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>>4544986
"Game Over".

You blink once, then again for good measure as your senses return to you. As you wipe the drool from your face onto your stained coveralls, you slowly regain awareness of where you are. The dim glow of the fluorescent light above you stings your eyes, and the faint scent of lukewarm coffee tickles your nostrils, drawing you to the cheap Dixie cup next to the computer you're sitting at.

"For security use ONLY!" warns a faded Post-It Note barely clinging to the monitor's corner. A faint smirk forms on the corner of your mouth. Maybe one day you'll listen. Not bothering to conceal a yawn, you close the game and return to the sterile blue desktop where the company mascot, Good Boy, shoots you a knowing wink, a dog bone clenched between his teeth. The clock in the lower right sits at 2:43am, reminding you that there are several hours left of your shift left.

In a futile attempt to distract yourself, your eyes scan the cramped security room like they have every day since... Well... Since a while, you think. You can't remember how long you've worked here off the top of your head, but some things just tend to feel timeless, especially when boredom sets in. You've memorized everything by now, but here you are again, scanning the room.

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>>4544988
There's the sign-in sheet for the room--of course--but you've never used it. The chicken scratch that passed for security guard handwriting extended from top to bottom of the sheet, almost giving you the impression that someone else was here at night. The Good Boy clock remained in the corner, eyes and tail wagging back and forth like some freakish metronome. The clock itself sat tilted slightly off-kilter--at this point it would feel out of place to straighten it. Lastly, there was the corkboard near the door--its surface almost completely covered with memos, notes, union posters, and anything else they could fit on it. None of them stand out anymore, of course, save for the one your eyes have never failed to miss each time you look at it:

>Remember, actions are determined by the best of 3 1d100 rolls! Some actions will have specific DCs to clear, so bring your lucky dice! Also remember that these rules are subject to change. ~Mgmt.

You still don't really understand what it means, but somehow that notice always feels important to you. But who cares? You've seen this crap already! Nodding your head back and forth a few times to knock some sleepiness off, you notice your ID Badge lying face down under the desk. Must have dropped when you er... Rested your eyes for a moment. Your spine cracks in protest as you bend over for the first time in what must have been at least an hour. Fishing the ID off of the ground, you take a moment to wipe the dust and grime from the floor off of it and briefly regard the info on the card.
According to your company ID, your name is:

>Write-In

And your picture shows a slightly more awake photo of:

>A boy
>A girl

Most importantly, your job title sits like a king in bold letters at the top of the card:

>Evening Sanitation Coordinator

A.K.A 'night janitor'. Naturally, ESC sound much more impressive on a resume.

>>4544991
>Stanley Parble
>A boy

>>4544991
>Stanley Parble
>A girl
Mix-up at the maternity ward. Parents thought it was hilarious.

>>4545006
+1

>>4544999
>>4545006
>>4545019
The voices have spoken. Writing!

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>>4544991
You close your eyes and nod to no one in particular, sending a few loose bangs of your short hair closer to your face. Yes… Parble. Stanley Parble. That was it. What began with a simple mix-up in the maternity ward turned into your parent’s cruelest joke. Your parents were never ones to shy away from a prank, legal ramifications notwithstanding. Maybe it was a simple error in the computer, maybe you aren’t blood related to the people who named you named Stanley at all, but whatever the reason, here you are sitting in an office that isn’t yours thinking about a name that probably shouldn’t be yours, wasting time that certainly isn’t yours. C’est La vie.
You frown. For a while you tried to steer family friends into calling you “Ly”, a moniker you believed was much more fitting for someone of your gender. You stopped once your classmates, and eventually your father, in a sick attempt to seem like ‘the cool parent’, began calling you “Lytard”. Stanley it was, Stanley it will always be.
Not wanting to spend the rest of your shift waxing nostalgic over future therapy discussion material, you take a moment to lean back in your seat, almost tipping over when you remember it’s a swivel chair. Regaining your balance, you generate a mental list of a few things you could do to pass the time.
>Search your person for any other goodies
>Fiddle around on the security computer
>Write-In
>Get back to work. Wait, why is this after the write-in option? Are you that lazy?

>>4545075
>Fiddle around on the security computer

>>4545087
Writing

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>>4545087
>>4545075

You’re already sitting down, why get up now? Trying in vain to avoid the puddle of drool on the keyboard, your attention shifts once more to the computer monitor. In a clear effort to be considered a ‘work computer’, the security terminal’s desktop leaves much to be desired in the way of icons. Only a small group remain--if there are any other features you guess they’re hidden behind proxies or firewalls or whatever they talk about in the movies.

In any case, you’ve essentially memorized the features that ARE available. There’s the MeMail App, of course, where you’ve spent many a night invading the privacy of various security guards. As it happens, the last guard on duty seemed to have forgotten to log off.

Not to be outdone is the web browser, home to the World Wide Web and, most importantly, the game you were playing earlier. Of course, being a security terminal there’s also the PeepO App--a trendy name for the security cameras.

Last, but not least, is the shortcut to the command line prompt--usually your go-to when you want to pretend to be a hacker. Over the course of many nights you’ve tried to mess around with it, but the best you did was crashing the Wifi once and accidentally calling the Fire Department. All in all, not a bad set of tools here.

You gaze on the apps like a child outside a candy store window. Surely there’s something to be done instead of your actual job?

>Read the guard’s email
>Surf the web (Write-In what you’re looking for)
>Check the cameras
>Mess with the command prompt
>Write-In

>>4545152
>Read the guard’s email

>>4545152
>Skim the emails, if you find anything interesting, print it, then go do some cleaning while reading it.

>>4545158
>>4545176
Writing!

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>>4545158
>>4545176
Once upon a time you must have had some qualms about invading someone’s privacy and basic human empathy, but being a janit-err, Evening Sanitation Coordinator, has transformed you. Not to mention you’re basically alone in this whole building. You think.

In a surprising act of forethought, you decide on not just reading your coworker’s emails, but printing and THEN reading them as you get to work. Part of you realizes that this might invite some retaliation if anyone finds printed evidence that you spied on them, but this danger is quickly dismissed by the fact that you’ll be able to work AND read at the same time. If you had a calculator and you plugged in those numbers, you’d be getting a smiley face.

Unfortunately for the voyeurs, the guard has a surprising lack of emails in his inbox. Most likely to avoid leaking information to corporate spies, nosey journalists, or bored Evening Sanitation Coordinators. On the bright side, you’ll be saving trees by not printing as many emails.

Several tense minutes later (and a few whacks to the printer) you emerge from the security room with a fresh stack of warm papers. The printed materials feel reassuring as you emerge into one of the building’s cold, spartan hallways and continue to do so as you make your way to your office, whistling as you go. You shuffle the papers in chronological order and start with the oldest.
>Contd.

>>4545202
>”From: IT
>To: GBDB Staff
>Subject: Signal Issues
>To all staff,
>First of all, don’t worry: the help ticket system still works. No need to submit multiple requests with the same problem. Second, we are aware of the issues with the wifi in the factory and admin offices--unfortunately it may have something to do with the new paint on the walls--turns out lead and wifi don’t cooperate very well. In any case, we’re working on a fix, so please stop spamming our request system. We know what you’re mainly using company wifi for and that stuff can wait until after office hours. On an unrelated note, deleting browser history doesn’t remove your search history from our logs. Nice try though.”

>”From: DBaxter
>To: MDiaz
>Subject: Security
>Hey man, need a favor. Blumenkrantz has been on my back about making sure the security room door is locked after shifts. If I don’t tell you when we switch off tonight, remember to LOCK THE SECURITY ROOM BEFORE LEAVING. A few days ago I checked my mail and home and about five of my emails were marked ‘read’ when I never looked at them. Please remember to lock the door, man. If you forget that, then PLEASE don’t forget to at least LOG OUT. And if the person reading people’s emails is reading this, stop immediately--my uncle works for Cyber Police and will track your ass down faster than you can say ‘Black Hat’.

If this is still Marco reading this, ignore the above line. Unless you are the one reading people’s emails.”

>>4545226
Look, I have no idea when this is set, but since blackhats are a concept, make a note of this, worker's health and safety laws should let us sue this place for a bundle. Also, stop procrastinating and at least clean the breakrooms.

>>4545237
Noted! Always good to have a golden parachute ready.

>>4545226
Whoops, format error.

“From: KBlumenkrantz
>To: Security Staff
>Subject: TERROR ALERT

>ATTENTION SECURITY PERSONNEL. THIS IS SECURITY CHIEF BLUMENKRANTZ. AS YOU KNOW A LOT OF CUSTOMERS HAVE BEEN BITCHING ON TWITTER EVEN AFTER WE SWITCHED THE DOG BONE FORMULA FROM SYNTHETIC MATERIALS TO ORGANIC LIBERAL CRAP. IN ANY CASE, SOME PEOPLE MIGHT NOT HAVE GOTTEN THE MEMO AND WILL TRY TO FIREBOMB THE FACTORY. PLEASE BE ALERT FOR PEOPLE RUNNING AROUND IN HOODIES TRYING TO LIGHT THINGS ON FIRE. MANAGEMENT SAYS TO OBSERVE AND REPORT BUT IF YOU TAKE A SHOT AT ONE OF THEM I MIGHT FORGET TO WRITE A REPORT. CHRISTY EMAIL ME AND TELL ME HOW TO PUT A PICTURE OF SOMEONE WINKING HERE.

ALSO CHRISTY MY KEYBOARD IS STUCK MAKING BIG LETTERS. EMAIL ME BACK TELLING ME HOW TO STOP THE BIG LETTERS.

GOODBYE.”

>From: BMarshall
>To: MDiaz
>Subject: RE: Stinks like shit
>Good evening, Mr. Diaz--sorry to hear your shift didn’t go too well today. I believe the stench you are referring to came from the refuse disposal in the main factory--it’s been getting clogged more easily lately, but maintenance and sanitation will hopefully have it taken care of by your next shift. Thanks again for keeping us in the loop, we value your work here at Good Boy Doggy Bones.”

You blink. Right, that was definitely on your To-Do list today. By the time you reach the door to your office, you begin to notice just how quiet it’s been all night. Even the machines seem to be working softer than usual. Could this be the power of organic materials? Probably not. Stuffing the printed emails into your coverall pockets, you open the door to your office and finally prepare to get to work.

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>>4545249
You enter your office and grin as the cold, loveless air of the hallways is replaced by the warm, humid, and cleaning product-laced atmosphere of YOUR Queendom: the custodial closet. There might have been a time where the cement walls and the difficulty breathing might have bothered you, but now it almost feels more like home than, well, your home. Some part of you feels wrong thinking that, but that part is quickly squelched with the other bad emotions as you slump into your chair and kick your feet up on your desk. They ain’t comfy, but they’re yours, damn it.

Satisfied with reading emails for now, you finally resolve to get some work done. With newfound determination, you fish your company-provided BLACKBERRY from your pocket and navigate to your To-Do List for the night. You already finished with the admin offices and the lobby earlier, so you cross those off with a flourish. The remaining list contains the following items:

>Dispose marked trash bags in Refuse Disposal
>Vacuum and sweep Bone Processing Floors
>Hose down Shipping/Receiving Area.

You stroke an imaginary beard pondering what task to do next. Each one will require different tools, of course, but you’ll get them all done. Eventually.

>What task will you perform first?

>>4545302
>Bone Processing
Also, I say we do Hose last since it might get us wet, and this job is crappy enough without having to peel off our clothes every cou0ple of seconds.

>>4545302
>Vacuum and sweep Bone Processing Floors
is this the same bone autism QM before?

>>4545328
>>4545373
Nope, entirely new QM--this is my first try at running a quest, so any feedback is appreciated!

Also, writing. This will be my last update for the night, but I'll check in tomorrow. Thanks for giving Bone Quest a shot!

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>>4545328
>>4545373

You trace an invisible circle around the vacuuming task on your company-provided BLACKBERRY. Cleaning up the Bone Processing wing of the factory was not easy, but if you started now you can at least tell your supervisor you worked on it. It’s bone dust in a dog bone factory, after all--it’s like trying to vacuum the ocean. Worst case scenario you could wash the residual bone dust off when you hosed down Shipping later.

Rising to your feet once more, you yank the doors to your tool locker open and dodge the flakes of rusty metal and paint that escape. Like an action hero suiting up for the big fight scene, you grab your spray bottle (filled to the brim with cleaning solution), your trusty mop and microbucket, and most importantly--your Backuum Cleaner 2000--dirt’s worst nightmare and the world’s only back-mounted vacuum cleaner (patent pending). Mounting the latter on your back and the former items on your toolbelt, you kick the door to your office open and make way for the Bone Processing factory floor.

You know the route to the factory floor like the back of your hand, which is why you barely notice something off on your way there. Halfway through another rousing rendition of “Stanley’s Whistled Song #24”, you notice the flickering of a hallway lamp out of the corner of your eye. You turn around to focus on the light, but even after a whole minute of intense staring, the light refuses to flicker again.

You turn around and resume whistling just in time to catch not one, not two, but every light in the hallway flicker off for a second, maybe less. You pause for a moment, making a mental note to take a look at them all. Eventually. For now there’s still vacuuming to be done, and there’s only one ESC tough enough for the job. That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyways.

>Cont.

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>>4545419
You can smell Bone Processing long before you can see it. Not too long ago this area smelled… Well, it still smelled pretty bad. With that transition to organic materials, though… Well, let’s just say it’s a smell you have to get used to. For the record, no, you haven’t gotten used to it yet. Thankfully a few squirts of cleaning solution numbs your nose right up. You take your bottle and squirt it a few times in the air to get started. Moving away before too many particles land on your uncovered skin, you briefly survey the factory area.

A co-worker of yours explained it to you once over a few beers--you don’t remember much, but what you do remember were the 3 Steps of Bone Processing:
Carving
Bleaching
Baking
You might have been cheating though--each segment of the factory line was labeled with each step, as if the workers could forget. The machines did most of the work, of course--bones were carved using ultra-sharp automatic stencils into classic ‘dog bone’ shapes, then came the chemical bleaching, and finally the heat--the part that dried the chemical film and gave the bones that tasty ‘bone flavor’, or so the training videos said.

Walking along the highway-sized conveyor belts, you take a moment to run your gloved fingers over the bones. You can recognize a few just from looking at them. Deer bones, moose bones, alligator bones, the works. You never really thought much about the connotations of ‘organic’ bones vs. the old material, but you can’t help but feel a little excited seeing all sorts of animals here. It’s almost like a zoo, you tell yourself, if someone killed all the animals.

During the evening the machines take a break, but tomorrow they’ll be running full speed, or so you’ve heard. Hopefully you’ll be asleep by then. Speaking of sleep, all of these thoughts about stuff you already know are making you tired. Time to get some stuff done. You’ve done this task so many times you barely even have to think about it anymore, but the one question you DO have to ask is: how thorough do you want to be here?

