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"As of my latest recollection, he does prefer the abbreviated 'Gil' to any other form of reference. If your intent is to express respect, that would be my suggested alternative. You're well within your rights to opt for anything, though, of course, and Charlotte is well within her rights to—"

"I didn't ask for opinions from the peanut gallery," Pat grouses. "Thanks for the tips."

"You're very welcome!"

"Um," you say. "I agree with— I was going to say all of that. He just interrupted me like a jerk. Are you going to stop using 'Bug Man'?"

A period of silence from Pat, except for the clicking of her tweezers against the metal tray. Then: "Can we get back to what you asked me to do? I was saying, I don't think this'll work. Look."

She doesn't turn around, but does lift the tweezers into the air. You consider not coming to look, just to stick it to her, but your impressive loyalty to your best retainer overrides that.

Pincered in Pat's tweezers is one of Gil's beetles. It's not moving. Your heart sinks. "It's not dead? Surely it's not—"

"No, I don't think so." Pat sets the beetle down on the counter, belly-side up, and tickles its legs. They twitch slightly. "I'd say sedated. You said he was slurring his words a little?"

You did say that. "Um, he sounded drowsy. Or drunk."

"Right. I don't know if it has to be chemical sedation, necessarily; I'm thinking metaphysical. I won't get into the weeds with you, since I understand you're a greenhorn—" A sidelong glance. "—but distortions in the C.O.S. are often perceived as relaxing. Something about it being energy-intensive to maintain a fixed identity, so 'sharing the load' with an outside force or 'letting go' of it completely represents a reduction in energy drain, despite other obvious negative consequences. As you might imagine, it's seductive that way."

"You digress," Horse Face notes.

Pat looks like she wants to say something about the peanut gallery again. "Yes. I digress. The point is, he got his C.O.S. pretty well liquified in there, and that's not easy to bounce right back from."

"But I got him out!" you protest. "He's not in Us anymore. I don't see the problem."

"Yes. And when you're not drunk anymore, you're hungover." Pat nudges the beetle. "I think he's distributed through all this goo, not just the bugs. Going in and picking them out isn't going to work, and it might be actively harmful. It's my opinion that I soften this whole chunk up, get it mixable, and dump the whole thing in a treated vat. If we're in any luck, he'll self-form like before, and there'll be no issue."

Richard could probably explain what the difference was, but he's not here, so it has to be Pat. "...Weren't you going to do that with the beetles anyways?"

(2/5)

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"Sure. But this—" She prods the top of the goo chunk. It jiggles. "—is Us. Maybe not sapient, not at the moment, but it still could be contaminated with who-knows-what. There's a chance it'll have no effect, and a chance it'll have some effect. I don't know what. I think it's safer than trying to extract the bugs, though. I don't want to damage him if he's already in a fragile state."

Pat is your sworn rival, of course, and also a murderer and kidnapper. But she did get Gil a goo body okay last time, and it didn't make him go crazy or turn evil or anything, so maybe you can trust her about this one specific thing? "...Um, if you think it'd be better..."

"I do."

"I don't mind if you do that, then. If something goes wrong, I'll just fix it!" You fold your arms. "I can fight his evil mind invader or whatever it is, no sweat. Or, if he's really busted, I can just go into his mind and put all the pieces back together, like I had to do after you shot him—"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Pat says. "I'll get started softening it up. Just wanted to get the approval so I don't get flipped out at if something goes wrong."

"I wouldn't—"

She looks at you.

"It'd depend on how much was your fault," you mutter, and go sit back down. Horse Face is scribbling on his little notepad. "Hey. Horse Face."

"Hello, Charlotte. I must say, I do think your purported antipathy toward derogatory sobriquets is somewhat hypocritical."

"What?" you say. "You know, Cam talked like a normal person."

"I'd imagine he knew fewer words. Can I help you?"

Unfortunately, he can. "Yes. I need your stuff. Remember when you almost destroyed the whole camp and killed everybody and yourself?"

