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"He's a good person, but he..." Anthea sniffs her nose. "...he has his challenges, and... um..." She sniffs again. Aw, shit, no: she sniffles again, and wipes her nose with her thick glove. "...he gets very fixated on some things. It's hard to change his mind. Once he has an idea—"

You're all bunched up. You can't help it. "I-I'm sorry, Ellery is going to blow up Headspace? But—"

But he melted, you were going to say. Charlotte started screwing around with his brain, then he melted. But she must mean the other one, holed up behind the locked door. "—but, um, that's— is that a bad thing? Him blowing it up? Doesn't it deserve...?" It's deserved, plus it saves you the trouble. Win-win.

"It deserves it? The higher-ups deserve it. Management. What's going to happen to all the innocents employed here? They're killed for the crime of being imprisoned? And you deserve it? And Ellery deserves it? Because he's not— he won't—" Goddammit. Her eye is all shiny. "Um, if he goes through with it, he won't come back."

Oh. What? "...I-I-Isn't he unkillable? Or something? He got shot i-in the head, and he walked it off... right?" You definitely watched him get shot. It was right before you got shot.

"He wants you to think that he's unkillable," Anthea says miserably. Her smoke is grey and getting darker. "But his body's unkillable, not him. He didn't bring a bomb, Gil."

Wh— aw, no. Hang on. Didn't bring a bomb? Not him — his kos — strings — juice — big handwritten "WATCH OUT!! UNSTABLE!!" signs. Don't taste the product, don't touch, don't shake, don't heat, DON'T drop. You were drilled on this. Fuck around at your own peril.

From your limited vantage, Ellery seemed like a guy who fucked around at his own peril a whole lot. He'd know how to push himself to breaking. Or, um, exploding. "Oh. I-I-I'm sorry. That sucks?"

"It does suck! And it's your friend who— who— sorry, I— hold on—" As you watch, she pats around on the side of her suit, then brings a small canister to her nose and inhales its contents. The smoke goes flat white. She puts the canister back. "He said he got the idea from your friend. She told him. It's her fault he's here."

It's Lottie's fault. Goddammit! Of course it's her fault! Of course she told the wrong person! And of course you weren't there to stop her, you lazy fuck. You get half the blame. "...Sorry."

"I don't care." Anthea's voice has gone weirdly toneless. "I'm going to find him and bring him back. If I can't, this place is going to explode. He has a head start on me. You should get out of here. Don't risk it. Whatever you're here for isn't worth it."

(2/3)

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If you had your way, you'd be gone already. But if Lottie hears that her glory got stolen by the guy she hates, it'll kill her. She'll be inconsolable. Also, there's no way you can make her leave with you. "Um... well..."

"Why are you here? Is Charlotte with you? It's not... she's not here because... she feels guilty?" The white is going pastel orange. "Did she come to rescue him too?"

>[A1] Lie! Yes, she did come here to save Ellery from himself. Her and Anthea's goals are completely aligned. Nothing to be mad at about. You should definitely work together. Yeah. Yeah.
>[A2] Don't lie! She's going to find out your true intentions sooner or later, and if it's sooner maybe she won't be as pissed. (And if she is pissed, you're prepared to get out of flamethrower range.)
>[A3] Dip out! Hit the bricks! You can literally just fly away and ditch this whole quagmire, and you'll probably find Lottie sooner that way.
>[A4] Write-in!

>[B1] Remain as beetles! You can't make suspicious grimaces if you don't have a mouth.
>[B2] Revert to human! You're more trustworthy if you don't look like a bunch of faceless insects.
>[B3] Write-in?

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! First thing: I made a Doc for all of Richard's journaling before and during the 2024 /qst/ King Tournament. If you were following the tourney, there's no new content, and I don't expect this to be useful for solving mysteries in-quest-- but if you're catching up and don't know what I'm talking about, you're missing about 11,000 words of noncanon but nevertheless pertinent Richard content. Read and/or reread here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hPunMEXJ86cdVLJVd2CHgIOzsBuv2gD_uWHaE4EvjqY/edit?usp=sharing

Second thing: I think this thread will run smoother than 40 did, but I'm going on two separate trips during it, so... we'll see, alright? Moderate your expectations. Also, I have a truckload of new art, so keep an eye out for that (and check the filename for the artist credit).

>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
0/1/100 = Critical Success / Critical Failure / Critical Success [regardless of other rolls]

>Mechanics
The (typical) 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

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>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

>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
Against your better judgment, you follow Lottie out the window of Casey Fucking Kemper's not-residence. The fall isn't an issue (you can fly), but the tubes you're sucked into are: they send you and Lottie in different directions, and you're sucked away to parts unknown... though not before Lottie grabs a handful of your beetles.

Elsewhere, you are Charlotte Fawkins. You are deposited in a queue for a mysterious scanning machine. Everybody in line appears drugged, but you resist the effects and attempt to break through the barriers surrounding the line. You break through... but sets off an alarm, and winds up in the clutches of two hooded guards. The guards speak gibberish and wheel out a gas tank and a mask. You commune with one of the guards, discovering that its mind is riddled with white cracks. You enter a crack and discover the remnants of a Headspace employee, suggesting that the guard may have been one once. Unfortunately, this detectiving doesn't stop the guards from drugging you.

(1/2)

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You're Gil again. You are in a room with several silent animal-headed Friends, plus Teddy. Your brain is telling you you're a Friend, so you know Headspace got to you. Shit. You know you better escape ASAP, but escaping involves a lot of stressful unknowns, so you instead: banter with Teddy, turn your head into beetles (to match your fellow Friends), and install some mini-siphons. You finish just in time: Casey Fucking Kemper, plus his tagalong Everard Kurz, barge in. Casey is looking for a Friendly tour guide, and he likes the cut of your beetley jib. You're hired. You suppress your impulse to mess with the two of them, and instead lead them faithfully to the "Thinking Machine"-- actually a bunch of people wired up to typewriters, typing away in mindless sync. It's very weird. While you investigate, you spot the guy in the diving suit, who warns you that Headspace is going to explode. You engage in some confused handsign conversation before following the guy below the Thinking Machine: he'll take off the helmet and explain in detail.

Elsewhere, you're Charlotte. You are in a drug-induced hallucination, reliving the moments just before your drowning. Only... Teddy is there?? Teddy snaps you out of it, and you finds yourself in a mirrored room, alone except for... still Teddy, in the form of the beetles you swiped on the way down the pipe. You begrudgingly accept his offer of help, then use the mantis shrimp to shatter the mirrors, revealing a back room filled with employees... and one Manager. Cornered, you unleash the red stuff, killing, incapacitating, or scaring off everybody except for the Manager, who is unfazed. He offers to take you to "EDU." The red stuff, which has fully overtaken you, shoves itself into his mind instead.

Like the Manager from before, this Manager is a black void inside. This time, though, the red stuff traces his string all the way to a bizarre structure: a giant Law-filled sphere. The red stuff follows the Manager's string inside the sphere, and successfully traces it to its origin: a place with a desk and a potted plant and a shiny yellow-eyed creature. There's little time to learn more before the red stuff is tugged back inside the sphere: it has been located by two... IT professionals?... who seem to think it's an invasive "worm." They trap it in place.

Back in 'reality,' you have escaped the depths of the mind closet: you and Virginia are now holed up in the facsimile of your old house. You attempt to chat with Virginia, but Virginia's blithe acceptance of her fate causes complex emotions to rise in you. Newly emboldened, you wrest control back from the red stuff, absorb the sphere's Law, and go SUN MODE.

Underneath the Thinking Machine, you're Gil. The guy in the diving suit removes his helmet, revealing... Ellery's ex-girlfriend Anthea Aves?!?!

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>TO-DO

Immediate goals:
- Convince Anthea Aves to not flamethrower you
- Don't die

Short-term goals:
- Find Lottie
- Prevent Lottie evil god murder rampage (if applicable)
- Stick up mini-siphons (12 remaining)
- Blow up Headspace
- Don't die

Long-term goals:
- Don't die
- Stop being such a pussy
- Stop stuttering
- Get those bitches to stop calling you Bug Man
- Get laid
- Whatever Lottie wants you to do? (Beat up the mask guy and steal the thing back or whatever)
- Get the goddamn evil god stuff out of Lottie, like you were supposed to do and failed miserably at, like the sad sack of shit you are


Mysteries:
- Did Lottie actually kill 5 people? If she did, does it really matter? Should you ask her about it?
- Why did Lottie kill Richard? (You support it 100%, you just don't know what the circumstances were.) Why did he come back freakishly nice? Why is he gone again? Is he coming back? What is going on here?
- Where did Lottie get the evil god stuff? (Why were you too much of a pussy to exorcise it?) Is she sure she has a handle on it? Is it going to kill her? You? Destroy everything? Why does she not seem worried about it
- Why does Lottie keep turning into giant reptile things? One time is a fluke, twice is a coincidence, but it has happened at *least* three times and at that point it's an unnerving pattern-- she's not secretly a snake, right? You wouldn't even have room to judge if she was; you wish she'd just tell you
- How does Lottie do the things she does? Not the regular things. You mean the not-regular things. She says she "thinks positive," but-- come on, a real explanation. Does she even have a real explanation? (You used to think it was Richard's fault, but he's gone!) Does she even realize how fucked-up she is? Goddammit, you didn't mean it like that
- You didn't mean she was a fucked-up person-- you mean, she is, but in the sense that she's *been* fucked up by somebody else, like it's not debatable, you've seen Richard fucking with her mind-- but he's gone. He didn't make her jack that lady's body. Right? So there's something else fucked-up with her. And you're not even saying it's her fault-- you don't think she's lying to you-- she can't lie for shit. She's a good person. There's just... something about her... that isn't normal. She's not a normal person.
- Why is Lottie not a normal person?
- Why are you such a slimy, underhanded, ungrateful piece of shit? You can't think about her like that. It's not like you're any better. You function worse in the world than she does and you don't have a guy in your head ruining your life 24/7. The guy in your head is cool. You should be buying Lottie a drink for being as normal as she manages to be. What's your excuse? Your pops was a bit of a dick? Look at hers! You got beetled? You're fine with that now. Maybe she's different because she has a spine, and you--
-- Gil.
- What?
-- Not the right place.
- Aw, yeah. Shit. ...Sorry.

---

>Don't forget to vote!

>>6072729
>[A2], but formulate it like this:
>There's a way to save the lower-downs, a place to evacuate them to
>We know this because we prepared it
>We prepared it because we're going to explode Headspace
>So she can concentrate on finding Ellery and tell him that no self-explodification is necessary, which will surely convince him

>>6072729
>A2
>B1
Maybe lead with the fact that we have an evac plan for the rank and file, and also we didn't know Ellery was gonna come here on his own.

>>6072729
>[A1] Lie! Yes, she did come here to save Ellery from himself. Her and Anthea's goals are completely aligned. Nothing to be mad at about. You should definitely work together. Yeah. Yeah.

>>6072729
>>[A2] Don't lie! She's going to find out your true intentions sooner or later, and if it's sooner maybe she won't be as pissed. (And if she is pissed, you're prepared to get out of flamethrower range.)
>[B1] Remain as beetles! You can't make suspicious grimaces if you don't have a mouth.

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>>6072780
>>6072856
>>6073061
>[A2] with extra sauce

>>6072989
>[A1]

>>6073061
>>6072856
>[B1]

>>6072989
>>6072780
>Didn't vote for a [B] (make sure you vote for both option slates, guys!)

Called for [A2] and [B1] and writing.

>Uhh, well, you see,

Came here to rescue Ellery? Ha. No way. Even if Lottie knew he was here (there's no way she knew), rescuing him would be last on the priority list. You doubt she'd mind if he exploded, frankly: it's him exploding Headspace that's the big issue. If only Anthea looked less expectant. Your immediate instinct is to cave in, lie, push all the trouble off somewhere for Future Gil to deal with— but then what? You can lie in the moment, sometimes, but can you keep it up for hours? When it inevitably gets discovered, will you have the grace to bail yourself (and Lottie!) out, or will you start gargling your own foot? If she gets pissed now, you can still escape. You can go back up and sic Casey Fucking Kemper on her, if you want, get her arrested. Think about that.

I think that has ethical implications.

When have you ever cared about ethical implications? For that matter, when has Teddy cared about ethical implications? Do fish have ethical implications?

Can't say they don't.

You... sure. Not that it matters, because you already decided against lying. You have to tell Anthea. You just also need to make Lottie's real plan sound fantastic, which shouldn't be tough, since... okay, it's not watertight, but she put actual legwork into it, right? And research? It's not completely spur-of-the-moment, which by Lottie standards makes it fantastic. You'd like to think she listened to you after the whole "worm incident," but maybe it's coincidental. Doesn't matter. You clear your imaginary throat. "Er... not exactly. I-I-I don't think she knew he was coming."

Bad response. Anthea's lips twist. You hasten to clarify. "I-I-I-I mean, I think it's possible he did get the idea from her... but I-I really doubt she meant to give it! I-I think she meant to explain her own idea, was all. Because, um, i-i-it was actually our idea to—" There's no chance Casey Fucking Kemper can hear you? Beneath all the clicking and clacking? You lower your voice way down anyways. "—to, um, bomb Headspace— wait!"

"It was your idea," Anthea says, "to cause massive collateral damage, and loss of life, and—"

"I-I told you to wait! There's a plan for that!"

You stumble through an explanation of the alarm, the evacuation, and the manse standing empty to receive everybody. Anthea's expression untwists, but she still doesn't sound happy. "How are the two manses going to be connected? I'd think it'd take ages of engineering to—"

Yeah. Not watertight. You think Lottie's official word on this was "she'll figure it out." Worst thing is that you believe her— but will Anthea? You can fudge it. "She has a method. I-it's in the works. But this has been thought through, really, and, um—"

"And you're sure everybody will be evacuated? Do you realize how many people work here? How big this place is? Are they all going to have time to—"

(1/2)

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"Yeah," you say impatiently. "I-i-i-it'll be fine. Nobody's going to die who doesn't deserve it. Are we on the same page now? I-I'm happy to help stop Ellery—" If he blows up Headspace first, you'll never hear the end of it. "—but then you have to help us, or at least not get in the way. That's how i-it is. Can you agree?"

Anthea doesn't say anything. Did you sell her on it? Did you ruin everything? Should you go grab CFK? You don't know, because— before she responds— there's a BANG from somewhere distant. The floor of the Thinking Machine rattles, sending Anthea swaying.

You run rapid calculations. "Ellery?" you try, just as Anthea says: "Your friend! Charlotte! Is that—"

Under the Thinking Machine is a mess of tubes and cables, all descending down further than you can see. They must all lead to something— and it must be that something that WHOOSHES, all of a sudden, and glows so bright you reflexively burrow. Shit! Ellery also? Or... no! The light flares, then dims, then dies, and all around you, above and below, there's a unaminous mechanical whine. All around you it's dark. Dark-dark. A blackout.

Then a thrum as something else kicks in. Light returns, dim and amber-colored. No, yellow. No, green. Blue. It's shifting through the rainbow. Of course the Headspace backup lights shift through the rainbow. Below you, you can barely make out the cables. Above you, muffled yelling: "—EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT FUCKING NOW, JJ, OR I'LL PERSONALLY SHOVE MY FIST DOWN YOUR—"

Casey Fucking Kemper knows as much as you do. Maybe less. You say with confidence: "Lottie. That's Lottie."

"Really?" Anthea whispers. "Because I was going to say it was definitely Ell... um, I guess it doesn't matter. Somebody's doing something. I think we better move."

"Yeah." No contest.

"Except... I feel so bad for these poor people chained to the typewriters! That can't be healthy! I was going to cut their cables before you showed up, but, um—"

She still wants to. Do you have time to waste?

>[A1] No. No way. Get a move on ASAP.
>[A2] She can do whatever bleeding heart shit she wants: you need the time to install some siphons. You have a bunch left. Split up, do your respective thing, then scram. [This will take time.]
>[A3] You have something different in mind. CFK has a walkie talkie. How do you locate Charlotte and/or Ellery? You listen in on the Headspace guys tracking them. Casey's kind of distracted. If you can swoop in and grab the talkie from him... [Roll.]
>[A4] Write-in.

>[B1] Head in the direction of the bang, somewhere to your left.
>[B2] Head in the direction of the whoosh: straight down.
>[B3] Write-in?

>>6073268
>[A3] You have something different in mind. CFK has a walkie talkie. How do you locate Charlotte and/or Ellery? You listen in on the Headspace guys tracking them. Casey's kind of distracted. If you can swoop in and grab the talkie from him... [Roll.]

>[B1] Head in the direction of the bang, somewhere to your left.

>>6073268
>>[A3] You have something different in mind. CFK has a walkie talkie. How do you locate Charlotte and/or Ellery? You listen in on the Headspace guys tracking them. Casey's kind of distracted. If you can swoop in and grab the talkie from him... [Roll.]
>>[B1] Head in the direction of the bang, somewhere to your left.

>>6073268
>[A2] She can do whatever bleeding heart shit she wants: you need the time to install some siphons. You have a bunch left. Split up, do your respective thing, then scram. [This will take time.]
>[B2] Head in the direction of the whoosh: straight down.

>>6073268
>[A3] You have something different in mind. CFK has a walkie talkie. How do you locate Charlotte and/or Ellery? You listen in on the Headspace guys tracking them. Casey's kind of distracted. If you can swoop in and grab the talkie from him... [Roll.]
>[B1] Head in the direction of the bang, somewhere to your left.

>>6073268
>A4
Help her cut cables, build some goodwill
>B2

>>6073336
>>6073350
>>6073445
>[A3]

>>6073417
>[A2]

>>6073596
>[A4]

>>6073336
>>6073350
>>6073445
>[B1]

>>6073596
>>6073417
>[B2[

Called for [A3] and [B1]. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 3 (-3 No Hands) vs. DC 60 (+15 Casey's Powerful Grip, -5 Distracted) to steal the walkie talkie!

No spendy, you're Gil)

Rolled 44 - 3 (1d100 - 3)

>>6073842
Watch THIS

Rolled 6 - 3 (1d10 - 3)

>>6073842
FUCK GIL COME ON DO IT FOR LOTTIE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

GILSISTERS...

Rolled 24 - 3 (1d100 - 3)

>>6073842
GILSISTERS WE RISE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rolled 44 - 3 (1d100 - 3)

>>6073842
I'll save you Gil.