>Screw it, this dust will be back again tomorrow. Let’s rush.
>Haste makes waste--let’s take some time.
>LET NO GRAIN OF DUST ESCAPE MY EYE. THE RECKONING HAS COME.
>Write-In Technique

>>4545443
>Haste makes waste--let’s take some time.
I guess try to focus on the most visible areas so that it looks like we've cleaned more than we really have

>>4545503
+1, also, what type of company is this? Dog Food for Rich people?

>>4545519
I think they just make fancy style dog bone treats/toys for chewing/gnawing out of actual bones?

Hey, we're back!
>>4545519
Your casual invasion of email privacy and your photographic memory of the plaques and displays in the lobby tell you all you need to know about Good Boy Doggie Bones. Established in 1954 by Sonny Bruckman Sr., Good Boy Doggie Bones was a leader in post-war pet food and toy innovations. Their claim to fame, of course, was their signature Good Boy Doggie Bone--a favorite among pet owners and canines for years until testing revealed a quote, “sizable amount of lead” in the formula. The company got away with a slap on the wrist and spent the next few years experimenting with newer, better dog bone formulas. In latest news (according to what you heard through company emails), Good Boy has shifted to a more organic formula in the past few months to appease the social media masses. Your comprehension of market research is middling, at best, so you’re not sure how effective this new formula has been among customers or dogs. You certainly haven’t tried the product either, no sir. Not even a nibble when bored!

Also, writing.

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>>4545503
>>4545519
There’s an old saying among Evening Sanitation Coordinators: if they can’t see it, it’s clean. That being said, you know better than to rush the vacuuming--people talk when the factory floor looks clean, and you’ll be damned if your counterpart, Boris, gets all the credit this time.

You walk across the factory floor towards the back end where the BONE BAKING happens. To the uninitiated, the obvious place to start would be the CARVING area, especially when the majority of bone dust congregates there. However, professionals know that that area will always be dusty--trying to keep it clean even after work hours is a Sisyphean Task, to say the least. No, the gold is in the other sections, and that’s where you’re going to start.

As you approach your habitual ‘starting area’, you duck under a few conveyor belts, suppressing the urge to turn them on and go for a ride. They don’t even move that fast anyways and you don’t need another ‘Work Conduct’ meeting with HR. It’s at that moment you notice that despite the belts being large enough to hold a covered wagon, a veritable grab bag of bones managed to fall off of the edge of a belt and now sit on the floor as if challenging you to move them.

With a huff, you lower your mop to the ground and use your now free hands to scoop up the bone pile. You deposit them onto a section of the belt closer to your height, then hastily brush the dust from your gloved hands. Part of you could have sworn you saw a skull or two in the pile, but you quickly dismiss the idea. “Animals have skulls,” you say to no one in particular, “and bones are our business.”
A layer of bone dust has already caked your rubber boots and coverall legs by the time you reach your usual starting spot. Once upon a time you might not have relished the idea of being covered in dead animals, but nowadays it’s about as normal as brushing your teeth in the morning or putting on a hat.

You reach behind you and grasp the nozzle of the BACKUUM CLEANER 2000 (patent pending). The nozzle feels at home in your hands like a cowboy’s revolver or a teacher’s red pen. You briefly scan the baking section’s floor--at this point it’s not a question of IF you’ll get this cleaned up, but how LONG it will take. You take a moment to spray a bit more cleaning solution in the air, one of your many rituals, bend your knees, and flick the power switch on your backuum. The words on the security room corkboard echo in the far recesses of your mind…

>Remember, actions are determined by the best of 3 1d100 rolls! Some actions will have specific DCs to clear, so bring your lucky dice! Also remember that these rules are subject to change. ~Mgmt.

The true meaning remains an enigma to you, but what you do know for certain is, THIS is one of those times.

>Let’s see some 1d100s!

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>4546117

Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>4546117

Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>4546117

Rolled 74 (1d100)

>>4546117

Sorry, ran an impromptu errand!
>>4546123
>>4546135
>>4546190
Alright, starting things off with some good rolls, I see.

For the record, higher is better.

Writing...

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>>4546123
>>4546135
>>4546190

>Best roll: 16. Ouch.

You’ve done this a million times before. For all you know that might not even be an exaggeration. How many hours are in a week again? A month? Seven times forty, carry the… Nope, forget it. You CLEAN, not COMPUTE. You leave that kind of stuff to the eggheads in the labs.

Speaking of calculations, what are the odds that upon turning on your BACKUUM CLEANER 2000 that you’d immediately vacuum your hat and a large chunk of your hair? What about the odds of getting them both out while also choking on BONE DUST? Pretty slim, you bet, but you’re just that lucky. It takes you several minutes of tugging and swearing to get your hair out of the vacuum in between coughing fits, and even more to remove your cap which somehow got clogged in between where the hose connects and the actual pack. Even worse, by the time you get started vacuuming, the engine in the pack begins to make a loud noise not unlike a cow being crushed under a steamroller. You’ve worked in the sanitation biz long enough to know two things: First: Something is messing with the engine, and Second: it’s probably the bone dust. Weird, too--it’s not usually this thick and gummy.

After what feels like an eternity of vacuuming, the factory floor finally approaches what some generous minds would refer to as ‘clean’. Well, clean-ISH. You lean on your mop for a moment to catch your breath and fan your face with your crumpled cap. As you feel yourself begin to cool down, you finally register the heavy pattering of rain on the roof and the rumble of thunder outside. How long have you been vacuuming, anyways? How are you getting home? You begin to weigh the pros and cons of the bus when a roll of thunder shakes the factory floor like a boat in a storm. Before you can find your footing, all of the lights, work and emergency, go out.

You stand in the blackness for what feels like an eternity. When the lights finally turn back on you sigh. Until, that is, you realize they aren’t the only things that reactivated.

Consoles, conveyor belts, alarms, and gizmos all over the factory floor’s three sections scream to life. Cutters hiss to life like metal cobras, and the chemical vats bubble and glow with activity. The bones remain where they are, of course--on the conveyor belts clearly moving faster than they should be. Like grim waterfalls the heaps of bones topple over the sides of the belts and stations overflow with animal remains. The painfully bright fluorescent lights are overpowered by alarm lights that bathe the whole factory in a crimson hue. As if things couldn’t get any worse, all of the activity swept up the remaining bone dust into the air like a whirling dervish, hurling it onto machines, walls, and you.

So… What shall we do, Ms. Evening Sanitation Coordinator?

>Try to shut off the conveyor belts!
>Try to shut off the machines somehow!
>Get outta here and call someone!
>Write-In

>>4546364
>Try to shut off the machines somehow!

>>4546364
>Try to shut off the machines somehow!

>>4546381
>>4546495
Let's see what we can do about that. Writing!

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>>4546381
>>4546495
As panic begins to set in, an idea forms in your brain--shut off the machines. Easy for you to say, brain--But how? In a surprising display of memory, your thoughts drift from the rapidly-decaying factory situation to one of your first few days as an employee of Good Boy. Wow, look how happy you looked! And so much healthier. Did you gain some weight? Alright, focus. You and a few other coworkers were watching a work safety video--the narrator was none other than Good Boy himself--in animated form, of course. It was just after the important part where he discussed…

Um…

Well maybe it wasn’t that important. In any case, you remember his NEXT words like they were yesterday.

>”... And THAT’s why you should go for a check-up EVERY week! Phew, what a mouthful! That’s not all, Good Boygineers! In the event of a catastrophic glitch or malfunction in one or more of the factory machines, there are emergency override buttons next to the Fire Exit doors in each factory section: CARVING, BLEACHING, and BAKING! That might seem a bit far, but no need to be a track star! Safety Regulations ensure that you will never be alone in the building, ever! Even if you’re a Sanitation Coordinator! So remember to BONE up on this knowledge--it could save your life! Now let’s talk about harassment in the workpl-”

Your train of thought is derailed by a flying clavicle hitting you square in the nose--heavy, too--must have belonged to a rhino or something. Rubbing the pain away from your nose, you fully adjust to the current situation again. Right, the catastrophic glitch or malfunction in one or more of the factory machines.

Straining your eyes against the dull emergency lighting and the growing density of bone dust in the air, you manage to locate the closest emergency exit. Turns out they have bright ‘EMERGENCY EXIT’ signs above them--go figure. The veritable MAZE of conveyor belts and machinery in the BAKING section makes it difficult, but when you bend a bit you can almost see the glow of the emergency exit off in the BLEACHING section. Yea, you’ve got this.

You take a moment to stretch your legs--time is clearly of the essence here. You’re going to need stamina to run to the switches and the eyes of a hawk to find the best route to the next switch. Your brain quickly gives you a few hasty options:

>Screw safety--go fast and use some of that parkour you learned from MeTube!
>It might take more time, but you don’t want to get hurt. Play it smart.
>Write-In

>Rolls will come after we decide on a method.

>>4546564
>Screw safety--go fast and use some of that parkour you learned from MeTube!

>>4546564
>Screw safety--go fast and use some of that parkour you learned from MeTube!

>>4546580
>>4546586
Hope there are no police around, because you're about to SPEED. You don't have time to be safe here--if the sounds the machines and conveyor belts are making are any indication, you're going to be a LOT worse off if you don't turn them off soon.

>Taking 3 1d100 rolls! Let's see how Stanley does!

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>4546594

Rolled 54 (1d100)

>>4546594

>>4546600
>>4546621
Writing!

>>4546672
You can always roll the third d100 if need be, OP.

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>>4546686
Yea, probably going to do that in the future to keep the ball rolling. Here's the first part of the LAST update for tonight!

>>4546600
>>4546621
>54: Not great. The quicker option had a higher DC, too.

Time slows to a crawl. Like an arrow leaving the bow you bolt--beginning with two powerful strides, then a leap to a nearby conveyor belt. You don’t even need to look and see if you made it--you did. Boot hits belt, boot hits bone, boot hits more bone--up, down, up. It comes as naturally to you as flying does to an eagle. An American eagle. Oh yea.

Time continues to dilate as you reach the end of the belt and push off with one leg--your muscles and bones working in tandem like fleshy pistons. Then… Weightlessness. For a moment you soar through the air. You feel bone particles brush against your face, your hair and cap tussle in the air, your toes catching the side of the belt, the rush of adrenaline running through you-wait. Back up.

Unfortunately you aren’t in control anymore. Time refuses to speed up--it wants you to see this. Damn you, time, you think to yourself. Time, of course, doesn’t listen. And neither do your limbs. You flail in slow-motion as your foot bumps against the side of the conveyor, sending you tumbling onto the speeding belt with the rest of the bones. Fortunately your face is spared the brunt of the impact--that honor belongs to your abdomen, whose landing is cushioned by soft, cushy animal bones. Oh wait.

As you feel the wind get knocked out of you, your gasps for air send you rolling over the side of the belt, delivering you with a THUMP onto your side and a smaller, albeit STILL painful pile of bones. Time resumes its normal speed and you take a moment to lie there, taking in the last few painful seconds. As you stare upwards, simmering in self-loathing, you notice that by falling off of the belt you not only deposited yourself closer to the BAKING area’s emergency exit, but also narrowly avoided a trip into one of the factory’s titular ‘BAKERS’ which, by the way, are starting to cook not just the bones, but the belts themselves. Lucky you?

>Contd.

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>>4546692
Resolving to enroll in a parkour class once this is all taken care of and you miraculously manage to keep your job, you scramble to your feet and hobble with a purpose to the emergency exit. Like the training video said, next to the door sits a comically large red button marked EMERGENCY SHUT DOWN. No more shenanigans--you smash it with your fist and sigh as the chaos in the baking area slows to an abrupt and anti-climactic halt. Well, aside from the piles of burnt bones. And the burnt machines. And the burning conveyor belts.

None of that matters to you, however. No, what matters is the small spark you catch out of the corner of your eye. The one that leisurely floats like a bubble and grows into a crescendo of arcing, crackling electricity above the factory floor--that and the bones rising from the piles strewn about the factory into the air like grim balloons.

The award, in your opinion, has to go to what you see next. With a crack of thunder and lightning, a shape begins to form in the middle of the light show. A shape that, when more and more bones and pieces of machinery, conveyor belt, and burner come together, reminds you of something human. The final product, you find, is probably not that. You can’t blame yourself for not noticing earlier--it’s like finding needles in a haystack after all--but while the many limbs of the floating figure appear to be made from the animal bones strewn about the factory, the crowning piece, the star on the proverbial ‘Christmas Tree’ is undoubtedly a weathered, sneering human skull.

>Cont.

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>>4546728
As the remaining electricity escapes towards the ceiling, the figure stays motionless, floating in place like a cheap Halloween prop. A deafening ‘SNAP’ dominates the factory as the figure cracks it’s neck. Once to the left, once to the right. With that, the machines, the alarms, and all of the chaos screeches to a halt. For a second you think your heart will too, but it can’t. You’re too terrified.

The figure doesn’t seem to notice you, or maybe it doesn’t care. It swings its various animal limbs in the air a few times, adopting a look of grim satisfaction. A slow rumbling starts to emanate from its chest, and the figure throws its skull back and lets out a booming, maniacal cackle. Raising its arms to the ceiling in triumph, the amalgamation of machine, animal, and human parts lets out a vicious, albeit much higher-pitched battle cry than you expected:

>“AFTER THOUSANDS OF YEARS, TIBIUS MAXIMUS… IS ‘BONE’ AGAIIIIIIN!”

You don't know how he noticed you. Maybe you laughed, maybe you shifted around on the floor. Maybe he knew you were there from the beginning. Things just don’t seem as amusing anymore when the figure’s two fiery glowing eyes settle in your direction.

“You…” the figure says, taking its time to study you, “Are lucky, mortal.” You begin to lose your grip on the floor and slowly realize you’re floating. You’d be excited if you weren’t… Well, you know. The figure draws you closer like an angler reeling in a fish. You struggle to move your arms, avert your gaze, ANYTHING, but an invisible force clamps around you like a chain. The brings you closer and closer until you can’t help but peer into the burning orbs sitting in his eye sockets.

“You… Will be my first thrall…” You can’t look away anymore.

“The first… Of many!” You feel one of his many fingers graze the back of your neck.

“Today… This place…” Boney fingers close one by one onto each vertebra.

“To’MARROW’...You feel a surge of heat.

“THE WOOOOOOOOOORRRLLLD!!!”

With that, your senses go black. Your sight. Your hearing. Your smell. Taste… And touch.

Your thoughts are the last thing to go.
>What are your last thoughts?

>>4546729
>Will we find out what's going on?
>Will rolls become better?
>Will Stanley be okay?
>All of these questions, and more, will probably NOT be answered tomorrow! Until then, though, STAY TUNED and thanks for joining! Hopefully I will see you tomorrow.