"I don't believe that ever actually happened," Horse Face says.

"I didn't say it happened. I asked if you remembered it." You fold your arms. "Well, I remember it, and Gil remembers it, and Monty remembers it— you know Monty? Who gave you a place to sleep? Remember how he wasn't too happy about that, and he made you sign a contact saying you wouldn't do that anymore? And you'd be helpful and stuff?"

Horse Face remembers, judging by the slight jut of his jaw.

"Remember how that contract said you had to let me borrow your weird gadgets whenever I wanted?" You roll your shoulders. "Well, I want."

"I see," Horse Face says. "Many of them are irreplaceable, you realize?"

Fantastic. "Maybe you should've thought about that before you almost destroyed—"

"Did you have a particular purpose in mind for my equipment?"

Blowing up Headspace, generally speaking. Specifically? "...Can I look at it?"

Horse Face doesn't exactly sigh. He does breathe heavily, though. "I'm sure we can arrange something."

"Great!" What else did you need from him? Oh! "Did you get a letter from Henry?"

(3/5)

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"Ah! In fact, I did. One moment." Horse Face reaches into his longcoat, searches around, and retrieves a black envelope. He hands it over. "I didn't peek inside, I assure you. The seal is unbroken."

The seal? Oh, it's stamped with a red wax seal— in the shape of one of those creepy spirals. There's nowhere that actually makes creepy spiral stamps, right? Surely? Henry must've—

Oh! Wait! The glowy lines had faded so quickly into background noise, like those floaters you get when you look at the sky, that you'd almost forgotten about them. Not entirely, though: when you squinch your good eye shut, they flare into life. There you go. The envelope is comprised of only a couple Laws, but they form a rigid geometry, like the criss-crossing of Pat's manse— and unlike Horse Face's and Pat's wild tangles. What does that mean? Uh...

Okay, you're not totally sure what that means. Also, Horse Face is still holding the envelope out. "Charlotte?"

You open your good eye back up, squint against the harsh overhead light, and take the envelope. "...My eye was itchy. Uh, yes. Thanks."

"Certainly!"

"Are you guys done? I think I am." Pat lifts her safety goggles. "It's been softened. If you insist on watching the final dip—"

"Yes," you say firmly.

"—then I can take this over to the vats, and you will not touch anything."

You hunch. "Did I touch anything last time?"

"That goes for both of you. I know he's going to want to watch. Anyway, it's down the hall. Don't try the other doors—"

—

When you exited Us's second dream, you had in your arms a quivering chunk of goo, firm to the touch, like one of your Aunt Ruby's gelatines had overset. The goo Pat wheels down the hall now is sloshy and slimy, like the one time your Aunt Ruby had spared no expense for her gelatines: she had obtained an exotic fruit called pineapple, and the whole thing had splashed right out of its mold. It was horrific. Anyhow, Gil is currently something like that.

The room with all the vats looks exactly the same as the room with all the vats looked the last time you saw it. Is there anything to say? There's vats. They have goo in them. Some of the goo is a slightly different shade of blue, and some is bubbling or moving, and you're sure all of this denotes important research-y distinctions. You don't know what they are, and you don't care. You were scared Horse Face was going to strike up another conversation, but he's just strolling around and peering into goo vats. It'd be really easy to push him in.

Not that you will or anything. The red stuff is still there, you're sure of it, but you guess Claudia has it good and satiated. Also, what if it made you absorb Horse Face into your brain? You'd rather die.

(4/5)

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"Okay. I think this one's a good match." Pat is standing over one of the infinite vats herself. (You could also push her in, but she'd probably just absorb all the goo and turn into a giant goo monster and try to eat you.) "I'm going to dump, then it could be a few minutes, just like last time. Don't get pissed."

"I wasn't going to! I knew that." You pause. "Can I, uh, do the dumping? It doesn't need any special technique?"