>>6073844
>>6073850
>>6073851
>41, 21, 41 vs. DC 60 -- Failure

Whuh oh. Writing in a while.

Rolled 6 + 3 (1d100 + 3)

>>6073860
Gilsisters....it's so over

>>6073842
The beetles have fallen.

>Get out of your comfort zone :)
>41, 21, 41 vs. DC 60 -- Failure

Even if Anthea planned to finish her sentence, she'd be drowned out by CFK: "A MALFUNCTION? YOU'RE FUCKING WITH ME, RIGHT, JJ? WE'RE DOING SOME FRIENDLY FUCKING AROUND? BECAUSE I HAVE A VISITOR RIGHT HERE WITH ME, AND I'M SURE HE'D LIKE TO KNOW THAT THE CAMERAS DON'T JUST MALFUNCTION AROUND HERE—"

The cameras aren't working? That's convenient for you. Or for Lottie. Or for Ellery, potentially.

"A WORM in the—?!" Casey Fucking Kemper abruptly lowers his voice. Dammit. You wish you had a talkie for yourself: it'd save you a lot of trouble, and they're pretty nifty besides. That, and it'd kill CFK's groove, and you never got a chance to pocket a souvenir, so... shit, you actually really want it. Who knows if you'll ever have another shot?

You're going to grab it out of his hand?

Uh... that'd... yeah, you guess. You could do a flyby. Sort of buzz him, startle him, and if you're lucky he drops the talkie and saves you the trouble? Oh, god, it's a bad idea, isn't? A Lottie-type idea. This is what you mean about her being contageous. You don't have the balls to snatch a walkie-talkie straight out of CFK's hand, not really: you might as well tell Anthea you'll pitch in with her bleeding-heart shit. You love helping people who'll be blown up in an hour, Anthea. You love cutting what might be their life support. Lottie is off making loud noises somewhere, meaning she's in danger or other people are, and either—

Wait, a worm? Or was it a WYRM? Both of those are Lottie things. They could be talking about her right now on the goddamn talkie. You could listen in if you had one. If you weren't a pussy. If the idea wasn't the worst idea you ever had. Teddy hates the idea.

I didn't say that.

He meant it.

I didn't mean it. I think it's risky, yeah. I think you need balls to even consider it. I'm not sure why you're kicking yourself before you've decided.

Because you're not going to do it?

But you want to do it, right?

But you're not going to. It's not the kind of thing you do, Teddy. You're a thinker. You think. You have lengthy conversations with ghosts in your head. The only time you do anything is when you're in a corner, and right now you're safe and hidden and with an ally (you think?), so there's no incentive. It won't work.

You're going to say this is a stupid question. But— if you do it, isn't it by default the kind of thing you do?

He doesn't get it.

You can't catch shit if you don't cast a net. If you want it, stop contorting yourself. Accept the risk and go get it. That's what I think.

(1/3)

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He really doesn't get it. But you do want it. And... even if it goes wrong, you can always get out of there, right? It's not like Casey Fucking Kemper has a flamethrower. Um. Though you wouldn't be shocked. Nevermind. You're doing it.

That's right.

You're doing it and you're telling Anthea you're doing it, so you can't chicken out last-minute. She doesn't look impatient. Either she's a good sport, or you talk to Teddy a lot faster than it feels like.

Second one. I'm sure she would be a good sport, though, so...

Clear as mud. Thanks. "Uh," you say. "Feel free to go ahead with that. I-I'm going to do something else real quick. I-I-I'll meet you back here?"

Anthea flashes a thumbs up. That's your cue: before you can dither more, you peel yourself off the roof, spiral up through the gap in the floor, and emerge into dimness. You're under the desks, you remind yourself, but to the eye it's a snarled forest of feet and wires: you navigate cautiously. Teddy?

Shoot.

Is one of his gods relevant to this situation? You're just asking. No reason.

Quick Sea watches athletic endeavors. Flat Sea watches petty crimes. Storm Sea watches risk, peril, and desperate efforts. Do you have a preference?

You like the last one. The last one sounds right. Not that any of them can help now, since they're dead, but yeah. Good to know. Maybe Teddy could put a word in to that one for you? You're almost out in the open. You can see CFK's loafers.

Good luck. 'Storm Sea, who tests the limits of man; watch this man test his limits and exceed them—'

You're in the air. Officially. You're making so much goddamn noise. Why can you never fly silent?

'—do not bite down; let him evade your jaws by inches, so he knows fear and grows in strength from it—'

Hey! Whoa! You don't want to know fear. You want it to go so smoothly you don't know anything. Right now, you know way too much. You're sort of ass-height. Casey has a firm grip on the talkie, from what you can make out. You are knowing fear, you think, actually.

'—and go give him a spook right now, so he gets his butt in gear, so he doesn't get caught the second somebody turns around. Thank you. Sincerely, Teddy.'

Okay! Yes, that's— you know that. You know. You already failed on the smooth snatch-and-grab scheme. But it's okay, because you can still rev up, dart around, and, um... kind of... pry... Casey's... grip... kind of burrow in there, start biting if you have to, cluster around the sweaty talkie, and... and... lift, and... uh... lift, and...

[You require AUTHORIZATION to take POSSESSIONS from EMPLOYEES.]

You can't move. You're trying. You're really trying.

[You require AUTHORIZATION to take POSSESSIONS from EMPLOYEES.]
[You require AUTHORIZATION to take POSSESSIONS from EMPLOYEES.]
[You require AUTHORIZATION to—]

Casey Fucking Kemper's gigantic face, with its gigantic reflective bug-eye glasses, leers down at you. "What's happening down there, pal?"

Stupid goddamn Friend goddamn programming. ([[You should refrain from using PROFANITY. Choose language that reflects the positive Headspace brand.]) You thought you shook it off. Casey probably set it in overdrive. Ha-ha. Does Teddy know what? This is phenomenal proof the gods are stone dead.

"You wouldn't happen to be Gil, would you? I was wondering where you went! Mr. Kurz and I, we missed you. We really did miss you, Gil. Our tour guide, wandering off— bad look for me! Very bad look. And now you're back and doing what?"

You say nothing.

"Are you trying to steal company property? You wouldn't do that, would you? We hold all our Friends to tight standards. We— whoa, whoa! We're not done yet!"

You'd calculated that dropping the talkie would let you flee. It was the stealing restrictions that held you there, not general paralysis. And it would've worked— it would've— if Casey didn't hook his goddamn ([[You should refrain from using PROFANITY. Choose language that reflects the positive Headspace brand.]) sausage fingers straight through you. Through the space between your bodies. It's pins and needles all over as you're reeled in like a fish. Teddy.

You took a risk. You got fried. It happens.

You are going to kick his smug goddamn ([[You should refrain from using PROFANITY. Choose language that reflects the positive Headspace brand.]) smug goshdarn face in. You're going to break his goshdarn glasses. If you survive this.

Looking forward to it.

Casey has balled you up around his fist. He might as well be clutching your beating heart. Casey Fucking (([[You should refrain from using PROFANITY. Choose language that reflects the positive Headspace brand.]) Kemper seems like a guy who'd eat somebody's beating heart, if he thought that'd push some M.A.N.S.E.s. "What happened to the rest of your body, Gil? Did that wander off too? Or... hmm."

His fingers are twitching. He's strumming you lightly. If you had a stomach you might puke on his shoes. "You sure are a Friend, friend, but one of ours? I just don't know! But look, bugs aren't brand-appropriate, okay? I liked you better with a smiling face! C'mere."

F... flip! Motherflipper! Casey Flipping Kemper is— you don't know what! You're not that deep on metaphysics, okay? Richard seemed to think you were, and he tried to strike up conversation to that end, but it died real quick because you only knew what was practical for the job. Whatever CFK's doing is not practical for the job. He's kneading you, or something, and against your will you coagulate. Chest first, with Casey's hand buried in it. Unsmiling face last.

"Oh, don't give us attitude!" Casey says, and shakes you. "Come on! I'd like to see it. Show Mr. Kurz a big ol' grin."

You can see the whites of your eyes in his glasses.

(Choices next.)

>[A1] Smile. Buy time.
>[A2] Don't smile. So you'll hate yourself less.

>[B1] You have to act now. He has you by the chest: your hands are free. Shoot Casey Flipping Kemper in his grinning flipping face. [???]
>[B2] You have to act now. Your mouth is uncovered. Yell like you're dying and hope Anthea finds it in her bleeding heart to rescue you. [Roll for Anthea effectiveness.]
>[B3] That's all you can think of off the top of your head. But there has to be better options out there... (Write-in.)

>>6074149
>[A1] Smile. Buy time.
>[B1] You have to act now. He has you by the chest: your hands are free. Shoot Casey Flipping Kemper in his grinning flipping face. [???]

>>6074149
>A2
>B1
We tried :(
Avenge us Lottie

>>6074149
>[A1] Smile. Buy time.
>[B3] That's all you can think of off the top of your head. But there has to be better options out there... (Write-in.)
Pretend to be Kurz's underling and ask for further instructions. Sow discord.

>>6074148
>>[A1] Smile. Buy time.
>>[B1] You have to act now. He has you by the chest: your hands are free. Shoot Casey Flipping Kemper in his grinning flipping face. [???]

>>6074149
>[A2] Don't smile. So you'll hate yourself less.
>[B1] You have to act now. He has you by the chest: your hands are free. Shoot Casey Flipping Kemper in his grinning flipping face. [???]

File: gil casey chokeout.png (68 KB, 875x479)

68 KB PNG

Rolled 2 (1d5)

>>6074319
>>6074354
>>6074416
>[A1]

>>6074347
>>6074537
>[A2]

>>6074319
>>6074347
>>6074537
>>6074416
>[B1]

>>6074354
>[B3]

Okay. Called for [A1] and [B1]. I would've flipped for the write-in (>>6074354) if it had at least one +1, but I can't take an important vote with nobody else backing it, sorry!

I am going to roll for the outcome of [B1] as follows:


1 = [PROHIBITED]
2 = [PROHIBITED]
3 = [PROHIBITED]
4 = [PROHIBITED]
5 = Bang!

>>6074580
>[PROHIBITED]
Friends are expected to remain on their best behavior at all times. Make sure you maintain that Headspace Spirit™!

(Writing...? I'm going to see if I can get an update out early. TBD.)

>>6074580
>>6074586
Dang! Shoulda seen that coming.

File: gil's gun.jpg (29 KB, 700x467)

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>An offer of Friendship

What? You? A daring show of defiance? You dared just now and look where it got you: flipped straight to heck. You'll smile and you'll like it, you worthless piece of shit. [You should refrain from using PROFANITY. Choose language that reflects the positive Headspace brand.] Show him your teeth.

"Good man." CFK shows you his teeth back. "Now, I'm a deal-making man, Gil. I'm sure we can come to an agreement. Tell me a little about who sent you, won't you?"

Gil Wallace: coward, sellout, gutless traitor. That guy will do anything to save his hide. They'll be celebrating you in Headspace. They'll put you in radio ads, on posters, slapped up on the wall next to Lottie's head on a pike. You'll get Lucky backslapping you too: excellent work taking down that multiple murderer! You're not so bad for a fiend. Here's your bounty. Here's your ticket back West: tag along with our caravan. We'll help you out.

Casey Flipping Kemper, if that's his real name, could kill you. It's not a question. He wouldn't need a flamethrower, though if you asked nicely he might pull one out for you. For the occasion. This is what Anthea was talking about with Ellery— that he's not actually unkillable, that he'd be screwed if his insides were. That's you. He could rip you into bits and it'd be donezo for you. Bye Lottie. Bye Anthea. Bye tent. Bye body. Bye chance to ever make anything of yourself, ever.

Snitching would kill that too, of course. Snitch and you're what you were, what you are, forever— but you won't even be able to pretend you enjoy it. You had something and it was stolen forever. That's what h-e-l-l is. Might as well die, put it like that.

Hey, genius, you have a gun.

Aw, shoot, Teddy's right. That'll make it easy. Casey's left your hands free and everything—

FOR HIM!

—for him! For him! You can just shoot him! You wanted Casey memorabilia: try his skull all over the floor. Ha! Ha-ha! You'll have to deal with Kurz after, but that's a tiny price to pay. Straight aces, you could sing. Maybe you will later. For now, you cock your fingers, let something ripple up your arm, raise your hand, pull the—

[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]

No.

[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]
[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]

(1/2)

File: hands.png (2.38 MB, 1190x1200)

2.38 MB PNG

No. No. No. Not now. You're not a Friend. There's nothing stopping you from killing CFK. You can do it.

[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]
[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]
[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]
[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]
[Violence against employees is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Please contact Security if a situation needs a violent resolution.]

"My," Casey Flipping Kemper says. "That's not the attitude I like to see around here! I need you to show a little more Headspace spirit, Gil. Mr. Kurz? Would you mind grabbing him? Thanks bunches."

"You run a slick operation, Mr. Kemper." Kurz grabs your arms and pincers them behind your back. You shut your eyes.

"Now, Gil, see here. I do want a tour guide! It hurts my throat to do all the talking! And I see potential in you, so simmer down. Stay a while." Casey Flipping Kemper rubs your shoulder. "Any Friend is a friend of mine, that's what I say! They all love me, Gil. I think we're going to have a great working relationship."

Fuck the— [You should refrain from]— fuck the filter. Goddamn the filter. "You're a bastard," you say. "You're a motherfucking bastard. You're a— a cunt. You're a joke. Do you know that? To me and my buddies. We laugh about you. You're a—"

"That's right! Get it out of your system. Keep going."

You clam up.

"No? All done? Well, then. My apologies for the many delays, Mr. Kurz, but I'm sure Gil here will be an expert help in navigating them. Won't you? Ktmiz gwcz kikpm."

[CACHE CLEARED.]

You can't think any longer. It's a mercy.

"Kwuumvkm apcblwev."

[COMMENCING SHUTDOWN. SHUTDOWN IN 5.]

Hey, look.

[SHUTDOWN IN 4.]

You've survived worse.

[SHUTDOWN IN 3.]

You'll get through this too.

[SHUTDOWN IN 2.]

The gods will it, all right?

[SHUTDOWN IN 1.]
[SHUTTING DOWN.]

...
...
...

"Kwuumvkm zmjwwb."

—

Other half of the update coming in a few hours.

File: redness 5.jpg (54 KB, 412x500)

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>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]

You are nobody. You are everywhere. You have spread yourself to your greatest extent, and now you reap the spoils: you are suffuse with Law, bright, flourishing. You are complete. There is nothing you'd change about your situation.

Charlotte.

There is one thing you'd change about your situation.

You're not meant for this. You can't withstand it. It's killing you.

It's not your fault, of course. It's this pesty tapeworm you have. You can't figure out how to get rid of it— and it keeps talking nonsense. You feel better than ever.

That's the blood talking. Do you know what's happening to your body?

What body?

Yeah. It's all fucked-up. They're studying you. They have you full of tubes. If that can't get through to you, I don't know what'll...

Thank goodness. The tapeworm died mid-sentence. You have peace again, if not quiet: your surroundings clatter and hum. Still, an improvement.

Gil's in danger.

Gil's in...

I'm not pulling your leg. He is. If you don't wake up now, he's doomed. Donezo. So let's get moving.

You can't move. You are spread too deep and far.

I have something for that. Will you let me?

If... if Gil's really in danger, and you... you did have something to do, and...

He is. You did. Here you go, Charlotte.

Death! Betrayal! The duplicitous tapeworm has released in you blue poison! You shrivel at its touch, are shaken from your holdfasts, retreat inward: the tapeworm will assuredly burn in the sun. Only there is no sun. Blue light radiates from your core. You spit and writhe and shrink and scratch, trailing destruction, but it isn't any use. You narrow and retract and open your eyes.

Ow, is what you'd say, but you don't hurt. It doesn't feel like whatever just happened just happened. Law is some serious stuff.

>[7/14 ID]

You search for a better choice of words and settle on: oh God. Oh, God, you just... all those people, and some weird sphere, and the Manager at a... desk?... and you gave Virginia a hot chocolate? And then you— you went out to sort of, um, give the red stuff a talking-to, and you did, but then you, um— it didn't stick, or you— you were overwhelmed by the—

There are tubes in your arms. There's a tube down your throat. You are half-submerged in hot red water, like an awful bath, including the fact that— oh, God! Who walked off with most of your clothing?! What beast, what villain, what scoundrel— ugh! At least it's not your body: it's Virginia's, and she has odd gangly proportions, so if somebody meant to look upon you you're sure they were thwarted. Because of the gangliness, you mean and not the red growths threaded through your skin. You weren't talking about the growths. The growths aren't important and you don't like looking at them.

(1/2)

File: teddy - @centipededotgov.png (1.22 MB, 1096x2067)

1.22 MB PNG

All of this is admittedly a setback to your bombing plan. But you've faced setbacks before, and you've always overcome them, so you have nothing to worry about. Positive thinking! You attempt to sit up (step one in your bombing plan), but smack your head on an invisible barrier. Your whole setup is encased in glass, or something like it. Damn. Maybe you better yank out the tubes first? Only you don't know which tubes steal your blood and which ones drip-feed you (you're starting to realize) pain medication. Double-damn. Oh, triple-damn: one of the fuzzy shapes outside your enclosure heard you hit your head, because it's coming over. You don't want to God-murder it if you don't have to, but if you have to, you'll...

The figure crouches. You reach up and smear some fog off the enclosure, hoping to see the face of this clothes-stealing bastard. His face is mostly glasses.

Good. You're awake.

...Teddy? He was... he was beetles. He ditched you.

I escaped that shitpile, yeah. I was beetles. You know I don't come that way naturally?

Huh?

I had a whole life where I wasn't... look, forget it. Give me a second.

Wait, what is he doing out there? Is he wearing a doctor coat? Does he know who took your clothes off? If it was him, you're revoking his retainership. You can do that. You can revoke it. You just haven't yet, because Gil's been a good retainer. Wait, is Gil actually in danger, or—

Yes. I said give me a second.

Teddy's glasses vanish. A few moments later, there's a muffled bang-crash. He comes back, crouches, and pops open the lid to your enclosure. His glasses fog from the sudden rush of steam.