>>4546729
Was the game rigged from the start?

>>4546729
FUCK

>>4546729
"I really hope this isn't as bad as it actually seems."

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>>4546796
>BETHESDA SOFTWORKS PRESENTS

Whoops, wrong reel.

>>4546796

As everything goes dark, your final thoughts linger on what lead you to this peculiar turn of events. Was there anything you could have done differently? Were you doomed the minute you decided to vacuum, or were things set in stone from the moment you first put on your ESC Cap? Was it meant to happen to you specifically, or were you merely in the wrong place at the wrong time? Why a skeleton, of all things?

Whatever it was, you can safely assume that fate, if it exists, screwed the proverbial pooch. You can’t even die right--here you are on your presumably LAST thoughts and all you can feel is a sensation akin to lying in a river, ears underwater and muffled by the water. You can’t see, hear, feel, or move, but you don’t seem to be having any trouble thinking. Is this death? Kind of a raw deal.

>>4547078

You can’t remember which stage of dying it is, but as long as you have the time, you might as well keep on thinking. Maybe, you think (since that’s all you CAN do), things aren’t that bad. Maybe this is temporary and you’ll wake up in the security room. Maybe someone will rescue you and you’ll be a hero for… Well. You’ll have to think about that. Maybe there isn’t a deranged skeleton on the loose thanks to you. Maybe you’re not circling the drain of mortality and you’re actually fine!

That’s a lot of maybes, Stanley. And a lot of wishful thinking.

>>4546995

Oh, now you remember. Stage 3 is anger. You can’t remember what stage you were on before, but you certainly are starting to feel anger right now. I mean, come on! You did your job! You had some decent friends! Sure, you didn’t reach out as much as you could have, but that’s what the internet is for, right? You were still working on the relationship thing, but you can’t rush love, right? You had so many things planned, too! You were going to go to college to become… Something! You had time to think about it! And now here you are, floating down a river of consciousness waiting for something, ANYthing to happen. That boney prick didn’t even let you die, really! Unless he did, in which case death is boring as hell!

>Cont.

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>>4547634
Something stirs in your consciousness. Like someone connecting two live wires in the deep recesses of your mind. You feel a growing sense of disdain and anger--they aren’t much, but they’re feelings, right? Something holding you snaps, and like an orchestral crescendo your senses return!
You feel yourself rising, cold air on your cheeks, the smell of factory-grade cleaning materials, and most importantly--the sound of your voice escaping through your open mouth.

“FUCK”

The sudden use of your lungs winds you--causing you to double over coughing and wheezing from the strain. It felt like the first time using them. As your coughing fit subsides, your eyes focus the fuzz of the room into an actual picture--you seem to be in a storage locker of sorts, maybe one of the ones in Shipping and Receiving. Your deductions are interrupted by a scratchy, unfamiliar voice from beyond a set of crude metal doors in front of you.

“Keep it down in there, fleshbag, or we’ll shut you up!”

You blink a few times. As if expecting an answer, the unmistakable shape of an alligator--or maybe a crocodile--’s skull peers through the bars near the top of the doors--its empty eye sockets regarding you with what almost looks like… Annoyance?

“You hear me, meatsack?”

“Calm down, Al--it heard what you said.”

Another skull joins the alligator. You’re guessing some sort of jungle cat.

“Besides, what’s she going to do anyways? BREATHE the walls away?”

The crocodile’s jaw clacks up and down with laughter.

“Oooh, or maybe it will use its DIGESTIVE SYSTEM!

Before you can flick a snappy response their way, another voice whispers in your ear.

“Take it easy, pal--we’ve got em’ right where we want them! Just do your thing with the ‘multiple options’ and we’ll blow this joint!”

On instinct you glance around the room, trying to locate the whisperer, but aside from a shelf, two crates, and a cobweb, the storage unit is empty.

Welcome back, Stan! Looks like you’ve gone crazy.

>What will you do? Choose one or more of the following.
>Talk to your captors.
>Check your person for injuries and belongings. Didn’t you DIE?
>Try to speak to your whisperer.
>Write-In

>>4547640
The skulls probably won't give us much information. Let's talk to our whispering pal, and ask him what's going on.

>>4547640
>>Check your person for injuries and belongings. Didn’t you DIE?
>>Try to speak to your whisperer.

>>4547669
>>4547686
Self care and making friends, got it! Writing.

>>4547669
>>4547686
You ignore your captors for the moment--something tells you they aren’t just going to let you out for good behavior. Moreover, whoever is whispering to you didn’t seem to have any trouble doing it just now, so they can wait. You’ve got more important things to consider.

For instance, didn’t you DIE? You can’t say you’ve had much experience with near-death experiences, aside from that one prank your dad pulled in the pool that one Summer. What the hell happened in the factory? Why are you still breathing? Is this Hell?

You take a deep breath and examine yourself section by section. Your front, though caked in bone dust, is still more or less intact. A quick peek under your coveralls confirms that you aren’t even bruised--not even from your attempt at Le Parkour. You twiddle your toes and do a few quick stretches with your legs--all systems nominal. Last, you run your gloved hands over your face and down your back, mainly focusing on where the skeleton… You think his name was Tybalt? Where HE grabbed you. Aside from the familiar throbbing pain of a bruise in the making, you don’t feel any different. In fact, you’re bold enough to say that you feel pretty darn good!

“QUIET, BLOODBAG!”

Whoops, sorry. You feel good. Even better, whoever put you in here left you with all of your belongings, save for the Backuum Cleaner 2000. That’s right--your TELESCOPING MOP, MICROBUCKET, SPRAY BOTTLE, your CAP, and even your KEYS, COMPANY-PROVIDED BLACKBERRY, and CELLPHONE are totally there! Wow, these guys really suck at their jobs! Good thing, too--upon returning to the living you’ve noticed it’s quite chilly in here. Shaking off the shivers, you breathe a sigh of relief. Looks like everything’s okay. Unless, that is, something’s happening to you that you CAN’T tell from a quick once-over.

Oh man, now you’ve made yourself worried again.

>Contd.

>>4547719
In a vague attempt at distracting yourself, you try to get the attention of the whisperer. A short ‘psst’ might do the trick.

“Psst”

“What can I do for you, girly?”

Oh good, that worked.

“Oh boy, you look like you’re about to ask me some questions.”

Hey, this guy’s pretty sharp.

What do you ask him? Choose 1 or more of the following.
>Who ARE you? Why can't I see you?
>What HAPPENED? How did we get here?
>Write-In

>>4547734
>What HAPPENED? How did we get here?
>Check for signal on phone, if you have an internet connection check the news to see if there are any pertinent headlines.

>>4547740
Support

>>4547740
>>4547745
Writing!

>>4547740
>>4547745
Whoever he is, the voice seems a lot more comfortable with the current situation than you are. Taking a seat near the back of the storage unit for some privacy, you ask yourself what happened. Yep, totally sane.

The disembodied voice clears its throat and answers as though it was telling a story to an old friend over coffee.

“What happened? Well I’ll be honest with ya, cupcake--I don’t totally know myself. I was doing my job as usual, support, when all of a sudden things became a whole lot clearer than I’m used to. I felt you get grabbed by that big guy--think his name was Tim? Anyways, he grabs ya, things get warm, and suddenly I was able to talk! You didn’t seem to be doing so good, though--droolin’ all over the place like a Saint Bernard. Anyways, Tim got angry, I could tell that much. Tossed us onto the ground like a candy wrapper and started grabbing other bones instead.”

You shift to a lying down position using your bucket as a pillow, barely stifling a yawn. The whisperer clearly doesn’t notice.

“That’s where THOSE guys came from.” You can’t see anyone pointing, but you know who the whisperer is talking about. “Tim started puttin’ bones together like LICO blocks and poof, they came to life, “YESS MASSTERR” and all! That made him pretty happy with himself, so he kept doing that until he had a few more bone buddies made.”

You politely interject and ask how MANY he made.

“What am I, an accountant? If I had to guess I’d say somewhere between eight and… Hm… A few hundred? He was able to do it real quick with that magic he was using.”

You wince.

“As I was sayin’, Tim makes a few more pals, then he gives YOU another shot. I tried ta stop him, but… Anyways, things get warm a few more times, but I guess he didn’t get what he wanted, because he tossed us onto the ground again and started yapping to his goons something along the lines of “FIND MORE HUMANS!”

You frown. Besides being a potentially dangerous situation, this will definitely not look good on your performance review.

>Contd.

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>>4547783
“Anywho, he had some goons toss us in here, and now we’re finally communicatin’! About time too, because I have a few notes about your current technique--”

You shut the voice out of your mind for a moment as a thought forms--what if that thing finds its way into town? Good Boy isn’t exactly remote, and if that skeleton gets to the graveyard or worse, the DAIRY FARMS…

You shake the thought out of your head and pull out your phone. As you unlock it you pray to the wifi gods that you have bars--and thankfully your prayers are answered! Your signal isn’t strong, but it’s there! In a series of vibrations your phone comes to life with several notifications--missed phone calls from your supervisor Jerry, texts from your pals Sybil and Gus, and a notice from the Bus app saying your ride home might be delayed.

Ignoring them for now, you pop open your Web Browser App and navigate to your local news station’s website. The front page is ablaze with headlines, but a live news feed dominates the page. As you gingerly press your finger onto the link, you steel yourself for the reality of the situation. The site pinwheels. You see the buffer bar load about a pixel every four seconds.

“Whatcha watching? You listening to me?”

You ignore the voice as the stream finally loads! No wait, it’s an ad. Damn it. Okay, AFTER the shampoo ad (which reminds you, you need to pick up some more conditioner if you survive this), the video loads and your worst fears (well, CURRENT worst fears) are realized.

“--ppened only about an hour ago and the situation is getting worse by the minute!” The feed focuses on a disheveled reporter ducking behind a concrete barricade. The sound of gunfire and sirens dominate the background.

“The police haven’t released a statement, but you only have to listen behind me to get the full story! Like something out of a cheap movie, Clearwater is being attacked by the living dea--”

The feed pauses right before the reporter finishes her sentence. Another ad? No, worse--your display goes dark and the sound cuts out. You mash the power button a few times, but no dice--you KNEW you should have brought your charger tonight! This is what happens when you play games for the whole bus ride!

“Ooh, rough. Hey, you hear about those portable chargers? Lifesavers, or so I’ve heard.”

Shut up, voice. Shut up so you can focus on not panicking.

What do?
>Don’t freak out.
>Freak out.
>Freak out. BIG time.

>>4547814
Also while you're at it, what do you do next?
>Talk to your guards
>Ask your... pal? Another Question (Write-In)
>Investigate your cell a bit.
>Write-In

>>4547814
>Don’t freak out.
>Ask your... pal?
>What's your name?
>Investigate your cell a bit.

Here's hoping our new imaginary friend at least sounds hot

>>4547885
Keeping cool, I like that. Writing!

>>4547885
Okay, take it easy. It’s the news--they blow things out of proportion all the time. Besides, a skeleton army led by an ancient undead wizard can’t be that bad, right?

Never mind. Just shove all of those bad emotions in the corner like you usually do. There you go. Atta girl.

“You’re taking this whole thing pretty well, ya know that?” The voice croons. Now that you think about it, he almost sounds familiar--there was this movie you watched once. It was about some robbers who all came together for a big heist that went wrong. This guy, whoever he is, sounds like one of those characters. You’d be annoyed by the voice if he didn’t seem to be on your side.

Allies, it seems, are in short supply here in the cooler.

Which reminds you, you never really asked the voice what his name is.

“My name? You wanna know my name? Well it’s about time you asked! I swear, we’ve been together for years and only NOW you’re gonna ask me? No respect…”

Yea, sorry. Present issues and all that. You repeat the question.

“Yea, you’d better be! Although… Truth be told…”

You can almost feel the whisper awkwardly shift. Weird.

“I don’t really… Have a name. To be honest this whole ‘being able to talk’ thing started right after Tim grabbed you, so uh… I don’t really have a name.”

Hm.

>You don’t really need a name--The Voice is working out pretty well for you!
>Give me some details and maybe I can come up with one. What do you do?
>A name, huh? How about… (Write-In)

>>4547908
>Give me some details and maybe I can come up with one. What do you do?

>>4547991
Writing!

>>4547991
You tilt your head to the side and rest your chin on your palm in contemplation. Names, huh? You of all people know the importance of a well-chosen name. You close your eyes to think for a moment, but nope. It just isn’t coming to you.

You ask the voice to describe itself a bit more. Sometimes that makes naming things easier!

“Describe myself, huh? Sure, I can do that! Geez, where do I start… No one’s really asked me anything like this before…”

You shrug and ask the voice what skills it has. What’s its deal?

“Deal? Well let’s see… I’ve backed you up since you were a kid… I’d like to think I’m pretty strong even though I don’t work out much…”

The voice pauses in between each item as if to give you time to consider each point. You let out a noncommittal huff and motion for the voice to continue.

“Well… I’m also pretty flexible! And I help you get around, and create blood cells, and--”

“Hold it…” you say. “Are you…”

Before you can finish the sentence, your arm extends outwards on its own, then extends a thumb in affirmation.

“My skeleton?”

“NO!”

Your crocodile guard tosses something through the bars, barely missing your head. With an echoing CLANG it tumbles to the ground in the back corner.

“Now SHUT. UP!”

Your skeleton raises your finger to your mouth in a ‘shushing’ pose. Gotcha.

“ANYWAYS” your bones continue, undeterred by airborne projectiles, “I think you get the picture. I’ve also got some good news for you, if you want to hear it.”

You agree, of course. Your stocks have been running rather low.

“Well, ever since Tim grabbed yo-err, US, I’ve noticed a few uh… Changes. To me. And by extension, you.”

Your skeleton tries to talk with his hands, but you wrest control and continue lounging. As you do, a strange thought comes up--why do you have a male skeleton? Ew.

“Right, good news! Let me ask you, have you felt odd lately?”

You can’t stare incredulously at your skeleton, but you try your best.

“Right, dumb question. Gotcha. Well here’s the deal. Whatever that wizard guy did had some sort of side effect.”

“The good kind?” You query, your interest piqued.

“You betcha, cupcake. You see, I’ve changed a little bit. For the BETTER.

>Contd.

>>4548037
>And YOU get to decide on what that change is! Choose ONE of the following massive magickal changes to your bones. That's right, it's time to...

BONE UP!

>BONE UP: STRENGTH--”You probably didn’t notice, but I’ve gotten stronger. Denser. BEEFIER, baby. You’re a little more sluggish, yea, but you can throw and take punches like a pro!”

>BONE UP: SPEED--”I know you’re not much of a jogger, but we’re FASTER now. Something happened to our tendons and now we’re quicker than a bullet! I ain’t saying we’re FASTER than a bullet, but we could probably dodge some now!”