"No. Just don't get any on the floor." Pat steps aside, and you pick up the little tank that Gil's in. It looks like a lot of goo with some beetles stuck in it. "Hi Gil," you whisper to it. "It's me. Lottie. I hope you're okay. I'm getting you your body back, and if you wind up with any nasty intruders in there, just let me know. I'll set them on fire. Um, anyways. Good luck?"

"Done?" Pat says.

You pay her a look, then turn back to the tank. "I'm doing it now. Bye."

After that, you dump all the goo in the vat. That's it. It slides right out and plops in and vanishes. Then you wait, and try not to think about the possibility that nothing will ever come out, because that isn't positive. Also because Horse Face is standing right next to you again, and you don't want him to see you not being positive.

Of course, there was never anything to worry about! A couple minutes later— you don't know how long exactly, but less than last time— the surface of the goo begins to vibrate, then to bubble, then to stretch, and out of it flails a figure. A Gil? Maybe, from its wobbling beetle-shapes, but then it looks up and at you and its face is not Gil's. Not that it's far off— the chin is there, and the nose is close— but the closer it is to the real thing, the worse it gets. The ears are wrong, and the eyes are the wrong color, and your instinct as the goo-thing flops to the ground is to draw The Sword and stab it.

It is good fortune, then, that before you can do so— before anybody can do much of anything— the goo-thing groans, and contorts on itself, and streams from its chest blue light. You recoil, throwing your hand over your eyes, and when the light fades and you look again Gil is there on the ground. Face and new clothes and everything.

"Goodness!" Horse Face says. Pat rubs her face. You crouch over Gil. "Gil!"

"Mmm," he says.

"Hello! You're alive! I think you magycked yourself," you say in a lower voice. "That was a good idea. Thanks. You know who I am, right?"

"...Lottie...?"

"Yes! Excellent job! You'll be back up to speed in no time. Pat said you got liquified, basically, so if you feel weird... well, we can talk about it later. Also, I saved your life again, but that's not important. Can you walk?"

"...I don't..."

"Can I help? How about I help you!" You lift his arm over your shoulder and drag him up. He sways. "See! You're doing great already! We'll be out of here in no time!"

"He still needs cured," Pat says.

"...We'll be out of here after you get cured!"

(Choices next.)

>After the curing (and the getting out of here), what do you do?

>[1] You're certain Gil will be fine eventually, but you don't want to leave him alone. Drag him back to your manse and debrief ASAP.

>[2] Actually, you're not sure how useful he's going to be in conversation right now. Let him sleep this off in his tent while you go...
>>[A] Look at Horse Face's gadget selection.
>>[B] Get the list of victims... you mean, the list of Headspace possession targets from Eloise.
>>[C] Find Madrigal, so she can help you get in touch with Real Ellery. You should probably tell him that you're blowing up Headspace. Possibly. Theoretically.
>>[D] Take care of various small tasks in your tent, like reading Henry's letter or testing out your newly magycked bad eye. (Look, you need to decompress too.)

>[3] Write-in.

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! I have transcribed another batch of threads (15-19), and, uh... not a whole lot else. This is going to be a busy month, so please anticipate delays, as well as the possibility of having to take a couple days off in the middle. Also, I may have to take April off entirely, because I have about 50 billion major assignments due, but we'll play it by ear. Sorry folks.

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

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

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

>Mechanics
The MC has a pool of 14 Identity ("ID"), which may be considered both HP and the measure of her current sense of self. It may be lost through physical, metaphysical, or emotional damage. It may be regained through write-ins, designated options, and at reasonable narrative points, including sleep. It may be spent on a flat +10 bonus to rolls, as well as on more elaborate metaphysical effects. Dropping to 0 ID is bad.