You rip out the mouth-tube before you sit up. "What was that noise?" There's a slumped white-coated figure across the room. "Oh, wow. Wait, you— you punched him? You're real? I mean— you're tangible? I thought—"

"We're down deep. There's flexibility." Teddy scratches his nose. He hasn't wiped his glasses yet, which you find distracting. "I took the liberty of getting a job. Do you want a hand with those?"

"...Are they safe to, um..."

"I think so. It's not safe to screw around with blood, typically, but yours is all thinned-out."

You brace yourself for the sting, then tear out all the tubes you can find. It's weirdly satisfying. "Do you think somebody heard you, uh—"

"They're all otherwise occupied, trust me. Need a lift?"

He's extending a hand. You frown. "My clothes."

"I wouldn't worry about them. I was actually thinking—" He jerks his neck backwards. "—you'd be less conspicuous in uniform."

Stealing the knocked-out doctor's clothes? Maybe, but you're loathe to take suggestions from Teddy. Why hasn't he wiped his damn glasses? Wait, he— "You're the one who was talking to me earlier?"

"I don't know who else it could be."

"Then you're the one who, um..." Blue light. "Nevermind."

(Choices next.)

>[A1] Demand your (Virginia's) old clothes back. Anything else is an insult! (+1 ID)
>[A2] Wear the doctor's clothes. After that mess, you *need* to stay under the radar.

>[B1] Where are you? How did you get here? What were they *doing* to you?
>[B2] Wait, Gil is actually in danger?
>[B3] The gross red growths aren't permanent, right? There's no way they're permanent.
>[B4] How did he "get a job"? He's not even a real person!
>[B5] Demand that Teddy wipe his glasses. [Roll.]
>[B6] Cleverly ascertain why Teddy isn't wiping his glasses! (Write-in.)
>[B7] Write-in.

>>6074991
>A1
With how much we spendy we need as much ID as possible

>B2, 3, 6
He's uh having some facial or ocular difficulties right now and doesn't want us to see. Perhaps whatever is going on with Gil is affecting him?

>>6074991
>[A2] Wear the doctor's clothes. After that mess, you *need* to stay under the radar.

>[B1] Where are you? How did you get here? What were they *doing* to you?
>[B2] Wait, Gil is actually in danger?
>[B3] The gross red growths aren't permanent, right? There's no way they're permanent.
>[B4] How did he "get a job"? He's not even a real person!

>>6074991
>[A2] Wear the doctor's clothes. After that mess, you *need* to stay under the radar.
>[B3] The gross red growths aren't permanent, right? There's no way they're permanent.
>[B4] How did he "get a job"? He's not even a real person!

>>6074990
>>[A2] Wear the doctor's clothes. After that mess, you *need* to stay under the radar.
>>[B1] Where are you? How did you get here? What were they *doing* to you?
>>[B2] Wait, Gil is actually in danger?
>>[B3] The gross red growths aren't permanent, right? There's no way they're permanent.
>>[B4] How did he "get a job"? He's not even a real person!

File: miyazaki write.jpg (67 KB, 503x767)

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Hi folks, I have some bad news: no updates tonight or tomorrow night. I'm not feeling well tonight, and I have to get up early tomorrow to catch a flight; tomorrow I'm still on the go. Updates should resume (hopefully) the day afterward. Thanks for your patience!

>>6075526
>>6075258
>>6075256
>[A2]

>>6075189
>[A1]

>>6075256
>>6075526
>[B1]

>>6075189
>>6075256
>>6075526
>[B2]

>>6075256
>>6075189
>>6075258
>>6075526
>[B3]

>>6075256
>>6075258
>>6075526
>[B4]

>>6075189
>[B6]

Wew. Alright. Called for [A2] and [B1], [B2], [B3], and [B4] (if I can fit everything in). Writing. (Also testing formatting.)

File: more red stuff.png (251 KB, 708x661)

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>Questions and answers

"Fine," you say. Even if the doctor clothes are Teddy's idea, you can't afford to be identified— and he's your retainer, so it's basically your idea, anyways. "Whatever. Bring me the clothes. I don't want to— I'm not going to get up like this."

"Sure thing."

"And you better not look while I'm putting them on! Bring them to me then go stand in the corner, or, or whatever. If you can even see like that."

No reaction to the last bit from Teddy. Damn. "Believe me, your nudity makes me no—"

"I'm not nude," you say heatedly. It's true! You're not! Thank God! You have some covering in certain places.

"Your near-nudity makes me no difference. Unless you're referring to the scars of your severing? Do they itch?"

"No." The scars of your what? ...The growths? They don't look like scars, really: they have the shape and feel of roots. They disfigure your chest, mainly, but branch up your neck and down your limbs. In some places they knot up and bulge out, like boils. You hate that Teddy brought them up. You hate that you're looking at them now. Doesn't he know retainers ought to be tight-lipped?

>[-1 ID: 6/14]

But if he must bring them up, you might as well ask. Not that he'd know, really, but he better reassure you. That's his job. "Do you think they'll... stay?"

"Why are you concerned? This isn't your body. You've only subjected an innocent woman to the raw contempt of the WYRM. I'm sure your body is unscathed."

You are subject to the raw contempt of Teddy. You bristle. "They were going to arrest—"

"And why were they going to arrest you? You went from one rash decision to another to another. You would still be stuck there if I hadn't done something."

"I would not! I, I had it under control! What do you know?! You're just some stupid, dead— you weren't even smart enough to not die, you insolent horse-ass! I should've exploded you!" You can still explode him, but that'd be too much of a mercy. You should drown him again and make him feel it. Shove his face in the red water until he stops moving. Steal his clothes. "If you think what I did to Virginia was bad—"

Teddy is unmoved. You stop. (You... oh God...) "Get me my clothes," you snap, and sink back, and stare into the void where the arm tubes dangle from.

Teddy gets the clothes while you stew. The water would be kind of pleasant, actually, if it wasn't full of blood(?) and you weren't full of puncture wounds. And if you didn't just fantasize about drowning someone in it. You'll admit to yourself that this wasn't your finest hour— but do you deserve a lecture from your by-far worst retainer? When nothing bad has even happened yet? You killed all the lights, didn't you? You think that was you. You can't imagine why they'd make a room like this all spooky and dim if they had a choice. Unless Management can see in the dark? You're guessing they can see in the dark.... hmm.

(1/2?)

The doctor on the ground isn't Management, though, you think. Maybe you better investigate them once you're properly clothed. For now, you clear your throat. "...So how did you disguise yourself?"

Thank goodness Teddy doesn't comment on your change of topic. (Or tone.) "I found myself abruptly restored to humanity. I took the liberty of copying the outfit."

You guess he can wear anything? Like Richard. God, you wish Richard were here instead. Any Richard. "...Restored to humanity? From beetles? You can't control it?"

"It's Gil's prerogative, mainly."

...So wherever Gil is, he isn't beetles? That's good, you think. He must not be sneaking around. "So you copied the outfit... and... pretended to be doing doctor stuff?"

"I assume personnel come in and out. I'm also not sure they're cognizant. You don't need much higher-order thinking to make sure the blood goes where it's supposed to."

"Then who needs my...?" No, it's obvious. "Management? But why... it's all Wyrm-y?" Teddy is taking the doctor's shoe's off. "Oh God! What are they going to do with..."

"What can't they do with it? You're fuel and a generator. I'm sure they would've had designs on Rudy, if he hadn't-"

"Don't talk about Rudy! Is this- so this is- it can't be that far from where I was, right? Since they stuck me in a test-chamber thing, and now this is a... a lab-thing?"

"It left your body a husk. They were easily able to take the husk. Not far, yes. You're in the region."

"Um, that's good. Not that I want to go back, I just... are other people being extracted from? Or tested on, or..."

"Many."

"Oh." Good thing you'll be exploding them. "But Gil isn't, right? You said he was in danger, but it's not that kind of-"

"I don't know what kind of danger he's in. It's a sense of distress."

"Maybe he's next door," you say.

"Maybe," Teddy says. "This are special Headspace-brand clothing, by the way. It kind of 'snap' onto your body. No need for a lengthy changing process."

"What? Really?" He's dropped the pile of clothes and has (thankfully) turned around. You reach for the pile, and flinch as the clothing vibrates and does just that. It fits perfectly.

"No, not really." Teddy turns back. "Easier, though. Now-"

Apropos of nothing, the door flies open! You bolt to your feet, shedding water, and go for The Sword. Teddy vanishes entirely. Have you been caught already? Your escape thwarted, again? Back in the pod, and this time under heavy guard?

It'd make sense. But nobody enters. Nobody's in the rainbow-lit hallway outside, either: you didn't see a hand push the door or anything, so you don't think they're hiding outside. ...Is the door automatic? Did it malfunction? Was there a sudden specific gust of wind? Is it a sign from God? You don't want signs from God. Is it a sign from the universe?

(2/3)

Or is it the harbinger of the very noisy, schlorpy, thudding thing you're hearing from down the hallway? You can't tell what it is, because it hasn't crossed by your room yet. Maybe it won't enter. Maybe it's going the wrong direction. Maybe it's after somebody else! (Headspace security? Fingers crossed.) But— not that standing here was ever high on your list of ideas, but maybe you shouldn't do that. You're sure Teddy would approve, wherever he is.

>[1] Uhh... shut the door and lock it again! You can do that, right? You'll figure out your escape route after the whatever-it-is has moved along.
>[2] What if it can smell you?? Or see your Law?? You need to get out of here for real. The arm tubes are going somewhere: get Teddy to boost you up into the void where the ceiling should be. [Roll.]
>[3] You don't have time to climb around! Besides the door out to the hallway, there's another door out to an adjoining lab room(?). See what's happening in there!
>[4] Sorry, Virginia: her body is now a liability. Ditch her and possess the still-unconscious doctor. The hallway monster won't eat doctors, right? (Extracommunion.) [-1 ID]
>[5] Write-in.

>>6077015
>[2] What if it can smell you?? Or see your Law?? You need to get out of here for real. The arm tubes are going somewhere: get Teddy to boost you up into the void where the ceiling should be. [Roll.]

>>6077015
>[4] Sorry, Virginia: her body is now a liability. Ditch her and possess the still-unconscious doctor. The hallway monster won't eat doctors, right? (Extracommunion.) [-1 ID]

>>6077015
>2

>>6077215
>>6077236
>[2]

>>6077225
>[4]

Called for [2]. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 5 (-5 Banged Up) vs. DC 43 (-7 Teddy) to get up in the rafters(?)!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 6/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

>>6077506
Prove you're the QM first.

Rolled 80 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>6077506
Y

File: unknown-219.png (74 KB, 448x487)

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>>6077507
Yes, anon, I'm an imposter who decided to copy the OP's exact calling-for-dice formatting. This is the most logical conclusion.

Rolled 66 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>6077506
>[2] N

>>6077516
OK

Rolled 58 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>6077506
>>6077516
>N

>>6077522
>>6077565
>>6077510
>75, 61, 53 vs. DC 43 -- Enhanced Success

Nice work. Writing.

>Take to the sky!

Yeah. Not-here sounds good. But where? Out the open door? No chance. Out the shut one? So you can wander into fifty more doctors? Nope. Most people, not being acclaimed heroines, would give up here. Even some heroines, having been recently possessed, eviscerated, bled, and told off, may have found their unflagging confidence somewhat flagging. You? Ha! No chance! You have a Gil to rescue, a Headspace to explode, and a score to settle with whichever bastard stripped you. Also, as you've established, Josey Hatchcock always went for the air vents. Can you see the air vents? Can you fit inside? Can you fit inside before the hallway monster sniffs you out and eats you? No, maybe, and maybe— but come on! Did Josey ever get eaten? She never got eaten.

Teddy is tall, right? And strong? And... corporeal, if he wants to be? Could he—

Yeah.

Teddy appears, stoops, adjusts his glasses, and hefts you up by your ankles. You suppress a yelp (thank goodness the doctor wore slacks) and teeter, but successfully reach and grip onto a thingy. A bar? A pole? A tube? You can't see it well.

Keep gripping.

Teddy vanishes, leaving you dangling a good eight feet above the ground. You huff and do what he says: Richard's improvements to your grip makes it easy. Still, staying on doesn't mean you can pull yourself up. Where did Teddy think he was going?

Up here.

Two hands appear from above you. You take one gingerly— then, when Teddy doesn't drop you, you take the other and are hefted up onto your belly. You are atop a large tube: when you press your ear against it, it sounds full of liquid. Below you is the room how you left it, almost. It looks a lot smaller when you're not in it, and the doctor Teddy punched isn't on the ground. The doctor is milling around fully clothed. (You check. You're also fully clothed. Phew!) The lid of your container is still open, though, and you're not inside. Double-phew. Things haven't gotten complicated.

Beside you are the dangling arm-tubes, much thinner and more flexible than the tube you're sitting on. They rise up from your old room and past you, far into the black air. You attempt to stand, to see where they go better, and—

Careful!

Teddy's sitting, dangling his legs over the side of the large tube. He could've warned you before you bumped your head, but that's why he's the inferior retainer. You've bumped your head on nothing, by the way— there's nothing above you. Blackness. But the blackness is hard and slick to the touch, and when you knock against it with your hand it goes all shimmery. An invisible ceiling? Damn! You'll have to crawl along the stupid tube to get anywhere, except the stupid tube makes an S-curve and rises straight up after a bit, so you don't even have that. Maybe you'll just wait here until there's no more monster sounds. Unless...

(1/3)

Hold on. You're almost onto something. If Teddy spoils it for you, you're shoving him off the stupid tube onto his face, okay? So he knows. You're solving this for yourself. The tube makes an S-curve and goes upward. The little dangling arm-tubes also go straight upward. So they're passing through the ceiling somehow? Or...

You shimmy over to where the arm-tubes are. You stick your hand straight upward. Nothing! No resistance! An invisible hole in the invisible ceiling! God, you're good. You're amazing. If you're not strictly a famous detectivess yet, you will be, as soon as your secret fan (the general store guy) finishes his book about you. He'll call it Charlotte Fawkins and the Mystery of the Ceiling. Hey, and he can sell it in the general store! It's perfect!

>[+1 ID: 7/14]

You thread your arms through the hole— thank God it's big enough for you, though you could've squeezed through if it wasn't, so that was a pointless thing to think— thank God you didn't have to go through the trouble of squeezing through! There you go. Atop the ceiling, you lower your arms back down to hoist Teddy, but he's gone. He's standing right next to you. "Pretty clever."

"Thank you!" Is he corporeal? Or is he like Richard? Is Richard...? No, forget it. Not your area of expertise. (Charlotte Fawkins and the Enigmatic Mind Men? The Enigma of the Mind Men?) "Oh— wow! Wow! Look at—"

Atop the pipe, you could only see your room. Atop the ceiling, though it didn't feel much higher, you can see a lot more: a lot more. Your room, which looks even smaller— or more compressed, is maybe the word. It's hardly big enough to fit your pod. (The lid's closed on it now. When did that happen?) Next to it— not adjacent, but floating in the void nearby— are other rooms, similarly miniaturized. With the dimness and distance and top-down angle, it's hard to tell what they contain. One holds something red and pink, stretched from one side of the room to another. One holds a big snake? That can't be a snake, surely. A big not-snake. One has somebody in a grey coat on a table. One is completely full of water. One is completely on fire. Actually, a couple are on fire. Anyways, there has to be dozens and dozens of rooms— and most of them have some kind of cord or tube or cable snaking upward. If you squinted and pretended, you'd think you were in a kelp forest. Above you, you can more easily see where the cords(etc.) are going: the moon. You mean, it's not the moon. Surely. But it is a pale bright orb in the dark sky.

...The sphere?

Um, you don't know if it's the sphere. It could be a different large sphere. Maybe orbs and spheres are different. Not that it matters, because you're not gallivanting off to look at spheres, unless Gil is on the sphere. Is Gil on the sphere? Teddy?

"Do you think he'd be on the sphere?"

(2/3)

Okay, he's not, so the sphere doesn't matter. You mean orb. Anyways! Between all the rooms there is a hallway; thank God. All the rooms were starting to scare you. There is a hallway, though it's also floating in void, and not exactly a straight line: it keeps wriggling around to loop on itself, and to join and detach from different rooms. You had to hunt around to spot the monster, but it's there— from above it's kind of slug-ish, kind of snake-ish. It's going pretty fast despite its components, judging from the squad of guards(?) sprinting after it. Good thing you got out of there. Especially since the rest of the hallway is gaggled with dark-suited people. Managers.

It shouldn't take too long to get anywhere, sphere not included. The question is closer to: where on earth should you go?

>[1] To Gil! You don't know where he is, and you don't see him yet, but when had that stopped you? It's a manse. You'll find him. [Roll.]

>[2] Maybe Gil is in danger, but you shouldn't get it mixed: Teddy didn't say he was about to *die.* And if he was about to die, would you really get there in time? Also, who says Teddy isn't lying? You'll find Gil in due time. Prioritize.
>>[A] You're going to blow up all these rooms, but... how do you know which ones deserve blowing up, and which ones deserve rescue? You should see them for yourself. Drop in on a monsterless, Managerless bit of the hallway and look around. (You're still disguised, after all.)
>>[B] You don't have time to take a stroll! You need to know what's up with all of this immediately. Drop in on a doctor (there has to be more than one, right?) and extract the necessary information. [Roll.]
>>[C] It's hard to decide where to go, looking at everything from so far away. You need more information. If you see what all the strings look like, maybe you can just go wherever's brightest? Or most interesting-looking?
>>[D] Drop down on top of the monster! Kill it with The Sword! Amaze the security team with your doctorly sword skills! They'll be so happy they'll tell you everything. [Roll.]
>>[E] Write-in.

>>6077756
>[1] To Gil! You don't know where he is, and you don't see him yet, but when had that stopped you? It's a manse. You'll find him. [Roll.]
It's not the smart action, but I feel like Charlie would take it.

>>6077756
>[2] Maybe Gil is in danger, but you shouldn't get it mixed: Teddy didn't say he was about to *die.* And if he was about to die, would you really get there in time? Also, who says Teddy isn't lying? You'll find Gil in due time. Prioritize.

>>6077756
>It's going pretty fast despite its components, judging from the squad of guards(?) sprinting after it.
Huh, so it's not security but a loose subject

As tempting as 2D is
>1

>>6077756
>>[1] To Gil! You don't know where he is, and you don't see him yet, but when had that stopped you? It's a manse. You'll find him. [Roll.]

