head up there, it's so cold and hard and rigid. You can't blink. You are getting way too much information about the airflow of the room. Your mouth opens sideways. Teddy is a giant ghostly beetle wearing glasses.

It happens.

Does it happen? You guess you did that. Shit, you— he looks so fucking stupid! Heh. Sorry, Teddy. At least you still have thumbs, though they're looking way too grey-brown for your liking. Can't see pink. Double-shit. Okay, you're scrapping this. You can do better.

Beetle Teddy (you try to snort, but don't have a nose) waves his antennae. You're not used to it by now?

You're beetles, not a beetle. Completely different experience. If you were one beetle, you would've killed yourself by now.

Speaking of, your skull is now exploding. What a relief! You're springing out of that cage, doubling and redoubling, catching the identified airflow, taking in all angles, in general having the best stretch of your life. Maybe you're exaggerating, but that's really what it feels like: cracking a sore back. You can't get too crazy, though, because Headspace goes in for heads, not the whole deal. And you better get your stretch in, because you need to contain yourself. Hard to walk around otherwise. You already need to concentrate just to lower your headless body and fish around under your seat.

There we go. Observation bowl. Normally it screws onto the threads of your other neck, but this neck-goo seals up nicely anyways. (Neck-goo is such a terrible word.) All better now. 360-degree vision and no revealing expressions. Guess what revealing expression you'd be making right now.

I know what you're going to think next. It doesn't work.

He's supposed to say "what?"

What?

It'd be a guilty one, because you've been sitting on your goddamn hands for— for— fifteen minutes, or twenty, shooting the shit with your goddamn brain ghost— does Teddy know he's beetles right now? Not that many, either. Wasn't there more of him earlier?

I couldn't tell you.

If he's fading away already, could he let you know? You were just getting comfortable with having company. Anyways, look at you, shooting even more shit. Why? Because you're a coward and you don't want to leave your safe room. He's enabling you, by the way. Lottie's probably getting herself killed out there—

Do you believe that?

(3/4)

No. Lottie's probably killing somebody out there, or setting something on fire, and unless you're there to stop her it's going to be one big bloody burnt mess. You just know it.

So you're going to get out of here.

No. You're— you're working on it, okay? You're working on it. You have to work up to it. What you're actually doing is getting up off your ass and doing something. Like the minis. Remember those? You made them? Don't ask how you made them, but you went in with materials and came out with these, and they work. If you don't think about the physics, they work. You are proud of the collapsing function, at least, because it, uh— you're also boring Teddy. He's not a mechanical type of guy. Sorry. You'll shut up.

I don't know what type of guy I am. I think I'm whatever you need me to be. I'm just happy to be here.

Don't say that! He shouldn't be cool about things like that. He's not allowed to be so cool. It's humiliating, him being stuck in here with you. You'll go ahead and stick up the stupid fucking boring siphons now.

>But how many? You have 15 remaining.

>[1] Just one. The room's small enough that you only need one, and you can pop it somewhere without looking suspicious at all. But then you have 14 left...
>[2] Three. It's a little tight for three, and you'll be crawling around on the ground in front of the other Friends, but it should be okay. You do need to offload these.
>[3] Five. This is a really cramped room to put so many in, and they'll be more visible if there's a lot of them, but you don't trust yourself to have any opportunity later. You need to get them up *somewhere,* even if it's suboptimal.

>>6046026
>[2] Three. It's a little tight for three, and you'll be crawling around on the ground in front of the other Friends, but it should be okay. You do need to offload these.

>>6046026
>>[2] Three. It's a little tight for three, and you'll be crawling around on the ground in front of the other Friends, but it should be okay. You do need to offload these.

>>6046026
>1
Do we need to use them all?

Alright, folks, I'm waving the white flag. I'm going to formally move to a Monday/Wednesday/Friday/Saturday schedule for the duration of my waging (which will skip next week, but continue for 1-2 weeks after that). There will be a small chance of bonus updates on the off days. We will return to the typical schedule after I get off work, but for right now my free time is limited and I come home exhausted. Apologies for all the delays: I hope this doesn't impact your enjoyment of the thread too much.

Also, Richard is up for a very important vote in the King tourney. Please come say hi there if you haven't already.

>>6046677
>Do we need to use them all?
You don't need to, but you do want to: using the full amount guarantees a successful siphoning, and the more you use the more redundancies you have if, e.g., any of the siphons get removed or destroyed. Ideally you want all 20 up, but I wouldn't leave behind more than 5 at most.

>>6046749
Ok, I'll switch to 2 then

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I'll spare the excuses and do my best to write during the day tomorrow. I have the whole update mapped out in my head, so it shouldn't take long. We may be marking this as a "short thread" in the archive, bros.

>>6046766
>>6046646
>>6046161
>[2]

Called and finally writing. Fingers crossed for consistent updates here on out (and by "here on out" I mean "for this next week".)

Also, Richard made it to the King tourney finals!! I suspect that the Crown will slip from his grasp once more, but I'm just happy he made it this far. Thanks for everybody who's voted.

>Three's the magic number

Three of them sounds good. You'd prefer to think you made too many siphons, but you're concerned you made too few, and this is a nice, quiet place to stick them up. You have a rat, a seahorse, and a fish watching you, but for once you don't care. They're not people. It's in the name.

Still, you'll try to make it quick. You stand, jamming your hands into your kelp-crumb-filled pockets, and sidle between your chair and the next one over. Good thing you made the install easy. Grab the mini-mini-siphon, press it to the wall, press your thumb into the top, feel the hiss-click of it latching on, and pull your hand away. Watch it unfold from twenty angles. You wish you could take more credit for the design, but it is satisfying.

Two left. Aw, shit. Ideally you want to spread these things out as much as you can, so they don't interfere with each other, so they don't cannibalize the juice they're sucking up, and so, if one's found, they're not all taken down. This room isn't that big, though, so spreading out the minis means getting all up in the grill of at least one of your buddies. Which is— you'll deal with it. You're working on it. Which one is least likely to bite?

[You are not permitted to ACT AGAINST an EMPLOYEE in any way, unless they have been registered to the EXCEPTION LIST.]

Shit! It's not done? Well, that's nice, except you're not an employee. Sorry, EMPLOYEE. Can seahorses bite?

They don't have teeth. I think they suck small floating animals out of the water.

Teddy better watch out, then: at least you're protected in here. You adjust the bowl reflexively, juggle the minis in your palm, and stride over to Mr. Seahorse. One of its eyeballs swivels to watch you, while the other one stays still. Creepy. You watch it back— you have more eyes than it does, and they're even more mobile— as you slap a mini down just above the molding. Mr. Seahorse doesn't say anything, though maybe it's siccing Management on you in private. Maybe all of them are. You dig the corner of your last mini into your skin, which still doesn't hurt, but you can sense the pressure. You miss pain a little bit.

Teddy says nothing, but you feel his silence so distinctly he must be making an active effort to project it. Okay! Geez, it's not like— you don't miss being injured. It's not like you're going to stroll up to Pat and ask her to shoot you in the head (again). You just think getting banged up a smidge is part of the human experience, and you won't ever be able to slip and hammer your thumb purple ever again, and that's...

You don't know that. Maybe Management's cooked something for you. If you stick around here, I'm sure they'll come by to help.

Does Teddy remember the days when he sat around and didn't say anything? You remember those days. Good times.

If you actually wanted me to sit around and not say anything, I would.

(1/3)

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You try to suck your cheek in, but succeed only in pushing some beetles around. The third siphon should be equidistant from the rest, a tough sell when the other two are straight across from each other. Goddamn Mr. Seahorse. You evaluate, then clamber up an empty chair and fasten the last siphon on the edge of the ceiling. That's three for three, and nobody's called you on anything yet. You get and sit back down, the back of your bowl clinking against the back of the chair.

The locked door unlatches and glides open. You should've full-body startled at this, or worse yelped or leapt from your chair, but your body from the neck down is on lidocaine and does nothing. Your head is not, and you spin and jerk against the glass.

"—these phenomenal Friends," says Casey Fucking Kemper, "are specially designed to work down here! Not every worker is the best culture fit, but— come in!"

Casey Fucking Kemper ushers the other guy in. The retainer. You should not be defensive of that term. The great thing about the beetles is that CFK and the other guy have zero clue you're locked in on them.

"There we have it! These guys work all the time, any time, and they do it with great big smiles on their faces. Yeah?"

For his part, the other guy is stone-faced. "They don't have faces."

"Ah! Yes! Well, we can't have them looking like you and me, can we. Confusing! Recipe for disaster! We keep them nice and distinguished, and the animal kingdom has bounties to offer us— bounties! I'm very interested in getting them accurate. All the ones you don't recognize are based on texts, you know, surviving photographs. They..." CFK has been pacing around, but he stops directly in front of you. You are unbelievably fucked. You dig your fingers into the seat. "Well, that's a new one!"

"That's not an animal," the other guy says coldly.

"The boys must've cooked something new up. That's what I love about Headspace— we're always cooking something up. Free rein, Everard, that's what we give 'em. Free rein. I think he's plenty animal, don't you?" Your (beetle?) brain is telling you to bolt, split, scram, push past Casey Fucking Kemper and Everard Otherguy and sprint into the darkness, but if you'll do that you'll be in an actual pit. You're not in a pit yet. They're not suspicious of you yet. "Take a look!"

Casey Fucking Kemper wraps his meaty fucking fingers around the top of your bowl and pries it stickily off your neck. Your vision blurs. Your balance teeters. Air has entered your head. "Not sure what else you'd call that, Everard, except a clever— let me tell you— a clever new twist on the formula! Beetles! I agree there's no real face, but that's— you know, prototyping. One sec." CFK retrieves a black marker from his lapel and bites the cap off, then draws a lopsided smiley face on the outside of the bowl. "There we have it! That's Headspace spirit if I've ever seen it. There you go, son."

(2/3)

He plonks the bowl back on. The air rushes out. Your vision is now mildly obstructed. You're not sure whether you can speak or if you're supposed to or what you should say, so you don't.

"You can speak, son. Go ahead. Cvtwks axmmkp xzwbwkwt."

[SPEECH PROTOCOL UNLOCKED]

Oh. Okay. What was that last part? "Thank you. ...Sir."

Casey Fucking Kemper waves his fat fucking hand around. "It was my pleasure. What's your name, son?"

They're not suspicious of you yet. They actually don't know you at all. There's a small chance there's a file on you, from the jacking, but from Casey's perspective that stuff was years and years ago. Plus, you don't trust yourself to respond to a fake name reliably. "Gil, sir."

"Gil! Good name. Strong name. Gil—" CFK pats Everard Otherguy's shoulder. "—how would you like to help us out? Lead us around? Not that I don't know what's hereabouts, but it gets all fiddly down here. You lot are much better at nosing out where to go. Everard and I are taking a tour, y'see, and—"

"Does it understand you?"

"Oh, enough. Do you understand me, Gil?"

"Yes, sir." (You don't know what's going on with the 'sir's, whether you're faking them, or if CFK is provoking a groveling instinct, or whether you're a Friend now and that's what they say. It's confusing.)

"There you have it. Why don't we say bye-bye to your other Friends, Gil, and let's hit the road! We'll follow your advice. What should we tour first, do you think?"

>[1] The Edutainment Facility
>[2] The Thinking Machine
>[3] The Stacks
>[4] The Tubeworks

>>6048519
>[2] The Thinking Machine
When they're distracted, stick syphons straight into their servers.

>>6048519
>>[2] The Thinking Machine

>>6048519
>3
Oh god we're doomed
Also that weird speech is used to command friends? Three words from Casey were "Unlock speech protocol".

>>6048543
>>6048883
>[2]

>>6048959
>[3]

Called for [2] and writing. This will be a short update because of (gestures toward time I'm posting this)

Also, Richard officially placed 2nd in the King Tourney! Thanks for all who voted!