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

>Archive (nicer)
15-19: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1XE8ygoN6nWucvZEqmBeoQ9jKNdc6V_FOvrrIitRi3dU/edit?usp=sharing
20-April Fools: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NqCgQYDq5NajT36m9dxkpZE85mqMMjClsz-gu9FYKtQ/edit?usp=sharing
25-29: https://docs.google.com/document/d/11aZ013qySgw0wWawb2SHra3ExtJrs6FLQaCp9S7udUU/edit?usp=sharing
30-34: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1COMiZB7lKEu756_CS-lfaID2oMtHVMGBVLjXrXmMBHQ/edit?usp=sharing
35-present: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZkI18l-PNI7i-HQdQmqTJJvUM-iLKBBCNpvSC-POhk0/edit?usp=sharing

>Twitter
https://twitter.com/BathicQM

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

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

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

>"Redux"?
This quest is a loose sequel to the original Drowned Quest, which ran for eight short threads in 2019. Reading the original may help with context in very early Redux threads, but ultimately is not required.

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

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>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX
Having finished making a tentative deal with Us, you set off to go find Gil/Teddy. Instead, you encounter, of all people, Horse Face-- apparently dropping by because of Gil's tip-off, he's lost in the Us sauce and thinks he's a reporter. You persuade him to help you speak to Gil/Teddy, who is currently competing in an ice fishing tournament, and it works... except Teddy doesn't know who you are, and is pissed that you're interrupting. He tells you that Gil's off repairing fishing gear.

Confused, you go find Gil, and discover that, not only is he separate from Teddy, but he's very much non-lucid. After a little questioning, you come to the unnerving conclusion that he's not just in a trance-- Us has absorbed his goo body and incorporated him into the hivemind. When you wake Us up, they sheepishly confirm this, but claim it wasn't on purpose and that he isn't suffering. To prove it, they let you talk to Gil's consciousness directly: he's pretty out of it, but claims that he's happy where he is and doesn't want to leave. You don't buy it and decide to rescue him anyway. Us alters the dream to make Gil's alter ego ("Dream Gil") into Claudia's family friend.

Because the dream altered, you're back to thinking you're Claudia, and you coerce Dream Gil into becoming your mischief accomplice. You attempt to sabotage the health & safety inspections, but discover that the inspectors have already come and gone. Meanwhile, Claudia feels watched, and manages to look inside her mind to discover... you, Charlotte Fawkins. You're inside of her. Claudia assumes you're a manifestation of the Wyrm, which you deny, and you discuss pagan lore (apparently the Wyrm has a "dead eye," and hell is inside the sun?) and Iceover info (apparently there's a suspiciously dangerous-sounding beauty pageant?) before growing frustrated at her unwillingness to cooperate with you. The red stuff feeds off your frustration, and you may or may not transform into a lizard-type nightmare monster. You definitely do suck Claudia into yourself, fusing her with your own mind.

You snap out of it, discovering that you can now keep up the "Claudia" persona while remaining completely lucid. Very little time has passed. As "Claudia," you decide to investigate the beauty pageant, which is hours away-- but its contestants are housed on a private lodge on the beach. You and Dream Gil go find Horse Face again, since he's buddies with Dream Gil and, as a reporter, can help with plausibly bluffing your way inside.

Inside the lodge, you discover that there's five contestants, any of whom could be Pat-- and they're under a vow of silence, so you can't go around asking. Undeterred, you solve a logic puzzle and deduce that Pat is the depressed one in the pool room. She's lost all hope of surviving Management and is irritated to see you, but you extract her unwilling promise to help, then go off to magyck Management.

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Conveniently, Management is chatting with Gil and Horse Face. You attempt to bend reality to eavesdrop, but the Manager detects you immediately, ignores your feeble efforts to read her(?) mind, and forces her way into yours. You scramble to hide sensitive information, then realize that the Manager is currently distracted. Seizing the opportunity, you take your "bad eye" out and slot it in the other way around. You can see strings permanently now, and remove the Management by snapping their tethers back to wherever they came from.