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>>6078197
>>6078097
>>6077770
>[1]

>>6077776
>[2] (even if this wasn't outvoted, I wouldn't be able to take it -- [2] isn't a complete option! You need to pick a letter suboption so I know what Charlotte is actually doing.)

Called for [1]: I admire your guys' commitment to the bit. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 14 (+7, +7 Heroic Fervor, +1 Key) vs. DC 74 (+2 Lights Off, +2 High Up, +20 ???) to locate Gil safely!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 7/14 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

I don't have my drawing tablet on vacation, so you guys get random stuff from my camera roll

>>6078221
Oops, that should be "3 1d100s + 15", not 14, and that first +7 should be "+7 Wyrm's Dead Eye". What I get for mobileposting.

Rolled 28 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>6078221
Y

Rolled 79 + 14 (1d100 + 14)

>>6078221
>Y, because Drowned dice

Rolled 36 + 14 (1d100 + 14)

>>6078221
>N

>>6078231
>>6078254
>>6078259
>53, 104, 61 vs. DC 74 -- Mitigated Success
>Spendy

Could be worse! Writing shortly.

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>GIL!!!!
>53, 104, 61 vs. DC 74 — Mitigated Success
>Spendy

There's too many damn options, which actually makes it easier to pick. Gil! You're going where Gil is. Whether he's shut up in a room like you were, whether he's in the belly of the hallway monster, whether he's in Management's bony clutches, whether he's on the moon— it simply doesn't matter. You're going there and you're getting him back. It's what a heroine does.

>[+2 ID: 9/14]

"We're all lucky you have such a commitment to justice." Teddy's hands are in his pockets.

Huh? Damnit! So he can read your mind! He's like a worse version of Gil and a worse version of Richard, all mixed together. (Poor Gil, stuck with him forever.) Also, what's that supposed to mean? He's not being sarcastic, is he?

"No."

Really?

"Nope."

Um, okay. Then yes! He and Gil are lucky! Or the world is? You don't know what 'we' he's talking about. And you're lucky you have a retainer who's worthwhile to rescue, though you are crossing your fingers he's in a convenient rescuable location. Though wherever he is, you'll find him! You're using the most advanced trick you have: shutting your eyes and wandering around until you wind up where you're supposed to go.

One side-effect of shutting your eyes: the strings are back. Virginia's eyeballs do a good job of tuning them out, but they thrive in the darkness, and this whole upper region is thick with them. Far more than you expected for a manse. It's like wading through cobwebs. Below your feet, the rooms are bright sparks. Far above your head, the 'moon''s more like a sun. Once or twice, you think you catch a glimpse of something odd in the thicket, something moving faster than the strings' gentle shifting, but you never see it clearly, and you never stop to search. You have Gil on your mind, and if you get distracted he'll be lost forever. (...Maybe not forever, but longer than you'd like!)

Oh well. The normal order of operations is: you walk for a while, you think about your destination, you stop when it feels right, and if you did it right you'll be there. You were happy with this state of affairs! You didn't need to change it. Now it's worse: you walk, you think, and the strings shuffle around you. Not like you brush them aside, mind. They move before you get there, forming a path, and the path is where you walk. Where you choose to walk? Is it a choice? Or are the strings parting where you were always going to walk? Richard questions, not that Richard'd give a straight answer. He'd probably say he turned off your eyeball for good reason, Charlotte Fawkins, because otherwise you ask stupid questions like that. You can hear it in his voice and everything.

The Richard in your imagination doesn't help much, but you appreciate him trying.

>[-1 ID: 8/14]

(1/2)

When you get the sense it's time to stop, you stop— is what you do normally, except this time the sense was concurrent with a spasm in the strings. What caused which? You don't know. You open your eyes.

You are back where you started. Not approximately— exactly. Damnit! You should've known Headspace strings weren't to be trusted! Except... the hallway's changed. There's still a monster, though it's much further down, and it's being corralled by guards with big forked pokers. Poor monster. Back near your room, another group of people has appeared. Somebody in a dark suit, sunglasses— Management? No, wait, that's Management a ways behind them. This one has a talkie out. Casey! He's with another guy with neatly parted hair, who must be Everard Kurz. And there's one more. He's wearing a tee-shirt. An employee? No. He's blond. He's shorter than the others. That one is Gil.

Oh! How brave of him! He's infiltrated Casey's dumb tour! Teddy probably thought he was in danger because Casey's a dangerous guy. (You saw how he yelled.) Right, Teddy?

I really couldn't tell you. If I had more information, I'd share it.

You don't believe that at all, but you appreciate the sentiment. Oh well. Clearly you need to infiltrate the tour as well, or at least drag Gil away so he can brief you on the master plan real quick. Easy! You stroll over to the bundle of arm-tubes, feel out the gap with your foot, and nimbly slide onto the pipe. From there, you lower yourself down, dangle, dangle, dangle, and finally make the jump onto the closed lid of the pod. The door is closed again. Good, good. You'll let the tour group move on a bit, then follow them. Casey can tell you all about what's in the rooms, as a bonus. You're so good at this! You hop off the pod and onto the linoleum. You—

The door handle turns. Gil's voice: "And this is our latest specimen, collected just today! A striking one, too. Ms. Shearer was exposed to a source of concentrated Law a few weeks ago. We thought initially that it had no major effect, but she's what we'd call a late bloomer, ha-ha—"

He's not coming in by himself! That's Casey silhouetted in the doorway behind: nobody else has that frame. The light's dim enough and you're crouching deep enough that you haven't been spotted, but that'll change quick if three people come in. Easy? Why did you say that? It's never easy!

(2/3)

(Sorry, meant choices next)

>[1] Crack the lid of the pod open and slip back inside. You'll be exactly where they expect you, and you can leave once they're gone.
>[2] It worked once; it'll work again. Climb the tubes onto the pipe onto the invisible ceiling. You can observe from there. [Roll.]
>[3] Sprint up, grab Gil's arm, and yank him into the room. Slam the door shut on Casey and Everard and keep it that way. Gil won't be pleased you ruined his scheme, but you're not pleased he's ruining your hiding spot, so fair's fair. [Difficult roll.]
>[4] Hold on. You're in a doctor outfit. You can't pretend you're a doctor, because they'll recognize you as Virginia, but what if they didn't recognize you as Virginia? What if you were somebody else whose name ended with an 'a'? Claudia. You're talking about Claudia. [Roll for efficacy.]
>[5] Write-in. Standard reminder that you're in a manse; Charlotte has a grab bag of weird and frightening abilities; feel free to roam wild

>>6078527
>[4] Hold on. You're in a doctor outfit. You can't pretend you're a doctor, because they'll recognize you as Virginia, but what if they didn't recognize you as Virginia? What if you were somebody else whose name ended with an 'a'? Claudia. You're talking about Claudia. [Roll for efficacy.]

>>6078527
>4
This one's pretty ideal because Gil will recognize Claudia but everyone else will be clueless

>>6078527
>>[4] Hold on. You're in a doctor outfit. You can't pretend you're a doctor, because they'll recognize you as Virginia, but what if they didn't recognize you as Virginia? What if you were somebody else whose name ended with an 'a'? Claudia. You're talking about Claudia. [Roll for efficacy.]

>>6078527
>[3] Sprint up, grab Gil's arm, and yank him into the room. Slam the door shut on Casey and Everard and keep it that way. Gil won't be pleased you ruined his scheme, but you're not pleased he's ruining your hiding spot, so fair's fair. [Difficult roll.]
We've been doing good with rolls lately.

>>6078782
>>6078736
>>6078568
>[4]

>>6078784
>[3]

Called for [4]. I need dice.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 20 (+5 Trust Me I'm A Doctor, +15 Claudia) vs. DC 74 (-3 ???, +5 Should Be The Right Place?, +10 ???, +12 Caseyvision) to successfully deceive the tour group!

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

Rolled 42 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>6078985
>Y

Rolled 91 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>6078985
>N

>>6078985
>Maybe

Rolled 44 (1d100)

>>6078985
Yes

>>6078988
>>6078989
>>6078992
>72, 131, 74 vs. DC 74 -- Success
>Spendy

You clutched it out! Writing shortly.

Alas, I was terminally distracted. I'm traveling tomorrow, but I'll do my best to type one out on the go and update tomorrow night. Wish me luck.

>>6079171
Good luck!

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>Quick change

It's not that you need Teddy's help here, but now would be a good time for him to provide some. Teddy? Teddy? Could he please—

He's gone. Damnit! Maybe Gil re-absorbed him. You have, generously, ten seconds before you're caught— but that's no reason (nine seconds, eight) to give up hope. Teddy's useless, but the thought of him has brought (seven seconds, six) somebody else to mind. Somebody Gil might recognize, but (five seconds, four) Casey and Everard absolutely will not.

As you stand from your crouch, you slip something over your head, something like a wet cloth, clinging and warm. Your heartbeat counts out the last seconds: one-three, one-two, one-one, none.

*

The room smells like blood, but it's lit like a disco. You're boobless in a lab coat and you've got chunky grandma jewelry biting into your neck. You're Claudia Fawkins, and this isn't your body. You're dreaming again.

Gil's here too, wearing a badly fitted orange t-shirt. The poor guy looks awful in general. Orange isn't his color. You consider making a comment, but you remember it's a dream, so you'd be wasting your time. Where is this even supposed to be? Who are you? Some grandma, you guess. Gil definitely doesn't recognize you, because he's talking like you're not even there. "—state-of-the-art containment system, doubling as a perpetual source of—"

"That's enough, son." Gil and his weird presenter voice aren't alone: he has two guys with him, both of whom you dislike on sight. The one talking has leathery skin and rainbow sunglasses, like maybe he owns the disco. The other one hasn't said anything yet, but his gloves and turtleneck mark him out as either a poser or a psycho. "This is where Ms. Fawkins was taken, yes?"

(Oh God. How—)

Oh, hell, Disco Owner knows you. Are they after you? It's that sort of dream? You tense, but it's like you're wallpaper. They're all looking at the weird coffin on the ground. "If that is Virginia Shearer inside, then this is where Charlotte was taken. Should I open the containment system? She will be less likely to react violently if she sees me."

"I think that's a phenomenal idea, Gil. You're a real asset to the team, let me say. A real asset." Disco Owner slaps Gil's back/shoves Gil inside; Gil stumbles straight past you, kneels at the coffin, and pops it open. An ominous cloud of steam comes out.

(1/3)

When Gil doesn't say anything, you tiptoe over to peer in yourself. It doesn't contain your dead body, which is what you were worried about, though it's not too pretty: it's full of hot red slime, or maybe slimy hot blood. Well, that explains why the room smells like that, though it doesn't explain much else. Huh. Unless it's a portent? You've read all about it: the great WYRM, being well and truly sacked out, can only communicate in obscure symbols in obscurer dreams. A blood disco with two creeps and Gil and you in a lab coat— that's obscure, all right. You'll keep thinking about it. Right now, Disco Owner and Turtleneck Psycho have ventured over to where Gil is, and they don't like what they're seeing. Disco Owner has purpled, and he has a look like he's going to— oh, shit, he actually did it. He cuffed Gil on the back of the head. Poor Gil.

"This presents an issue," Turtleneck Psycho says.

"You're the king of the understatement, Kurz. King of the understatement. This presents a damn issue! I'm of a mind that we've been lied to! Isn't that right, Gil?"

Gil is keeping it together remarkably well. He's practically inflectionless. "I didn't lie."

"Well, you said the girl was taken here, and would you look at that! There's no—"

"Are you certain the girl was never here? Or did your ramshackle operation allow her to escape? As I recall, there was a moment of absolute darkness not long ago, which would surely present an opportunity to abscond. Particularly if your state-of-the-art containment system lost power." Turtleneck Psycho has folded his hands. "Why don't we ask this young lady what happened?"

He's looking at you. Disco Owner and Gil are, too. Could you kick one of them in the balls and sprint away? No, probably not. You have to remember that you're dreaming, so none of this really matters. Actually, shouldn't you be able to control it a bit? Steer it clear of a full-blown nightmare? If you sleep like shit and wake up past noon, again, you're going to get yelled at. Focus really hard...

>[-1 ID: 7/14]

...and bullshit really hard. "She melted," you say. "Yeah. They stuck her in there and she dissolved into that stuff. Pretty freaky."

Gil doesn't look nearly as sad about that as you like. Maybe a little around the eyes, but mostly he's fine with you melting. Asshole. "I told you," Psycho says. "Ramshackle."

(2/3)

Owner doesn't like that much, but he's got a forced smile on. "Ridiculous! From the sounds of it, some excellent work was done. The threat was neutralized swiftly, and she's still contributing to the Headspace mission, isn't she? Wish I could've asked a few questions, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. Have to roll with the punches, Mr. Kurz! And hey— that puts us right back on track for the tour. We're still doing the tour, you realize. Gil?"

Gil has been looking at you. Not in a particularly emotive way. Just looking. You give him the stink-eye back until he looks away. "Yes, sir."

"Shame your girl got got, but that's the price of screwing around with us! You're lucky you're such a loyal little soldier, aren't you? We're back on the tour."

"Yes, sir."

"Good! Good." Disco Owner and Psycho Turtleneck and Gil all leave. They actually shut the door on you.

So far, so enigmatic. 10/10 for dream mysteriousness. You're not sure what the almighty WYRM has on tap next, but it's bound to be something else.

>[1] Whatever you're supposed to be doing, you're pretty sure it involves that tour group(?). Practice your best skulking-at-a-distance and see where they're off to. [Roll.]
>[2] Skulking? This is your dream, and you can pretty well show it what's boss. Just make the tour group magically accept you, because you said so. [Roll.]
>[3] Hey! You're charming. People like you. No need for subterfuge or meddling: just head over to Disco Owner and tell him why you belong in the tour group. Bullshit most likely required. (Write-in reasons/argument.) [Possible roll.]
>[4] Forget the tour group. What's wrong with Gil? You knew he was a pushover, but this whole 'yes sir no sir three bags full sir' stuff is a bit much. Tail the tour group, then grab Gil when he's alone and figure him out. [Roll.]
>[5] Write-in. [Possible roll.] (Charlotte can take back control at any point, so feel free to incorporate that in a write-in, but she'll be identified if anybody sees her do it.)

>>6079750
>[4] Forget the tour group. What's wrong with Gil? You knew he was a pushover, but this whole 'yes sir no sir three bags full sir' stuff is a bit much. Tail the tour group, then grab Gil when he's alone and figure him out. [Roll.]

>>6079750
>[4] Forget the tour group. What's wrong with Gil? You knew he was a pushover, but this whole 'yes sir no sir three bags full sir' stuff is a bit much. Tail the tour group, then grab Gil when he's alone and figure him out. [Roll.]

>>6079750
>4
Also the head cuff, yikes

>>6079756
>>6079810
>>6080011
>[4]

Alright. Getting Gil alone and away from the group he's tour guiding is a big ask, so I think we need a quick vote on how exactly you intend to accomplish this. (I'll assume you drop the Claudia persona for anything that needs involved planning.)

>[1] Follow Casey and co. from above, infiltrate the next room they're touring, lure Gil inside, and slam the door shut behind him before Casey and Everard can follow. You won't have very long to talk to him before you're in trouble, but maybe you won't need very long. [Roll.]
>[2] Something got loose from one of the rooms, didn't it? Wouldn't it be a shame if even more things got loose? Start causing mischief, get Casey and Everard distracted, and kidnap Gil while they're not looking. [Roll.]
>[3] Something got loose from one of the rooms-- and it's you. You'll make Casey pay for whatever's happened to Gil. [-1 SV]
>[4] All this derring-do stuff will do nothing but put you and Gil at risk. If you want to talk to Gil safely, you need to infiltrate the tour group and start asking him innocuous questions. Who is he? How did he start working for Casey? How does he like the job? Etcetera. [Roll.]
>[5] Write-in.

>>6080077
>[2] Something got loose from one of the rooms, didn't it? Wouldn't it be a shame if even more things got loose? Start causing mischief, get Casey and Everard distracted, and kidnap Gil while they're not looking. [Roll.]

>>6080077
>[3] Something got loose from one of the rooms-- and it's you. You'll make Casey pay for whatever's happened to Gil. [-1 SV]

>>6080077
>>[3] Something got loose from one of the rooms-- and it's you. You'll make Casey pay for whatever's happened to Gil. [-1 SV]

Die, smiling man.

>>6080077
>[2] Something got loose from one of the rooms, didn't it? Wouldn't it be a shame if even more things got loose? Start causing mischief, get Casey and Everard distracted, and kidnap Gil while they're not looking. [Roll.]
Mmm, kidnapping

>>6080077
>[3] Something got loose from one of the rooms-- and it's you. You'll make Casey pay for whatever's happened to Gil. [-1 SV]

Rolled 45, 42, 88, 23, 84, 99, 90, 92, 18 = 581 (9d100)

>>6080088
>>6080102
>>6080149
>[3]

>>6080140
>>6080082
>[2]

Called. I'm going to take a stab at writing on the plane.

Rolling for the other parties involved:

Casey: 3 1d100 + 27 (+7 BFG, +20 ???) vs. DC 65 (-5 Meat Shields, +10 1 SV, +10 Surprise Round)
Everard: 3 1d100s + 19 (+3 [SEAL], +3 [ROOT], +3 [ARM], +10 [SINK]) vs. DC 70 (+10 1 SV, +10 Surprise Round)
Gil: 3 1d100s - 2 (+3 Teddy, +15 The Power of God Compels You, -20 Friend) vs. DC 65 (-10 Retainer, +10 1 SV, +10 Surprise Round, +5 Meat Shielder)

>>6080182
>Casey: Enhanced Success
>Everard: Success
>Gil: Success

You're not the only one rolling well. Will hopefully have an update out tonight; if not, it'll be tomorrow.

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Or... it'll be the day after. Sorry, folks. Back to your regularly scheduled programming soon.

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>Get crazy with it
>Casey: Enhanced Success
>Everard: Success
>Gil: Success

The good news is, with those guys gone, you have a bit of breathing room. Not that you don't want to follow Gil. Even if he's got a new job, he's still hanging out with a bunch of freaks, and you can't have that. But is there any immediate rush? You plop down atop the coffin, breathe deep, and feel about at your neck. Something about the chunky necklace is really bothering you.