>BONE UP: STEALTH--”This is a weird one--I’m hollow now. Not like a bird, mind, but BETTER. We’re SNEAKY. We’re LIGHT. We’re quiet, we can jump higher, fall further. Cool, right? On the other hand, we’re a bit more fragile, but who cares if no one can hear us?”

>>4548040
>This is a pretty big choice, so I'll leave it and check back in tomorrow. Good luck on the choosing and thanks again for giving BONES QUEST a try!

>One last choice to make on top of the big one above:

Choose ONE:

>Give bones a name (Write-In)
>DON'T give bones a name, EVER
>WAIT A WHILE before giving bones a name

>>4548040
>BONE UP: SPEED--”I know you’re not much of a jogger, but we’re FASTER now. Something happened to our tendons and now we’re quicker than a bullet! I ain’t saying we’re FASTER than a bullet, but we could probably dodge some now!”

>Give bones a name (Write-In)

Name him Ly. Lol

>>4548040
>BONE UP: SPEED--”I know you’re not much of a jogger, but we’re FASTER now. Something happened to our tendons and now we’re quicker than a bullet! I ain’t saying we’re FASTER than a bullet, but we could probably dodge some now!”
>>4548046
>Give bones a name (Write-In)
Mr. Skellington

>>4548040
>BONE UP: SPEED
>WAIT A WHILE before giving bones a name

>>4548046
>>4548101
Backing this

>>4548040
>BONE UP: STRENGTH--”You probably didn’t notice, but I’ve gotten stronger. Denser. BEEFIER, baby. You’re a little more sluggish, yea, but you can throw and take punches like a pro!”
>WAIT A WHILE before giving bones a name

>>4548101
backing this as well, we are gonna be fast and bust some bonebags up. I am getting a Luigi's Mansion vibe from this whole quest as well.

>>4548101
>>4548224
>>4548249
>>4548396
>>4548418
>>4548431
Being compared to Luigi's Mansion is a better compliment than I could have asked for, thank you! What say we SPEED things up a bit, hm? Writing!

Also, Democracy rules in favor of naming our poor bones Ly. The cycle repeats itself...

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>>4548046
>>4548101
>>4548224
>>4548249
>>4548396
>>4548418
>>4548431

You haven’t gone through big changes like this since puberty, but it’s hard not to be excited when your very own skeleton tells you it’s undergone some updates.

“First, I’ll be blunt. We weren’t exactly a track star before all of this.”

You frown. As if your bones would know how much a gym membership costs.

“That said, I can safely say that thanks to whatever Tim did to us, I feel a whole lot FASTER! Of course, seein’ is believin’, so…”

Your bones force you up out of your seat, then have you run laps around the tiny cell. It’s not a lot of room to maneuver, but you have to admit you’re going a LOT faster than before! You’re barely even panting, either! The alligator guard shoots you a withering look through the bars on the door, but says nothing. You do a few more circles, then finish up with a cartwheel.

Holy crap, you can do cartwheels.

“Not bad, huh princess?”

Not bad at all. In fact, you can’t help but wonder if other things have improved too. Your reflexes, perhaps?

“Probably! It’s a lot easier to move you around now, that’s for sure. Now if you could lose a few more pounds, we’d really be--”

Yep yep, gotcha. Faster now. Eager to test your new powers, you rap on the door and politely ask the guards to toss another object at you. You weren’t ready last time.

“I don’t feel like it anymore. Now stop sloshing around in there or we’ll break your legs.”

Fair enough.

>Contd.

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>>4548593
You return to your corner and gaze down at your gloved hands. Not too shabby, bones, not too shabby at all. You’ll have to thank that wizard too later on, if what your bones say is true. Was giving you these powers some sort of third-dimensional Chess move or something?

“You mean FOURTH-dimensional?”

Yea, you meant to say that. Whatever the case, your bones have done good. Real good.

“Well shucks, this is the first time you’ve really said ‘thank you’...”

So good, in fact, that they deserve a name. One that commands power. Respect. Fear, if necessary.

“Ooh, I like that last bit.”

Oh I KNOW you do hombre, you say to yourself. I KNOW you do. Which is why your bones are getting a very special name. One that has all of those qualities and is also, like your bones, very special to you.

“Aw shucks, Stan…”

Your bones are hereby named “Ly”.

You wait for a reaction. You don’t get one. You clear your throat and repeat yourself.

“... You mean that crappy name that got everyone to call you ‘Lytard?’ I was there back in Middle School with you, you know.

Yes, that one. But now's not the time to dig up the past. This time… This time will be different! Different, Ly. Wear it with pride.

“Alright…” Your bones don’t sound too enthused. Don’t worry, they’re just getting used to it. They’re happy with your choice--honest!

Now then, speaking of speed, you’ve got places to be. How do you get OUT of here?

>Try to talk to your guards
>Look around in your cell for anything useful
>Ask Ly for help
>Write-In

>>4548607
>>Look around in your cell for anything useful
>>Ask Ly for help

>>4548607
>Look around in your cell for anything useful

>>4548607
>Look around in your cell for anything useful
>Ask Ly for help

>>4548656
>>4548666
>>4548707
Writing!

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>>4548656
>>4548666
>>4548707
Right, you’ve spent more than enough time in here. If you don’t start thinking of an escape plan you’re going to be pulling unpaid overtime. Also you might die.

First, you take stock of yourself. In the interest of time you compose a hasty list of your inventory on your COMPANY-ISSUED BLACKBERRY and decide to call it ‘The List of Stuff I Have’. Rolls right off the tongue.

>1 CAP with the Good Boy logo and the letters ESC.
>1 coveralls (Note: get these washed)
>2 rubber boots
>1 COMPANY-ISSUED BLACKBERRY.
>1 Dead CELLPHONE
>1 MICROBUCKET (carries around water)
>1 TELESCOPING MOP
>1 SPRAY BOTTLE w/CLEANING FLUID! (Note: keep away from skin and mucous membranes)
>1 KEYRING with WORK and APARTMENT KEYS
>1 painfully small WALLET. 67 cents inside made up of various coins. Also a debit card. Chip currently SMUDGED.
>1 super helpful skeleton (Note: Ly insisted you write this down)

You quickly survey your cell one more time. The ceiling and walls are made of metal, but the metal in question isn’t exactly thick. This whole thing strikes you less as a storage unit and more of a storage SHACK. Flimsy, but it does its job.

Aside from an EMPTY METAL SHELF in the back corner, there are also two CRATES. You try to pop one open, but stop when it proves too difficult with your bare hands. One of the guards laughs at you, but you brush it off. You notice a small sliver of light behind the crates, but exploring further would require moving them. You’re not too sure your captors would ‘dig’ that.

The SHELF is just that--a metal shelf. You assume at one point there were a few things on here, but now it’s left uncomfortably bare. Above it lies the ceiling, rattling from what you assume is wind from outside. One section, you notice, appears to be shaking harder than the other ceiling slats. When the guards aren’t looking, you extend your TELESCOPING MOP and give the section a quick poke. Hey, it moved a bit!

“Hey! What the SKELL are you doing with that thing?”

You hide your mop behind your back, but it’s too late. The guard is already leering at you through the bars, clearly awaiting an answer.

You explain that it’s a massager for your… Intestines. Yep.

The guard pauses, looking at you like a parent looks at a child when they steal cookies from the jar.

“... Disgusting. Stop that.”

Phew. These guys aren’t exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer, are they?

>Contd.

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>>4548806
Having thoroughly assessed your resources, you sidle back up to the corner and whisper "Ly!" out of the corner of your mouth. He doesn't respond.

"Ly!"

"SHHH!" Replies the guard.

You begin to explain that you aren't talking to him, but stop when you realize that might have consequences. You shut up for a moment and are rewarded with a curt reply from your skeleton.

"Yes, Stanley, what can I do for you?"

Oh good, he doesn't sound that mad any more.

You quietly ask for Ly's stance on the situation. Does he have any hot tips or advice? Your bones sit quietly for a moment, then begin to reply.

"If I were you, and I kinda am, I would see if we could distract those guys somehow before doing anything. From what I picked up while they were picking YOU up, they don't strike me as the brightest bulbs in da box."

You picked up on that, yes.

"Good! I saw that thing you pulled with the ceiling--if we try to pop through there we might be able to get out of their reach for a bit. We can also see what's behind the boxes, but we might have to mess with the wall a little bit. Which reminds me. Did you pick up that thing that guard tossed at you?"

Wh-

Oh. OH! Right. No, you didn't forget to add the thing! That would be ridiculous. How could you forget the LARGE TIRE IRON in the corner of the shed? You pick it up and pocket it just to show Ly you knew about it.

"Anyways, you might be able to use that to distract them a little bit. We can also try to lure them in here, but I don't know about fighting em. They're not smart, but they have other stuff to compensate, if you know what I mean."

Ly flexes your bicep to paint a picture. Crystal clear.

"Anyways, those are some of my ideas. I'll go along with whatever you want to do, but be careful! You're lookin' out for the two of us, remember?"

How could you forget? Anyways, what's the next step of your master plan?

>Rooftop escape. Out of reach and out of here.
>Through the wall. You think there might be a way out behind the boxes.
>Try to lure the guards inside.
>Write-In

>>4548841
>Rooftop escape. Out of reach and out of here.

>>4548841
>Try to lure the guards inside.
>Use our speed to get around them and then lock them inside

>>4548972
+1

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>>4548972
>>4548999
Smells like the sweet, sweet scent of consensus!
>Roll a 1d100 to see how successful you are at outmaneuvering these boneheads! I will choose the BEST OF 3 ROLLS. Extra tidbit: your SPEED BONE-UP will help you out on this roll! Good luck!

Rolled 56 (1d100)

>>4549061
Here's hoping dice aren't shit like before

Rolled 98 (1d100)

>>4549061
Oh boy

Rolled 49 (1d100)

>>4549061

>>4549067
>>4549070
>>4549080
>98

That is a spicy, spicy roll there. Writing!

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>>4549067
>>4549070
>>4549080
There’s an old janitor saying: “Why climb OVER furniture when you can MOVE it?” You were never really able to work out the meaning, but that MOVE part gave you an idea. It’s risky, though. These guys would have to be REALLY dumb for this to work the way you want it to. Really dumb.

You make sure your two guards aren’t looking, then run over to the door and squat down next to it. You take a shallow breath, then knock on the door. With an exasperated sigh, the Alliguard turns around to peer through the bars. When he doesn’t see you, all bets are off.

“HAL! LOOK!”

The other guard turns around and peers inside.

“Yep, it’s a room.”

The Alliguard nudges his partner in what sounds like the ribs, making a sound akin to someone bumping a xylophone.

“It’s gone! The one boss told us to keep in here! GONE!”

You hear the guards fumbling with the locking mechanism for the door, the panic evident on their clacking jaws.

“This is bad, Hal! This is VERY BAD. What if it tries to… DIGEST US?”

The guards kick the door open and you finally get a full look at them. The alligator--or was he a crocodile? You never figured it out--and the jungle cat skulls both sit on the frames of what appear to be…. Bear skeletons? Something big. They enter the room one at a time clutching sharpened metal spears, barely avoiding stepping on your toes. Man, why did you hide on THIS side of the door?

“I heard they have an organ that spits acid on command…”

You see your chance. As the second guard squeezes in, you slip behind them like a cockroach and escape the storage unit. As they step further into your ex-cell, you daintily grab both doors, close them eeeeeever so quietly, and drop the latch locking them in before they even notice you’re gone. And…. They don’t.

Seriously, you were going to gloat through the bars at them, but they haven’t even taken a moment to actually look at the door. You've waited about a minute, too.

“Maybe it drooled on itself for lubrication and slipped right under the walls!” whispers the alligator, inspecting the foot of the shelf. The cat says nothing, a look of genuine worry on its face.

“I’d feel kinda bad if they weren’t jerks.” Muses Ly. You nod in quiet assent. Satisfied, you slip away from the storage unit and creep down a short hall.

>Contd.

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>>4549107
A pair of double doors waits for you at the end--looks like you were right. This IS one of the storage areas in SHIPPING/RECEIVING.

“That means we’re almost outta here!” Ly exclaims. Thankfully it seems like only YOU can hear him, but you don’t give him an answer. Peeking your head through the double doors, you notice several more animal guards milling around, loading crates onto trucks, and generally enjoying their new lives. A goon with a fish skull accidentally bumps a goat carrying a crate, causing some of its contents to spill to the floor. Animal bones. A lot of em.

As the two guards start yelling at each other, you plan your next move.

“What’s our next move, cupcake?”

Shh. You’re figuring it out! Several plans begin to form in your brain as you scan the room.

You could sneak into the back… OR the driver’s seat of a truck. That might get you out of here. It also might alert everyone in the room, factory, and roads leading home to your presence if you’re driving. Also, who knows where they’re taking these crates?

You could also take your chances through one of the loading bays, but Clearwater proper is a bit far away from work--plus walking in the rain? You’ll catch a cold!

Your last brainwave was inspired by one of your favorite movies--you spot a vent in the corner of the next room--you could pop it off and climb around to a less-populated area of the factory. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve used the vents to get out of work.

Of course, there are doors leading from shipping to other parts of the factory too. You kinda like the vents more, though.

But what if there's something else here that you haven't seen yet? Something important? Man, this is hard.

“What’s our next MOVE?”

Zip it!

>Let’s go bone truckin’! Hopefully the keys are in one.
>Stealth’s worked out so far--let’s stow away in the back of a truck and see where it takes us.
>Let’s just get out and walk. You could use the exercise.
>It’s healthy to vent every now and then.
>Write-In

>>4549118
>It’s healthy to vent every now and then.
To a "less populated" area, then walk away home!

>>4549118
>It’s healthy to vent every now and then.
Would Parable or Para be a name he likes more?

>>4549144
That's 'Parble' to you, buster. You're not sure though--Ly MIGHT prefer that more, but if you change his name now everything you said earlier will seem silly and he will never let you live it down. It's the principle of the matter that counts here. And the fact that you're sneaking through a factory of animal skeleton mishmashes.

No, the name stays... For now.

>>4549125
>>4549144
Also, writing! This will probably be the last update of the night.

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>>4549125
>>4549144
The vents. Gotta be. Ly doesn’t even have to say anything--he knows how much fun you have crawling through the vents. Sure, they tend to get sooty and there was that one time you fell through the ceiling into the staff lounge and busted the new coffee maker, but other than that the vents are a place of peace and reflection.

>Let’s roll some 1d10--
Nope, get the hell outta here. You know these vents like the back of your hand and can pull the cover off blindfolded. You don’t need no stinkin’ rolls, especially after how well people have been rolling lately. Except for that one guy--he did good.