>On tour

How are you supposed to know? Shit! This little adventure lasted all of ten seconds, didn't it? Maybe you look the part, maybe you have some of the programming beaten into you, but you're not literally a Friend. Even if you're not real, Headspace didn't make you— and even if they did make you (extremely indirectly), the process went wrong. You aren't some kind of all-singing all-dancing all-gurning Headspace tour-monkey, after all. You're a lot of things, but you're not that. You don't even know what there is to see down here. Goddamn it to hell. You knew you should've looked at those pamphlets.

Calm down.

It's hard to calm down when you're fucked, Teddy. Sorry. Maybe they didn't invent the concept of being fucked yet, back when he was kicking. That's why they all drowned, you know. They saw that giant wave or raincloud or whatever-the-hell and went "looks fine to me" and by the time they discovered the concept of being well and truly fucked up the goddamn ass they were all choking on fish-guy blood. So you guess they weren't able to really internalize it. That'd explain a lot.

You're lashing out because you're stressed. I'd offer you a cig, but I don't know if you have a mouth.

You have about a hundred, but you can't breathe through them. And it'd just knock you out cold. And you doubt it'd fit the Headspace Brand Image. No way Casey Fucking Kemper smokes.

Also good reasons. I'll save you one for later. Right now, I don't see how you're fucked. Can you walk me through it?

He doesn't need walked through it. Any kind of verbal communication from him is a fig leaf: he's in your head. Not like Richard. You mean in. You mean you can actually feel him packed in the nooks of your brain like spray foam. So what he's doing here is baiting a line, and what you're doing is swallowing a hook. You're fucked because you're supposed to be a tour guide, and you don't know the slightest thing about where to go. Happy?

Has anything happened yet?

What?

Is Casey Fucking Kemper grabbing you by your collar and shaking you and grabbing a lighter and setting all your beetles on fire?

No, but—

Then talk to him. Either that'll happen or it won't. 50/50.

You don't think that's...

"I think it's broken," Everard Otherguy says.

CFK adjusts his glasses. "Son? Do you have a...?"

"Yeah," you say. "I, uh—" Aw, shit, no stutter. Thanks, Headspace. "I—"

[Your speech will be CLEAR and TO THE POINT at all times.]

"—I was calculating the most optimal route. I believe you and Mr. Everard would be best-served by proceeding to the location of greatest importance to this level's functioning, sir. As your new ally, Mr. Everard has a vested interest in witnessing the nuts-and-bolts of—"

(1/2)

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"That will be enough. Thanks muchly, Gil. Sounds like we're en route to the Thinking Machine— it's a real spectacle, Everard. Real beaut. You'll like it. Shouldn't be a long jaunt with Gil here to wayfind, too, so— Gil? Would you do the honors, son?"

You're still recovering from your last paragraph. Shit. Maybe you have more programmed in you than you thought. "Ye-es. Yes."

"Then go ahead!"

CFK is gesturing at the door. You go up and open it. What did you expect? A bland hallway, you guess. Or (being Headspace) a bland hallway splooged in neon. There still is neon, but it's all knotted, painted, person-size pipes, plus moving staircases— escalators— and walkways— travelators— and a few elevators— we also called them elevators— threaded within, going any which way, some upside down, all against rich void. Like the in-between never ended, only engorged. No godsdamn wonder they need dedicated navigators. Why did they make it so impenetrable in the first place? Oh. To keep the victims inside? That's depressing.

You weren't terrible at locus-speaking before the accident, and now it's built into you. It's no question you'll be able to navigate this. But you and the crown thief's retainer and Casey Fucking "CEO of Headass" Kemper alone in this mess? Them dependent on you? This could be the worst thing that ever happened to you, or the best. Not counting the other obvious recent worst and best things. Um. The point is, you haven't decided yet.

>[1] Do not pass Go, do not collect $200: go straight to the Thinking Machine. Trying to mess around before you've gained any trust sounds like a recipe for being grabbed by the collar/set on fire.

>[2] It'd be insane to pass up this opportunity. You'd have to be an idiot or a coward or both. And you are, but you're sure Teddy would be quick to disagree, and you don't want to get in a humiliating fight about it, so here you are.
>>[A] Forget the Thinking Machine. Get Everard and CFK stupidly, hopelessly lost, then flip them the bird and fly off. Maybe you'll get on a watchlist, but it'll get them out of the picture for a good while, and you can go find Lottie. [Roll.]
>>[B] There are a lot of narrow walkways here, and there is a long drop underneath them, and while trying to push CFK would break your arms, Everard is weedy. You're not in the murder business, but... the goo dampens your worst anxiety, and... the guy's going to have to die sooner or later, and... when push comes to shove... ha-ha... oh, gods. [Difficult roll.]
>[C] Pump them for info as innocuously as you can manage. How's the crown thievery going, Everard? How's the intruder situation going, Mr. Kemper? Tell me more! (Any specific questions/topics?) [Roll.]
>[D] Write-in?

>>6049395
>[1] Do not pass Go, do not collect $200: go straight to the Thinking Machine. Trying to mess around before you've gained any trust sounds like a recipe for being grabbed by the collar/set on fire.

>>6049395
>2C
A doesn't seem possible because Casey works here too, he'll know his way around. B puts us in a bad spot immediately after the deed is done, so C it must be.

Ask uuuuuh how the other retainers of Ramsey are doing, and how Ramsey herself is doing. Nothing about Headspace itself that would be sus. Maybe more specifics on the purpose of this visit by Everard so you can better guide them?

If things go wrong we can always claim we're running a new prototyped conversational protocol.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>6049456
>>6049566
Flipping.

>>6049856
>[1]

No muss, no fuss. I'll start writing at the usual time. In the meantime, I may work on the final Richard king tourney write-up, so keep an eye out.

A note for clueless archive-readers or anybody else: this is the final "update" from the /qst/ King Tournament, where Richard placed 2nd. I wrote up many in-character 'excerpts' of Richard interacting with other characters and commenting on other events. Ctrl+F "excerpt" in the preliminaries: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2024/5961634 and the actual tournament: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2024/6014808/ if you're curious.


>THE FINAL EXCERPT FROM THE DILIGENT NOTE-TAKING OF CORRESPONDENT #314, UNOFFICIALLY AND QUESTIONABLY KNOWN AS "RICHARD," AFTER HIS ENTRANCE INTO AN INTERDIMENSIONAL "HUSBANDO TOURNAMENT"

"I lost.

"Perhaps it was expected. Perhaps I should have expected it. Perhaps I even did. But it's rarely productive and never wise to dwell on idle doubting, not when matters are still at hand. I lost-- and the final count wasn't close-- not that it ever would have been. A popularity contest! I fail to see how the machine had much charm, but I could lose a popularity contest to a mound of dirt. Talent does not win you friends or admirers: it wins you jealous schemes, betrayals, flatterers, and foes. Step a toe out of established doctrine (doctrine based on nothing, which has never accomplished anything) and they-- all of them, the small-minded, those little people in their little cubes with their perfect little BW-stamped doomed-to-fail clients-- will band together, sensing a threat to their comfortable ineffectuality, their inefficient dithering, and tear you to pieces. Of course the audience of the tournament did not know about clients or cubes or talents, beyond those I had already demonstrated. They simply knew. They looked at me and something in their own little minds sparked with recognition. I was the worst of all things-- a striver-- and I must be destroyed.

"Of course I was not. The machine was crowned (I was frightened, but it was not The Crown), and I and the others were released, with little fanfare, to mingle. I had frankly assumed they all died after I soundly defeated them, so I found this less than comfortable. If the stakes were not mortal, none of them meant anything to me any longer-- though I did consider finding the WYRM-cursed man, so I could more thoroughly rub my victory in his supercilious face. I had forgotten to do so previously. Instead, I noted that the doors to the audience seating were open. To the audience seating!

"I rushed--

(1/3)

"But she was already there, of course, red-faced and puffing (I still needed to improve the lung capacity) and speaking in that way I couldn't imitate, all words, all at once, tripping and skidding to the sentence's finish line. My transcription here may not be fully accurate. She went: 'RICHARD OH THANK GOD I THOUGHT THEY'D NEVER LET YOU LEAVE OR ME LEAVE OR ANYBODY WE WERE JUST STUCK THERE AND THEY WOULDN'T LET ME HAVE THE SWORD OR ANYTHING THOUGH THEY DID HAVE SNACKS AT LEAST DID YOU KNOW THEY'VE INVENTED THESE SUGAR BALLS BUT THE OUTSIDE IS SOUR LIKE A LEMON BUT IT'S NOT A LEMON IT'S THIS POWDER? I DON'T KNOW WHETHER I LIKED THEM OR NOT, AND GIL ISN'T HERE-- DO YOU KNOW WHERE GIL IS? THEY DIDN'T MAKE HIM DO ALL THOSE DUMB CHALLENGES DID THEY? HE'D GET SO EMBARRASSED! WEREN'T YOU EMBARRASSED? THEY MADE YOU DO SO MANY STUPID THINGS--'

"I assured her that embarrassment was not a factor. To be embarrassed, one must care about the approval of the people watching. I simply tried my best with anything presented to me.

;WITH ANYTHING PRESENTED TO YOU?!? THEY PRESENTED YOU SOME STUPID-- SOME REVEALING-- SOME DANCE THING, AND YOU WERE IN THOSE TINY SHORTS-- AND THE BATTING THING? YOU GOT HIT IN THE FACE!'

"I assured here that it did not hurt, as this was not my real body.

'AND CUP STACKING ISN'T EVEN A REAL THING WHO EVEN DOES THAT, AND-- WHY DO YOU LOOK SO TIRED?'

"I assured her that I was incapable of tiring.

'OKAY BUT YOU LOOK PRETTY TIRED RICHARD, AND KIND OF... I DON'T KNOW, SAD...'

(2/4?)

"I assured her that I was incapable of being sad. She fixed me with a hard look, of the type she was so good at giving-- the eye enhanced them-- and I did not say anything. When she found that this could not make me respond, she folded her arms. [I tire of the direct transcription.] Charlotte told me that whether or not I was sad (even though I looked sad), I shouldn't be hypothetically sad, because the contest was worthless-- less than worthless-- not only was it an obvious front to humiliate the contestants, but it was thoroughly rigged! She had reclaimed memories, she said, of a previous contest of this stripe, which was also thoroughly rigged against her. Against her and I. They hated us in particular, those greater powers, and sought our suffering, so if I was sad about not winning (ending in second place, just to twist the knife), I shouldn't be. And she saw me trying very hard out there, even in all the stupidest of stupid contests. They didn't even have sword-fighting, she said, so what kind of King contest was this? Besides, was I even supposed to be King? She was supposed to be Queen, and I was supposed to be her loyal advisor, and the only reason they left *her* out of the comparative Queen contest is because she'd beat the pants off of everybody there, no sweat. Did I know a stupid great big cat won? Just a cat? I and she were better than any stupid great big cat, she said, and better than any ugly automaton. Though she said she rather liked the little rodent thing, which she found cute, and even the little lizard man. I accepted these things. (After all, I had placed higher than them.)

"When she was done with her speech, Charlie studied my face, and I saw that she was attempting, in her own stunted way, to console me. It could be that she thought that, if my ego were too bruised, she would be the next one to feel it. There was some merit to this, which I regretted. Still, I did not think that was the case. I thought rather that she actually believed all of these things, firstly, and in addition did not like to see me hurt. She saw me as somebody who mattered to her. I had made this so. I could not take it back. I saw her as somebody who mattered to me. I had made this so. I could not take it back. I did not especially want to.

"She must have seen something in my eyes, because she hugged me then. It was the same as the others: hot, crushing, her hair caught in my collar and armpits and everywhere else. She did not take things by half measures. Me? I am not built for hugging. I mean this factually. The incentives for hugging are nebulous and limited, and the whole process was messy. It was imperfect. The offspring of the WYRM are perfect; they do not hug.