Or is it the necklace? Underneath, buried in the skin near your collarbone, is a strange hard shape. It's nearly impossible to see it from this angle. When you trace it with your finger, it feels like a skeleton key.

Fucking dreams. Whatever. It's weird, but unless you wake up sprouting real keys, it doesn't actually matter. But what's that? Lower down, you're sprouting something else. Something soft, warm, fleshy, red.

Yes, these are dream-things too. But you have been trying so hard, for months and months, and nothing has come of it— not in dreams, nowhere. That bastard WYRM's been ignoring you. If this is nothing, only a sign of things to come, imagine what's next up!

You're impatient. Plunging your hand past your tits, you dig it into the mass of growths on— in— that are your chest? They twine eagerly around your fingers, sending little shoots under your nails. They pulsate with your heart. You pulsate with your heart. You haven't blinked. You're remembering a different dream: one where you met the WYRM, and she sent growths into you, and you screamed and screamed and screamed.

There isn't much Claudia anymore. Just a mask. Without her, you're fruiting, you're sweating: he betrayed you, you're thinking. The red stuff is biting into your wrist. Gil sold out you and your plans and sent Casey after you. He led Casey to you. He didn't care that you supposedly melted. He betrayed you. He never cared about you. Casey found him and offered him more than you were worth and that was it. You've only known him for a couple weeks. Is that enough time to know somebody? You thought it was. You were wrong. You should kill him.

>[-1 SV: 3/???]

And you are thinking: no, that's not right. That doesn't make any sense. You made Pat give him a body, twice, and both times he could've walked away from you. Even when he wanted to stay with Us, he wanted you to visit. He's really smart: he must be running some kind of con. If that's not it, Management must've got to him. Or Casey. They stuck their evil fingers in his brain and unbound his loyalties and wiped his memory and stole your plan, and Gil is awfully susceptible to brainwashing, re: Us. Poor Gil! You'll have to rescue him again. At least you're good at it by now.

(1/3)

File: redness 8.jpg (92 KB, 564x748)

92 KB JPG

And how will you rescue him? Easy. You'll kill Casey. You'll flay his thick skin off his meat and his meat off his white bones. You'll pierce his chest and take his heart and burn it. You'll eat it. You'll make him eat it. You'll shatter his sunglasses and shove the pieces up his nostrils. You'll make him take his stupid walkie-talkie and beg and beg until his voice is gone, but nobody will come: they won't know where he is. You killed the cameras. They won't be able to see him. You killed the lights. He'll be dead when they find him, and when they find him you'll kill them too.

Oh, and you'll kill Everard too, you guess. You don't really know what he does. He looks kind of lame.

Hm? What? This seems risky? Nothing's risky for you. What if you hurt Gil while you're trying to kill Casey? He'll be repaired. What's happened to your arm? It hasn't come unstuck from your chest. The opposite; it's rooted there, filled with threads, flappy, hollow. Nothing to worry about. Its mass is being reallocated. If you need two arms you'll have them. For now, you'll have to run to catch up with the group. Take your shoes off; you won't need them.

You slide Virginia's flats off mechanically; you see where the mass is being reallocated. Any tremor of uncertainty, any buzz of fear, is smoothed over before it registers. (You're getting better at this.) Your nails clack on the floor as you stand and walk to the door. When you tug it, it doesn't budge. You're about to kick through the evil, traitorous, disgusting hinges when your eyes travel up to the slot for the keycard.

Two fingers jammed through the slot (and out the other side) and you're free, slinking briskly along the corridor, your nails still clicking. It's a shame they're a ways ahead, and doubly a shame when you reach a crossroads and there's still no sign, but it's not an actual issue. A growth slimes up your nostril: when it's done, the way is obvious. There's colognes and aftershaves and something else ahead— something grassy, something oaky. Leafy.

(Gil!)

You tilt into a sprint, not caring if you're seen or heard, and sure enough you're seen and heard: as soon as you spot the back of their heads, they've turned around. Casey is beaming. "Virginia! Or is it Charlotte? Fantastic of you to join us. I heard you were melted?"

You snarl.

"Well, it's funny how things work out. I hate to say it, but you're, uh, missing an arm there! Is that what melted?"

(There's no way he was expecting you. No way. He must be bluffing. Kill him!)

"Well, anyways. I'll have some pals come wrangle you in a sec. We have a good team, Charlotte. Excellent team. Lots of practice. You're not the only freak we have down here, you realize! How many do we have, Gil? Say it loud for us."

(2/3)

"There are 43," Gil says loudly, "'freaks,' currently in residence at the—"

"That's enough. 43! That's current, not lifetime. Some of them don't last very long, let me tell you. I know you probably don't think so, but we have a good team. Some real whiz-bang minds working on it. And our project's worth it. Hey now." You've advanced. "Don't do that. Better to keep you intact. I think, and Gil agrees, and Mr. Kurz agrees— we all think you're really something special."

You advance, slower. Flattery penetrates deep.

"So, look, we'll give you special treatment. Make it cushy for you, okay? I guess you didn't like that box much, and who could blame you? You're regular royalty, aren't you? Gil was telling me all about it. Mr. Kurz seemed to think you knew all about that darn Crown, didn't you? But your agent was asleep at the wheel. Big shame, big shame."

(He knows about the— Casey knows about the— well, he cut a deal with Jean Ramsey, so you guess he must—?)

"But don't worry. Like I said—" Casey spreads his hands. "We'll get it set up for you. Nice and cozy. We'll get a throne room set up, if that's what you want. You'll be waited on hand and foot. We'll put you through some tests, take some samples, you know, we can wrangle an obstacle course— do you like obstacles? You sure like being one! Har-har."

Nobody laughs. Casey slaps Gil's shoulder, then Gil laughs. "Anyways," Casey continues after a beat, "you're doing a great job, staying right there. Fantastic job. We have people coming right over. Bit of an honor guard, really. Be a doll and—"

That, too, penetrates. Be a doll?! You growl, ramp up, begin to—

Casey whistles. Gil was standing next to him, blankfaced, but now he falls apart: his beetles dart sideways and cling to Casey everywhere. Only his sunglasses remain unbeetled. Simultaneously, he raises both arms: he's holding a cylindrical device, almost torso-sized, with a grip for his hands and a big glowing muzzle. "Hold your horses!"

You don't really understand what he has there, but distant instincts scream (Really big gun!!) and stall you where you stand. You growl way down in your chest.

"It's overkill, I agree! But this doesn't get used very often, and I figure— better safe than sorry, no? Especially when we have a guest! Sorry once again, Mr. Kurz."

"I'm glad you take safety seriously, Mr. Kemper." Everard is a ways behind Casey. If you were capable of it, you'd deem him a coward.

"Anyways! Anyways. Stay where you are, and nobody gets hurt— not you, not your friend Gil here, nobody. It'll work out fantastic. I love making deals." Casey's teeth are white and broad. "Don't you?"

(Choices next.)

>You are at 3/? SV and 7/14 ID.

>[1] You're going to need more firepower than this. (If you choose to spend more SV, I'll call for another vote so you can pick what you're doing with it.)
>>[A] -1 SV
>>[B] -2 SV
>>[C] -3 SV

>[2] You're not weak; you're just temporarily outwitted. More red stuff would be overkill. Use the power you have to get something done.
>>[A] The main problem here is Gil: you need to get him off Casey and into safety. And what's safer than you? Attempt to absorb him into your mind, like you did with Claudia. [Roll.]
>>[B] The main problem here is Gil: you don't think it'll be easy to convince him to go with you. Also, Virginia is sort of becoming a liability. Grab the beetles, commune with the beetles, and possess the beetles. (Extracommunion.) [Roll.]
>>[C] Casey takes his guest's safety seriously, huh? You can't get at him easily while he's covered in Gil, but Everard is unprotected and apparently unarmed. Snake around back and grab him instead. [Roll.]
>>[D] Write-in.

>>6081931
>[2B] The main problem here is Gil: you don't think it'll be easy to convince him to go with you. Also, Virginia is sort of becoming a liability. Grab the beetles, commune with the beetles, and possess the beetles. (Extracommunion.) [Roll.]

>>6081931
>2C
2/4

>>6081931
>[2][C] Casey takes his guest's safety seriously, huh? You can't get at him easily while he's covered in Gil, but Everard is unprotected and apparently unarmed. Snake around back and grab him instead. [Roll.]

>>6081931
>[2][C] Casey takes his guest's safety seriously, huh? You can't get at him easily while he's covered in Gil, but Everard is unprotected and apparently unarmed. Snake around back and grab him instead. [Roll.]

>>6082049
>>6082258
>>6082337
>[2C]

>>6081970
>[2B]

No screwing around for you-- time for an actual brawl. Let's see how it goes.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 3 (+10 1 SV, +3 Mass Reallocated, -10 Under Fire) vs. DC 68 (+10 [SINK], +5 Good Distance, +3 [ROOT]) to grab Everard Kurz!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? Alternately, spend 1 SV to autosucceed? You are at 7/14 ID and 3/? SV.

>[1] Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls.
>[2] Spend 1 SV to autosucceed this roll.
>[3] No spendy.

Rolled 62 + 3 (1d100 + 3)

>[3] No spendy.

Rolled 46 + 3 (1d100 + 3)

>>6082366
Y

Rolled 91 + 3 (1d100 + 3)

>>6082366
>No Spendy
WATCH THIS

Rolled 53, 51, 69, 7, 32, 53 = 265 (6d100)

>>6082368
>>6082369
>>6082371
>65, 49, 94 vs. DC 68 -- Mitigated Success

Close, but no cigar. Spendying would've pushed you over into a regular Success, but that's the way the cookie crumbles! Let's see if your opponents roll any better.


Casey: 3 1d100s + 29 (+20 ???, +7 BFG, +3 Confident, -1 Overconfident?) vs. DC 70 (+10 Moving Target, +10 1 SV)
Everard: 3 1d100s + 13 (+10 [SINK], +3 [ROOT]) vs. DC 65 (-5 Good Distance, +10 1 SV, +10 Hunted Down

No roll for Gil: he's not doing anything, and you're not doing anything affecting him.

>>6082471
>Casey: 82, 80, 98 vs. DC 70 -- Enhanced Success
>Everard: 20, 45, 66 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

In combat, directly opposed actions are rolled for by both parties. The highest degree of success wins the contest. When the degrees of success are the same (you and Everard both rolled Mitigateds), the highest roll modifer tiebreaks, meaning Everard (+13) wins out over you (+3) here.

Writing.

File: ZAP.jpg (34 KB, 280x392)

34 KB JPG

>Slip around back
>65, 49, 94 vs. DC 68 — Mitigated Success
>Casey: 82, 80, 98 vs. DC 70 -- Enhanced Success
>Everard: 20, 45, 66 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

Even in your finest moments, you're not much of a negotiator. If you want something, you want it, not half of it or some of the time. Right now, you want Gil back, and you want Casey dead— not later, not someday, but now.

What's that saying, though? You can't have your Gil and eat Casey too? Your blood might be pumping, but you're not so far gone that you'd put your retainer at risk. Unless you can safely dislodge the beetles, you can't get at Casey. Which is what he wants, the smiling bastard. You'll make him chew glass soon enough. For now, you crane your neck. The cologne is wafting from further down the hallway.

Everard Kurz is loitering there, a ways behind Casey. He must think he's out of the fight. Can he fight? He's brandishing no weapons. He's awfully slim. If you got your hands on him, you could rend him end from end, limb from limb, spraying him across the corridor, staining Casey's nice suit, scattering the cowardly beetles. He's far, but he's not running. You're running. Without responding, before anybody else can react, you hurl yourself sideways, claw halfway up the wall, and launch yourself clean over Casey's head.

Casey Kemper points his device straight upward and pulls the trigger. You yourself can't see the pyrotechnics: if only you were loitering at a convenient distance, your gaze intent on the scuffle! If you were, you'd see the device— face it, the really big gun— hum and spin and eject blue forks of lightning, gone as soon as they came, mostly into your body.

>[-2 ID: 5/14]

Many people would die from this. Your heart and brain are generously insulated, and still you clench, spasm, and plummet. Your chin hits the floor first. It's somehow not the worst thing you've ever felt, which is a real indictment of how you've been living.

On the bright side— positive thinking, positive thinking, positive thinking— you have made it to the other side of Casey, even if you're laid out on the floor, twitching. Everard is a few feet away. "That is a fine piece of equipment," he's saying casually.

"Thank you! Isn't she a beaut? I think my wife is jealous of her!" Casey laughs throatily.

You try to envision Casey with a wife, but you're fuzzed out too badly. You can't even imagine Casey kissing his lightning gun, even though you want to. Your enhanced smell receptors are picking up some charcoal. If the real Richard were here, he'd tell you that you're useless. You put yourself at risk. You put your retainer at risk. Your your plan got sold out and you're covered in Wyrm and your brain cells are medium-rare. You went on a stupid death-wish mission and now you're getting your death wish and it's not so fun now, is it? You little girl. You can't do anything by yourself.

(1/3)

(1/2 sorry)

You want Richard back. Maybe you need him. But if he came back, he wouldn't say any of that: he'd probably say he loved you, even though you got Gil brainwashed and yourself electrocuted. He'd probably hug you. If he hugged you you'd kill him.

"I must say," says Everard, "I understand how she found the artifact in the first place, and I understand how she came to lose it. No discipline. Thank you again for recovering the crystal, by the way; my employer will be—"

The crystal?

"Of course! Least I could do!" You can't see Casey while you're lying face-down— no, scratch that. You're rearranging. There we go. He's holding up— no! The tine of the Crown! You stole it from Wayne, and now this grinning thieving bastard stole it from you. He's going to hand it straight back to Ramsey, you just know it. No more self-pity. No more floor. You still can't murder Casey, not with the beetles, but Everard is right there and a useful bargaining chip. Suck the pain in and adjust your position and lunge and—

"[ROOT.]"

You had him. You mean actually, like you had him: you got him by the knees, shoved him down, pinned his flimsy arms. His neck deformity was more distracting up close, but you weren't distracted. You were going to pick him up and use him as a shield. Tit for tat. Instead, he said something.

Why didn't you cover the mouth, you stupid bitch? That's what the real Richard would've said. Or he would've taken your hand and done it for you. Instead, the word went into you and buried there, and look at you now: you still have Everard pinned, but now the red stuff is eager, quivering, plunging itself into the ground. Your fingertips, too, are growing. Your knees are sprouting feelers. Any part of you touching the ground is inside the ground, now, and not looking to come out.

Everard squirms delicately underneath you. You expect he means to extricate himself. You wish him luck. Him luck? You wish yourself luck. None of this is how you wanted it to go.

>You are at 3/? SV and 5/14 ID.

>[1A] Spend 1 SV.
>[1B] Spend 2 SV.
>[1C] Spend 3 SV.

>[2] No! You don't need anybody— not Teddy, not Gil, not Richard, and certainly not whatever's squirming inside you. You can do this _alone_.
>>[A] Muster the strength to rip yourself free. Stab Everard with The Sword as soon as you have working hands. Trying to get fancy is what put you here. [Roll.]
>>[B] Your whole body wants to go underground? Fine! Sounds good to you! You like it down there. It's not 'escaping'— it's 'biding your time.' [Roll.]
>>[C] None of this is going how it's supposed to. You know that in your heart. Make the world know, and you'll be right back on track. (Advanced Advanced Gaslighting.) [Difficult roll— but if you succeed, you'll reset this whole encounter.]
>>[D] Write-in.

>>6082507
>[2D]Possess Everard and backstab Casey once he thinks he got us.

>>6082507
>2A
God Casey is a high roller

>>6082507
>>>[A] Muster the strength to rip yourself free. Stab Everard with The Sword as soon as you have working hands. Trying to get fancy is what put you here. [Roll.]

>>6082577
+1

>>6082577
>>[A] Muster the strength to rip yourself free. Stab Everard with The Sword as soon as you have working hands. Trying to get fancy is what put you here. [Roll.]

Let's uhhhhhhhhh NOT

>>6082507
>[2] No! You don't need anybody— not Teddy, not Gil, not Richard, and certainly not whatever's squirming inside you. You can do this _alone_.
>[2D]Possess Everard and backstab Casey once he thinks he got us.

>>6082577
You know what this could be a pretty good idea in retrospect. IDK our chances though.

>>6082507
>2A
Attempting a highjack and a backstab seems like a horrible idea alone, even more so together. We face our shit head on like a true queen

>>6083080
You know what I'm convinced. We should do the hijack.

Switching my vote to support the write in.

>>6082793
>>6082798
>>6083080
>[2A]

>>6082577
>>6082815
>>6083072
>>6083085
>[2D]

Wew! [2D] takes it narrowly. No roll for this one, but I may ask for dice to keep Everard subdued later. We'll see how it goes.

Writing in a bit.

>Nyoink

Nevertheless! Are you dead yet? Is Gil dead? Has Headspace exploded when you weren't looking? It isn't over until it's over. If the real Richard were here, he'd be saying a lot of mean things about your decision-making process— but he'd still be trying to help you out of this mess. He wouldn't leave you alone.

He is leaving you alone right now, of course, but what did he say? He said that if you were truly in danger, if your life were at risk, he'd do anything to come and help. No matter how much he was fixed. If he hasn't shown up, doesn't that mean you're not truly in danger? That this is something you can do by yourself?

You wish Everard luck. You wish yourself luck. You're rooted right on top of Everard Kurz, you face-down, him face-up, so you can look straight into his eyes— provided your eyes are in the right place. There we go. His eyes are grey and creased a bit from exertion (he's still wriggling). He isn't looking directly at you. You suppose he thinks you're pretty well spent. No discipline. He can't know what you're actually capable of. You doubt Casey knows, either. Maybe you don't even know.

That's not exactly right. You don't know how or why, and you rather wouldn't. You do know what. You know that, if you look straight into Everard Kurz's eyes, you can look a little harder and further and see his brain. It's not even that hard.

>[-1 ID: 4/14]

You see through and in and down, and your first reaction is relief: Virginia's body, warped and aching, was an unpleasant place to be. Not that Everard's mind is much nicer. Like the freaky sphere, it's all straight lines and sharp angles; unlike the sphere, it's running both hot and cold. If you tried, you could make sense of this, but it's besides the point. You don't care about Everard Kurz's mind. You want his body.