The argument escalates into a fist-bone fight, and THAT’S when you make your move. Using your newfound speed, you slip through the doors, scamper past the brawl, and slide like a hockey puck over to the vent cover in the corner. You take a moment to peer behind you as you undo the bolts--seems like the fish and goat goons have an audience now. Several more animal skeleton mishmashes drop what they’re doing to hoot and holler, giving you plenty of time to slip into the vent and replace the cover.

Creeping like a rat through a loud, cold, claustrophobic maze is spooky and generally not recommended to most people, but you aren’t one of them. You follow the vents left, right, and upwards, and soon you have the best seat in the house--a line of vents directly above the no holds barred match below you. The audience clicks and clacks with excitement as the fighters take turns smacking and twisting each other into all sorts of configurations. Ly takes control of your skull and leans forward, engrossed in the display.

“You sure know how to entertain a guy, cupcake.”

You shrug and lean back, careful not to bump against the side too hard. All you need now is a pack of Pickle Chips and a six pack and you’d be in parad-Holy COW, that can’t be a legal move!

Ly averts your eyes as the goat fighter twists the fish into a position too graphic even for /qst/ standards. The audience hisses and groans, and you use that as your excuse to leave. Traffic will be a pain anyways if you stick around for much longer.

You’re halfway to the other side of the room when the fighting stops. And the hollering. And, well, everything. Ly pauses you and cranes your eyes back to another grille overlooking the loading area. The goons are all standing now, hands, claws, flippers, and digits crossed behind their backs. You can hear who’s coming long before you see him.

The whole dock is dominated by the sound of slow, methodical steps, each one clanging with the same cadence and clank. Behind that, a quiet, yet constant rattle. You sit in the vent like a statue, not daring to make a sound.

>Contd.

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>>4549179
The bitter, but familiar scent of burning tobacco wafts its way into your perch, and that’s when you notice its origin--a thick cigar stuck between the pearly teeth of a lion’s skull sitting on the spine, ribs, and shoulders of a fully grown grizzly bear, at least you think. He’s wearing some sort of… Hey, wait a minute. That’s Blumenkrantz’ security coat! Ooh, he’s gonna be steamed.

You don’t recognize where the smoker’s legs came from, but if you had to guess you’d say a large ostrich or something.

“An emu?” Ly whispers.

Sure, Ly. Whatever you say. The icing on the cake, however, is the long trail of tailbones culminating in a rattle. You only know one animal that has one of those.

“A rattlesnake.”

…Okay, two animals.

The figure below paces around his subordinates for a moment like a teacher waiting for an answer. If any of them have one, they’re too shaken to share.

“Oh dear, did I interrupt some fun?”

The lion’s voice is posh, like that of a butler, or a waiter at a fancy restaurant. One goon, the fish guy, stutters out a response.

“J-j-j-just settlin’ differences, K-K-King…”

“Stan…” Ly whispers, not taking your eyes off of the spectacle below.

Hold on, Ly. The lion takes a long drag from the cigar and exhales--sending smoke through his eye sockets, jaw, and teeth. The fish looks down, but doesn’t say a word.

“Well by all means…” The lion struts around to the back of the fish goon, resting a long claw on his shoulder blade.

“Allow me to assist.”

Like a gardner plucking a weed, the lion tears the fish’s arm from its socket with one claw while simultaneously crushing the fish skull into powder with the other. With a chuckle, the one named ‘King’ presses the arm against his chest. With a sputter of electrical energy, the arm connects. The lion uses it to take the cigar out of his mouth, then raises his other arms as if commanding an orchestra.

“Far be it below me to let my subordinates settle differences like ANIMALS. We settle problems together! After all, a lone lion… Is a?”

He pauses.

“Dead lion.” Recites the goons. King claps his non-cigar arms together, a grin forming on his face.

“Staaaaaan.”

“Stupendous. Status update everyone: The Master is ready for his sacrifice. Go get her.”

You exhale. Time to go.

“Stanley.”

Yes, Ly? Kinda busy right now!

“Take a look at his bones for a second.”

You do so. Yep, still terrifying. Everyone on the bus, chop chop. You pull away, but Ly refocuses your sight on King again.

“Look closer.”

Humoring him, you squint at King and his horror show of bones. Didn’t Ly see what he did with that claw? And what about the tail? Why does he ne-

Oh.

One by one, King’s bones begin to glow. Not all of them, sections. The tail, claws, and even the legs. It takes you a minute to realize you’re staring.

“Stan, don’t they look kinda….”

And drooling.

“Tasty?”

>Contd.

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>>4549191
You scuttle through the vents trying to avoid thinking what you just thought. Tasty? Get real!

"I felt it too, Stan. Crystal clear. Those ain't your average bones."

That's the understatement of the evening, Ly. Speaking of, you really want to get outta here now. Something about the use of the word 'sacrifice' really rubbed you the wrong way.

"In that case, how do we get out?" You want to give Ly an answer, but you can't. Not yet.

A few more moments of scampering through the vents delivers you to your destination--the junction. A section of the vents with paths leading to almost every section of the building.

You pause for a moment to rest and get your bearings. Obviously you don't want to try the front entrance--there's clearly more goons patrolling than you had originally planned on. Before you assumed these guys were pretty dumb, but they have a velvet-voiced cigar smoker giving them orders. That's never a good sign.

The best options, therefore, are as follows.

One junction leads you to the ROOFTOPS. You don't know what the security situation is like outside, but maybe you can climb down and slip away?

Another junction leads you to BONE DISPOSAL, your least favorite part of the building. Besides smelling awful, it's a veritable hellhole where unusable bones and refuse are tossed into giant incinerators. There might be a way out through there, but that route has its own hazards.

Your other long shot can be found in the STEAM TUNNELS. It's a long way down, but besides finding a way out through there you might also gain access to the boilers--those could make for fine tools if you were desperate enough.

Finally, there's the EXECUTIVE SUITES. There's a route straight to the employee underground parking lot there, so that's your first stop if you want some wheels. That said, your bosses are pretty darn paranoid--that area is also dripping with security cameras. Not a big deal if your new friends don't know how to operate them, but now's not the best time to experiment, is it?

"You really know your vents, Stan."

You don't know the half of it. Time to move--if they haven't noticed you've escaped already, they wi-

"FIIIIIIIIND HEEEEEERRRR!"

Oh neat, guess that mystery's solved.

>Choose your escape route:
>Over the ROOFTOPS, step in time!
>BONE DISPOSAL. Yeech.
>I could use some steam therapy. STEAM TUNNELS it is!
>EXECUTIVE SUITES? Sounds pretty neat!

>This was the last update of the night! If you celebrate, have a fantastic Thanksgiving tomorrow and make sure to eat a lot! If you don't celebrate, stay healthy! I might drop in later tomorrow or on Friday--as usual, thanks for playing BONES QUEST!

>>4549195
>I could use some steam therapy. STEAM TUNNELS it is!
It's good for our complexion And we could get new tools.

>>4549195
>Over the ROOFTOPS, step in time!
Things that involve falling are bad for bones! Bad for ours too, but not as much.

>>4549195
>I could use some steam therapy. STEAM TUNNELS it is!
Maybe we can use the boilers to blow up the building, or at least cause substantial damage. Shouldn't be too difficult, just have to disable any safeties and turn it on.

>>4549195
>>I could use some steam therapy. STEAM TUNNELS it is!

>>4549226
>>4549316
>>4549396
>>4549447
As luck would have it, I have a bit of time before festivities start today. Steam Tunnels it is! Writing.

>>4549226
>>4549316
>>4549396
>>4549447

After a moment of contemplation, you head down the path towards the steam tunnels at the base of the factory. You don’t even need to check for signs or anything--as you crawl down the tunnel your face is met with a wave of warm, damp air. This is the place, alright.

“So about those bones…” Ly muses. Oh no, don’t start.

“Oh I WILL start. Did you see that glow? They’ve gotta be special.”

Yes, you saw the glow. Did HE see when that guy crushed that goon’s skull with one hand? Aren’t fish skulls supposed to be tougher than normal or something?

“No, no they… Listen, all I’m saying is that if we run into that King guy again, we oughta take a closer look at the merch, ya dig?”

Sure, I ‘dig’.

“Cool. Moving on, why the steam tunnels? Aren’t those full of… Steam?”

Yes, you huff, what’s your point?

“Sounds dangerous to me, is all.”

You gesture to the increasingly dark and damp tunnels around you. Yea, so’s this whole darn situation. You’re a ‘sacrifice’ now, remember? The sooner you get out of this place and as far away from these freaks as possible, the better. Besides, the steam tunnels are harmless. They just take the steam from the boilers and pump it around the factory so that everyone gets enough steam. It’s like a log flume ride.

“... So you have no clue what it does.”

You know that the boilers are extremely old and violently temperamental--that’s more than enough of a reason to stop down here. YOU know that steam is harmless, but animals don’t.

“Steam isn’t harmless, though, cupcake.”

Shows what YOU know. You pause your discussion for a moment as you arrive at your least favorite part of the Steam Tunnel junction. The drop.

You think at one point this tunnel was designed to let a lot of excess steam escape outside, but now you’re not so sure. Fragments of a maintenance catwalk litter the sides, creaking and teetering in the massive plume of steam rising from below. You’d barely be able to see them at all if you didn’t know where to look. A mass of pipes line the walls like vines leading up and down, hissing and dripping at different frequencies. You peer downwards through the central steam cloud, barely making out the bottom of the chamber. Is that WATER below?

Your thoughts are interrupted by a clang ringing through the tunnels.

“Maybe that was just a pipe?”

Yea, sure it was. You peer downwards and frown. You’re really going to have to put in a work safety complaint after all of this.

What do?
>You’re faster now--why not just parkour to the catwalks? You’re better at it now, you swear!
>Pipes are strong. Pipes are reliable. Let’s use the pipes.
>CANNONBAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL
>Write-In

>>4549483
>>You’re faster now--why not just parkour to the catwalks? You’re better at it now, you swear!

Watch as we still eat shit even with our fancy bone powers

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>>4549523
You take a few steps backwards and do a few quick leg stretches. You can’t see him, but if you could, Ly would be giving you a concerned look right now. You curtly tell him to relax and that you AREN’T going to do a cannonball into the water that’s probably below you.

Ly borrows your jaw and lets out a sigh of relief.

You will, however, be demonstrating your sick parkour skills to get down from here.

“Far be it from me to harp on a subject, but uh… You really wanna do that? After the last time?”

You bet. Come on, Ly, it’s the art of getting from one place to the other in the FASTEST and most EFFICIENT way possible. It would be stupid NOT to do Le Parkour right now.

“... I don’t remember us training for this. Ever.”

Don’t worry, you’re looking where you’re going! As long as you don’t slip, nothing breaks, and you don’t get scared or tired, this will be a breeze.

Wait....

Okay, you’d better do some rolls before you psyche yourself out of this.

>Roll a 1d100 to not eat shit! I’ll take the best of 3 rolls with an added BONEus from your BONE-UP SPEED SKILL! I might have to do meal prep after this, so if I don’t update until later or tomorrow, then that’s why. Roll well!

Rolled 5 (1d100)

>>4549556
and here we go

Rolled 47 (1d100)

>>4549556

Rolled 79 (1d100)

>>4549556

Rolled 4 (1d100)

>>4549556
I made the vote way up there without actually reading anything, but I came back and read the whole thread and this is really, really good, OP. It's rare to find quality comedy writequests. If you drop this I'm gonna kick you in the nuts.

Rolled 33 (1d100)

>>4549556

>>4550203
Thanks for the kind words--this is my first swing at a quest, though I've been reading them since they were still on /tg/. Glad someone enjoys it and I hope you continue to do so!

>>4549604
>>4549624
>>4549669
>>4550203
>>4550338
You've all been waiting long enough, so here it is: writing!

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>>4549604
>>4549624
>>4549669
>>4550203
>>4550338
It’s now or never, you can feel it in your bones. You take a step back for space, then breathe in. Then out. You lick the tip of your pointer finger and raise it to detect the wind direction--ew, tastes like bone dust and vent slime. Ly stays perfectly still in your body either out of interest, self-preservation, or something along the lines of both. You wait until every atom of your body, mind, AND soul is aligned, and when you feel they’re close enough, you SPRING.

>>4549604
>Roll: 5
You don’t even get halfway across the drop. Missing the shreds of catwalks by feet, you tumble head over heels to the bottom, barely able to yelp before your face gets intimately acquainted with the conc

>>4549669
>Roll: 79
Wait, what? She made it?

Okay, rewind. You don’t even get halfway across the drop, but you don’t need to. With the innate intuition of a Traceur (you’ll have to tell Ly what that is if you’re still alive in a few minutes, he’ll love it), you reach above you with both hands and grasp a dangling piece of pipe. You swing like a trapeze artist over the gap and use the momentum to clear the remainder of the drop.

The scrap of catwalk barely knows what hit it. By the time your foot touches metal, you’re already moving to your next target. You pivot to the right and push off the wall, using your momentum to run and leap, feet extended, to the next chunk of stable catwalk below you. The metal groans under your weight, but holds long enough for you to leap over a section of rusted railing, run along the circular wall, grab a cluster of pipes, and use those to slide to the bottom fireman-style. Swinging off the bottom, time slows to a crawl as you prepare for the denouement.

>Contd.

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>>4551252
Using the boost from your swing off of the pipes, you lean back. And back. And back. And eventually, below. The drop, the catwalks, the pipes, all of it spins like a kaleidoscope as you execute a solid backflip, landing with a loud SQUEAK as your rubber boots hit solid ground on a platform leading deeper into the steam tunnels.

You stand there for a moment, basking in the feeling of pure, unadulterated Le Parkour. The metal refuses to creak, and even the droplets of condensation quiet down in reverence. Even Ly has trouble speaking up.

“That was… I mean, that was bananas!”

Never mind. You don’t even answer him--your smug grin tells all the story that needs to be told. You really need to bring a HeadCam or something down here some time--this kind of stuff burns up on MeTube.

After an inordinate amount of silent gloating, you proceed further into the ‘guts’ of the steam tunnels with long, confident strides. Unfortunately, your adrenaline rush is cut short by the increasing heat and humidity--you take your cap off to fan your face, but it’s no use--this place is like Florida cranked up to 11. As you try and fail to cool yourself down, you feel a stirring in your bones.

“So I gotta ask… Is THAT what you were planning on doing instead of being a janitor? I gotta say, that’s one hell of a dream right there, cupcake.”

You slow your pace a bit and contemplate Ly’s question. IS it your dream to be a Le Traceur? I mean, you already ARE one, clearly, but a professional? You were also thinking of going to college too, right? What WERE you doing?

>Yep, a professional Le Traceur. That’s what Le Parkour people are called, by the way, Ly. It’s French.
>Not really… I actually want to be a (WRITE-IN).
>Eeh. You aren’t sure yet, but don’t act like you’re worried. Make an impassive gesture. That’s right, use BOTH of your arms.