(3/4)

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"Charlotte is not perfect (imagine!) and so she hugged me like she meant to pop my ribs. I have been ruined and so I hugged her back and ruffled her hair and murmured to the back of her head that I was glad she's safe, and that was what mattered, more than any arbitrary tournament. The Crown we'd be obtaining was worth a thousand of the machine's. In the end, this was a temporary diversion.

"I don't know if she heard me. She went on hugging, and I thought that it wasn't me she actually meant to hug. I thought that if she knew she wouldn't hug me like this at all. It wasn't mine and didn't belong to me.

"I thought that regretting it meant, maybe, that I still deserved it. In one sense or another.

"I don't know what I thought, because space and time were slipping, and Charlotte was liquefying in my arms. I breathed her in and coughed: saline. The ground was liquifying too and gurgled upward and enveloped me, and took my skin off with it. I floated, denuded and lengthened and noncomprehending, until by chance I twisted my neck and banged against the tube and remembered.

"I was back. If I had ever left: if it was not just a vivid IV-dream, an increasingly plausible explanation, and one that required far fewer questions answered. That was not Charlotte; I had not seen her in days. A cruel figment only. But I would see her soon, if she was alive, if she was well, and if she did not know. She would not want me if she knew. I cross my fingers.

"Richard"

I was going to update but then this ended up being... uhh... you see how long it is. Update-length. I'll try to get out a quick actual update out tomorrow.

>>6050061
>I would see her soon, if she was alive, if she was well, and if she did not know. She would not want me if she knew.
Um, ominous?

>>6050054
>They looked at me and something in their own little minds sparked with recognition. I was the worst of all things-- a striver-- and I must be destroyed.
No, Richard! Don't say that! Most people liked you, dude.

>>6050181
:^)

>>6050220
Richard is MAD projecting there, don't worry about him! Though he did lose the popularity contest pretty bad...

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>>6050353
What? Richard doesn't think he has many friends? Well, even if he doesn't think we ever met, I really do consider him to be my friend!

>>6050364
>>6050353
I for one want to destroy Richard because he is a striver and reminds me of my own inadequacies.

Hi Bathic QM
Do you want to do one last lore blurb/rp thing in the QTG thread just for fun?
If these >>6050054 excerpts are chronologically last, then maybe something retroactive, taking place prior to the end of the contest; like, while Beta and Richard were just sitting in the finalists room, still waiting for all the votes to be cast?

I ask, because I think Richard is a cool character, and the batting cage event didn't really provide much material to work with unlike the finale of the event.
I planned on asking and attempting this in the tourney thread, but it ended and got archived before I had some free time...

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>>6050364
Don't feel bad, Narrator! Richard isn't very good at making friends. His quasi-daughter isn't either, but it seems she has taken a liking to Ramster! Quickly, Ramster, escape!

>>6050391
So true.

>>6050419
Hi! I appreciate the offer, but I'm not sure what this would entail in a practical sense. I wouldn't want to spam up the QTG with some kind of back-and-forth roleplay-- I don't think that's the right place for things-- and I'm pretty happy with how everything wrapped up here. If you wanted to do your own write-up and pastebin it in the QTG, I think that'd be cool and I'd be happy to read it, or if you just want to hear Richard's personal feelings and biases about Beta, I'd be happy to do a little OOC write-up for you (though I think they were touched upon in this and the last excerpt). Or if you have some other idea, please let me know.

>Serious business

You start moving, lest CFK find you defective, but that doesn't mean you've decided on anything. When you're at a crossroads like this, you think it's important to lay out the pros and cons, so you don't go making decisions on impulse. This time, you feel like starting with the cons.

Cons: If anything goes wrong with anything you try, you will be captured and sent to mind-prison. Also, even if you manage to fly off and escape, a pissed-off Casey Fucking Kemper will send a fleet of goons after you, specifically, which will ruin Lottie's entire bombing plan and make her very unhappy with you, specifically.

Well, that seals it. You will be a wonderful, effective, rule-abiding, very quiet tour guide. You will arouse no suspicion, you will locate Lottie, and you can watch as she unleashes almighty hell on whoever. Yeah. That's more like the natural order of things.

I think you're capable of shenanigans if you wanted to be.

That last clause is doing a lot of heavy lifting, Teddy. You're happy, you're free, and you— you don't know where you're going. Shit. One sec.

You don't navigate a locus any differently than you used to, not really. Technique's the same: have somewhere you need to go, think a lot, let your feet do the walking. It's the effort that's changed. Where you used to meet resistance— you were imposing your will on the place, bending it around you— now you... goddammit. You're struggling for a way to make this not sound airy-fairy. Now you want to go to the Thinking Machine, and there's no resistance, because the place doesn't bend for shit. You don't have to make your path the right way to travel, because your path is, unfailingly, the right way to travel. You know it is, for a fact. In your gut.

You don't think you succeeded at the non-airy-fairy: it sounds like GS still. Goddammit. Still, can anything argue with the results? You hop on a w— on a travelator, cross onto one moving perpendicular, wobble along the top of a fat orange pipe (CFK does not fall off, no matter how funny that'd be), find the entrance to a fatter blue one, and enter. The inside is slick and the drop near-vertical and if you had a stomach it might've been upset, but you keep one hand on your neck so the bowl doesn't pop off, keep your toes pointed, (know in your gut when the pipe ends), and land on your feet. You even have time to step neatly aside before Casey Fucking Kemper and Everard Someguy tumble out. Casey scrambles up and pulls out his walkie. "Hi! Can we get some cushioning installed under— what?" (The walkie crackles.) "Yes, I did just— it's for everybody! Don't tell me it costs anything. We're where Dreams Come True, and we can't get ourselves some damn pillows underneath all the—"

(1/2)

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No point listening to that. CFK has such a distinctive frequency of voice— the man who launched a thousand bad impressions— that he's paradoxically easy to tune out. Even easier than usual, since there's so much else to listen to:

tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap
thock-thock-thock-thock-thock-thock-thock
dit-dit-dit-dit-dat-dat-dat-dat-dit-dit-dat
click-click-click-click-click-click-THUNK—SHING

Is this the Thinking Machine? Because you don't see a lot of machine, and there doesn't seem to be a lot of thinking happening. What you do see are people— hundreds within view— lined up at huge rows of desks, seated identically ramrod-straight, banging away at identical typewriters. If they were real typewriters, they'd be worth a fortune: even the scrap is valuable. If they were real people, that'd— that'd be fucked, you think. None of the typing speeds vary at all. None of them stop for a sip of water. There are long cables running between the desks and the ceiling.

You were trying to see where the cables were going (ineffectually: though you can "look up" well enough, you're pretty farsighted— maybe you can install a lens into the bowl?) when a different type of cable caught your eye. It doesn't lead to a desk. It leads to a person in a diving suit. They're hovering over the shoulder of one of the typists, two rows over.

>Pick up to 2 (at least for now).

>[1] Listen to Casey narrate about the "Thinking Machine."
>[2] Follow the diving suit's example and take a look at the physical state of a typist.
>[3] See what's actually being typed.
>[4] Attempt to discreetly slip off and meet the diving suit. Who is this guy?
>[5] Tip Casey off about the diving suit. If you wanted a chance to solidify his trust, here it is.
>[6] Write-in.

>>6050885
>2&3
Calculator version friends?

>>6050885
>3 and 4

>>6050453
>I'm pretty happy with how everything wrapped up here.
Oh okay, I understand
>your own write-up and pastebin it in the QTG
Hey, that's a great idea! I'll try to give it a shot within the next day or so.

>>6050885
>>3 and 4

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>>6051335
>>6051013
>3 & 4

>>6050895
>2 & 3

Called for 3 and 4 and writing. I am starting to get our yearly art influx in: will post it as it comes, though I may save some of it for relevant occasions.

>>6051098
>Hey, that's a great idea! I'll try to give it a shot within the next day or so.
Awesome! Looking forward to it.

>Be friendly

You got them all here safely, so CFK should be fine if you wander off, right? If he's mad, you can say that you're a new model. With the Wander Off Protocol activated.

He's in the midst of giving Everard a spiel, so maybe he won't notice you're gone at all, and maybe you won't be caught dick out, pants down. Maybe this will have been a good idea, not a brain-damaged plan-ruining one. See, you're trying to be less negative. Is Teddy happy?

I didn't say anything.

It's just different when you're being watched. Anyways, you're going now. Last chance to stop you.

I don't see anything wrong with what you're doing.

That makes one of you. You think it's the body. If you were jittering, that'd be the signal that you're en route to deep shit, and you could course-correct from there. Very reasonable. Instead, you have this dead lump, and it enables all your sketchiest ideas. You were actually considering pushing Everard Otherguy off a fucking pipe, Teddy.

Did you?

No, but— you're just going. The closest row of desks is a few feet away, and a few steps later you're there, right behind one of the typists. None of them have turned to look at you. Are they Friends, too? None of them have wacky heads. The one you're behind has a wire running out of her neck.

You always thought jacking was a mercenary profession, so it's good to know that you were doing some social good, too, by screwing around with Headspace. Though you don't think the boys would appreciate them being blown up. Bad for business. They'd have your balls on a platter if they knew you were doing it. Fuck them! Tough fucking luck. You didn't see any of them come along to bail you out: Lottie did, and she did everything else besides. She's worth ten of any of them, and she'd be worth fifty if she stopped vanishing on you. (Do you smell smoke yet?)

You're dithering now, though. You always do this. You're whatever the opposite of a man of action is. The typists aren't relevant to you— they're getting evacuated or blown up, whatever's most useful to them— but whatever they're typing is. You press up against the bowl to peer at the sheet of paper:

....|.|. .|.|..|| .|..|... .|.|...| .|.|..|| .|.....| .|..|.|. .|.||... .|.|.|.| .|.|.|.| .|.|...| .|..|... .|..|.|. .|.||... ....|.|. .|....|| .|.|...| .|.....| .|.|.|.| .|.||..| .|..|.|. .|...|.. .|.|.|.| .|..||.| ....|.|. .|.|..|. .|..|... .|.|.|.| .|.|...| .|.....| .|..|.|| .|..|..| .|.|.||. .|..|... .|.|.|.| .|.|.|.|

(1/2)

It's... lines. And dots. Are you missing something? Is your vision that crap? You should be able to read, but... no, they're all the same, no matter the distance. Lines, dots, lines, dots. The typewriters have all been modified to accept a huge roll of paper, instead of individual sheets, and each typewriter spits out a little more of the roll every time the typist completes a row of lines and dots. They've been going for a long, long time, because the rolls of paper cascade off the typewriters and off the desks and into a gap in the floor. Most of the wires and cables also run through (or from?) that gap, though some reach up to— you thought it was the ceiling, but now that you're looking at it, that's clearly another set of desks and chairs and typists up there. Shit. This is a whole operation.

An operation of what? Where is the Thinking Machine? Are the typists a machine, somehow? Is the thinking the output, or the input? Where is that paper going? The diving suit has crossed to the next row over: one away from yours.

You saw him hopping onto the elevator down. You heard CFK bitch about a second intruder. It doesn't take a genius to connect the dots. If this guy is invading Headspace from the outside, you probably have similar goals— but god, what shitty timing! Whatever reason he's here is about to be moot, guaranteed, and there's a solid chance he'll be exploded in an hour or two— Lottie seems confident that everybody can be evacuated, but come on. It'd be decent of you to tip the guy off, so he can go home and kick his feet up and have a beer instead of courting death from multiple sources.

Is CFK looking for you yet? No, he's still monologuing. It must be his special talent. You consider your options for traversal, then go for the one that looks the coolest: unscrewing your head, tossing it over the desk, then relaxing and falling to pieces and slipping over and catching it before it hits the ground. Then: recoagulating, crouching, screwing the bowl back on.

Wow. Nice work.