You tell Pat you saved her. She's still irritated, but tells you that everything's even between you now. Horse Face comes in, and you snap him back to his usual self. Dream Gil comes in, and you wake him up to speak to Us, who is displeased that you've absorbed Claudia. It's also displeased to see Pat, whom it accuses of "tormenting" the goo even though she knew it was sentient. It wants to absorb her temporarily to read her mind, which she categorically refuses. You work out a deal where Pat will make independent bodies for some of Us instead. You also attempt to convince Us that you'll give Claudia back as soon as you can, but it doesn't trust you, forcing you to go in and rescue Gil all by yourself. You do an okay job cutting him out, but wind up with some extra goo attached...
.
.
.
>TO-DO

Short-term goals:
- Possess a Headspace employee to gather intel
- Update Real Ellery on the current bombing plan
- "Borrow" Horse Face's stuff

Long-term goals:
- Blow up Headspace
- Resurrect Annie
- Regain your missing memories (...if possible)
- Attend your richly deserved Game Night
- Use, extract, or otherwise deal with the Wyrm stuff you got going on
- Find Jean Ramsey and her snake; challenge her to epic single combat (probably); reclaim the Crown
- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (4/16)
- Make friends??? More friends? Gil probably counts now

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


---


Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>5943558
>1
Pat said he'd be psychically hungover, so how does that feel?

>>5943570
For goals, shouldn't return Claudia and Gil's extra (Teddy probably) be on one of the lists?

>>5943635
Ah, it probably should be. I'll mark "return Claudia" down for next thread's to-do list, and you can decide what to do about Gil's hanger-on after you learn a little more about what's going on there.

>>5943558
>[1] You're certain Gil will be fine eventually, but you don't want to leave him alone. Drag him back to your manse and debrief ASAP.

>>5943558
>>[1] You're certain Gil will be fine eventually, but you don't want to leave him alone. Drag him back to your manse and debrief ASAP.

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>Are you uhhhhh okay buddy

Gil raises no protest about you carefully walking him down the hall— he can stand upright by himself, but it's wobbly, and unaided locomotion seems beyond him. Even with your help, he moves like he's sleepwalking, though his firm grasp on your sleeve indicates some awareness. You mean, you think it does. He hasn't really spoken much more.

He doesn't protest the curing either— if anything you're the one anxious about it, sending your best retainer into a metal box to be heated to extreme temperatures, but you tell yourself it did work last time. And surely Pat wouldn't sabotage the process now, no matter how annoyed she is about you saving her entire life. She wouldn't burn your retainer to a crisp. You'd kill her for that. She has to know you'd kill her for that.

Pat doesn't evince any outward signs of knowing this, though she does remind you curtly that goo is very resistant to high temperatures, just like it was last time and has also always been, and that this is a necessary step in the process, unless you want Bug... unless you want Gil the approximate consistency of swamp ooze the second he touches water. And it's true that you don't want that, so you do let him lie down clumsily on a body-size tray with rollers underneath and you do let Pat roll the tray inside the oven (that's essentially what it is) with the rollers going click-click-click-click-thunk. And Pat shuts the hatch on your retainer, though there's a little window built into the hatch, so you can watch.

Pat tells you that watching isn't going to do any good. You tell Pat that you can do what you damn well please, considering that you saved her entire life. Horse Face chuckles. (He's been doing a lot of that.) Inside the curing machine, coils glow orange-hot, and Gil doesn't move. Nothing appears to be happening. But if you start smelling smoke...

You never smell smoke. (You do smell something sharp and tangy, like blood, but Pat tells you that that's just what goo smells like heated. Horse Face backs her up, to your disgust.) In the end, a timer dings, and Pat rolls Gil back out. His eyes are shut, his mouth has fallen open, and you're about halfway through drawing The Sword when Pat shakes his shoulder and he twitches. "Mnhh."

"You fell asleep," she tells him, but she means it for you. You drop The Sword back into its sheath and fold your arms.

"A success, I take it?" Horse Face says.

Pat presses a gloved finger into Gil's cheek. It springs back. "Yes. Not that that was ever actually in doubt. Here, Gil, get up."