>>4551254
>>Eeh. You aren’t sure yet, but don’t act like you’re worried. Make an impassive gesture. That’s right, use BOTH of your arms.
how old are we now? The real answer is a millionaire's wife.

>>4551332
>>4551254
Your ID tells you that you're currently at the ripe age of 20, but considering all of the pranks your folks pull on you the authenticity of that is middling, at best.

Your FAKE ID tells you (and liquor store clerks) that you're currently at the ripe age of 21. Conveniently, that also happens to be the legal drinking age in your state--a fact you like to remind clerks just in case they forgot. It also says your name is Stantley Portabello and, let's be fair, uses a really old photo of you.

That said, an ID is just another leash The Man puts on you. That's what you've heard, anyways.

>I'll keep this vote going and check in tomorrow to get a better count! Thanks again for checking out Bones Quest and seeya then!

>>4551254
Why does this feel like the biggest decision so far in the whole quest?

>Eeh. You aren’t sure yet, but don’t act like you’re worried. Make an impassive gesture. That’s right, use BOTH of your arms.

>>4551254
>Eeh. You aren’t sure yet, but don’t act like you’re worried. Make an impassive gesture. That’s right, use BOTH of your arms.

>>4551254
>Not really… I actually want to be a (WRITE-IN).
Pole Dancer!

>>4551464
+1

>>4551254
>Eeh. You aren’t sure yet, but don’t act like you’re worried. Make an impassive gesture. That’s right, use BOTH of your arms
Ambitionless bum time.

>>4551254
>>Not really… I actually want to be a (WRITE-IN).
Crime scene analyst, just for the lols

>>4551254
>>4551681
+1

>>4551368
You've never really said it to anyone.... but you always dreamed of being a professional criminal. Robbing jewellery stores or Mansions.

>>4551372
>>4551442
>>4551561
>>4551332
>Apathy

>>4551464
>>4551540
>Pole Dancer

>>4551681
>>4551775
>Crime Scene Analyst

>>4551776
>Criminal Mastermind

Wow, so many goals! Democracy has chosen indifference, but these will be kept in mind. Writing!

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>>4551372
>Why does this feel like the biggest decision so far in the whole quest?

>It’s important to take an interest in your future goals, anon--otherwise you might get stuck in a dead end job like Stan here and inadvertently cause a Skeleton Invasion. Don’t tell her I said that, though. She’s sensitive.

What was that about dead end? You’re right, there might be a few dead ends moving forward--Best keep track of where you’re going in here. If only you brought some breadcrumbs...

Your mind drifts to Ly's question. To be honest, the possibilities of the future HAVE flitted around in your mind once or twice since you started working here. Once upon a time you had to have had a dream, right? Maybe a Crime Scene Investigator? You're pretty good at finding messes. Your intimate knowledge with bones might help, too. Or maybe you should just drop the pretenses and become a career criminal. It's not like the cops can do Parkour. Screw that, why not just learn to pole dance or something? It's great for your core, apparently! Plus you get paid to dance AND meet wealthy and interesting people. What's not to like?

“Apathy is death. Worse than death.” At least, that’s what your Middle School Homeroom teacher told you. She’s probably still stuck in a dead-end teaching job while you’re doing parkour in steam tunnels though, so really: who’s the real loser here?

No siree, you’re going to go with the flow. It’s worked out for you so far, no sense in changing course now. Besides, you’re still young--you can worry about that crap later when you aren’t being hunted by skeletons.
You try your best to look as apathetic as you can, making sure to raise BOTH of your shoulders and lift BOTH of your arms in just the right blend of annoyed indifference. The “Eeh” comes out exactly like you planned--not bad! Teen Stanley would be impressed.

“Just trying to make conversation, kiddo. No need to unbottle the SASSparilla.”

Yea, whatever DAD. This whole situation has gotten you antsy enough and now you’re getting a guidance counselor lecture from your BONES. Golly.

You continue to ignore those thoughts as best as you can, but the growing heat just makes it harder. Must be all the steam.

>Contd.

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>>4551808
Yep, definitely all the steam. If you weren’t sure that there was a mold colony bigger than Texas down here, you might have considered using this place as a makeshift sauna. Heck, you might still use it if this whole skeleton thing blows over. “Rohkea rokan syö” you say to no one in particular.

“Gesundheit” quips Ly.

But seriously, this is a lot of steam. You’re not sure if it’s intentional or not, but jets of steam blast intermittently from rusted pipe connectors, and the tunnel itself is so steamy you can barely see in front of you. Ly lets out a low whistle, somehow.

“You sure you wanna go this way, cupcake? That’s a whole lotta steam to limbo under.”

What a wuss. It’s steam--that stuff never killed anyone. You move forward slowly, cranking your cap fanning to maximum overdrive.

“I dunno, that stuff gets pretty hot. You’d better watch your step, partner.”

Oh my GOD. As if this isn’t stressful enough. Rolling your eyes as hard as you can, you saunter over to one of the nearest pipe breaks and let out a loud huff. Pay attention, Ly, you might LEARN something.

You dip your face into the jet of steam to open up your pores a bit. Typical that a skeleton wouldn’t know anything about self-caOW OW OW OH FUCK


You reel backwards, your cheek burning like someone slapped you with a clothes iron. Tripping over a pipe on the floor, you fall to the damp floor and bump your head against the wall. For a minute you lay there whining, waiting for the pain to stop. Which it does, eventually. You bite your lip and say nothing--maybe Ly will be nice and--
“That’s it, I’m gonna have a chat with your nervous system--I think you might have a learnin’ disorder or somethin’.”

You DON’T have a learning disorder! Your pediatrician did a TEST! Ly doesn’t respond--clearly that shut him up.

Or not. You barely heard it over all of the hisses and groans of pipes and steam, but you did. Someone’s…. Or SomeTHING’s coming. You still can’t tell which way it came from--both ends of the tunnel are too steamy to tell. You sit there on the floor for another moment and think--if you had to choose, where would you go next?

>Double back. Maybe whatever it is tried to cut you off ahead.
>Move forward. You can lose whatever it is up there.
>Wait and prepare to strike. Maybe you can do that thing where you cling near the ceiling?
>Write-In

>>4551847
>Wait and prepare to strike. Maybe you can do that thing where you cling near the ceiling?
PARKOUR
Also it's generally recommended that you write the entire update at once and post it when you're done OP

>>4551847
>Move forward. You can lose whatever it is up there.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>4551849
>>4551866
Gonna flip a digital coin here and write based on the outcome. Thanks for the tips, too--still trying to get the hang of things! Patience appreciated.

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>>4551849
>>4551866
For a second you consider clinging to the ceiling, but something makes you pause. Those walls are pretty slippery--what if you fall? You don’t think your ego can take another blow today. It just can’t.

“Would have looked cool though, kiddo.”

Yes, yes it would have. Taking a deep breath, you creep forward into the steamy tunnels ahead, knees bent and ready to bolt if need be. For all you know, though, you might have heard a pipe coming loose or a rat.

Yea right, after all of the shit today has cooked up for you? Get real.

You continue onward, doing your best to duck under bursts of steam and make as little noise as possible. Your rubber boots squeak a bit, but the sound is slightly muffled by the thin layer of water on the ground. As for the steam, well… You know better now. You limbo under one spray, but it’s just not as fun anymore. For a time all you can hear are the sounds of water droplets and hissing pipes, but as you emerge from the tunnels your ears pick up the telltale sounds of computers--hums, beeps, and clicks.

Ducking below the layer of steam, you gain a partial picture of your new surroundings. This area, you wager, must be a control and observation area for this portion of the steam tunnels. Sure enough, a short metal staircase extends from the tunnels and up to what appears to be a control room--the source, you wager, of the mysterious computer noises. The stairs continue into a catwalk that leads to a ladder leading upwards. Back to the factory proper, you guess.

The tunnels continue past the checkpoint--you notice a faded sign next to a work light, the word ‘BOILERS’ outlined by dew drops. That’s something.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a hiss behind you. You spin on your heels and face the noise, but relax when all you see are a cluster of pipes bordering the tunnel you just emerged from.

And then you look up.

From the steam comes the blur of an object heading straight for your face! NOT AGAIN!

>Quick, roll a 1d100 to avoid it! I’ll take the best of three! Chop chop!

Rolled 60 (1d100)

>>4551931

Rolled 50 (1d100)

>>4551931

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>4551931

>>4551945
>>4551963
>>4551974
We're back and we're writing!

>>4551945
>>4551963
>>4551974

>Best roll: 60--close pass!

In anticipation of the attack, you spring into action! And by action I mean you freeze up with a dumb look on your face. Luckily you feel the now slightly-less uncomfortable sensation of Ly taking over your body, and with a slight tug he pulls you away just in time to avoid some sharp something or other whizzing through the air.

You retreat a few steps and raise your fists as you look at what almost took a little off of the top of your head. The yellowish blur stops revealing its true nature: a long string of vertebrae attached to the bones of what appears to be… A jaguar? The jaguar pieces cling to the wall above the tunnel you emerged from--its hind legs dug into the wall, its front legs--hey, wait a minute. The front limbs seem different from the back--they’re longer, bendy-er, and more…. Simian?

That Tim guy has quite the imagination, that’s for sure. The icing on the cake is served, however, when you see what the neck is attached to.

“Well well well, what have we here? A human letting off some… Steam? GOB!”

A turkey. You were almost killed by the skull of a goddamn turkey. Still clinging to the wall with its jaguar toes, the skeleton moves its arms into a kung fu pose.

“Don’t act so smug, gutbag! You’ve been corned by TERRY THE TERRIBLE, and you’ve officially GOBBLED up more than you can chew!”

You feel Ly tense up like a spring, ready to leap into action.

“Looks like there’s no sneakin’ this time, cupcake. You think you’re ready for this?”

No problem, you’ve broken plenty of bones in your time. Granted, they were YOURS, but the point still stands.

“GOB! You wanna fight, ey? You humans think you’re so tough, but this time I’m gonna knock the stuffing outta YOU!”

This guy strikes you as dramatic, so maybe you can get some info out of him. Then again, maybe you can’t. What do?
>Ask Terry the Terrible a question or two (Write-In)
>Take stock of your surroundings and inventory
>Prepare to fight
>Write-In

>>4552189
>Take stock of your surroundings and inventory

>>4552207
Writing!

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>>4552207
As Terry busts out some more poses, you quickly take stock of your surroundings. The control room you noticed before is now behind you and a bit too far away to make a break for if the speed of Terry’s attack meant anything. Not to mention there’s a thin layer of water on the ground from all of the condensation--makes things a bit cumbersome. What DOES strike you as interesting, however, are the pipes along the walls. You’re no plumber, but you could swear that several of them seem ready to burst. Maybe they just need a little ‘push’ in the right direction?

Terry himself doesn’t seem to want to come down from his perch. His neck seems long enough to attack from a distance and his arms aren’t too short either. Seems like he has the ranged advantage. Or DOES he?

You recall your patented ‘LIST OF STUFF I HAVE’. Maybe you can use some of this stuff to avoid dying.

>1 CAP with the Good Boy logo and the letters ESC.
>1 coveralls (Note: get these washed)
>2 rubber boots
>1 COMPANY-ISSUED BLACKBERRY.
>1 Dead CELLPHONE
>1 MICROBUCKET (carries around water)
>1 TELESCOPING MOP
>1 SPRAY BOTTLE w/CLEANING FLUID! (Note: keep away from skin and mucous membranes)
>1 KEYRING with WORK and APARTMENT KEYS
>1 painfully small WALLET. 67 cents inside made up of various coins. Also a debit card. Chip currently SMUDGED.
>1 super helpful skeleton (Note: Ly insisted you write this down)
>1 TIRE IRON (See Ly, I didn’t forget this. Stop hassling me)

Always a good idea to test the waters! What now?

>Ask Terry a question or two (Write-In Question)
>Prepare to fight (Got a cool one-liner handy?)
>Write-In

>>4552266
>Prepare to fight (Got a cool one-liner handy?)
"I may not havw a cool one-liner handy, but I do have this telescoping mop!"

>>4552266
>Prepare to fight (Got a cool one-liner handy?)
Nope

>>4552311
>>4552335
Let's go for it! Writing

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>>4552311
>>4552335
“I may not have a cool one-liner handy, but I DO have this TELESCOPING MOP!”

You extend your TELESCOPING MOP and brandish it like a spear. It was only a matter of time before you had to fight one of these boneheads--might as well start with this one. Terry the Terrible gobbles in sadistic glee.

“GOB! There’s going to be a LOT to pardon THIS turkey for once I’m finished with you!!”

Ooh, why didn’t YOU think of that??

Terry shifts his weight on his wall perch and adopts another kung fu pose. You widen your stance a little and adjust your cap--how tough can a bundle of bones be, anyways?

The skeleturkey drags his finger bones against the wall, creating divots and sparks. Okay, that puts things into perspective. With a laugh he rears his head back, cracking his serpentine neck.

“What a twerp! GOB! I bet you’ve never even fought anyone before! You probably don’t even know that you get BONE-uses for being creative when describing your attacks!”

You narrow your eyes at the Thanksgiving-themed monstrosity on the wall. You totally knew that, but Ly didn’t so… It’s a good thing he mentioned that!

“GOB! I gave my opponent a HINT! THAT’S how confident I am in my fighting abilities! GOB GOB!”

You feel Ly stiffen.

“You’ve got this, kid. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. And remember, there’s no shame in fightin’ dirty!”

Just like in Middle School. You raise your mop in what you think is a defensive stance, but keep your hands near your other items in case you need them.

Time to carve this turkey.

>THE WHEEL OF FATE IS TURNING! Combat might take a few rounds, so be prepared to roll a few times to attack AND dodge damage!

He’s open! What’s your opening strike?
>Go for the head!
>Knock him off his perch!
>Get him in the neck!
>Write-In (Creativity = BONE-USES!)

>>4552425
>Whoops, don't forget to roll a 1d100 for whatever option you choose! I'll choose the best of three!

Rolled 27 (1d100)

>>4552425
>Knock him off his perch!

Rolled 4 (1d100)

>>4552425
>Get him in the neck!
Decapitate him!

>>4552425
>Write-in
Try to get his gross bird neck tangled around the handle of the mop, then tug really hard! What magic connecty stuff can stand up to mop powers?

>>4552463
Sounds like a good start, don't forget to roll a 1d100!

Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>4552463

>>4552455
>>4552460
>>4552469
Bit of a rough start, but hey, that's why boxing matches go multiple rounds, right? Writing!

Haha we're fucked again

>>4552455
>>4552460
>>4552463
>Roll to knock from perch: 27

At the sound of an imaginary starting gun, you bolt. You really oughta thank Ly later--this new speed is working out for you. Terry barely notices by the time you’re underneath his neck, and by then it’s already too late. Letting out your best attempt at a battle cry (which, to be honest, needs a little work) you slash at his jaguar feet with your TELESCOPING MOP! This thing ain’t no flimsy plastic handle either--this is aluminum, baby!