Thanks. You knew it would work, but didn't want to believe it, so you're pretty pleased with yourself. (Why can't it always be so fluid?) Hopefully the diving-suit guy thought it was cool, because he definitely saw the whole thing. Geez, he's pretty short. Shorter than you are. Poor guy. No wonder he needs the whole disguise.

He doesn't speak— but he does start signing at you. Shit. You're rusty at handsign. "I AM HERE..." Easy enough. "...FOR [???]..." Something positive? Peace? To help? "THERE IS NO [???] TO [???] ME..." To kill them? Hurt? Tease? Tattle on? You don't recognize that one at all, sue you. (Handsign loses a lot of usefulness once your throat's used to talking.) You think he's basically telling you to piss off back to CFK, though. Probably saw you with him. Hmm.

(Choices next.)

>[A1] You think diving suit guy thinks you're a Friend— you don't know how he makes sense of the beetles, but maybe Friends do that. Take the bowl off and put your actual face back on to convince him otherwise.
>[A2] Leave the bowl on. Try to convince him you're in disguise as a Friend (semi-true), or that you've been deprogrammed (also semi-true), or whatever he'll listen to. You can't afford Casey Fucking Kemper looking over and catching you with a head on. [Roll.]
>[A3] Well, you tried. Head back before you're dog meat.
>[A4] Write-in.

IF [A1] OR [A2]:
You have no hard question limit, but the more you ask the more likely Casey's going to wrap up before you do.
>[B1] Who is this guy?
>[B2] What does he want?
>[B3] Has he seen a lady in overalls? Dark hair? Maybe set some fires somewhere?
>[B4] Does he know anything about the other intruder?
>[B5] How'd he get into Headspace?
>[B6] Does he know where the best spot to blow shit up is?
>[B7] Headspace is going to explode, FYI. He better scram.
>[B8] Write-in.

>>6051430
>A2
>B3,7
The most pertinent

>>6051430
>>A2
>>B3,7

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>>6051567
>>6051673
>[A2], [B3], [B7]

Called. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 5 (+5 Sick Stunt) vs. DC 60 (+10 ???) to convince the diving suit guy you mean no harm!

(No ID spendy, you're Gil.)

Rolled 93 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>6051878

Rolled 95 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>6051878
MURICA

Rolled 17 (1d100)

>>6051878
The dice gods have blessed us! But will they continue to do so?

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>>6052003
They will not!

>>6051888
>>6051894
>>6052003
>98, 100, 23 vs. DC 60 -- Success

You still pull it off, though. Writing.

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Nope, had to drop everything to help a friend in need. This thread isn't going smoothly, and I'm still going back to work next week-- I'm considering calling it here very early and picking up after work/art season ends (ETA ~2.5 weeks), since those two things are consuming my time and attention at the moment. Let me know if you guys would prefer continued sporadic updates or if you'd rather take a break and pick up later. (And happy belated 4th to all Muricans in the thread!)

>>6052022
Sporadic updates pls

>>6052022
Sporadic

>>6052003
Doesn’t a 17 mean instant crit-success?

>>6052022
Your call. Whatever works best for you.

>>6052116
>>6052227
>>6052270
The people seem to want the show to go on, so the show will continue to go on. I'll try to pick up the pace IC, even if the actual update pace will probably remain shonky.

>>6052270
Oh wow! Not a crit, but [Lucky 17] does mean that all 17s count as a pass of the DC. That means that the result is actually:

>98, 100, 23 vs. DC 60 -- Enhanced Success

I'm glad I waited a day so you could catch that. Nice call! I'll write at the usual time.

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>Whoa whoa whoa
>98, 100, 23 vs. DC 60 — Enhanced Success

Thing is, you have nothing to hide here. You're not a Friend, and there's not a chance in hell you belong to Casey. The only way you can bungle this now is— well, by bungling it. Falling flat on your face. Shoving your foot in your mouth. Not that that's ever happened before. You'll probably sign "your mom is a saltlicking whore" when you mean to sign "thank you," or something. At least your hands can't stutter. Right? They can't, right? Shit, you're scared to start. Teddy doesn't know how to sign, does he?

You know how to sign.

"Know" is a stretch. You know the common words. There's some people who get way too into it, start using it as their main language, but that never made any sense to you. You can just talk. Everybody understands, even if their accent is thick as shit. No offense, Teddy. Is it true there used to be lots of different languages?

Yeah.

Well, shit. Didn't that get annoying? You're sure lots of things suck these days, but you do think some logical changes were made post-Flood. Anyways. If you start signing, you're going to piss this guy off somehow, and he'll go and shoot you in the head. If Teddy starts signing, his intrinsic coolness will bleed through, and it'll be no problem.

I don't think—

Please?

I'll start. But you have to take back over. I'm not having a whole conversation.

Fine, as long as he hurries. The diving suit guy is— you can't see through his mask with these eyes, but you're sure he's frowning at you in there. Cussing you out under his breath. Whatever. Your arms dangle, warm and slack and quivering, like overripe water balloons; you can't move them anymore, or feel anything but their weight. Shit. You jitter your ankle and remind yourself, rationally, that you asked for this— you mean literally asked for this— and any primal fear-feelings are just that, primal, which is to say irrational. Civilized people in the modern day sometimes let their spooky brain ghost use their fingers. Thank god you don't have a face. If you had a face you'd be shot already.

Your hand pats you reassuringly on the thigh and rises into the air. It hasn't been that long, right? It feels like you've been standing here doing nothing for minutes and minutes, but the diving suit guy hasn't moved or spoken or slapped you or anything, so it hasn't been minutes. Your hands are saying stuff. "I AM ME. NOT A BUDDY. NOT HIS. ME." ("Buddy"? Oh. "Friend.")

"YOUR HEAD," the guy counters.

"YES. I AM NOT..." Teddy hesitates. "...WHAT I WAS. BUT I AM ME. ALL THE TIME. NOT HIS. CAN THEY MAKE BUDDIES THAT SAY WRONG THINGS?"

"SURE."

"...THAT TALK WITH HANDS?"

The guy spreads his own hands— not a sign, just a shrug. "MAYBE."

"WHAT ABOUT THIS?"

(1/2)

Gil! But you know— you knew— you're hooked to Teddy's brain, or maybe it was obvious without that, just from context. You don't know. You did get an impulse a millisecond after you knew already, and an image, in case you were really slow on the draw. You don't know why you didn't resist it. It's not what you like to do in front of people. Maybe a guy in a diving suit isn't a real person to you.

Anyways, you sigh, unclench your body, and split and fall and rise— to desk-level, so if Casey looks he can't see. You can see Casey over the top of the desk if you hover, and around all the way to the guy, who has one gloved hand atop his helmet. "????" he says, lowering it. The sign is two fingers walking up an arm.

You... can't respond. Damn. You clench back up and shake out your fizzy arms and take another stab at it. No need to read your own hands now. "Huh?"

"...B-U-G-S?"

Hard to sum it up better. "Sure am."

"...ARE YOU... NO WAY... YOU'RE FROM A HOUSE?"

A house? A— a manse. Your bugs are from one. "...Yes?"

"NO WAY. YOU HAVE TO GO."

What? That's what you were going to say. Damn diving suit guys, always reading your mind. "No! I'm looking for—" You're making up some signs. Whatever. You're not one of those obsessives. "—my buddy. She's—"

"SHE'S HERE?!"

"Yes? She's—" Oh, shit. "Wait, you—"

"YOU BOTH HAVE TO GO! GET OUT! THIS PLACE MIGHT EXPLODE!"

You don't know the sign for 'explode.' You're not sure there is one in common use. You do, however, understand what 'flinging your arms out and shaking them' means. "I know? We—"

"I'M TRYING TO STOP IT, BUT I MIGHT NOT! BE SAFE! GO!"

Oh, shit. "You're trying to stop the—" (You fling your arms out and shake them.)

"YES! I— I— I CAN SAY MORE— BUT NOT HERE! AND YOU NEED TO GO RIGHT AFTER! YOU COULD DIE!"

The diving suit guy wants to stop Headspace from exploding. Which is a very fine and noble goal, except you want to make it explode. So. He's your enemy, then? Is that right?

That feels strong. He seems concerned for your safety.

Okay, sorry, Teddy. Actually, he's kind of right. Charlotte would say 'enemy.' This is your... uh... directly opposed... your antagonist?

Shit, that's even lamer.

>[1] Maybe you're not understanding him correctly. Go with him, ditching CFK, and get the full scoop. You'll lose CFK and Everard and whatever information you can glean from them, but you're just a Friend, so they probably won't be too steamed you vanished. Probably. And this seems important.
>[2] Diving Suit Guy sounds nice and all, but the explosion is kind of non-negotiable. Stand up and turn him in to CFK and Everard: you'll get brownie points and keep the plan on track. Win-win...?
>[3] It seems cruel to turn the guy in when Charlotte can just kick his ass later. Let him go off without you, and return to the tour.
>[4] Write-in.

>>6052726
>[1] Maybe you're not understanding him correctly. Go with him, ditching CFK, and get the full scoop. You'll lose CFK and Everard and whatever information you can glean from them, but you're just a Friend, so they probably won't be too steamed you vanished. Probably. And this seems important.

>>6052725
...picture is extremely sus

>>6052726
>1
I don't think our plans got leaked? Is there another potential explosion in the works? Important to know.

>>6052726
>[2] Diving Suit Guy sounds nice and all, but the explosion is kind of non-negotiable. Stand up and turn him in to CFK and Everard: you'll get brownie points and keep the plan on track. Win-win...?

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>>6052744
>>6052980
>[1]

>>6053135
>[2]

Called for [1] and writing.

>>6052952
The timing of this message makes me imagine you were ruminating on this for a while.

>>6053388
I did.

>Go along with it

This really would be a lot easier if Lottie were here. She's great at making decisions. Maybe they're not good decisions, or intelligent decisions, but at least she commits and moves on with her life. You prefer to stand in place and do nothing. That's not what you prefer. That's just what you do. Teddy?

I can't make decisions for you. I'm not all that smart. I will say that the guy sounds relatively earnest.

Yeah, because he doesn't know you're here to blow up Headspace. When he figures that out, he's going to turn on a dime. No more Mr. Nice Diving Suit Guy.

You don't have to tell him what you're here for.

And if he asks, then you lie, he sees straight through it, and he'll go ahead and—

You're a good liar.

Not anymore.

I think you have your moments. You don't know what'll happen. You're assuming he's against you to begin with, when he said he wanted to explain more.

Unless he's lying. Not like you can see his face, or hear his tone of voice. Though you guess you're not super vulnerable to... well, to anything. Unless the guy has a flamethrower stashed in that suit, or he tries mind-controlling you, or something. Though Teddy could help with that, right? Since he's in your...

Sure.

Sure. Cool. The bigger issue is Casey Fucking Kemper wigging out if you go missing on him. You saw him wigging out earlier, and you don't want that on your back. Except he hasn't noticed you gone so far— what's he doing now, actually? Barking into his walkie? Not about you, surely. Probably some development with the intruder. Intruder #1.

Intruder #2 is, again, glaring at you. You mean, you can't see the glaring, but it's— it must've been five minutes already of you standing and waffling. That's what you do. You waffle.

It hasn't been five minutes. And you've already decided.

Yeah. You have. "Okay," you sign. "Where are we going?"

The diving suit guy points to the hole in the floor where all the cables are going. He tugs at his own cable, fastened to his back.

If that's what suits him, fine. No problem for you; you're the one who can hover. Fingers crossed for no flamethrower. He won't have a flamethrower, right?

I think the odds are in your favor.

Good answer. Anything's possible, but some things aren't likely. Of course, that's what you thought about gods, magic, and your insides permanently turning into bugs, but fuck it. That's how it is. If nothing else, you'll get in some practice dodging flamethrowers.