The exact mechanics of how you get it are beyond you. Another thing Richard could explain. (Maybe he did explain, but you fell asleep.) The method you're developing goes something like this: summon bewildered mind-representation of Everard, check. Manifest representation of yourself, check. Clock mind-Everard with the butt of The Sword so hard he falls over, check. When you start feeling dizzy, nauseated, like there's a big welt on the back of your head— don't fight that. You want that. Take a deep breath.

*

You're where you were. Almost. It's good enough. You're looking into Virginia Shearer's hollow eyes— uneven, too, like they weren't put back right— and at her scarred neck and missing arm and awful stretched-out legs and the thousand fleshy roots keeping her right where she is, right on top of you. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't look awake. Maybe not alive. Where the red tendrils were, there's only grooves in her flesh. Thank God she's not awake. You hope she's not alive. When you break into motion, bucking and clawing your way out from under her, you're not faking a thing.

(1/2)

Finally you emerge, letting her slump face-first onto the floor. Casey is shorter than you remembered. He's brushing the beetles off him. "Fantastic, Mr. Kurz! You got that from, eh—"

"My employer," your mouth says.

"Naturally! I have to say, it's pretty nifty. The final straw for her, do you think?" Casey clucks his tongue. "Be a shame if she died, but I think our people can get her going. We have some real fine people, let me tell you. Speaking of—"

He turns all the way around: a pair of Managers are coming around the corner. "Where the HELL were you? Buying groceries? I shouldn't NEED—" He shakes his lightning gun in the air.

One of the Managers responds, but it's gravelly and unintelligible. Casey growls something unintelligible back, then turns to you. "They'll take her. See what the deal is. I keep saying sorry for the interruptions, but sorry for the interruptions. Bad day. Bad, bad day, Mr. Kurz, but we're— we're getting through it! Don't you agree? Gil!"

Casey snaps his fingers. The beetles unbeetle. Gil sure doesn't look worried about the Virginia situation: you frown at him. It won't blow your cover. Everard is always frowning.

"We're resuming the tour! Go on."

Tour resumed, with you inside it. Funny how things happen.

>[1] Casey still needs to die, but does he need to die now? This could be an opportunity too big to squander. I'll probably write up an extra vote slate if [1A] or [1C] win, so you can be more specific about what you ask. Maybe [1B] too if there's demand for it.
>>[A] Go on the tour, but pick Casey's brain during it. What else has been going wrong during the tour? What's with the big moon/orb/sphere? Was he talking to that Manager in a different language? What did he know about this, uh, Charlotte Fawkins?
>>[B] Go on the tour, but pick Gil's brain during it. What is he? How come he turns into beetles? Did he know Virginia-slash-Charlotte? How did he feel about Virginia-slash-Charlotte? How long has he been working here? Has he ever considered, um, leaving his job?
>>[C] Go on the tour, but pick your— Everard's— brain during it. He works for your sworn nemesis! When's the last time he saw her? Where? What's her current evil plan? Is she close to finishing the Crown? It's not relevant to your current circumstances, but it's valuable for the future— hopefully the near future.
>>[D] Write-in.

>[2] This got you out of trouble— for now. It doesn't mean you're safe or that you're staying put. Make a tactical move ASAP.
>>[A] In Everard's body, it should be trivial to get Casey alone. Do so, then stab him with The Sword until he dies. Clean and simple. [Roll.]
>>[B] As above, but you're trading up: attempt to possess Casey instead. (-1 ID)
>>[C] As above, but inform Casey that this is a hostage situation. You'll give him Everard if he gives you Gil. Once you have Gil, you can figure out the rest later. [Roll.]
>>[D] Write-in.

>>6083297
Whew, I was afraid it really was a horrible idea.
>[1B] Go on the tour, but pick Gil's brain during it. What is he? How come he turns into beetles? Did he know Virginia-slash-Charlotte? How did he feel about Virginia-slash-Charlotte? How long has he been working here? Has he ever considered, um, leaving his job?

>>6083297
>[2] This got you out of trouble— for now. It doesn't mean you're safe or that you're staying put. Make a tactical move ASAP.
>[A] In Everard's body, it should be trivial to get Casey alone. Do so, then stab him with The Sword until he dies. Clean and simple. [Roll.]

>>6083297
I can't believe that worked so well, I was sure we'd get Worded

Also damn Casey is a big deal, talking to Managers like that

>1C

>>6083320
>>6083517
>Whew, I was afraid it really was a horrible idea.
>I can't believe that worked so well, I was sure we'd get Worded
Despite whatever Crown upgrades he has, Everard is pretty much a normal person, and normal people are not well-equipped to deal with getting body-snatched. (See also Rudy.) You don't have him as subdued as Virginia was, so you're not out of the woods yet-- but it's a powerful ability and you picked a good target. Feel proud!

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Alright.

>>6083320
>>6083414
>[1]

>>6083414
>[2]

Called for [1] and flipping for the suboption. 1=[1B], 2=[1C].

>>6083834
Oops, misquoted. The second linked post should be >>6083517. Same results, though.

>[1C]

Please vote again on what information you want to dig around for. You can pick as many as you want, but the longer you spend digging, the more likely you'll be caught. Some questions may increase your risk more than others.

>[1] Where is Jean Ramsey's base of operations?
>[2] Who is working for Ramsey? Who's most dangerous?
>[3] How far has she gotten with powering up the Crown?
>[4] What does Ramsey think about Charlotte Fawkins? Um, you mean, the dashing heroine she stole the Crown from?
>[5] What has Everard learned about Headspace during the tour?
>[6] What does Everard know about Casey?
>[7] What does Everard know about Management?
>[8] What does Everard know about Gil?
>[9] Write-in.

>>6083849
>>[1] Where is Jean Ramsey's base of operations?
>[3] How far has she gotten with powering up the Crown?
>[4] What does Ramsey think about Charlotte Fawkins? Um, you mean, the dashing heroine she stole the Crown from?
>[5] What has Everard learned about Headspace during the tour?
>[6] What does Everard know about Casey?
>[8] What does Everard know about Gil?

>>6083849
>[3] How far has she gotten with powering up the Crown?
>[7] What does Everard know about Management?
>[8] What does Everard know about Gil?
>[1] Where is Jean Ramsey's base of operations?
>[4] What does Ramsey think about Charlotte Fawkins? Um, you mean, the dashing heroine she stole the Crown from?

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>6083851
>>6083859
>[1]
>[3]
>[4]
>[8]

>>6083851
>[5]
>[6]

>>6083859
>[7]

Called for [1], [3], [4], and [8]. Rolling between [5], [6], and [7].

Rolled 5, 61, 7, 8, 84, 27 = 192 (6d100)

>>6083906
>[1]
>[3]
>[4]
>[5]
>[8]

Alright. I'm going to roll to see if Everard or Casey are onto you.


For Everard:

[1] = 7
[4] = 5
[3] = 3
[5], [8] = 1

7+5+3+1+1 = 17

Base DC 75 - 17 = 3 1d100s vs. DC 58.

---

Casey rolls flat against a DC 65 to notice that Everard is possessed. He gets +10 to all rolls if Everard rolls a Mitigated Success, +15 if Everard rolls a Success, and +25 if Everard rolls an Enhanced Success.

>>6083947
Everard: 5, 61, 7 vs. DC 58 -- Mitigated Success
Casey (+10): 18, 94, 37 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

Very interesting. There's a chance I may have to split this up across multiple updates-- TBD. Writing.

File: juice that makes you write.png (146 KB, 480x360)

146 KB PNG

Tomorrow!

>Pick your brain
Everard: 5, 61, 7 vs. DC 58 -- Mitigated Success
Casey: 18, 94, 37 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

There's a moment of silence, and you hold out hope that Gil will resist— that he'll blink or scowl or gesture rudely, that he'll tell Casey to eff off, that he'll grab your hand and ditch the tour and be your retainer again. It doesn't happen. He needed a bit to reset, or whatever, because after that moment he launches straight back into his spiel. "Thank you for your patience. Coming up on our right is..."

Blah, blah, blah. You're sorry, but it's the same as with Richard: any kind of lecture makes you tune out immediately. At least Richard has a suitably lecture-y voice; Gil doesn't even have that. You're not being mean. He has a lot of good qualities too. You just, um— look, Everard probably agrees, right? He's formed opinions about Gil by now? You sift around.

...Yes, he certainly has. Everard hates the beetles: they're creepy, filthy, disgusting. He doesn't like the diseased-looking man-version much better. He finds the fluid transitions between the two disquieting. He can't fathom why Mr. Kemper selected this Friend from the others, which were at least mammalian, unless it was a power play— but a power play to deliberately introduce a spy into the group? Was Mr. Kemper aware he was a spy from the start? Everard doesn't know.

If Mr. Kemper didn't know that the bug-man was a spy, that speaks to a failure of insight. If he did know, it speaks to a failure of judgment— unless it was staged purely to impress? If that's the case, it succeeded. Mr. Kemper rendered the bug-man docile swiftly and confidently. More than docile, given that he laid the whole cockamamie plan out just like that. It sounded like an elaborate death wish.

"...created to test the elasticity of the..."

You lick your lips. They're weirdly thin. "Rendered him docile"— so that's definitely yes on the brainwashing? Not that you ever thought otherwise. You only thought otherwise a little bit. And brainwashed Gil spilled all the beans, which, um, is not his fault. Deep breath. Positive thinking. You didn't need a plan, really, so he— he kind of did you a favor. Not so much that you'll thank him for it. A small favor. But they found out about you, and that's why they went straight to your room, so they could kill you properly or maybe brainwash you too. And look how that turned out! Ha-ha! You were underestimated once again! If Everard ever estimated you to begin with. Did he know about you before?

(1/3)

Um, not you. (You don't know if he's listening). You mean that heroine Charlotte Fawkins, who also happens to be a famous detectivess, a rescuer of damsels, a slayer of the wicked, a creator of gross giant goo things, etcetera— her? He's heard of her? Maybe he knows her as the rightful owner of the Crown, stolen some weeks ago by a vile murderess/false doctor? Uh...

Yes. Well, kind of. It doesn't seem like he's heard of most of your— most of her daring exploits. He is aware that the Crown was claimed from somebody else, and you were mentioned as a "tough cookie." There was concern that you might be "a tad miffed about the whole thing," and a brief discussion of "extending the ol', you know, olive branch." Nothing has come of it, as far as he knows. It doesn't seem like a matter of urgency. After this, it might be.

"...unfortunately, the last inhabitant did not survive even the most rudimentary..."

Okay! You get it. You're underestimated. Geez. That's a good thing, you guess, but you'd really prefer to be known about— it's cooler that way. Maybe you better listen to Gil's stupid lecture so you don't look suspicious. You assume he's talking about some horrible torture method. Has Everard been seeing a lot of those? (You hope he's been listening.)

The answer surfaces rapidly: not many first-hand, yet, but Mr. Kemper has been speaking freely about Headspace's various atrocities from the start of the tour. It's obvious to anybody with working eyes that the entire place is half-cult half-labor camp, that the workers are corralled and mistreated, and that any deemed substandard are thrown down here: "Under." The more fortunate are rendered into batteries or automatons; the less fortunate are subject to a battery of experiments from "Management." Said experiments don't appear to serve any practical purpose: Mr. Kemper didn't say the words "for fun," but that's what Everard understands the reasoning to be. For fun, or (more generously) out of detached curiosity. If there's more to it than that, he hasn't been made aware of it.

Everard is indifferent about this— he's mostly upset that, despite the complexity of the operation, it's really not that effective or efficient. (The security appears especially dysfunctional.) Mr. Kemper referred obliquely to "budget cuts" at several points, which must be a euphemism, because Headspace prints its own currency. Everard thinks it must have to do with the Upper Management, which he had the displeasure of meeting briefly: they were polite, but he found them unsettling. Despite Mr. Kemper's full knowledge of the breadth of Headspace's operations, he clearly isn't in charge of its day-to-day, and it's equally implausible that one man orchestrated this entire operation. For all his talking, Mr. Kemper has not been transparent about what the Upper Management's goals are. He has only stated that they are "working towards a brighter future."

(2/3)

It's also unclear what stake Headspace, or the Upper Management, have in the Hero-Queen's— (yuck!)— the Hero-Queen's success. Mr. Kemper has claimed that they "really believe in her" and "they think she's going places." They "like to back a winner." They're "interested in diversifying." Nothing about what they get out of it.

Everard is prepared to ignore this, given that the support offered appears genuine. It's difficult to turn down an organization with this level of influence, or one backed by such powerful people. Mr. Kemper acts the buffoon, but he's no joke. Just look at the bug-man.

"How are you liking it, Mr. Kurz?"

Huh? What? Oh, hell, it's Casey talking. You don't have time for him, not when Everard knows so many things. If you don't learn them now, when will you have the chance again? You mm-hmm vaguely and try to focus. All this is well and good. But what about Jean Ramsey? How close is she to getting the Crown all juiced up? This is important.

...Resistance. He's not sure why this is relevant. You root around harder and find it yourself: Everard doesn't for-sure know, but he thinks she has it maybe a third of the way done. Maybe more. The trouble is, from what he's heard, it's getting tougher— like the object is demanding more than it was. But the specifics are between her and "Snickers."

"Mr. Kurz? Everard?"

Not yet! You mm-hmm harder. This is all good, good information, but you need something immediate. Something actionable. Where is Jean Ramsey holed up?

...Where is Jean Ramsey holed up?

Where is— there. With an air of petulance and a sudden pounding behind the eyes. To the west, the southwest, near the mountains. Near the excuse for a town Thatsall.

He really didn't like that one. There's not just a pounding, but a pushing. Maybe Everard's not strong enough to kick you out of his head, but he sure can be obnoxious while you're here.

"Everard, would you mind looking at me?"

Speaking of obnoxious, Casey's tone has a narrow edge.

"Right in the eyes, my good friend. Do it for me?"

>[1] Write-in. (Optional.)

Too sleepy: choices in about 8 hours. Feel free to write something in before then if you have ideas.

>[1] Uh oh. Cover's blown. Time to act.
>>[A] Stab Casey. [Roll.]
>>[B] Grab Gil. Possess Gil. GTFO.
>>[C] This is a hostage situation. Threaten to extinguish Everard and steal his body permanently unless Casey gives you Gil back. [Roll.]
>>[D] Just run. What's he going to do, chase you down? In the dark? With what security? [Roll.]
>>[E] Look Casey in the eyes. Then possess *him.*
>>[F] Write-in.

>[2] Calm down. You can still salvage this. This is too good of a position to loose.
>>[A] Assert your dominance over Everard. Bring him to heel. Casey will look at you and see nothing wrong. [Roll.]
>>[B] Let *Everard* know that this is a hostage situation, and if he puts a toe out of line you'll kill him. Then let him have control, briefly, so he can tell Casey that nothing's wrong. [Roll.]
>>[C] There is nothing wrong. You're supposed to be here. Inform Casey as such. (Advanced Gaslighting.) [Roll.]
>>[D] Write-in.

>>[3] Write-in.

>>6084882
[2] is *too good of a position to lose not loose I woke up early and clearly didn't get enough sleep

>>6084882
>2B into 1D
Combo time. Let Everard know the situation, let him get a few words in to Casey, and then make with the body and split. It's the least you can do plus it mitigates immediate repercussions should things go south

>>6084882
>1C
Also tell him we ain't friends, pal.

>[2B] Let *Everard* know that this is a hostage situation, and if he puts a toe out of line you'll kill him. Then let him have control, briefly, so he can tell Casey that nothing's wrong. [Roll.]

>>6084882
2B

Rolled 82, 31, 3, 7 = 123 (4d100)

>>6085079
>>6084939
>>6084887 (+[1D])
>[2B]

>>6084929
>[1C]

Called. I need dice, but I'm calling for them late enough that I'll roll them myself.

>3 1d100s + 7 (+15 Extracommunion, -5 Underestimated, -3 Think Fast) vs. DC 55 (+5 Fence Sitter, +5 Regaining Control, -5 Cowardly)

The fourth 1d100 is for spendy or no spendy, adjusted for fairness because you're getting pretty low on ID again. 1-64=N, 65-100 Y.

>>6085274
>89, 38, 10 vs. DC 55 -- Mitigated Success
>No Spendy

Could be worse. Writing.

>This is a stick-up!
>89, 38, 10 vs. DC 55 — Mitigated Success
>No spendy

No time to think: you look at him or you don't. If you look, he'll catch you out. If you don't look, he'll catch you out. He'll get mad if you don't look. You've seen him mad. But Everard's still pressing hard against your mind, and you, uh— you— ah.

You grab Everard and squeeze him, which doesn't feel like anything, but if it felt like something it'd feel like jelly between your fingers. He doesn't scream in pain or frustration, but if he did, he shouldn't have. You haven't done anything wrong in your life, and you don't deserve that. Does he think you're going to kill him? Throttle him like you throttled Fake Ellery? Steal his body permanently? Of course you won't do that: you're a dashing heroine, not some twisted monster. In fact, you were planning on freeing him from your clutches altogether. You're going to allow him to talk to Casey! If he's really good at that, maybe you'll think about not hurting him more. Not that you're hurting him now. And if you were, he'd deserve it. You're on the same page?

You sense that you're on the same page. It'll have to do, because you're looking at Casey right now, and by that you mean Everard is. Everard is also clenching and unclenching his fingers quite a lot, a tic you find annoying. You squeeze. He stops doing that.

Casey's eyes are hidden, but he's definitely looking back. Eventually he reaches out and pats Everard on the shoulder. "Good man! Sorry about that. Day like this gets you jumpy. Hope you haven't—"

"Don't touch me," Everard says tightly.

"Right! Right, sorry. Forgot." Casey lifts his hand and makes a show of shoving it in his pocket. Wherever the lightning gun came from, it's vanished again. "Hope you're still in the touring mood, because there's still plenty left to look at! I know we haven't been seeing the most interesting section— had to do a detour— but there's more scenery ahead! That's a Casey Kemper promise. Just because we didn't build the Edutainment for its looks, doesn't mean there's nothing to— and hopefully they'll get the blasted lights working soon. That's not helping. If they don't get them working, we'll have to shoot them! Ha-ha!"