Maybe it was your battle cry, or maybe Terry is much faster than you give him credit for. Honestly, you think it’s those damn arms. They’re so long, but also strong! Speaking of, one of those arms grabs your mop mid-swing, spins you around like a yo-yo, and sends you flying across the room. You crash headfirst into the layer of water on the floor--your mop follows and nails you on the back of the head. As you spit out cloudy water, you hear Terry’s nails-on-chalkboard voice taunting you from behind.

“GOB! Looks like I mopped the floor with YOU!”

Dripping with sweat and water, you rise back to your feet. This bastard’s toying with you. As you regain your footing, you feel your skeleton snap to attention.

“Stan! Look out!”

You turn around in time to see Terry dashing towards you--his panther legs carrying him across the room in seconds.

What do?! Don’t forget the 1d100!
>Dodge!
>Block the attack!
>Parry?
>Write-In

Rolled 15 (1d100)

>>4552486
>Dodge!

Rolled 6 (1d100)

>>4552486
>Dodge!

Rolled 85 (1d100)

>>4552486
>>Dodge!

>>4552515
>>4552518
>>4552533
THAT'S the ticket! Writing!

>>4552515
>>4552518
>>4552533
>Roll to dodge: 85

Maybe it’s intuition, maybe it’s a sixth-sense you developed from all of the cats you fed when you were younger. Whatever the reason, you know exactly where NOT to be when the skeleton pounces. In fact, you know exactly where not to be so that the bony son of a bitch gets a little surprise. With a malicious GOB, Terry lunges, beak, neck, and hands outstretched to give you a hug you won’t forget.

As an experienced Traceur, however, you of all people know how momentum works. You step out of the way just in time to get a much-needed gust of air in your face and hair, and just in time for your would-be murderer to whiff the attack and sail into a cluster of high-pressure steam pipes. With a clang, both Terry AND the pipes crumble to the floor, the former getting a concentrated blast of steam. You wince as your mind drifts back to mere moments ago, but hey--you learned the hard way, he can too.

Dazed, but not beaten, Terry rises to his feet again with a pained gobble and uses his arms to shield himself from the steam.

Time for a little payback! What do?
>Whack his head!
>Go for the neck!
>Trip him up!
>Write-In!

Rolled 30 (1d100)

>>4552562
>Whack his head!

Rolled 92 (1d100)

>>4552562
>Whack his head!
I SHALL CONTINUE MY BAD ROLL STREAK UNTIL I GET A 1

>>4552672
damn son

Rolled 52 (1d100)

>>4552562
>Whack his head!

>>4552606
>>4552725
Okay, it's a sta-

>>4552672
I think we can safely say your bad roll streak is broken. WRITINGGGG

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>>4552606
>>4552672
>>4552725
Yea, not so fun getting blasted with STEAM, is it? Granted, you did that to yourself, but he doesn’t need to know that. Still wobbly from crashing into the wall, the skeleturkey strikes like a cobra with its head, but you dodge and weave in between attacks like a pro boxer. Now you just need to improve YOUR attack technique…. Hm…

You’ve got it. In between ducks you plot out the trajectory of the skeleton’s head along its snakelike vertebrae--you think, no, you KNOW you can hit him now!

Probably.

With a menacing GOB, Terry tries to bite your head off again, but this time you’re ready. He bites downward, you dodge to the right. Spinning your TELESCOPING MOP in your hands like a baton twirler (truth be told, though, you were the mascot in High School), you raise it above your head with a fluorish and bring it down with a resounding CLANG onto the bird’s skull sending it AND its neck crashing onto the floor. Adopting a smug grin, you barely have time to duck as Terry’s skull disconnects from its neck and begins ricocheting around the room like a pinball.

A cluster of pipes, the window of the control room, the ladder leading upwards, all of them act like bumpers as Terry’s skull flies across the room, gobbling in terror and confusion. Like a grim game of dodgeball you hop and duck as though your life depended on it (and it probably still does). The flight continues for what feels like a minute, then ends as Terry’s skull tumbles to a halt right in front of you. Sputtering in the ankle deep water, the skull clacks menacingly at you as its body swats left and right with its long arms a few feet away.

“I’LL GOBBLE YOUR SOUL I’LL GOBBLE YOUR SOUL I’LL GOBBLE YOUR SOUL!”

Set the table and grab the sweet potatoes out of the oven, Ly--you think this turkey is just about done.

“Would you mind carving it?” Ly says, his voice a mixture of mirth and pride.

Not in the slightest.

How do you finish this chump off?
>WRITE-IN. NO ROLLS, THIS IS ALL YOU, BABY.

>>4552900
>WRITE-IN. NO ROLLS, THIS IS ALL YOU, BABY.
Stomp his skull I suppose.
Do his bones look tasty too?

>>4553063
A classic. Writing!

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>>4553063

You loom over Terry’s skull, your cold stare burning holes through his cranium. As intimidating as you think you are, that doesn’t stop him from snapping at your toes and clacking like a typewriter.

“GOB! Even if you defeat me, you’ll never defeat the master! SKELL, you probably couldn’t even defeat a pigeon without CHEATING!”

Yea, well… That’s what YOU think. Damn, you coulda swore you had a good line for this.

Nope, nothing. With a shrug you lift your right foot and bring it down with a CRACK onto the skeleturkey’s skull, crushing it into powder.

“Guess that guy’s PLUCKED.” Quips Ly. DAMN IT, that would have been great two seconds ago! Adjusting your cap, you barely pick up on the sound of steps coming from behind you! You whirl around, mop outstretched, to find Terry’s decapitated skeleton staggering towards you like a zombie. You take a step back, but it’s too late--the skeleton lunges forward with its long arms outstretched!

Aaaand he misses. And tumbles to the damp floor below. Wait a minute--an ORANGUTAN! That’s what his arms were from! You KNEW it!

“I was gonna say gibbon.” Mutters Ly. Okay, no need to be a know-it-all.

You tap the collapsed skeleton with your boot a few times, but it doesn’t get back up. For a moment you consider grabbing some finger bones to make a necklace, but your artistic side is interrupted by the smell of something burning. The heck?

“Stan, look! The bones!”

Your attention hops between the skull and the rest of the skeleton--both of which begin to glow with an otherworldly blue flame. You kick a few dollops of water on each, but it’s no use--the fire slowly consumes the pile of bones.

“The marrow, Stan! Get the marrow!”

The what now?

“INSIDE THE BONES!”

With a perplexed shrug, you grab one of Terry’s drumsticks (which, in this case seem to have belonged to a jaguar) and shake the dirty water off of it. An ember of blue flame eats away at the top of the leg bone, tickling your nostrils with an unpleasant scent.

“Well? Does it look tasty to you?”

I mean…

You rotate the bone in your hand, checking it for anything appetizing.

You could eat. How long has it been, anyways? You could go for some chips or something.

“Break it open before it burns!”

Or some french fries.

“TRUST MEEEEE”

Okay, okay, calm down. What do you do?
>Eat the marrow. Isn’t it like… A delicacy in France or something?
>No way, Jose. This bone is dirty.
>Store the burning bone inside your pockets for later.

>Eat the marrow. Isn’t it like… A delicacy in France or something?
Yum!

>>4553156
>Eat the marrow. Isn’t it like… A delicacy in France or something?

>>4553156
>Eat the marrow. Isn’t it like… A delicacy in France or something?
Parkour like the French, eat like the French?

>>4553259
>>4553300
>>4553329
Très bien! Writing.

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>>4553259
>>4553300
>>4553329
Full disclosure, you don’t really know much about the French. Hell, you still have a hard time finding it on a map, but come on, that’s like trivia show crap. Who needs it?

That being said, your limited knowledge of French things hasn’t let you down all night. Need you remind everyone about that sweet Parkour run you did earlier?

“Yea yea, it was wild. Eat the damn marrow.”

You were getting to that! In any case, you’re pretty sure you’ve seen marrow on a menu or something. Or the internet. Somewhere fancy, that’s for sure. THAT means that by association, eating this might be pretty fancy.

You look down at the rapidly burning leg bone in your hand. Yep, top shelf. With a grunt you snap the bone in two. Or, well, you TRY to. Turns out leg bones are pretty tough.

“You had to grab the FEMUR, didn’t you.”

It looked the juiciest, okay? No need to be a backseat eater. You look back to Terry’s other bones on the ground just in case anything else looked tastier, but find that the bones are all but disintegrated in puffs of blue flame. Oddly enough, the bone you’re holding is lasting much longer. Nifty.

You take the bone over to the wall and rap it a few times against some of the sturdier-looking pipes. The bone holds firm, but you notice the part near the blue flame chips a little easier. A few more whacks in that area and the bone splits open, revealing the treasure trove inside.

It uh… Doesn’t look too tasty, if you’re being honest. It’s meaty, sure, but…

“Just trust me, kid. I’m rarely wrong about dis’ stuff.”

Well if your BONES are okay with it, then....

You bring the bone to your mouth and suck the marrow out. The texture is odd, that’s for sure, but you have to say, it tastes pretty good.

In fact, you FEEL pretty good. The ache in your back fades away, the reddish mark on your cheek from your earlier… Experiment… Fades away, and you feel like you just had a whole meal! Hey, this stuff ain’t bad!

“Told ya.” Ly croons. “I don’t think it’s on the same level as that King guy’s bones, but I feel pretty good too!”

Yea, what’s up with that? This goon wasn’t glowing at all. Could those glowing bones have a greater effect?

“I’d rather not go toe to toe with him, but I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t want to find out!”

You and him both. Tonight has sucked, yes, but there are some things that are definitely looking up. You tried something new! And you liked it!

>Contd.

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>>4553382
In fact, you could almost say things are IMPROVING! Your new bone powers, the fact that you just whooped a skeleton’s ass… Maybe you’ll even get a MEDAL after all of this is through. They’d BETTER give you one, that’s for damn sure.

“So now what?”

Not a bad question, Ly. That ladder leading upwards is still intact, as is the control booth. There’s also that tunnel in the direction of the BOILERS, but that is gonna get toasty. Moreover, what would you even do with them? Man, it’s tough being in control.

“I can take over if you’d like!”

No way. Your body, your rules, creepo.

“Jeez, sorry for offering.”

Sure you are.

What’s your next move?
>Let’s see where that ladder goes!
>Let’s check out that control booth!
>To the boilers! I have a PLAN!
>Write-In

>>4553385
>To the boilers! I have a PLAN!

We overload the boilers to cause a giant explosion while we position the big man over the epicenter. Or use the explosion for a distraction.

>>4553389
Tensions are BOILING over! Writing.

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>>4553389
You take one last look at the control booth and the bridge, then shake your head. Oh no, you’re going to need more than fancy exits or computers for THIS kind of problem. You proceed past the sign with the arrow and the word “BOILER” emblazoned on it like a warning. Oh it’s a warning, alright. For these calcium-rich sons of bitches.

“Are we doin’ what I think we’re doin’?”

You bet we are, Ly.

You feel your bones shift a bit.

“And just so we’re on the same page: WHY are we headed to the boiler? The way you’ve been thinkin’ lately has been giving me indigestion. Or it would be, if I was your digestive system.”

Be cool, Ly, be cool. You’ll admit your experience with boilers is minimal, at best, but if anyone can nudge them in the right direction, it’s you.

You come to a fork in the tunnel, one with blue work lights, the other red. You head down the red path.

You’ve been down here before, of course. Ironically enough to STOP the boilers from breaking. The company has been slapping bandages on them for far too long--granted, you never sent in a report about them, but you shouldn’t have to! There are other maintenance guys here!

Another fork. You head down the path lined with yellow lights. Just like you remember.
It was a hot night, probably some time around mid-August a year or two ago, but you remember it like it was yesterday… Yesterday……... Yesterday...............

“What are you doing?”

You’re trying to induce a flashback, now shush. YESTERDAY. YESTERDAY. YESTERDAY.

>CONTD…. TO THE PASSSSSSTTTTT

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>>4553487
You are Stanley Parble, one of Good Boy Doggie Bones’ Evening Sanitation Coordinators. The BEST, if anyone asks you. No one does, though. It’s another dull Friday night, it’s still somehow hotter than hell, and, to your chagrin, you aren’t alone.

You’re painfully reminded of that for the 23rd… No, 24th time this shift when your COMPANY-ISSUED BLACKBERRY buzzes with yet ANOTHER text. Groaning, you pull the Blackberry out of your coveralls pocket and glance at the screen. What a surprise, it’s your arch nem-err, your CO-WORKER, Boris Ponderosa.

‘Lobby clean. Wut r u doin’

Good question--what ARE you doing?
>Playing games on the security room computer
>Trying to cool off in the vents (It’s not working)
>Actually doing your damn job (WRITE-IN your current task)
>Write-In

>Actually doing your damn job (WRITE-IN your current task)

>Trying to clean the bone processing area, again... for the fourth time this week....

>>4553551
Our old pal Bone Processing! Writing!

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>>4553551
Your damn JOB, if you can believe it. No, seriously--management has been on your ass for weeks about BONE DUST pileup in BONE PROCESSING, so here you are trying to find the answer to the million dollar question: why is this factory so damn DUSTY?

You know the obvious reason, but seriously, this is a lot more dust than usual. Seeing is believing, and you’re seeing CLUMPS clinging to your exposed arms, shoulders and neck right now. There’s probably a regulation against having your coveralls half-zipped around all of this bone dust, but screw it--it’s hotter than a jalapeno with a flamethrower in here and you have a tank top on underneath, so what’s the issue? You type back a curt message to Boris telling him ‘wut u doin’ and continue your toils. You would KILL for more solo shifts.

Just as your Backuum clogs for the eleventh time tonight, you hear another ding from your pocket.

‘I can see that ; )’

You blink a few times, then you hear it. An unholy cacophony of muffled club music that heralds the arrival of the Anti-Christ himself. You follow the garbled sounds to their origin--the garish red headphones clamped around the ears of your co-worker and tormentor in residence, Boris D. Ponderosa. Lounging on the edge of a catwalk above you, he runs a hand through his gel-smothered golden locks and shoots you a grin. You turn around and focus on getting your Backuum unclogged.

“Was lookin’ all over for ya, Stannie. Checked Admin, checked Disposal, hell, even checked the bathrooms just in case you were havin’ lady problems. You’re telling me you’re still sussing this place out?”

What’s it look like you’re doing?

He lets out a low whistle, then hops to the factory floor.

“Daaaamn, kid. You told me you were gonna have this place clean hours ago. Forget how to use that thing on your back, there?”

Boris hovers over you, peering into your clogged Backuum. With a chuckle, he reaches into the nozzle and, with a gentle tug, dislodges a large vertebra. You watch as he twirls the bone a few times on his finger, then tosses it into a nearby pile. Whatever, you could totally do that. If you felt like it.