—

(1/2)

>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]

You are Charlotte Fawkins. You are feeling good. You are feeling like you might tip off your feet and float away. You have hollow bones. They hollowed your bones out and filled them with ust that makes you float. You are feeling good. You have a key in your neck. You don't know who 'they' are. You are here with your least favorite retainer Teddy and the friendly voice. You like the friendly voice very much. It reminds you of the radio. The friendly voice tells you things that are true. Teddy doesn't talk very much.

Teddy is standing in the middle distance with his hands in his coat pockets watching you through his creepy thick glasses. You like him less than the friendly voice. You have had many excellent conversations with the friendly voice. You have had no conversations with Teddy, whose favorite hobby is watching creepily through creepy glasses, and not helping you at all with the challenges. Your favorite retainer would help you with the challenges, no questions asked. Not that you need help. You have been succeeding like you always do. You are awaiting your next challenge. It smells like soap in here.

"[VIRGINIA SHEARER]." (You don't know why the voice has your name mixed up, but you forgive it.) "Imagine. That you are. [IN THE CIRCUMSTANCES IMMEDIATELY BEFORE YOUR DROWNING]. You are. Alive in this moment. Once more."

The friendly voice tells you things that are true. It is night and the moon is new and the ocean is black as a stove and twice as shiny. You have crammed a portmanteau full of everything you could think of for a quick journey— you have been reliably assured it will be quick. You have dressed sensibly for travel. You have left two copies of a note conveying your motives (obtaining crown, restoring good name, etc.) and assurances and well-wishes. You have stolen a sword off the top of a mantel. You have located a hole in the tall protective fence. You have a helpful snake. You are in all ways prepared.

This does not mean you have jumped yet. You keep looking and making your heart jump and backing away. Which is not to say you're a coward. It's only to say that it's a long way down, and you have been reliably assured water firms up, a long way down. So it's more like jumping onto rock. You are not supposed to be anywhere near the fence, let alone holes in it. And something about this is gnawing at you. The drop. The portmanteau. A long down. It seemed like a better idea at the time...

You look to Teddy, leaning against the fence, chewing on a cigarette. He looks at you through his thick creepy glasses and doesn't say anything.

>[1] Jump.
>[2] Give up. Go home.
>[3] Write-in.

>>6053440
>[3] Ask Teddy why he is standing there and watching us

>>6053440
>3
Grab a rock so that we can chuck it into the water right before we hit it so it unfirms. Then jump.

>>6053440
>>6053510
+1

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>>6053510
>>6053873
>>6053472
>Write-ins

Called and writing.

>Hey!

"You shouldn't stare," you say. "It's rude."

Teddy dips his head and looks into the distance. It doesn't help much. You scuff your boot against the ground and look out into the ocean. It doesn't help much either. You rub your nose and glance back at Teddy. "You're not even supposed to be here."

"Am I not?"

"No, you're not. You're supposed to be..." You wave your hand in a circle. "Dead, or something."

"I am dead."

"Dead and not here. You're not even from here. You're from..." You frown slightly. "Um, from... down there."

Teddy twiddles his cigarette in his fingers. "I guess I am. There didn't use to be so much water on top."

"No, I mean..." The entire nightscape is gauzy, like a fog's descended, though the sky is clear and empty. "I... yeah. I'm just saying you're not supposed to be here."

"Am I interrupting?"

"Kind of? I was going to jump, but you're... you're killing the... you're making it weird. You're too tall, and you have creepy glasses, and it's— you're weird. I would be gone already if you weren't—"

"If you were enthusiastic about it," Teddy says, "I don't think I'd be deterring you."

"I am enthusiastic. My crown is down there, and my sword is down there, and I'm going to be Queen, and—"

"I thought you had your sword here."

You look down. There's nothing strapped to your hip. "No I don't, stupid. Obviously. Why would I have a—"

"Of course. Sorry."

"It's fine," you say, mollified. "Maybe look next time?"

"I will. What's the plan?"

"The plan?" This is why Teddy's your least-favorite retainer. Gil doesn't ask questions: he knows it's not his place. "I'm going to jump! What else would it be?"

"I don't know. You don't seem to be jumping. Is it because your agent's gone? Richard."

"Richard's here." You touch the snake's cold head, then your cold neck. "He's... sleeping. He's busy."

"Is that how it really was?"

"He's on vacation. It— it doesn't— I don't need him. I'm an independent young lady. I don't need him. I have to jump, and I will, so—"

"You have to?"

"Yes! That's what happened. I— I— I need a rock. A big rock. To throw. So I don't splatter on the—"

"Didn't you throw your suitcase?"

"Teddy," you plead. "Can I have a—"

Teddy rests one hand on the top of a big rock, if one were to stretch the definition of 'big rock' considerably. It is big: taller than you, as tall as him. It is a rock, or made of it. But it's really more of a disc, or whetstone, or one massive wheel— it's smooth, matte black, perfectly circular, and standing upright. It's emblazoned with a complex spiraling pattern.

(1/2)

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It's what you asked for, but in a way that feels pointed. (Gil would've gotten you a normal rock.) Without commentary, Teddy pushes the wheel toward the hole in the fence; it crashes through, bringing some fence with it, and plummets out of sight.

"You better follow," he says. "Or you'll splatter."

If only you could argue. If only you could take a moment longer to make this heroic. You can't, and you can't, and you dash and fling yourself off and—

You are plummeting 90 MPH feet-first towards the uncaring ocean, and all you can figure—

—the gauze or the fog slides around you, slips up your nostrils, coils into your sinuses, and your vision doubles, and you—

That's as far as you get before you hit the water. Your [BIG WHEEL] broke the surface a fraction before—

—you're not sure what's— if you're really— they filled your bones with gravel and coals, and your nose with fog, and your mouth with salt, with wet, which goes up your nose and down your throat before you can think. You gargle, and kick, and clutch for the surface, and hold what little breath you can, until you can't, and you inhale— and the seawater spits and bites at your lungs, you go very limp, and the world goes very black.

And you die.

"That's not what happened."

You are drowning. Teddy isn't. Teddy doesn't look wet, even, which you don't think is fair. "That's what happened to me. To everyone." He doesn't sound underwater. "Not you. You lived, Charlotte."

You don't see how. Your snake is dead. You can't breathe. There's too much fog in your brain. You can't remember how—

"There's nothing to remember. You lived. Their last blessing." You can't see through Teddy's glasses, not even a little bit. "Do you need help?"

You can't breathe.

"I can help you, if you need it."

>[1] Yes. You need it.
>[2] No. You don't need it. You have somebody else. [Use the key in your collarbone.]
>[3] No. You don't need it. You have something greater. [-1 SV].
>[4] No. You don't need it. You have a way out. [Use [OPEN].]
>[5] Write-in?

>>6054183
Does anyone remember what the key is?

>>6054183
>[4] No. You don't need it. You have a way out. [Use [OPEN].]
Death before help from TEDDY

>>6054185
Uh, no, but from context it might be an emergency signal to recall Richard?

>>6054349
>>6054185
The key has come up before both recently and less recently. It should be relatively easy to look up. Reminder that we also have the recap doc and the compilation docs for quick reference.

>>6054394
>>6054185

Yeah I'm pretty sure it's the Richard recall key, the one where he said he'd tear himself apart to get to us if we used it so we really shouldn't use it. It was on a string around our neck, not sure how it got into our collarbone, maybe something with moving between manse levels and the hallucinations we're currently in.

>>6054183
>[4] No. You don't need it. You have a way out. [Use [OPEN].]

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You guys said sporadic updates, right? Sporadic updates. (I'm waging again, and will be waging next week as well.) Will aim for tomorrow.

>>6054804
Pat should urgently consult a dentist

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>>6054413
>>6054349
>[4]
Writing.

>>6055109
Anon, you seem to enjoy making snide comments about the cool art I receive. This has happened often. What makes you this way?

Also, her teeth are fine, it's her lower face that's messed up (see: Bathic, Thread 29, Post 5456055). Art is accurate.

Woman?

>[OPEN]

Do you need it? Did you need it? Richard said he— says he— said you needed him, and look at you. Where is he? Asleep, or on... on vacation, or the hospital, or, um... the hospital. The snake hospital. Or in your neck.

Put it around your neck, or you'll lose it. I am not going through that again.

You won't lose it now. It has been a very long time since you drowned, hasn't it? There's too much water in your brain to register specifics, but you— you lived. Like what Teddy said. You lived. You didn't need Richard, but he wasn't lying about what'd happen. You're dreaming, or being screwed with, or...

They mean it for your face. They mean the tank for your lungs, you think, or for your brain.

For your... you're surfacing overlit memories of lime-green, but you can't think like this. Not when you're dying. You don't need Teddy, your least-favorite retainer, same as you don't need Richard or Gil or anybody at all. Sometimes you may want them. But you can handle yourself.

You turn your head, summon yourself up, and say through the sputum and water and froth: [OPEN]! The world promptly inverts: the sky fills as the sea drains, and you cough as you plummet through clean salt air. The seafloor, smooth and dry, looks sculpted. You reach for it and dig your fingers in and flip over and flop onto white empty tile.

>[5/14 ID]

You lived, and you lived for three years and counting after that, and now you're here, wherever here is. Richard isn't here. Gil isn't here. Teddy... wait. What was Teddy doing there? That's Gil's stupid brain guy! You shouldn't call him stupid. He's your retainer. That's Gil's brain guy! Not yours. You only have room for one brain guy, and he's hospitalized— but coming back soon, right? You didn't need him. But it sure would've been nice to have him.

What's going on? Ow! Okay. Hangover's back, or that's what it feels like. You don't think it's from alcohol this time. Lime green? A white room? A long line... pipes... pipe bombs... Headspace! Headspace. You jumped out a window, lost Gil, and now you're, um, captive. From what it looks like. In an observation chamber, from what it looks like. That's a lot of mirrors. A lot of Virginias, too. You wave, and she waves back, and the beetles wave back with her.

(1/2)

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The beetles? Gil! That's right! You grabbed a handful of him as you were leaving. Thank goodness. "Gil?" you whisper.

A pause. "No."

"Do you know where this is? I think they might have, um... we might be captured, a bit, but that's no problem, it'll be no big deal to— no?" Maybe he's drugged? "But I got you while you were—"

"You got me. Can we get some privacy? I don't know if I show up on audivid, but you sure do."

"Some... what?" This is too much while your head still hurts. "How! What? Gil, I—"

"Teddy," the beetles say, and flitter onto the top of your head. You can't see what they're doing up there, but you feel a rush like warm water, and your vision sparks and blurs. When it clears, there's a man there in front of you. He doesn't reflect at all.

How's it going?

Teddy! You grabbed— dammit! And now he's— out! Get out!

Warm welcome. I'm not here to do anything. You're the one who grabbed me.

So you're stuck with Teddy, and poor Gil's all alone out there? With nobody? Something could happen to him! He's very vulnerable.

I think I'm still there. It's the beetle thing. You know. He's beetles, I'm him, I'm beetles.
I'll be happy to duck out when you're not under surveillance, but... I wouldn't expect that soon. You have yourself in a tight spot.

He was spying on your dreams! You remember!

Hallucinations. You were spaced, as I can place it. I didn't have much of a choice about being there. Or here. Like I said, you grabbed me. Not that I'm not happy to help.

You don't need help from him.

Even after I pledged my loyal servitude and so on? This is a good occasion for it.

You... argh! You guess he did pledge his loyal servitude and so on. You tapped him with The Sword and everything. And he knows all Gil knows about you, which is a lot, so... fine! Whatever. At certain points you may or may not graciously allow his assistance. But if he tries to take over your mind, you'll explode him.

Roger.

"[VIRGINIA SHEARER]." It's not such a friendly voice anymore, in your opinion. "Abnormal string vibrations. Detected. Please return to. Your activity. We appreciate. Your cooperation."

There's a hissing noise. Richard? No, above you. Vents. A mask and a tank. Gas!