"I don't see how that'll help with the lights. Scenery would be appreciated, yes. I can't help but notice that we've been touring..." Everard lets the silence drag out. "...hallways. Is this the official tour route?"

"There is no official tour route. This is a— this is custom. I told you, there was a detour, because of the— the Gil situation. Isn't that right, Gil? You fucked this up for us?" Casey leans over to punch Gil on the shoulder. Hard. "But we adapt! That's the Headspace way. We adapt. And if you'll give me a minute to think it over, I'll have us straight back on track! We'll see the greatest hits! Just one minute, and we'll..."

(1/2)

A minute? Perfect. You'll take back over while Casey is ruminating. You'll take— you will take— God-blessed, you can't! You're not kicked out or anything, but the rat-bastard Everard's gummed up the works while you weren't looking. You're still squeezing him, but you can't squeeze tighter, and you can't let go. Damnit! At least he didn't blow your cover, so you guess he's okay with keeping you trapped in here for now, but this won't do at all. You're going to have to put him back in his place.

>[1] You can wrangle him fine; it'll just take some sweat. Do it quick before Casey's all done. (-2 ID)
>[2] You don't need to lock Everard away or anything— you just want him off your back now, even if he bothers you more later. Exert the minimum effort needed to take back control. (-1 ID)
>[3] You were being awfully generous, and he's giving you cheek. Enough. Obliterate him. (-1 SV)
>[4] Write-in?

—

There's been a lot happening this thread, but not a lot of forward momentum. In the interest of keeping things moving, please also pick one of the below options.

>[B1] You are Gil Wallace.
>[B2] You are Anthea Aves.
>[B3] You are still Charlotte Fawkins. (There may be a short timeskip.)

>>6085334
>[B1] You are Gil Wallace.

>>6085334
>[1] You can wrangle him fine; it'll just take some sweat. Do it quick before Casey's all done. (-2 ID)
>[B1] You are Gil Wallace.

>>6085334
>2
Problems for future Charlie, who we hate

>B2

File: the CHARLOTTE system.png (24 KB, 585x588)

24 KB PNG

Oops. First set of options should be [A1], [A2], and so on.

>>6085569
And speaking of, make sure to pick an [A] option!

>>6085334
>>[1] You can wrangle him fine; it'll just take some sweat. Do it quick before Casey's all done. (-2 ID)
>>[B1] You are Gil Wallace.

>>6085679
Who is witjugs?

File: witjugs.png (8 KB, 306x214)

8 KB PNG

>>6085572
>>6085770
>[A1]

>>6085638
>[A2]

>>6085569
>>6085572
>>6085770
>[B1]

>>6085638
>[B2]

Called for [A1]/[B1] and writing.

>>6085783
I didn't make that image, but >picrel

File: gil - @lulubibi.png (4.34 MB, 1500x1900)

4.34 MB PNG

>All in

Yeah, you'll show him who's boss. Even if it throbs like hell.

>[-1 ID: 2/14]

You don't feel great after you're done, even if you've shoved Everard way deep. Maybe it's the exertion. Maybe it's Casey's watchful eyes. Maybe it's the fact that you're in a man body, something you're trying to not unpack until... ever, preferably. If you're lucky, nobody will ever find this out, and nobody will bring it up. (You know you did Rudy, but nobody saw you in Rudy!) Anyways. Squeamishness now will only get you killed or worse, so you better stick it out until you find a better body or blow up Headspace— you know, whichever comes first. Hopefully the latter.

Onwards and upwards!

—

>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]

When you're beetles, things don't hurt as much.

You're Gil Wallace. That's how you survived, by the way. It had nothing to do with grit, obduracy, any special love for life, nothing. It's because you were beetles. Talk about irony: you spent six months at a slow crawl wanting nothing but your body back, but if you had your body back you would've shot yourself. That's the other thing about beetles. You can't shoot yourself.

But back to the first thing. It's not that you always feel good. It's not that you don't feel anything. It's not that you don't feel anything physically— that's the goo, and real different. The goo dulls things. Puts the jitters on low-vol and slow-mo. Which is good overall, since you'd like to function like a regular person and not a jumpy fucking freak, but it's an obvious change and kind of distracting. (You have to imagine Pat is so used to it she forgot what real feelings are like. That's why she shot you in the face.)

Being beetles doesn't dull shit. You feel things plenty strong this way, which is why you came out of hell like this instead of normal. The difference is more subtle: when you're beetles, you have lag time. Not much. Maybe milliseconds, if you're close together. But it can't be surprising, right? Information travels slower between bodies than it does inside of one. This means you're fractionally stupider when you're beetles (sadly not enough to explain matters). It also makes your feelings fractionally slower to register, but not just slower: incremental, diffuse. In your old body, things hit you like a punch to the gut. When you're bugs, the punch lands before you feel it, and when you do feel it, it's not your gut that aches. Everywhere aches, less. Altogether it adds up to what you would've felt anyways— but it means that pain gets abstracted. If you apply yourself, you can almost pretend it's not pain at all.

(1/4?)

File: warmth.jpg (38 KB, 513x700)

38 KB JPG

You are suspended in warm silty water, a situation most beetles would not enjoy being in, but you can breathe and you're more than used to getting wet. You can't see anything except a general sense of light and darkness. You can taste salt through weird pores. Any situation gets more surreal when you have 360º vision and 400 bodies and you're made of air and rocks, but this one is up there, and you're trying to lean into it: to relax, let the current circulate you, forget. You don't need to know where you are and what you're doing here. You don't need to know why your gut's in knots. You don't need to know your own goddamn name, if you don't want to. It wouldn't be like dying. It'd be like you were never born in the first place. If only.

But look, you're working yourself up. It won't do anything if you work yourself up. Have some discipline. Pretend you're taking a deep breath. ...There. Relax in three, two, one.

...
...
...

Still here? Still here. Disappointed? You too, mostly in yourself. You knew it could never work: Richard told you as much weeks ago. It's your curse, he said. You're always aware. You're insomniac while they dream. You're working the stage while they're in the play. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, Beetles. Enjoy yourself.

The water is warm, but the truth is buried ice-sharp in you, little glinting splinters. You're not really here, and this isn't really a place: this is your mind. That's generous. It's more like spinal fluid: it's hard to get more primordial than this. Where do you go when you sleep without dreams? Here. Where do you go when your bastard excuse for a snake-ghost-dad-thing kicks you out of your body? Here, reputedly. Where do you go when you fucked up so bad, when you ruined everything, shot the whole plan to bits, put Lottie in jeopardy, put Anthea in jeopardy too, now that you think about, and should generally and deservedly be the subject of scorn and raw hatred?

You're beetles because if you weren't you might actually try to shoot yourself. It probably wouldn't work, though. Violence is prohibited against Headspace employees.

Fuck.

Fuck! You have to get out of this goddamn place! If you sit still any longer you'll scream and you mean it. You'll lose your goddamn mind. You came close once and you know the signs. You'll start hallucinating next. You have to get out of here so you can fix your mistakes— ha, good luck— so you can even begin to compensate for the damage you've done, so Lottie won't throw you out on your goddamn ass, like you would absolutely deserve. Holy shit. Motherfucker. You have to— you've reached whole new levels of screw-up. You have to get out. There's light, right? Go towards the light. Beetles can swim until you deem it otherwise. Go, go, go, and ignore the dizzy tilting—

(2/4?)

-

You slither out head-first, upside down, and land on a worn green loveseat; wherever you are reeks of cigarettes and stale beer. (Gutcheck: not Headspace.) You are damp and beer-smelling and very human-seeming. Actual human, not goo, with saliva and clothing and everything.

Definitely not real, then. You'll try not to get too used to it. More concerningly, you appear to have dumped yourself out of a beer mug. That's not a reflexive 'you.' Your spitting image is standing right over you, holding said beer mug upside-down.

"About time, you piece of shit," says You in your voice (awful as ever). "Tired of jacking yourself off?"

This is borderline business-as-usual, though you usually choose when and where to make two of you. He's in a different outfit. He's a little crazy-eyed. "Have you been drinking?"

"Have you been drinking?" You guess it's supposed to be mockery, but it's literally your voice, so it doesn't land. You're pretty sure he's been drinking. "That's a dumbfuck question, but it figures a dumbfuck like you would ask it. Nice going, by the way, ruining everything. Are you happy with yourself?"

You don't want to talk about it. "Where are we?"

"Dumbfuck question #2. That's a streak! Have you looked?"

You sigh and... ah. It's not bad or anything, you guess: it's just that you exhausted the first (shitty, ill-fated) 23 years of your life while trying to stay sane, and now your memories are both painful and threadbare. You'd like to pretend drowning was a clean slate. That's what most people do, or scratch that. That's what survivors do.

But you're here inside the shed. You spent big chunks of those years here— before school, after school, skipping school, weekends. It used to be falling down. They let you have it, basically. It was hard to get any other space to yourself in a house with so many people. You scan over the toolbox, the rusty lamp, Hazel's yellow-edged watercolors, everything. It looks the same as you remember, exactly, because it must exactly be what you remember of it.

You're not sure whether the other Gil meant for comfort or psychological warfare. The stench is new. You didn't smoke back then. He's smoking right now.

"Put that out," you say instinctively.

He gives you a look. You don't have a response. He points: there's a beer and a fresh pack right by the lamp. "More where those came from, if you need it. Let me remind you, you need it."

Drinking never did much for you, and you can't smoke now, not after that. You suck in your lips. "Um, I-I actually have to go."

"Y-y-y-you have to go?" (You frown.) "Why? So you can fuck it up worse?"

"No, I-I-I, um—"

"Because you will fuck it up worse. Do you remember what got you here? You thought you were cut out for making some big bold move. You thought you'd be impressive. Remind me the last time you were ever impressive? I can't think of anything."

(3/4?)

You can't either.

"There's only one thing worse than a pussy: a pussy who thinks he isn't. You're lucky Kemper didn't fucking kill you. He was merciful! Do you know how close you got? Do you remember?"

"Why wouldn't I?" This guy is getting on your nerves. "I-I-I know it was tight! But I-I-I'm— I'm small fry compared to Lottie— he could actually kill her! Or hand her over to Management, or—"

"Lottie?"

The tone is enough. You clam up.

"It's funny how attached you are. How long have you known her for?"

Actually, maybe you will have a drink. You'll spend some time contemplating this idea and nothing else.

"You spend years around people and don't know them from God in the ground, and all of a sudden you're obsessed. Is it because she's a girl?"

"You're a fucking prick," you say.

"You're a fucking prick. You're cozying up when you know she'd never like you like that. It's a wonder she likes you at all, given..." Other Gil waves the cigarette up and down you. "Now she definitely won't, given what you just did, so go ahead and get comfortable."

"I-I-I'm not cozying up! I'm her retainer! It's not crazy to want her to not get tortured, or—" He's unmoved. You stand. "You're an asshole. I-I-I don't give a shit about you. I'm leaving, and you can take your beer and shove it up your— I don't even like beer!"

"You don't know any other drinks, numbnuts." Other Gil doesn't move to follow you, but when you get to the shed's only door he's standing in front. "And you're not leaving. Get comfortable. We can play Solitaire."

"Very funny," you say. "But I-I-I actually need to—"

"You don't, and you're not. You'll fuck it up. I'm saving you from yourself." Other Gil puts his hand on your shoulder. "Stay a while, buddy."

>What the fuck? You need to get out of here. (You may pick as many as you want.)
Short update or no update tomorrow. I have a very early wake-up on Friday.

>[A1] Attempt to reason with the other Gil. (How? Write-in.)
>[A2] Yell at the other Gil.
>[A3] Shove the other Gil aside.
>[A4] Threaten the other Gil with your gun.
>[A5] Beetlefy and attempt to get past the other Gil.
>[A6] Have a drink. You do need it.
>[A7] Have a smoke. You do want it.
>[A8] Have a lot of drinks. It's been a bad day.
>[A9] Maybe you're missing an obvious solution? (Write-in.)

—

The [B]s are OPTIONAL. They may be taken in conjunction with any number of [A]s. They're not "ctrl+F" quiz questions: what I'm really looking for is a holistic understanding/interpretation of the situation. As a result, some of the answers may overlap. Archive diving won't help. Getting this right (or close enough) will provide benefits; getting this wrong will do nothing.

>[B1] Why have you wound up here, generally speaking? (Write-in.)
>[B2] Why have you wound up *here*, the shed specifically? (Write-in.)
>[B3] Why is the other Gil here? (Write-in.)
>[B4] Why is he like that? (Write-in.)

>>6086134
>[A3] Shove the other Gil aside.
>[A6] Have a drink. You do need it.
>[B2] Why have you wound up *here*, the shed specifically? (Write-in.)
>[B3] Why is the other Gil here? (Write-in.)

>>6086200
Anon, when an option says "Write-in" at the end, that means I'm looking for a write-in from you if you pick it. There's a whole long preamble before the [B]s explaining what's going on with them. Please read all of the options again and update your vote.

>>6086134
>[B1] Why have you wound up here, generally speaking? (Write-in.)
Because when we tried to get out of wherever Casey Fucking Kemper booted us to, we either went at the wrong direction or not far enough
>[B2] Why have you wound up *here*, the shed specifically? (Write-in.)
Probably because we did a lot of introspecting here way back when, and probably also a lot of coping
>[B3] Why is the other Gil here? (Write-in.)
To be a contrarian and get us to give up
>[B4] Why is he like that? (Write-in.)
Because we hate ourselves in general, and especially recently.

>[A1] Look at you, Gil, aren't you all cool and dominant and having a backbone. Why are you like that only when you're trying to give up? Isn't that fucked up, to only be assertive when trying to run away from your fuckups? It's even more fucked up than fucking up. If we stay in this shed, we'll be a fuckup squared, forever.

>>6086134
>A3
You're me, so I know you can't throw hands

>[B1] Why have you wound up here, generally speaking? (Write-in.)
The headspace friend personality bodyjacked us like Richard does, so we went the same place we do when he does it.

>B2
Uuuuh it's a familiar and comfortable location we conjured up for ourselves?

>B3
We have BPD?

>B4
We know we've made some questionable decisions recently and so we're making a subconscious attempt to sort ourselves out before trying anything further.

>>6086359
I'm gonna support this anon here this seems to make the most sense. Balanced fight at least I hope?

>>6086320
I wrote this when I woke up so that's not happening.

>>6086328
>>6086359
>>6086620
>Self reflection
>Also push him

I don't think either of you guys hit 100% on the mark, but with your powers combined I'm deeming it close enough. Nice work. Writing-- though I've had a LONG day, so there's a slim chance I'll pass out halfway through. TBD.

>>6087482
I don't think it's unreasonable to expect somebody to read the vote options all the way through. I can't make you update your vote, but since you're leaving it as is I'm going to disregard it: please exercise your reading comprehension better in the future. QMs everywhere will thank you.

>Get physical

"I-I'm not your fucking buddy," you say, and shove him aside. Aw yeah. He wasn't expecting that at all— look at the look on his face! He stumbles hard, and you gun it for the door. The handle is stuck, but that's fine: you bear all your weight down onto it, getting up on your tiptoes for maximum leverage.

Two splayed hands meet your ribcage: Other Gil shoves you aside. Startled and unbalanced, you go reeling, but catch yourself on the wall. You meet Other Gil's eyes. He looks smug. You realize, disconcertingly, that you know exactly what he's thinking.

That asshole! You forget the door entirely and charge straight at him. He catches your grapple, but your momentum carries him backwards into the table, spilling the beer. You wince, and Other Gil seizes the chance to headbutt you in the gut. You kick him sharply on the ankle and drive your elbow into the back of his neck. He knees you in the jewels. "Motherf—!", you emit, and crumple.

You can't think too well through the searing pain, but you do vaguely expect a follow-up. Instead, you crack open an eye to find Other Gil similarly downed, though not out. Huh. Maybe the bruising caught up to him. You stand gingerly, waddle over, and kick him on the shin. In exchange, his hand lashes out, finds your knee, and yanks it to the ground. You fall, and he rolls out from under you, mostly: your legs wind up tangled with his, and your effort to free them rapidly turns into an honest-to-god tussle. You're rolling around on the floor like you're eight years old, only here there's no obvious height or strength or age difference— there's no difference at all. There's no winning here. You're as evenly matched as it's possible to be.

There's also nobody yelling at you to stop, but it doesn't matter. Other Gil must've come to the same conclusion you did at the same time you did, because the whole thing unravels naturally, even gracefully. You collapse onto the ground and close your eyes. You're hot and tingling all over. You were already damp, but your undershirt must be soaked through. You can hear your heart in your ears and feel it in your gums. You hurt, objectively hurt, but you feel really good. Alive, you guess. Vital. A small cut on your forehead is leaking blood, and you run your finger through it and taste it because you can. You won't have that much longer.

The other Gil is also on the floor, but face-down and breathing heavily. Your disgust towards him has fled completely, replaced by something much warmer. Amity? Compassion? ...Brotherhood? You guess there's a certain kind of bond you get when you beat the shit out of somebody, and vice versa. Limping to your feet, you pick your way over and grab Other Gil's shoulder. He grunts. "C'mon," you say, and pull— he flips over, then, and squints up at you. There's a small cut on his forehead. You stare.

(1/TBC)

"What?" he grouses, and tries to hide his face. It's no use. You've come to a realization— though you don't put a lot of stock in things if you can't test them, so you say "Hold still" and press your fingernail into his unprotected neck. Your own neck stabs. You withdraw, and it goes away.

"You're me," you say.

"Dumbshit."

You don't say anything, only offer him a hand up. After a moment, he takes it, and you hoist him to his feet.

"No," you say. "You're really me. You don't even have your own body. I think I made you up." You pause. "Sorry about that. I-I-I wouldn't want to be me. If I had any choice, I mean."

"What did you say?"

"I-I-I wouldn't want to..." It sinks in. "..."

"That's fucked up," Other Gil says quietly.

You push your tongue around your mouth.

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

Sorry, folks: I am officially on vacation (again!), so updates are going to return to being spotty. I tried my best to get through this one, but I've run out of time to get to proper choices, so enjoy a traditional DQR blueballing instead.

>>6087763
>>[2] Continue.

>>6087763
>1
Sorry me. I'll try to be more positive from now on.

>>6088380
>>6088433

>Continued

"No i-it's— no it isn't." You work your jaw. "That's how most people think."

"That's how pathetic people think. Do you think Lottie would rather be somebody else?"