“Seriously, Stannie--winners can’t win unless they hit the end zone--how are you gonna become one if you can’t gain any yards?”

You don’t answer. God, his deodorant smells like clown shit.

“Listen, I like ya so I feel like I've gotta let you know: they’re TALKING. Everyone in management, everyone in the factory, hell even the guys in MAINTENANCE.”

You can almost feel his stubble graze the side of your cap--the scent of the four pieces of spearmint bubble gum he’s chewing. He won’t move without an answer.

"What are you doin' here, Stannie?"

What do you tell him? Choose one or more!
>Why do YOU care?
>Why are YOU here?
>I’m here because (WRITE-IN)
>WRITE-IN

>>4553663
>>Why do YOU care?

fuck outta here Boris, we got bone business to attend too.

>>4553663
>Why are YOU here?

>>4553673
>>4553709
Writing!

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>>4553673
>>4553709
You drop the Backuum onto the floor and face Boris, stupid headphones and all. What exactly did you do to deserve HIS attention? You never asked for a guardian angel--did someone else pick up the request? Boris pops another piece of gum into his mouth and lets out a rueful sigh. You love it when it tries to imitate human emotion.

“Because I feel awful watching people suffer for no reason, especially when I’m able to help. It’s like watching a bee drown in a swimming pool--I’m happy to help as long as she doesn’t sting me. You get it?”

Damn, anything but a pool metaphor. He KNOWS your parents house had a pool! Shit! Boris picks up your Backuum from the floor and wipes the bone dust off. Of course none of it is clinging to HIM.

“Can I tell you what I think?”
You haven’t had any trouble doing it so far. Or EVER. Another sigh. He continues like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient.

“I think you LIKE being stuck, Stannie. I think you’ve found that comfortable dead leaf floating in the center of the pool and you’re stickin’ there. Imagine all of the flowers on the far side of that pool--all of the pollen, the colors, the other bees!”

He gestures to the ceiling as if he was conjuring an image of the scene. You don’t bother looking.

“But here you are on the leaf, sinking. It was the same when we were in High School too, I remember.”

>CONTD.

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>>4553731
Of course. He haaaaad to remind you about High School. It always comes back to High School.

“Janitor, Mascot, Coveralls, Mascot Suit--it’s all the same leaf, Lyly. It’s still sinking. But it’s not too late! Me? I’m on my way out of here--a few months from now I’ll have that massage therapist license and boom, on to brighter flowers! But I’m still here and I’m still scorin’ points. I tripped a few times in school too, but what do you do when you trip, Stannie?”

You stroke an imaginary beard. “Score a cushy fire-proof job from your executive dad?”

Boris freezes, registering what you said. For a moment you think you’re about to finally throw down--GOD you hope you’re about to throw down! He’s bigger, yea, but you’re WILEY.

Your coworker steps towards you, arm raised above him, and slaps your bare shoulder a few times, his trademark boisterous laugh echoing through the factory. He even bumps your FIST with his other hand. DAMN HE’S GOOD!

“You GET BACK UP! But yea, the family connections don’t hurt in the least.”
He shoots you a wink coupled with another Cheshire smile, then turns around and begins surveying the factory floor.

“Tell you what, bumble bee--I’m gonna do you a favor. I’ll take over here so you can clear your mind a little bit--get a fresh look at newer pastures. The boilers have been getting cranky lately--how about you go and win them over with your…

He faces you once more, grinning with one side of his mouth.

“Well, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

What do you say?
>Fine, I’ll go take a look.
>Screw you, why don’t YOU do it?
>How about we go together?
>Write-In

>>4553734
>Fine, I’ll go take a look.
Stupid bone dust...

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Unfortunately my teaching job comes back from holiday tomorrow, so future BONES QUEST updates will probably happen later in the day and might not be as frequent (Most likely around 10/11pm UTC). I'll check on things tomorrow, but as usual thanks for participating and giving BONES QUEST a shot! I'll check in tomorrow, so feel free to toss in a few more responses, questions, or comments!

>>4553782
>updates will probably happen later in the day and might not be as frequent (Most likely around 10/11pm UTC).
Okie dokie!

>>4553734
>>Fine, I’ll go take a look.
"Yeah you are 'doing me a favour', prick. Do you see me walk up to you and shit all over your life for no fucking reason? Just get out of my face."

>>4553734
>Fine, I’ll go take a look.

>>4553747
>>4554271
>>4554359
I LIVE... AGAIN! And we're writing!

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>>4553747
>>4554271
>>4554359
You huff, taking a moment to wipe a layer of sweat off of your brow. Yea, some favor.

“Fine. I’ll go take a look, AND I’ll do you a favor too: I’ve decided NOT to shit all over YOUR life for no reason. How’s that sound?”

“Brighter flowers, bumble bee.” If your words affected him he doesn’t show it. Rolling your eyes, you turn around and hastily head for the exit. He shoots you the double gun fingers as you leave, his chuckle following you all the way out.

“Shoot me a text when you run into trouble and I’ll come a-runnin’. Should have this mess taken care of in a jiff!”

GOD, what a prick! You just KNOW he’s going to turn that bee metaphor into a regular thing, too--and you thought ‘Stannie’ was bad enough! You pause for a moment to kick open the door to a maintenance stairwell, then stomp the rest of the way down, relishing in the loud clanging your boots create.

I mean, it’s not like you actively dislike people when you first meet them, but that guy? Ooh, he was bad news since you met in High School. A lot of the athletes were, sure, but that was mostly playful ribbing--you were the damn mascot, after all! You practically deserved it!

A few levels down you reach a door in the stairwell with a sign marked ‘STEAM TUNNELS & BOILERS’. You kick this one open too. Well, you try. Stupid PULL doors. Ow. You yank the door open and balk at the wave of humidity that slaps you in the face--just what you need on another 90 degree night.

You’ll never forget getting called in to work that fateful night and coming face to face with him again. He didn’t have the stupid headphones yet, of course, but the gum, hair, and deodorant strong enough to choke a rhino? Yep, that was all there.

“Long time no see, Stannie! Finally graduated, huh?” That nudge to your ribs, that laugh he and your supervisor Jerry shared. Jerry’s innocent, but damning statement: “Say, how about you show your old pal the ropes, Stanley?” It HAUNTS you.

>CONTD.

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>>4554460
Your rage carries you 2/3rds of the way to the boilers, but the work lights guide you the rest of the way through the branching paths. RED, YELLOW, then BLUE.

‘Rude Yeoman Burp’ you mutter aloud to yourself. You know, you’ve heard horror stories about people being cooked alive down here trying to escape the steam tunnels, but you’ve never really bought into that. I mean, wouldn’t there be BODIES down here? Exactly. And it’s not like steam is that dangerous anyways. Hot, sure, but not dangerous.

Your thoughts come to a pause as you arrive at the heavy double doors leading into the boiler room. Even without touching the door you can feel a boatload of pressure on the other side. Bodies? Nah, probably not. Still, how bad ARE these things anyways? You mostly leave the boilers to the maintenance team. Your pocket buzzes again. Great, just what the doctor ordered.

‘U there yet? Remember, R Y B! ; )’

Yes, did he not hear your trick to remember? Great, now you’re pissed again.

You kick the doors open, or at least you try to. These DAMN PULL DOORS. With a snarl you grab the door handles, turn them, and YANK.

You’re greeted by an immense wave of pressure… AND A DICE ROLL!

>Roll 1d100. I’ll take the best of 3!

>>4554461
>Roll 1d100. I’ll take the best of 3!

Rolled (1d00)

>>4554461

I am really loving Stanleys complete disregard for the dangers of steam.

Rolled 96 (1d100)

>>4554461

Rolled 12 (1d100)

>>4554461

Rolled 52 (1d100)

>>4554462
Let's try that again

>>4554510
>>4554512
>>4554513
Writing!

>>4554507
This is kinda like throwing dice for a roll and then they just don't land

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>>4554507
"You mean the dangers of making your skin look nice? Oooh, spooky!"~Stanley

>>4554510
>>4554512
>>4554513
The doors fling open like a house possessed! You scramble to grab the handles, the walls, ANYTHING, but it’s too slick! Too far away!

“HANG ON TO SOMETHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!” You howl at the top of your lungs!
And… Huh. I mean it was a lot of pressure, but it didn’t really fling you or anything. Truth be told it was kinda fun. You got splashed a bit by the wave of trapped steam, but other than that you’re good.

Brushing yourself off, you saunter into the now open boiler room where things are decidedly NOT good. You’re going to have to ask maintenance how they soundproofed this room because you’ve got a feeling boilers shouldn’t be making those rattling and screeching noises. Also, yow--that’s a LOT of steam bursting out from the pipes. It’s a wonder you can see anything at all with all of the steam lingering in the air--it feels like someone’s trying to smother you with a hot towel.

You wipe the sweat and condensation from your brow and sigh--No wonder this crap almost knocked you over. The hell does maintenance even DO during the day?

You spy some red lights blinking through the mist and head in that direction. Your intuition pays off--the lights lead you to a metal staircase and what looks like a control area above. You clamber upwards, boots squeaking on every step, and open the door at the top of the staircase. Houston, we have a control room.

If you can even call it that! It’s basically a glorified box with a few computers in it. You bet this can’t even run RAZE. Which reminds you, your pal Gus needs to give you back your copy of-

Okay, focus. You wipe the steam droplets off of the computer monitors and take a look at the desktop. Wait, where’s the desktop? What is this command line crap? Are we back in the 40’s or something? Okay, no need to panic. You’re sure there’s SOMEthing you can do about this without texting Boris--there’s just gotta be.

What do?
>Scour the control ‘room’ for some sort of assistance
>Type something into the ‘command line’ (WRITE-IN)
>Screw it, go look at the boilers themselves. Computers are for nerds.
>WRITE-IN

>>4554618

Uhhhh you think you saw this in some tutorial when your wifi broke that one time. Maybe if you just type in 'ls' or 'help' it might help you figure something out?

>>4554625
Yes... We must try to communicate! Writing.

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>>4554666
You glower at the computer screen, wracking your brain for anything you can use. Wait a minute…. The KEYBOARD. You slump into the weathered (and damp? Ew.) office chair sitting in front of the terminals and type.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

'hello' is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.’

See, this is why robots are never going to take over the world. The hell is an ‘operable’ anyways? You bang your fists against your head in an attempt to trigger something… ANYTHING! Just like that, a memory comes to you. One that feels like it was only yesterday… Yesterday… Yes-

Hey, quit it. People are annoyed enough as-is with the current flashback. Focus, girl. You hearken back to...Oh wait, it WAS yesterday. You vaguely remember your internet cutting out--you might have had a few drinks that night, but you definitely remember getting it to work! That’s right--it was a video you watched--One of those tutorials you see on MeTube! You fish your phone out of your coverall pockets and click on the MeTube app, but as it loads you’re interrupted by a room-shaking crash and a loud whine. You glance out the control room window and catch a glimpse of one of the boilers catching fire.

You don’t think it’s supposed to do that.

Tell you what: maybe you don’t have time to look it up again. Just remember it--How hard can it be? You try out a few commands to see if they work.

‘Exe, run, activate, 0451, password, help,’

The final one causes a few new lines of text to appear on the screen. You pump your fist--now you’re GETTING somewhere!

Choose 1 or more of the following commands:
>>LOGS-Display user logs saved in current directory.
>>DIAG-Run diagnostic on boilers’
>>SHUT-Shut down’
>>BIRTHDAY-no description found’

>>4554686
>>SHUT-Shut down’
They need to cool down
>>BIRTHDAY-no description found’

>>4554686
>>SHUT-Shut down’

>>4554686
>>SHUT-Shut down’
>>BIRTHDAY-no description found’

>>4554692
>>4554727
>>4554734
>>WRITING-I'm doin' it

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>>4554692
>>4554727
>>4554734
You stare at the screen for a moment, pondering your options, then nod. You know what you have to do. You can FIX this!

‘BIRTHDAY’

For a moment the system hangs--you hear a pained buzzing noise from inside the computer terminal. Suddenly, the whole room goes dark.

Except for the burning boiler. That’s still a clear and present danger.

>~HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DONNIE~’

You raise an eyebrow as you read the words. Okay, cool, but--

Your train of thought is skillfully derailed by the flashing of multicolored lights throughout the boiler room--confetti and streamers blast out of orifices in the walls you barely noticed with all the steam, and from SOMEwhere in the room above you comes a passionate, yet slightly off-putting refrain:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY I LOVE YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY I LOVE YOU!”

Oh hey, you think you know this guy! Whoops, hope you didn’t ruin a surprise or something. Just when your foot starts tapping to the beat, your vision drifts outside of the control room and to the boilers, which are now ALL currently on fire.

Wait a minute, WHAT?

No, not the boilers--well, that one you mentioned earlier is definitely on fire. The other ones aren’t though--those STREAMERS that shot out, though? Those totally are. Solved it. You feel your eyes start to burn as smoke mixes with steam--you crouch down a bit lower, but your throat already begins to tickle from the mixture floating in the air.

Happy birthday indeed.

>CONTD.

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>>4554828
You mash the keys on the board, just managing to type out the ‘SHUT’ command. The system hangs once more, then with an unpleasant crackle the rows of boilers begin to shut down. You exhale as the steam cloud blanketing the majority of the room dissipates somewhat, the rest slowly making its way out through the doors.

Man, computers are EASY. Why can’t everything have a SHUT command? Lord knows Boris’ mouth could use one. Hold on a sec, why are there still alarms buzzing?

Oh, right. The burning boiler shudders and groans under its intense heat--is it supposed to be glowing red like that? With a room-wide groan the boiler belches out a replacement cloud--this one more SMOKE than STEAM!

>Malfunction detected in Boiler 3 Row A. Attempt manual shutdown.

No kidding! Covering your mouth, you dash out of the control room and scamper towards the boiler. As you get closer, a trio of bolts bursts from its side and whizz by your face like bullets, embedding themselves in a cluster of pipes on the wall which, in almost Rube Goldberg-esque fashion, pop open like bananas, releasing hot water and steam into the already smoky room.

As if it can’t get any worse, your damn BLACKBERRY IS BUZZING. Ignoring it, you pick out a large red valve on the side of the temperamental boiler. ‘Thar she blows’ you say to yourself.

This should be a sinch--you’ve been watching this thing called Parkour on MeTube lately--you’re willing to give it a try.

>ROLL a 1d100 to reason with this boiler! I’ll take the best of 3! Too bad this is a flashback, otherwise you would have some BONE-USES!

Rolled 98 (1d100)

>>4554830
but muh Bone-uses! noooooo

Rolled 41 (1d100)

>>4554830

Rolled 76 (1d100)

>>4554830