>[1] Attempt to escape before you're drugged again!
>>[A] Get the mantis shrimp out and shatter the mirrors! There has to be something behind them you can flee to. But you'll cause a big scene, guaranteed.
>>[B] Go through the mirrors? Or into them? Look, you did it in Ellery's manse forever ago, so you're sure it's still possible. And you'll be not-here. [Roll.]
>>[C] Do something weirder! You're deep in a manse— a lot more is fair game for you. (Write-in.) [Possible roll.]
>[D] Write-in.

>[2] You know what's happening this time, right? Maybe you can lean into it, now that you're prepared.
>>[A] Aim for a specific type of "challenge"? (Write-in.) [Possible roll.]
>>[B] Just go wherever it takes you!
>[3] Write-in.

>>6055543
>Anon, you seem to enjoy making snide comments about the cool art I receive. This has happened often. What makes you this way?
I lash out because I'm insecure about my own lack of artistic ability.

>>6055634
>1A
They're already addressing us by name and have us under surveillance, big scene is already here.

>>6055634
>[C] Do something weirder! You're deep in a manse— a lot more is fair game for you. (Write-in.) [Possible roll.]
Possess the Virginia in the mirror to get to the other side.

>>6055634
>[1] Attempt to escape before you're drugged again!
>[A] Get the mantis shrimp out and shatter the mirrors! There has to be something behind them you can flee to. But you'll cause a big scene, guaranteed.

>>6055990
>>6055771
>[1A]

>>6055873
>[1C]

Very cool write-in, but breaking stuff takes it. Writing.

>>6055771
>I lash out because I'm insecure about my own lack of artistic ability.
I believe in you, anon... just look at my art from the original quest... (or don't, that's probably better)

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>Get out of dodge

No time to consider. You must've been out like a light, whatever they did to you the first time: you can't afford Round 2. What kind of "challenge" will that entail? You melting into goo? You stabbing Richard? No thanks. No way these mirrors are solid, either. You had to get in here somewhere. You could try The Sword on them, but you have a better-tested plan. The mantis!

It's funny you're using that bugger like a crowbar. It tastes great stir fried, if you didn't know.

Stir fried? What an evil thing to say! That's not what you expect from your retainer. Your mantis is an honored contributor to your heroic cause, not a bugger or a crowbar or food, and he— you can't name him yet, in case he explodes, but if he doesn't explode you'll name him then. (If he does explode, maybe you'll name him Teddy.) Anyways, you are retrieving your honored contributor from the pocket of your overalls, and you're holding him up to the mirror. Virginia is holding him up to the mirror. God. Your identity is as intact as ever, as best you can tell, but you still don't like looking at her looking at you. Her holding the mantis you're holding. Did the gas leak into her mind closet? Is she okay, or is she reliving her own drowning? It's the one thing you have in common with everybody, no matter what. How did she...?

(Violence! A shiv slipped through your ribs, a lightened wallet, collapsing and rolling— your ankles grabbed and you slung over, dropped down, cold wind ripping into your—)

NO! Nevermind. Not right now. Gil claims he can't talk to the mantis, and you'll claim you can't either. You could commune with it, if you have time. You don't. The air is sweet-smelling. Instead, you grip him like a sandwich and hold him up real close to the mirror, and his eyestalks swivel all around, before pointing straight ahead.

The mirror was a lucky break.

Huh? Better it than a solid wall, you suppose, but—

No. Shrimp are territorial.

Your honored contributor identifies its rival in the mirror. You suppose it must narrow its eyes, find its target, wind up, and so on— but all you see is a blur, and all you hear is a BANG. The mirror is thinner than the window was above, or the mantis was more motivated, or reality matters less, but one hit was all it took. Most of the mirror you were facing is gone. Most of it is on the ground. Some of it is in your hair. Some of it is coating the desks and blinking doohickeys of the seven or eight people behind the mirror.

One-way mirror. I told you. Surveillance.

...Yes. Most of them are sitting down at the desks. Some are in hoods; some are bare-faced but sunken-eyed. In the back, leaning against the wall, is a man in dark glasses. They all appear to be in shock: none have weapons or radios out. The dim back room stretches for a good ways to the left and right: you can't see what's out of view, though.

A tight spot indeed. Positive thinking.

(Choices next.)

>[1] RUN! SPRINT! MAKE A BREAK FOR IT! YOU CAN'T BE HERE! [Roll.]
>[2] FREEZE! TALK! KEEP THEM OCCUPIED! THE GAS IS FLOWING! (Advanced Gaslighting. Optional: what do you say? Write-in.) [Roll.]
>[3] GRAB SOMEBODY! DITCH VIRGINIA! HOP BODIES! (YOU CAN DO THAT NOW?!) (Extracommunion. -1 ID. Who do you go for, if you have a preference?)
>[3] SOMETHING INSIDE YOU NEEDS TO GET OUT! LET IT! [-1 SV]
>[4] WRITE-IN! (You can get weird with it.) [Possible roll.]

>>6056243
>[3] SOMETHING INSIDE YOU NEEDS TO GET OUT! LET IT! [-1 SV]

>>6056243
>>[3] SOMETHING INSIDE YOU NEEDS TO GET OUT! LET IT! [-1 SV]

>>6056243
>[1] RUN! SPRINT! MAKE A BREAK FOR IT! YOU CAN'T BE HERE! [Roll.]
Obligatory don't call upon murdergod vote.

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>>6056252
>>6056517
>MURDERGOD

>>6056535
>Not murdergod

Called for [3] and writing.

Got too cocky, thought I could handle three weekdays in a row. Oh well. I'll try to have a drawing for the next update to compensate.

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>Push the big red button

A second ticks past. Several of the desk people are reaching for something. One brave one has lurched toward you. You smell earth and taste metal and are aware of sweat beading up on your forehead. You are aware of a loosening around your heart and a thickening within your throat.

Virginia never killed or betrayed anybody. She never murdered her own father with a knife and ate his blood. You haven't consulted her, but you're sure this is true. That's you who did that: you inside of her, and the red stuff inside of you. It boils up when you're desperate. The question is if it'll boil over.

A second ticks past. You look into the eyes of seven or eight people and into the hard dark shiny glasses of the man by the wall. He is looking through those glasses, through Virginia, and into you. You're sure of it. He can see what's writhing under your skin. You're absolutely sure of it. A drop of sweat slides down the bridge of your nose and dribbles onto your lips, so you can taste salt along with metal. Red rust.

You have to. Sorry, Gil. Sorry, Teddy, you guess. He's gone: snuck out of your head. 20 brown beetles on the back of your neck. Saw what was coming. Poor Virginia can't. You hope the mind closet's wedged nice and shut.

A second ticks past. No time for dramatics. You take the lid off the pot; you bite a single neat hole in your tongue and all the blood in your body comes out of it. You didn't know you had so much blood. You didn't know it was so slimy, so goopy, so full of bubbles and knots, in parts like wet clay; you didn't know that it'd writhe and spit and extrude from your paper-lantern body. You the paper, the sun the lantern, bright as day: the office was dim, and its bare-faced creatures duck or squint. This is all the good you're doing. More blood drips out from the sun, pooling in your toes, fuzzing into your skin, leaking into the ground. Maybe you're doing that too. You don't feel well.

>[-1 SV: 0/???]
>[SUNSTRUCK]
>[-2 ID: 3/14]
>[+1 SV: 1/???]

You are standing because you can't move. You are standing because there is nothing of substance left in you: you've been drained, vacated, taken. Richard in your head is talking about blood. Strings are in it. You are in it. You are all over yourself, all over the mirror-shards; you are in the air, striking, wrapping, stretching— dragging your husk along, tugging it off its feet— shoving tendrils down throats, up noses, down ear canals, fuzzing into pores, under fingernails. Slinking from the front of the office to the back, so the creatures in the back have time to see, and run. The creature by the wall does not run. It does not remove its glasses.

(1/2)

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Your husk wobbles, sending weird shadows across the room. Its light and lightness rob it of thought, except for where it's hidden, down in its spleen or another unimportant region. Huddled there aware and terrified. A little animal.

[Management! That's a—]

The little animal speaks uselessly. You already saw that the wall-creature was important. Like you it is outside of itself. It beckons you with a close-cropped nail and you come and loom over it. It reaches out and swipes its nail through you, collecting a sample, and inserts the sample into its mouth. It evaluates.

"Damn," it says in its native tongue. "That's genuine. You saw the explosion, didn't you, Virginia? Did you taste his blood? Naughty, naughty."

You are unsure how to respond to this.

"You've been misclassified. We need you in EDU. You will be highly valuable to the task at hand. Come with me, won't you?"

>[1] Go with the Manager.

>[2] WHAT?! HUH?! ARE YOU KIDDING?! [All options require rolls.]
>>[A] CRUSH THE MANAGER'S HEAD FLAT!
>>[B] SHOVE YOURSELF UP HIS NOSE AND GET INTO HIS BRAIN!
>>[C] CHARGE THROUGH THE WALL AND OUT OF HERE!
>>[D] WRITE-IN!

>[3] Write-in.

>>6057446
Damn, we're kinda low on ID
>[2B] SHOVE YOURSELF UP HIS NOSE AND GET INTO HIS BRAIN!

>>6057446
>2B
Won’t do any good since this seems like another drone body, but going with it leaves us in a bad spot when god stops possessing us and we do have an excuse for being out of our mind

>>6057446
>>2B

>>6057446
>[2] WHAT?! HUH?! ARE YOU KIDDING?! [All options require rolls.]
>[B] SHOVE YOURSELF UP HIS NOSE AND GET INTO HIS BRAIN!

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>>6057493
>>6057558
>>6057609
>>6057689
>[2B]
Straightforward enough. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 15 (+10 RED, +5 Wyrm's Dead Eye) vs. DC 80 (+30 Management) to get into the Manager's head!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 3/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 64 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>6058000
>[1] Y big spendy

Rolled 11 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>6058000
spendy

Rolled 70 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>6058000
>N
damn managers

>>6058016
>>6058024
>>6058060
>89, 36, 95 vs. DC 80 -- Success
>Spendy

Spendy bails you out of this one. Congratulations! Writing.

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>Brain probe

The creature thinks it can tell you what to do. Where to go. Arrogance drips from its faint smile. Pathetic! You will not be led around by anything, especially not anything with such unprotected orifices. You extend, scything forward, scattering droplets, and— the creature raises its hand and grasps you. Your advance halts. Its nostrils flare. "That's enough. Let's be—"

You shove through its lips, shove under its glasses, shove into its ears, and split and feather and split and feather until you have filled the space in its cavities, and finally— it has lowered its hand— drive a tendril up and up its nose, until you reach its brain, only you do not reach his brain. You reach nothing. The creature itself is an arrogant cavity, made of spit and chewed paper, remotely animated, and you pile yourself inside it up and up in the hopes of finding something. There is nothing. It is nothing.

You may have left it there to sit, but the little animal has roused again. (It's not empty. It has strings. I mean, a string! Look for the—)

Look? You are blind. But it is an idea of merit, so you enclose the animal, and digest it, and take out its eyeball.

>[-1 ID: 2/13]

The eyeball is dead as the deep earth, but it sees the deep things, and when you secrete yourself inside of it you see them too. This is what you see: the creature is a slave, bound by a single blue chain.

You could break the chain, free it, but you are not roomy enough for mercy. You are heavy with heat and blood. Rather, you trail along its length— there is endless space, and you fill it— until you come, after a very long time, to its end.

You are not inside the creature any longer. You are somewhere else. There is a thing here, many times larger than you are, many times brighter, round, clicking, humming, pulsing. The creature's chain feeds into it, or out from it: you cannot tell which. Many thousands of chains extend to or from it, so the sphere is surrounded completely by them, is bristling with them. Other things that are not chains feed into the sphere: pipes, large and small, and wires, and papers in a constant stream. You don't know what the pipes or wires carry, but the papers slide into slots in the sphere and are gone.