"Who's bringing up Lottie now? And do you want my honest answer?"

"Yes."

"Yes! I-I-I think she would! She's not so— she's only like that on the outside. I-I've seen her spill her guts." You fold your aching arms. "She's not so different."

"So you're both pathetic? Birds of a feather. Except she has the common decency to keep it under wraps, while you ooze it out your pores. You're oozing it right now! What's more pathetic than this? You meet yourself and your first reaction is kick him in the nards."

"You kicked me in the—" you say.

Other Gil looks at you.

"...There's no difference," you say. "Everything you're saying and doing is what I want you to..."

"You still don't have it right." He wipes his nose. "You're not as smart as you think you are."

He can't get you riled, not after you kicked him in the nards. He can call you pathetic all he wants. "Suck my dick," you say. "You don't exist. That's the goddamn answer. You don't have a body, you don't have a brain. Isn't that right?"

"You got beat up by something without a body or brain?"

"I didn't get beat up," you say, and flex your fingers. Your cut's healed over. "You're a shitty metaphor. You're what I'm thinking. Right? Fuck, that is pathetic."

"I told you so," says You.

"Invented a whole guy just to take potshots. I'm such a dickhead. Take potshots and... stop myself from doing anything. It's just like real life! Sorry you have to put up with this."

You survey yourself levelly. "Who are you apologizing to?"

"I..." It's instinct. "I guess I'm sorry I have to... I mean, I deserve it. So I'm not that sorry."

"Why do you deserve it?"

This is farce at this point. Lottie's either dead by now or she's killed 20 people. You should've had a smoke. "Because I'm a shitty person, and I'm a dick, and I'm pathetic. And I'm keeping myself in a goddamn nostalgia prison instead of fixing my own fuck-ups, and— I'm a fuck-up too, forgot to mention. And I bitch and moan instead of solving any of my problems, as you can see here. And I'm self-aware of this, which makes everything worse, because I can't paper over the shitness like some people—"

"Nice avoiding saying 'Lottie.'" You're lighting a new cig. "Papering works. Look at her. She's functional. She does things."

"She's—" you start.

"And look at you. Being self-aware has got you... let's see. Oh, where it always has. Stuck in your own head. Talking to yourself. You're a real man of inaction, aren't you? She'd say you're a negative thinker."

(1/4)

"I'm realistic. She's—"

"Functional. You're a self-loathing little beetle bitch. You're annoying." You spit on the ground. "Do something for once!"

You'd feel better if you kicked him again, but you'd also be a dumbshit. You can't get mad at someone who doesn't exist. You're sorry for him. It feels easier than being sorry for you, even if it's the same thing. "I was trying, then you—"

You smoke.

"—then I... shit. Ha-ha. I stopped myself, because I'm a pussy. But I'm trying to do something for once, even if I fuck it up—"

"You will fuck it up."

"I-I don't see how I could fuck it up worse, is the thing! It's already fucked up so bad— what's going to happen, I die? Big deal. And if I pull it off, it could— I could salvage it. I need to salvage it. Can you please—?"

You stand in front of the door, jaw set. No response. You can talk to yourself, but you can't reason: look in your eyes and see hot fear. You're afraid.

"It's gonna be okay," you say.

"You don't know that. You don't know what's out there."

"I'm trying to ignore that," you say. "I mean, I have to— you have to— we have to ignore that. Think about it logically. If we don't go out there, it won't be okay. If we do, it might."

"You don't do things like this. Remember the last time you tried to take things solo? Guess what happened then?"

"I-I think it was for the best," you say, and pause. You're not sure if you've said that before. "And I do things like this now. And I'm not taking it solo. Come on."

You reach out your hand. You hesitate, but grab it. The other Gil's fingers are rough and sweaty, and he doesn't grip tightly, probably conscious of appearances. Personally, you're trying not to think about it too hard. Or at all.

"Sorry for being a dick," you tell him. Then you step through him and out the open door.

*

Outside is a clusterfuck. You should've grabbed smokes, but when you try to turn back around, the shed is gone. You're in a swamp or bog or marsh or some shit— you wouldn't know the difference— and this'd be bad enough on its own, with the scum and mud and stinking water, except: did you forget? You're a Headspace Friend, tee em, smiley face, and the swamp's been colonized. Completely. You stare up and out at massive billboards, posters tacked to trees, flyers in the mud, speakers blaring a tinny Headspace jingle. There's a life-size statue of Casey Fucking Kemper installed on an outcropping. There's rainbow pennants. The air smells like mud and lemon. You brace yourself, but none of it starts attacking you— just your senses.

The other Gil is gone, though he wasn't ever really there. Maybe the shed wasn't really there, either. You pinch a cig out of the air and set it in your mouth, mostly since you're thinking about them again, but a little to spite the redecoration. (You can't imagine smoking is Friend-approved.) You pull out a lighter, reconsider, and produce your matchbook instead.

(2/4)

Four strikes, five, and the match doesn't light. Neither does the next one. Shit. It's probably not because you're an incompetent and a failure: it's probably CFK doing it. You can't escape that easy. You go back to the lighter and take a drag off the cig, one of Teddy's ancient types. An acquired taste, but you've acquired it.

Shit. Teddy. Shouldn't he be here? Isn't this kind of his situation? Not that he's obligated to swoop in and save you— he's a cool guy, but he's just a guy— but you would've thought he'd show up by now. He didn't get got, did he? Shit. Maybe he's lost in the swamp? You needed to get the lay of the land anyways. Regretfully, you toss the cig into the nearest puddle, breathe in, and shimmy apart. Then you head straight up.

Normally altitude would bother you— you have the sense beetles aren't used to flying too high— but it's your head and your rules. You go high enough to stop hearing the jingle and stall out there, surveying the terrain. Big surprise: swamp and marketing, as far as the eye can see. There's a big duckweedy pond, though, and a splotch of blue. Teddy? Teddy! You zoom.

Teddy, relaxed as ever, has a chair and a cooler set up by the pondside. He gestures at an empty chair beside him. "All yours."

You coalesce a half-foot above the chair and plop down into it. "Oof."

"I knew you'd stop by. Got a nasty bug going around here, don't you? It's gone deep."

"Uh, yeah." You like Teddy, but he tends to be more cryptic than you'd like. Maybe it's lost in translation. "Yeah. I got a— well— I fucked up, pretty much. Pretty bad."

"Sorry to hear it." Teddy cracks open a can of something you don't recognize. "I'm fishing. Would you like to join me?"

Does this count as dithering? Waffling? Pussying out? Maybe fishing is what you need to, uh, keep your mind sharp. It'll help you think of a gameplan. Yeah. Not that you've ever done it, but you have a secondhand notion that it's clarifying. "...Sure? If I'm not bothering—"

"You're never bothering." Teddy stands, staking his rod upright in the mud, and hunts around beside the chair. He pulls out a second rod and a bucket of bait. "Do you mind if we use worms?"

"Uh," you say. "Won't they be too big?"

"Earthworms." Teddy shows you the inside of the bucket. "I wasn't sure if it'd hit too close to home."

"...Not as long as I don't think about it too hard." Or try to communicate. "I'm okay with it. Thanks for asking."

"No problem." Teddy baits your hook (you look away) and fiddles with the tackle before handing the whole thing over. "You know how to fish, right?"

Secondhand. But Teddy knows how to fish in excruciating detail, so you're confident you have the basics down. "I think so? You throw it in, and you wait... and wait... and you reel it in when you feel a tug on the line."

"Good enough." Teddy casts his line and sips from his can. You do the same, far less elegantly, and wish you had a smoke again. Dammit.

(3/4)

You sit there for several minutes, not saying anything. The Headspace jingle is quieter by the lake, but still present, and you strain to focus on the water. There's duckweed in the pond, but no ducks. That's good. You're not sure you could handle a bird right now.

"What do you regret most?"

"Huh?"

"In your life," Teddy says. "I'm curious."

>Well, what is it?

>[1] Being born. Ha-ha.
>[2] Getting caught cooking the books. Being put to death. (Not that you died, but still. Thought that counts.)
>[3] Going on that stupid solo mission. Getting stuck in beetle prison. Something can be for the best and still be the worst thing that ever happened to you.
>[4] Not scorching all the god stuff out of Lottie when you had the perfect opportunity. You had one job, you failed at the job, and all the consequences are on your shoulders.
>[5] Being extracted from Us. It's less painful with Teddy around, but you had paradise in your grasp— the best you ever felt— and it was robbed from you, just like that. Teddy can only help so much.
>[6] Write-in. (Subject to veto.)

Sorry for the delay. No wifi or signal yesterday.

>>6089368
>[2] Getting caught cooking the books. Being put to death. (Not that you died, but still. Thought that counts.)

>>6089368
>>[2] Getting caught cooking the books. Being put to death. (Not that you died, but still. Thought that counts.)

>>6089368
>3
We lost our realness :(

>>6089405
>>6089639
>[2]

>>6089664
>[3]

Called and writing.

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24 KB JPG

I have 400 words down, but it's not enough substance to post, and I have to get up in 5 hours or less. This vacation itinerary is extremely anti-questing. Sorry, folks.

I would also like to more generally apologize for the way this thread is turning out. I had a lot of big plans for it and Headspace in general, but they're not shaking out at all how I intended, and I fear I've been unable to get things back on an interesting track. Instead, much like our temporary MC, there's been a lot of navel-gazing and retreading old ground. This thread and the quest aren't dead or anything like that-- I'll keep plugging as long as you guys keep voting-- but I hate it when I can't meet my own quality standards, and I hope this vindicates anybody who's been getting bored. We'll get out of this hole eventually.

>>6090203
It happens. It’s simply the nature of the medium. Don’t worry too hard about it, and just enjoy your vacation!

>>6089368
>[4] Not scorching all the god stuff out of Lottie when you had the perfect opportunity. You had one job, you failed at the job, and all the consequences are on your shoulders.

Enjoy your vacation QM!

>>6090400
>>6090825
Thanks for the well-wishes, folks. I can normally update okay when I'm traveling, but this trip has a lot of late nights, early starts, and not a lot of downtime. I'm going to stop giving ETAs for updates while I'm on the go and just say that they'll be done when they're done.

I should be able to return to relatively steady updates beginning Sep 1st, which is coincidentally the 5-year anniversary of Redux. Yeah. Fortunately, I prepped something in advance, so I won't be scrambling last-minute to celebrate. After Sep 1st, I'll continue the thread until we get to a okay stopping point and cut it off there. It doesn't make me feel great to have two threads in a row with such awful pacing, but it is what it is. ...Positive thinking?

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3.55 MB JPG

>Fucked from the start

"I mean," you say, "I was executed."

"Not very well."

"Um, no, not very well. But I was, and I mean— I had a life up there, Teddy. I had folks. They weren't even bad, you know. Pops had been gone for years, and— it's not like Lottie, where she's better off, right? She jumped on purpose. I got punted." You scrape your thumbnail along the rod. "I-I-It's just the usual shit. Can't go back. Can't see anyone ever again. Can't do anything you used to ever again. Can't see the sky. Whatever. Same as everyone else. I'm not creative."

Teddy stares out across the— down into the water. Your line is whirring, unspooling, as the pond recedes rapidly. The effect is dizzying. You look up, mildly nauseated, and see only cloudy sky: your chair is perched on the tip of a too-long too-thin plank, stretched out over the water, ready to fall.

"SHIT!" you say, and instinctively scatter. Teddy grabs your unattended rod before it falls too. How far? A mile? You jitter in the air.

"Are you scared of heights?" There's no space for Teddy's chair next to yours, but there it is.

"No. No, I-I-I— I mean— not more than anyone else!" It's true. You think. You don't want to test it extensively. "Are you scared of water?!"

He doesn't say anything.

"Um, I-I-I'm sorry. That was mean. I-I'm not scared... um, I was surprised, I-I guess." You're trying not to look down, even though you can't help it. No eyelids. "Sorry. I-I'd just rather not—"

"Die again?"

Teddy's a cool guy, but he gets weird about some things, and you're not sure why. "That's not what I-I— I didn't die the first time, so, um, no. Not that."

"Mm-hm." You don't appreciate how skeptical he sounds. "I would've thought you'd attained some peace with the whole thing. You've been underwater for years."

"Two." You pause. "I-I-I guess longer if you count s-time, but... whatever. Two. And it doesn't get easier, ever. I've talked to people, and they all say you find other shit to think about, and that's all you get. Has it gotten any easier being dead in a ditch?"

"I never had much trouble." He leans back in his chair. By all rights he should be tipping off the plank. "I imagine I died honorably. You were executed. Do you regret the crime, or do you regret being caught?"

You scoff. "I-It was barely a crime."

"The latter, I take it?"

"Who was I hurting? We were about to go under! I saved the goddamn business. I kept food on the goddamn table. I should've gotten a goddamn medal." You cluster on the top of your chair. "They got me in the middle of the night. It was a joke. Made my mom cry. Made my sister cry. That's the last memory I have of them, by the way, so that's great. Probably still crying. I probably lost them the last of the business, too. That'd be about right, right? A fuck-up for the road?"

"Do you think you're very different from before you drowned?"

"No," you say immediately.

(1/3)

"You're the same?"

"Of course I'm the fucking same; I'm probably worse. You know I'm not real anymore?"

"Yes," Teddy says. (He generously leaves the beetle part unstated.)

"You're gonna say 'what does that matter," but I-I-I'm not here on vacation! I'm here because I got goddamn hijacked by Casey Fucking—"

"You let yourself be hijacked?"

"What?" You cluster even closer. "No, I-I-I got— I got grabbed! And taken! And it only worked because I wasn't real. I-I'm sort of malleable, or something. Do you think I-I'd be here if I had a goddamn—"

"Yes."

If you hadn't taken your pent-up aggression out on Other Gil, Teddy would be seriously raising your hackles. As it is, he's not calling you a dumbshit, so you give yourself a second to calm down and proceed rationally. "Why?"

"It's safe. It's familiar. You spend a lot of time here. I'm not judging; I do too. I certainly wouldn't prefer to stay outside. Who would?"

"Lottie," you say tensely.

"You're not Lottie, though. You're a pussy."

While you're beetles, things hurt less. They still hurt, especially when they're a sucker-punch. You'd expect this from you. You thought Teddy was better than you. "...I-I-I-I-I'm not..."

"Not what?"

You can't say you're a pussy, because you promised you wouldn't be a dick to yourself. But you can't say you're not, because you'd be a liar, and Teddy would know it. You are one. It's who you are. "..."

"Right. It's who you are. If you weren't such a pussy, you wouldn't be Gil. Gil would be dead."

What did you do to him? Fuck, did he inherit whatever was left of Other Gil? All you did was shunt the shitness over? Of course you did. "When's the part when you catch the fish?"

"You were making some cracked-up moves out there. Maybe they were good moves, maybe they weren't. It doesn't matter. But they were out-of-character for Gil Wallace, weren't they? He's a pussy. He doesn't steal things right out of Casey Fucking Kemper's hands, and he doesn't try to shoot him in the chest. He sneaks and he snitches and he survives and that's what he's good for. If he does something else, it must be some other man doing it."

It's Other Gil's parting gift, or Teddy is yanking your chain somehow. There's the air of an impending punchline. "That's not—"

"You sabotaged yourself. Don't you remember? You were going for the walkie-talkie, but you hesitated. You went for the gun, but you waffled. You could've succeeded; instead you're here. You're safe from death. You're what you are. You got what you really wanted."

There. The punchline, and it's nastier and shittier than anything Other Gil could come up with. It's not melodramatic to say you feel betrayed. "Shove a log up your ass! You have no goddamn clue—"

"What you want? No, I know."

(2/3?)

"Then you know you're calling me a— a selfish piece-of-shit? A complete bastard? A coward? Because i-i-i-if you're going to say that, at least I had the decency to say it to my face, okay? I didn't cloak it in sanctimonious passive-aggressive—"

"I'm not calling you any of that. Take this back." Teddy offers you your fishing rod. You take it reflexively: wait, you have hands. Shit. The plank teeters under your sudden weight, but your chair remains in place. "Listen, you're not a fish."

The non sequitur takes some of the wind out of your sails. "What?"

"Fish aren't that smart. Smarter than you'd expect, maybe, but not smart. They have about enough brain to eat and not get eaten, and not more. They wouldn't need it." Teddy gestures at your head. "Not you. You have a lot of extra things going on."

"Too many," you say.

"Too many. But you still have a fish brain in there. The fish brain doesn't care about being smart, brave, a good person, Lottie, Casey, Headspace, nothing. The fish brain cares about living, or not even. It cares about not-dying. The bare minimum, Gil."

This makes sense. Sort of. You're still not sure you like it. "But if I shot him, I wouldn't be dead, and I-I'd be way better off than—"

"Maybe you'd be better off, or maybe Mr. Kurz would've shot you. It doesn't matter, because you're taking it too literally. It cares about you not-dying. Your body's only one part of you."

"Or hundreds."

Teddy chuckles lightly. "Or hundreds, but that's a special case. Mostly it's one part, and not a very important one. It's where you happen to be for a while. The most relevant part of you is—"

"The brain?" you say.

"—the blood, which the gods infused us with to—"

"I don't have any blood anymore. Wait." The gears are turning. "The COS, the— not-dying— it's protecting— it wants me to be a pussy? Come on. I— I just hesitated. Newsflash, I do that all the time, because I, uh—" Crud. "I—"

"It's a pervasive attitude."

"Shut up. It's not like I—" You point vigorously at yourself. "—I want to be— I want to steal Casey's shit! I do! How do I gore out the goddamn fish brain? Do you think I can get Lottie to go in my head and do that?"

"You don't want to gore it out. Remaining alive is fairly important. If I'd been more afraid, maybe I wouldn't be here." Teddy cracks his neck. "Anyway, I think you'd be better off mastering it, not killing it. Act like a human, not a fish."

"What?" you say. "Can you be more—"

Your fishing rod bucks in your hands. The line tenses. "Looks like you got a bite," Teddy says. "Good luck out there."

He pats your shoulder and vanishes. Like that! Vanishes! Maybe if you could vanish you'd do it gratuitously too, but geez, it's irritating. You are tensed and standing with a fishing rod on a narrow wooden plank a mile above a vast silty ocean. Something in the ocean has bit your line. What do you do?

(Choices next.)