He does, and she circles around him, lifting his arms, poking his chest, telling him to swivel his neck and show his teeth. "I don't see any issues," she says after withdrawing. "Try not to get this one eaten again, champ, got it?"

(1/3)

Post-curing, Gil's less wobbly on his feet, but not any less dazed. "Nnh," he emits.

"If he does get it eaten, you'll make another one! Because I saved your entire life." You toss your head. "Anyways, Gil, I think we should go back to my manse! So we can talk about how you're feeling, and also how I saved your life, and Pat's, and Horse Face's— don't forget about that one— I saved Horse Face, too. Out of the sheer goodness of my heart, since there's no logical explanation why I'd do that. It's pretty impressive. Anyways... ow! God-damnit!"

Your night-tuned eyeballs fear bright light, even if it's bright light coming from your retainer's swaying body, which— as the light clears, is more accurately bodies, plural. Gil's nice new set-and-cured goo body is gone, and 400 whirring beetles hover in its stead. You've seen this before, so you're less startled than Pat and Horse Face visibly are, though you're still surprised: if he's beetlefying (or whatever he calls it) in front of others, he must be really out of it.

As you half-expected, the beetles stream toward and find purchase on your chest and back and arms, though they graciously avoid your face. Horse Face is applauding. Pat very much looks like she wants to make a 'Bug Man' comment, but she bites the thumb of her glove, and eventually goes "That's kind of cute."

"That's magic, is it not?" Horse Face's expression would justify a slap, were you prone to random violence and not carefully meted-out justice. "My! I wonder where he may have been exposed to that!"

"Try 'Charlotte,'" Pat says.

"Oh, no, no! That wasn't my pick, though I'm sure she has stories of her own to share." Horse Face is practically twinkling. Maybe it'd count as carefully meted-out justice if you...

"No," you say firmly, before you're unable to control yourself. "We're leaving. Say bye, Gil."

"...yye...?"

Good enough. Now, how do you get out? Richard would do it normally, but he's on break. Vacation. Medical leave. Whatever. He's not here, and if you ask Pat you'll look stupid, and Gil's no help. Hmm, hmm, hmm. Oh! Your model! It's there in your pocket, just like always. "You're welcome for the body," Pat says.

"You owed it to me! If it turns out faulty, by the way, I'll let you know at camp. You're going back there, right?"

"...Yes."

"Great! See you there. Make sure to tell Madrigal and Guppy how completely saved your life was. Uh..." Your manse in miniature is in your hand. You don't remember making the windows of the model all red, though. Funny. "Yeah, okay. Bye!"

With Gil all beetles all over you, it actually makes the trick easier: one of his bodies can fit handily inside the manse-in-miniature. And if he can fit inside, he can bring you with him, and your gut blooms with nausea as you compact to fit.

—

(2/3)

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Your manse: the same as last time, all red and eerie, sunlight lancing through the windows like bloodied blades. It's silent except for your footsteps, the tinkling of the font, and the rustling of Gil as he keeps his grip. The manse's tall columns are overgrown with hairy webs of red vines, like dodder.

It doesn't feel like a place for you anymore. Did it ever, though? You don't think you ever made your manse— if you did, it was a different you. You can't remember that you. Or else it was Richard, who always comes so close to understanding you, and always falters.

Anyways, it's fine. It's not unsafe in here, any more than it's unsafe in your own head— the walls are strong and marble, and they keep the sun locked out there. You wish you could fix the ugly ravine in the floor (thanks a lot, Yellow-Eyed Thing), but it is what it is. And there is a place carved out near it, isn't there? You scramble down the side of the ugly ravine, shedding beetles as you go, and walk along the creek at the bottom of it. Underneath the marble tile is black earth. It's always earth. And at the end of the creek is a little space with dense dark-leaved trees and moist humus and a pool of water. It's not very attractive, nor is it thematically appropriate, but at least it's not red here.