No matter how long you observe, the sphere doesn't react to you. It carries on with its clicking, humming, pulsing business. If you leave it alone, it may do nothing at all to you.

It is not typically within your nature to leave things alone.

(Choices next.)

>[1] Engage with the sphere. [All choices require rolls.]
>>[A] Listen to it. Are the sounds it makes meaningful? Is it communicating? Can you communicate back?
>>[B] Attempt to identify it. Perhaps you can get it to tell you what it is.
>>[C] Attempt to trace the creature's chain within it. Does it really come from the sphere? What produces it? Why?
>>[D] Attempt to sabotage it. Whatever it is, whatever it does, you don't want it here.
>>[E] Write-in.

>[2] Retreat. (-1 ID unless you can write-in a good justification to preserve your divine ego)

>[3] Write-in.

>>6058319
>>[C] Attempt to trace the creature's chain within it. Does it really come from the sphere? What produces it? Why?

>>6058319
>>>[C] Attempt to trace the creature's chain within it. Does it really come from the sphere? What produces it? Why?

>>6058319
Woah, Management are machine orbs?

>C
>D
Do C by pulling on the chain until something gives

>>6058324
>>6058439
>>6058483
>[1C]

We're going to do a little doxxing. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 13 (+10 Access Key, +3 RED) vs. DC 75 (+25 [ERROR: ACCESS DENIED]) to trace the Manager's string inside the sphere!

and...

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 2/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 65 + 13 (1d100 + 13)

>>6058704
Y

Rolled 16 + 13 (1d100 + 13)

>>6058704
>N
I believe in our rolling ability
plus we're getting super low on ID here

Rolled 28, 99 = 127 (2d100)

>>6058714
>>6058716
Rolling the final one. Second roll is between spendying and not (1-49=yes, 50-100=no).

>>6058821
>78, 29, 41 vs. DC 75 -- Mitigated Success
>No spendy

Writing.

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Bah humbug. I have a good idea of what I want to write, but I'm already feeling sleepy and I have work early tomorrow. Good thing I already expected Headspace to cover 2.5-3 threads.

Take yet more awesome SirenQM art to compensate. If Earl has ever gone all the way up to 100% concentration, it was once and never again.... but that doesn't stop him from being pretty adorable that way

>>6058882
Cute shork

>Epic doxx

Yes: your course will not be altered. You have tracked the creature this far, and you will not falter here, not at this juncture. You twine yourself around the chain and pull with all your might.

Nothing happens. It is held fast. Fine! If the sphere is larger and brighter than you, you may chase the chain through its sunspots and pores. You are daring and flexible. You run forward in rivulets, dividing, and seek ingress.

Up close the sphere is something like iron and something like glass, but holes bored into it shine light out. The light is mostly red but sometimes other colors. The chain slips into a hole. The paper susurrates into the slots. No paper comes out. You susurrate into the holes, and slip, and are rendered— are flattened— are, are divided, are unraveled, are—

Something is done to you. Nothing you can understand. You are small here. You are not meant to be here. You are all in straight lines— all of everything is in straight bright lines— in a grid which you can slide upon, but sliding is not right, because you are not moving. You are limbless. You are caged. Blocked in.

..|||||. .|..|||| .|....|. .|....|. .|.||..| .|....|. ..|||.|. ..|..... .|...|.| .|.||... .|..|.|| .|...|.| .|...|.. .|.|..|. .|.||..| .|....|. .|.|..|| .|..|.|. .|..|||| .|..|||. ..|..... .|..|.|| .|..||.| .|..||.| .|..|||| .|....|| .|....|| ..|..... .|..|||. .|..|||| .|...|.. .|..|||| .|..||.| .|...|.. .|..|||| .|..|||. ..|..... ....|.|.

It comes as pulses: high and low, particles and waves. The grid vibrates around or inside you. No matter what you are you cannot possibly understand, until you can and must:

>ERROR: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED

You are always authorized. You are everywhere. You go as you please.

This is not a convincing argument. The response comes instantly:

..|||||. .|..|.|| .|..||.| .|..||.| .|..|||| .|....|| .|....|| ..|....— KEY REQUIRED.

You knew it faster. KEY REQUIRED. This is simple enough. You have a key: not here, but elsewhere. You will rip it from the bone and secrete it into yourself. Things happen faster than thought here. The key is rendered-flattened-divided-unraveled, but it is within you, and you present it as ably as you can.

..||||.. .|...|.| .|..||.| .|.|.|.. .|..|.|| .|.|.||| .|.|.|.| .|..||.| ..|..... .|....|| .|.....| .|..||.| .|.||.|. ....|.|.—314_423811740>

There! You remain rigid, but movement is possible. And you know where you are going. The chain is still here, and you can follow it, in a fashion. Faster than thought. You are authorized and will not be prevented, and you speed further near the end and burst and—

(gain form dimension color texture weight and)—

you don't—

(1/2?)

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you don't know where you are. You have broken through glass. You think it is glass. You are poking out of a box which used to have glass. You are somewhere real again. You think it is real. There are colors. The bright lines curve. The box you have broken through is on a desk, which looks like a normal desk. It's brown. There is a plant in a pot, though it does not look familiar to you. You have never seen a plant before. (Of course you have seen plants before)— the animal is weak and remote— (what you mean is that you don't recognize this one.) Behind the desk is a thing. Wires are coming from it. Its eyes are closed, but it breathes. It does not look like how it looked. It does not wear shiny glasses. The outside of your quarry is shiny and it is dark blue. You do not know anything that is dark blue.

(Like the sky before night. Like the sea before morning.)

You were about to devour the quarry (it looked defenseless) when you were sucked away, squirming, squalling, scraping at the desk. You woke the quarry, who slivered one gold eye, then made it full, so you could see the whites in the corners. It jolted. You vanished. Back into the box, stamped down, refit, a straightedge taken to you. Hard and bright and airless in the box. Pulses in the box. Angry pulses.

..||||.. .|..||.| .||||... .||..|.| ....|.|.— is this?! C.314 does not have access to the system right now! It is on leave! This is verifiable!>

<Are you certain this isn't another...>

<You don't believe that was real! It was typical hidig attention seeking. Jockeying for a better spot. No, this is someone with a key it stole—>

<Are you sure? Look at the logs. They're all fucked.>

<They fucked the logs, then. You always think too crazy, 359. It's simple. Someone stole a key—>

<How? Who? I think this thing is automated.>

<What?>

<Automated. Look. If it's not... that, then it infected C.314's box, scraped the key, now it's got 99's, probably scraped it too, it's looking for somewhere else to go. Ours, I guess. I'm telling you, thing's a worm.>

A worm. Yes, you are. You would worm out of this non-space, but you are locked down. Pinned from head to tail.

[blue[<Ok. Maybe. Whatever it is, or whoever, I have the access re-locked. Plenty of time to investigate. Can you ping R/D-C about the 314 box? See if it's compromised? I'll poke around with this. It's not going anywhere.>

You are not going anywhere. Not how you are, in any case.

(Choices next.)

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>[1] You have been reduced. You are shackled. Your sun is far away. You will not allow this to stop you. Rouse yourself to your greater strength and evaporate your chains. [-1 SV.]*
>[2] You are singular. You are above and apart. You look upon the creatures and parasites and laugh. You do not need help. (But you do. You really, really do. You used his key: will he come?)
>[3] Write-in.
>[LOCKED]: [OPEN]ing is closed to you.

*(Reminder that dropping to 0 ID is bad, but it will not necessarily kill you)

>>6059675
>[3] Overflow the buffer. Smash the stack. Inject into the SQL. Use the cache timing sidechannel. Assert our dominance.
>[3a] Alternatively, commune with the blue poker.

>>6059675
Willing to back >>6059874
and fall back on >1 if it doesn't work.
Dang, is Richard Management and he never told us?

>>6059675
>>6059874
+1

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>>6059874
>>6059971
>>6060075
>[3]

You can certainly attempt to mess with the system, but you're weakened and firewalled off right now, and neither Charlotte nor the red stuff know wtf a computer is lol they're flying blind here. This will be a very difficult roll, but any chance of escaping 0 ID is better than no chance, right? Failure will default you to [1].

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 2 (+10 RED, -5 Spread Thin, -7 No Savvy) vs. DC 85 (+25 [ERROR: ACCESS DENIED], +10 Active Tech Support) to ASSERT YOUR DOMINANCE!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 2/14 ID. You are in a precarious situation; spend ID wisely

>[1] Y
>[2] N


>>6059874
>[3a] Alternatively, commune with the blue poker.
Unfortunately, [Communion] requires actual physical contact. If you guys had gotten the upgrade that lets you do it through eye contact, I would've allowed this, but you're out of luck.

Rolled 13 (1d100)

>>6060198
>N

Rolled 22 - 2 (1d100 - 2)

>>6060198
>Y

Oh god we need to roll an 87
It's so over
0 ID here we come

Rolled 100 - 2 (1d100 - 2)

>>6060198
Fuck it we ball
>Y

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>>6060218
>>6060224
>>6060253
>11, 20, 100 vs. DC 87 -- CRITICAL SUCCESS

I'm going to be real, lads, I literally have no idea what to do with this. I'm going to need a bit. Suggestions encouraged.

>>6060253
OOOOOOH
CHAMPION
CHAMPIOOOOOOOOOOON

>>6060260
We accidentally turn the Wyrm into an AI that rapidly infests/infects all Management systems

Charlotte gains the knowledge of a 20 years experienced BrainWyrm developer and a complimentary pair of programming socks.

Uh
Uh
Uuuuuh
Charlotte digitizes herself and has a 10 thread sidequest inside the Management mainframe.

>>6060276
>Anon has no better ideas than I do
It's over... not really I'm coming to some conclusions

I'm not sure if you guys need a permabuff for this or if dodging imminent 0 ID and setting the orb on fire is good enough. Feels like you guys have had critsuccesses out the wazoo recently.

>Charlotte digitizes herself and has a 10 thread sidequest inside the Management mainframe.
It's not 2021, anon! We're all about this hip thing called "finishing the damn quest" nowadays.

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Alright. I know roughly what I want the outcome to be, but I'm gonna give myself an extra day to work out the exact structure of the update. Congrats again on the crit, that timing was basically perfect.

I will see you tomorrow. Feel free to drop suggestions about the crit in the meantime if you have any: I can't guarantee they'll be used, but I do like to see what the people have in mind.

>>6060253
My maaaaaaaan
>>6060260
Disconnect every Management in Headspace? Erase data on Pat and us? Scrape every key? Fake a commendation for 314?

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I have returned. Writing.

>>6060485
Good input, thank you!

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I have about 500 words down, but they don't work standalone, and I need at least double that to finish the update and I'm falling asleep. We're doing fine catalog-wise, and we're coming up on the end of the thread, so I don't have a problem taking a handful of extra days to wrap up Charlotte POV if needed. Thank you for your patience.

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>ASSERT DOMINANCE
>11, 20, 100 vs. DC 87 — CRITICAL SUCCESS

You are Charlotte Fawkins.

Your spleen wasn't comfortable. Cramped. Awkward. Virginia was still there, which made it worse. You weren't sorry about possessing her, but you were a little sorry about the conditions. Also about the red stuff killing a lot of people just then. You were sure they deserved it: you just meant that Virginia seemed like a sensitive soul, generally speaking, and wouldn't approve of her body doing that. Not that most people would approve. You just, um...

You had to go somewhere else. It was one thing if you were stuck way down unconscious somewhere, the spleen or closet or dusty brain-corner or wherever, but it wasn't like that. It wasn't that you were possessed (thank God: how many possessions could you handle?). The red stuff wasn't alive. It didn't think. It made you think, and it made you think weird. Um, murdery, mostly. Also sort of stilted? Clunky? Like you never had thoughts in your life before, and you were still figuring out how they worked. Anyways. It didn't claim all of you. Only most of you. The rest of you is here, in your house.