You guess Gil likes the spot too, because about half of him leaves you and settles in the lower boughs of the largest tree. You look up at him. "Gil?"

No response.

"Are you okay? Can you talk? You can talk now if you want— they're gone. Richard isn't even here."

No response, except for the beetles swirling.

"If you won't talk to me, I'm going to get really worried. I'm going to have to go into your mind again and see all your embarrassing secrets... I mean, all the ones I didn't already see. Also, I— I'd like to talk to you as a human being, if you don't mind. Not that there's anything wrong with beetles. They just don't have faces. And I— I want to see your face."

Gil slurs something so thickly you have to parse it out several seconds later. "'No you don't'— yes I do! I'm glad you can talk, but— yes, I do want to see your face. That's my right, as your, um— as your lady." You scootch your knees to your chest. "You wouldn't disobey me, right? And also... uh... if you're a person, I think you'd be able to smoke a cigarette without it putting you into a coma. Just saying."

(3/4 jk)

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This, of everything, entices half the beetles down, and the other half to slide off you, and the two come together— you shield your eyes properly this time— to make a Gil who is sitting very near to you. Probably not on purpose. It's just that his beetles were right next to you. You don't say anything.

He still has the right face and clothes and everything, though one of his knees is tucked up to his chest, and he's got his forehead resting on it. He is striking a match very close to his body. You smell the cigarette before you see it, but then you see it, and Gil snaps the match in two with his thumb and forefingers and tosses it sizzling into the pool of water. The cigarette glows orange. He is sitting almost so your shoulders are touching, but he is facing straight out, and his eyes are trained out into the red sunlight. His pupils are wobbling.

You feel like you're probably going to have to say something first.

>[A1] So... uh... how is he?
>[A2] How much does he remember?
>[A3] Is he mad at you for rescuing him?
>[A4] He should know that Us basically brainwashed him, so if he's mad at you, that's why. Because he's brainwashed. But you're going to help him snap out of it, okay?
>[A5] You also rescued Pat and Horse Face. He's happy you rescued Horse Face, right? It all worked out in the end? Nothing even blew up, Gil. He should be happy nothing blew up. You did a good job.
>[A6] Does he want a drink? You kind of want a drink. This feels like a good occasion for a drink. (Maybe it'd help him talk more.)
>[A7] He wouldn't happen to have any kind of evil mind interloper at the moment, right?
>[A8] Check out Gil's strings. (Do you tell him about your eye discovery? Y/N)
>[A9] Write-in.

>[B1] (Scoot closer, as to provide moral support)
>[B2] (Scoot away, as to maintain respectful & proper distance)
>[B3] (Stay where you are)

>[C] Write-in.

>>5944532
>A1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8Y
>B3

Have we considered curtains for the manse

>>5944532
>>A1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8Y
>>B3

>>5944532
[A1, A2, A4, A5]
>>B1

>>5944585
>>5945139
>>5945161
>A1, A2, A4, A5, A6, A7, A8Y
>B3

Wew. I will fit some, but not all, of this into the upcoming update. The rest will be trickled in as context permits.

Writing.

>We're all good right homie

What pressure! What if you say the wrong thing, and he hates you forever for it? What if he never talks to you ever again? Has Us brainwashed him that hard? Look at him, staring off like that. A normal opener isn't going to work. You guess you could go into his mind again and exorcise the brainwashing, plus whatever evil intruder he possibly has, but the suspiciously Richard-y part of your brain is telling you that might be going a little too far. Thanks a lot, suspiciously Richard-y part of your brain. What would Richard even recommend here? If it was normal Richard, he'd probably tell you that Gil did hate you, and that you should go away. If it was Nice Richard, then... uh... you don't know what he'd say. That's what you need Nice Richard for.