That's right. You remembered: fried fish in a pan. Lizard hot chocolate. Richard called it a bomb shelter. Isn't it kind of a bomb, having all your blood blasted out of your body? You think so. And yeah, this isn't actually your home, you're not actually here, you're in a stupid metaphorical construct place, blah blah blah— but it's nicer to be in a stupid construct than nowhere, and it's nice to be back. Even if Virginia is also here.

Look, you didn't know what to do with her. You were all wadded up in the same place. Also, it seemed a teeny bit rude to leave her there: not that you care about her as a person, but it was her blood you blasted out of her body, so... yeah. She's there in the chair opposite from yours. She's calmed down a lot from the previous hysterics, you think because she sees you as a victim. Like the only reason you possessed her is because you, in turn, were evilly possessed by evil goop. Rudy makes sense now: he was exploded by the same evil goop. (You're paraphrasing.) You guess you're glad she's relieved, though you're not sure you agree. If poor Rudy was exploded by the red stuff... did you leave some inside him by accident? So it was your fault he died? Unless he was doing his own Wyrm-worshipping on the side? You ask Virginia.

Virginia says she didn't know him very well, but that anything that threatening would've been spotted by Management ages ago. There's weekly scans and things. She sips on her non-lizard hot chocolate.

(1/3)

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You haven't touched yours, though it's steaming in your lap. (Hot chocolate on a nice chair: your Aunt Ruby would throw a fit.) Your stomach has turned. There's Rudy— there has to be another explanation— but it's not just him. The red stuff is getting creative. Your parlor is intact, but glance out into the hall and the wallpaper is writhing. The air stinks of mud. Your bad eye is gone. If you open a door, you'll comprehend what's been done with you, and you'll regret it. Positive thinking.

"It was probably for the best," Virginia says.

"What?"

"What happened to him. I don't know how, but I'm sure it was part of some kind of... some kind of plan. The universe works in mysterious ways."

You stare into a cloud of hot chocolate steam. "Like, it was his destiny?"

"His destiny? Maybe something like that. It was meant to be, I mean. For whatever reason, it was important that he... passed away. Meaningful."

Virginia is inside your mind, but you're inside her skull, and you already loosely scraped her memory of when it happened. You're not dwelling on it any longer than you have to, but it didn't look meaningful. It looked like he got exploded into little bits. "He lived his entire life just to die?"

Virginia has to think about this. "I'm sure he contributed other—"

"That was his destiny? To get exploded? That's horrible! That's—" There's a pressure behind your eyelids. "That destiny sucks. It's one thing if you're destined to be a famous heroine, but that— he just sat there and let the universe tell him what to do? Or... or God tell him what to do? Or whatever it was? You have to fight it!"

"Um, I'm sure—"

"You can't let it win! You can't sit on your stupid hands and watch your life spiral into one big horrible mess! You can't die! He can't... unless it were noble, like he nobly sacrificed himself by exploding, but he didn't even do that. He just died. And it was lame."

Virginia looks sad again. "I'm just trying to say that I don't think he suffered, and— I mean, I'm sure the universe wants me here, too. You, too. I really am grateful for the nice drink, and..."

"The universe wants me here?"

She wisely sips on her nice drink.

"It wants me here? It wants me in a— a—" You slam your mug down. "In a stupid fake memory place? While I— I'm— I'm dying out there? It's my destiny to sit here and die, Virginia? I'm supposed to have goop come out of my mouth and die? I'm supposed to have some stupid horrible Manager-thingy trick me into its stupid brain and trap me and I die? That's my destiny? You think I should sit and give up because that's what's supposed to happen? Is that right? Did I get that right?"

"That's not what I—"

"That's exactly what you meant," you hiss, and point, and she isn't there anymore. The air roils. You are alone.

(2/3)

No, not alone. You have plenty of company: in the walls, the ceiling, slapping against the windows, pounding against your ribcage. The parlor is all in blue lines. You are all in blue lines. Strings. Your eyeball and key hang on threads. You have been sucked up and rolled out flat inside— inside— you don't know what. A big orb. You'll think about it later. The red stuff scrapes and scrabbles at your insides like a dog at a door. It wants out.

<Oh, hold on. Readings changed.>

<So what? It's still a worm, right? I'm heading over to Correspondence.>

<I think so, but give me a cyc. Re: worm. Weird stuff happening.>

Of course, it was just out and about, and what good did it do for you? It got you here to begin with. But you got it out to begin with-begin with. And you need it. You are trapped. You are weak. Maybe in your life you've never not been trapped and weak.

But when has that stopped you? If Virginia says your destiny is to rot inside a stupid orb, she's probably right. If she says you're going to die, maybe you will. But the last thing— the absolute single last thing— that you'd ever do, in the world, in the universe, looking into God's face, is roll over and take it. The orb is jam-packed with strings: wall to wall, pulsing and throbbing and making inscrutable hums. This is what Management wanted, isn't it? Huge quantities of Law? And it's all sitting around here for the taking? That's silly. That's real silly. There's nothing they can do to stop you from absorbing it, can they?

Can they?

>[+3 SV: 4/???]

>Please select two outcomes. Other things may also occur regardless of the selection here.

>[1] You shut down the Headspace surveillance system.
>[2] You retrieve information about yourself from the Headspace database.
>[3] You pinpoint the location of Gil and anybody else relevant to you.
>[4] You miraculously feel much recovered, and regain ID.
>[5] Write-in. (Stay within the power level of the above options. Subject to veto.)

>>6061771
>[1] You shut down the Headspace surveillance system.
>[4] You miraculously feel much recovered, and regain ID.

>>6061771
>1
>4
Too bad we don't have the crown :(

>>6061771
>>[1] You shut down the Headspace surveillance system.
>[4] You miraculously feel much recovered, and regain ID.

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One last delay for the road, folks. Tomorrow's update should be the last of the thread. I just finished work for the summer, so fingers crossed that 41 will be much smoother sailing (though I will be going on vacation... we'll see!).

Truly meant to update this evening, but I took a little nap on the couch about 5 hours ago and just woke up. It's 1:30 AM. I'm going to take a shower and get some real sleep: just reread >>6062413 again, it's the same thing.

Let's get this one in the can. Next thread will be better, promise.

>>6062009
>>6062160
>>6062350
>[1]
>[4]

Writing.

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>Breathe in

It's not you who answers the question. You don't need to. The red stuff flowers out without prompting, sending greedy seeking tendrils down grooves and through grids, coiling, draining. Things go dark where they touch.

<Shit.>
<Shit!>

It isn't a violent takeover— you are too present for it to be violent. Nothing is broken, punctured, killed. Nothing is exploded. It is elegant and silent. It is parasitic. All throughout the sphere, the Law is tugged out of pattern, is unraveled and drawn into a center-skein, tightly wound, bright and dense, flaming hot—

<GET BACKUP!>

—and though the sphere groans and warbles and winks out all about you, you are for once contented. It's the only thing it's possible to feel. The chit-feeling. Where you are whole, and real, and true, and heavy; where you are the core of all things, where the world bends around you; where your heart-in-crystal catches the blue light, and swallows it, and refracts it out a thousandfold, so you are glowing out all your pores, and it is good. It is good.

>[+5 ID: 7/14]

You will bring night to this place and you will bring the day. You will blind the cameras and you will kill the lights. You will only barely know what you are doing, or what is being done. You will be heavied by blood and Law. So much for awareness. It is hard to be here when you are everywhere, pulsing. When you are the sun. At least you are not in pain.

Somewhere, somebody else is pissed.

—

>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]
>[A LITTLE EARLIER]

You are Gil Wallace. You have made the potentially unwise decision of ditching your tour group to follow a guy in a diving suit down a hole. You have regretted your decision every second since you made it. You've regretted your decision about ten times so far.

Nothing's happened yet.

Right. Does anything have to happen, Teddy? It's a shitty idea. The saying's "better the devil you know," not "better the devil whose face you can't even see, and who just said he's here to stop you from exploding Headspace." Here you are, though, made entirely of beetles— did you say the diving suit guy didn't seem surprised? Because he didn't seem surprised— clinging upside-down to the underside of the floor, watching the guy rappel to meet you. You still have time to fuck off. You can literally fly away. What's he going to do, wave a bug net at you? You already ruled out the flamethrower.

Look, I get it, but I don't get why you'd fuck off now. You can fuck off at any point. You may as well hear him out first.

Geez, you know. Dumbass. You're just thinking it out. You have to think it out. It's between thinking it out or kneejerk succumbing to your instincts, and if you succumb to your instincts you're definitely bolting. You've regretted your decision about 25 times so far. Could the guy hurry up?

(1/2)

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There he goes. He messes with something on his back, and his rope goes chunk-chunk and stiffens. It doesn't look super comfortable, him dangling like that, but at least he isn't going anywhere. Unless you chew through his rope. Not that you'd do that. Unless he pissed you off. Then you'd do that, easy.

"HELLO," the guy signs. "...CAN YOU TALK?"

You clear your throat, despite lacking any. (No explanation there. You make the noise. Must be psychological.) "Yeah."

"WOW!
...YOU ARE ??? YOU ARE NOT-FALSE?"

You're... you're real... you're sure you're real? Oh. That's complicated. "I-I'm a person," you say defensively. "Are you a person? I-I want to see your face."

"MY FACE IS BAD."

You scoff-laugh. (No kidding? Diving Suit Guy has never seen yours, apparently.) "Tough shit. Call i-it a prereq, okay? You reveal, I-I-I reveal, we talk. Unless you can't breathe without it?"

"...I CAN."

"Then take that shit off. I-I-I'm not talking to a mystery man, got it?"

"..."

Diving Suit Guy hesitates, but fiddles with the latches of his helmet. He needs two hands to pull it off, and maybe he forgot to turn off some kind of failsafe, because smoke starts streaming out right away. A lot of smoke, in all kinds of colors— green, blue, yellow, light brown, dark brown. Some of those are probably reds. Is this why he had the helmet? Is this a guy made entirely of smoke? He got smokeified? You would've laughed at that, once upon a time, but at this point you're sure goddamn anything is possible. Shit, at least you're corporeal. That's not nothing.

Or, no. There's a face in there, once most of the smoke has drifted off. Not all the smoke. Half the face got smokeified, at least (so that definitely is a thing). The other half is— shit! That's not a guy! That's a lady! She's got freckles and Charlotte-curly hair, though she's not blonde, not even a little. You think she'd be pretty if you squinted half your eyes shut and pretended she had an entire face.

"Is that better?" Smoke Lady mostly sounds normal, if a tad soft-spoken. Not a smoker voice at all. Ha-ha. "...You're Gil."

"I—" Wait, what? "What does i-it—"

"You were shot! I'm so sorry." Her surviving eye roams over you. "But I guess you... you're better?"

You're tempted to claim otherwise, just to stick it to her. Who is this chick? Has Lottie been talking about you? "I-I-I-I'm fine. Who are you?"

"I'm Anthea Aves," says Anthea Aves, and tilts her head. Her smoke runs purple. "I guess you wouldn't remember me. It doesn't really matter. Please believe me— this place is going to explode!"

>[END THREAD]

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And that's all! We're free! I was not satisfied with the pacing of this thread, but I hope that some Redux was better than no Redux. New thread ETA between August 1st and August 3rd. Full spiel in the morning; thanks for reading, folks.

>>6063909
Cool art.

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We are archived here: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=drowned%20quest%20redux

Twitter is here: https://twitter.com/BathicQM

As usual, feel free to post any questions, comments, opinions, lame jokes, or anything else you might have: this thread won't be dropping off for a while, and I'll be lurking. I'll be spending the time between now and the next thread hustling for more art, so look out for that too. Have a great week, folks!

>>6063907
Oh man did not expect the diver to be Anthea
Plus she can either see the future or there's another explosion in the works that will happen and Charlotte will never know it wasn't her can of plums.

Thanks for running!

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NEW THREAD!

>>6072720
>>6072720
>>6072720