Still. Richard, Richard, Richard... what is it about Richard? Something niggles at you. Maybe it's not the advice he'd give to you, but... hmm. It's not easy to get him to open up either, or it didn't use to be. Back with regular Richard. With the snake it was practically impossible, maybe actually impossible. With the man, he wasn't exactly leaping over himself to share personal details, but at least there was a person to know details about. You only really saw it when he got excited, though. Or drunk. Especially drunk.

God, you could use a drink right now. God, you bet Gil could... could... ah! A-ha! He's a lightweight! A complete and total lightweight! Which is not to say that you'd drug your retainer to get him to talk to you, of course. You're not going to slip him anything or (God forbid) dump anything down his throat. He's your retainer! You just— you mean— if he wants to have a drink, of course you'll have a drink with him. And if he gets drunk faster than you do, he should've expected that, surely?

You clear your throat. "I think I'm going to have a drink, as it has been a long day, and... a successful one, to be clear. Since I did save three lives, and I didn't even blow anything up, so you know. I know you don't like it when things blow up. And it's not like Richard was stopping me, or— I was just able to control myself, and use common sense, or whatever you were yelling at me about the other day. I just want you to know that. Nobody blew up, even people who would've deserved to have blown up."

Gil's expression crinkles a little around the cigarette, but you have no idea what that means. Is he disgusted? Does he find that funny? Is he deep in thought about how well things went overall, excluding him getting absorbed, which wasn't your fault? Almost entirely wasn't your fault. Mostly wasn't your fault. Was mostly Us's and Management's fault.

You press onwards. "Also, I'm going to go get a— did you hear that part? I am going to drink. Alcohol, to be clear. Would you also like to drink alcohol?"

He blinks hard and plucks the cigarette out of his mouth, which you take as a good sign. It's still a moment before he answers. "Sure."

"Yes? You'd like to—?"

"Yup."

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Oh! That was easy. No wonder he's your best retainer. You stand and crack your back. Alcohol, alcohol, alcohol. Richard has traditionally obtained you alcohol. But Richard is derelict in his duties, so it falls to you to somehow... no, that's the wrong attitude. Of course you'll obtain alcohol! You're Charlotte Fawkins! And this is your manse, so it exists to serve you, whether you designed it or not. Shut your eye and you can see that laid plain: there is you, the little sun, and there is the strong sparse cables of the manse forming diamonds above and below, and there are the little spidersilky Laws fraying off the cables, and all of those are bent towards you. Or, in alternate: Laws wisp off your sun, stiffen in space, and coil together and together to make the manse's structure. Richard would know. He'd probably tell you you're wrong about half of it. That's what you see, though.

Well, that's not quite true. There's the sun, the cables— and one other thing, a curious geometric shape, something like a star and something like a web and something like a half-done embroidery hoop. It's bluer than it is white and thicker than it is thin, for the most part: there's a sunburst of thin strands woven into the center of the main pattern. It hurts your eyes a little to look at. You've never seen something like it before.

What you have seen before is Gil, who's squinting up at you, totally unaware that he looks like an embroidery hoop. "What?"

"Uhh." You'll explain later. After he's drunk. "Nothing. Forsooth! I am getting alcohol now!"

Saying it out loud means it has to happen, right? You're in your own manse. Stupid Ellery is a stupid blah blah blah god in his manse. Are you worse than Ellery? No. So there must be alcohol around here somewhere, and you need only find it. Alcohol is very abundant in weird jungly crevices. That's just fact! And... uh... if Gil carved this out for himself, and he's been going through some things, maybe he prepared a stash? And being your best and most thoughtful retainer, he stocked it with the kind of drink you like? And, uh... didn't hide it too well? That's right. You bet it's just behind this tree.

If you walk like so, head held high, eyes averted, and just know there's going to be a stash of drinks behind this large and majestic tree, then there will be. And you will reach down and touch the smooth top of an icebox, not at all hidden, and then you can look. The icebox is red. You crack it open smugly and retrieve two beautiful, brimming pink cocktails. Your umbrella is also pink. Gil's is green and has beetles on it instead of flowers.

You pick them both up and present them to Gil. "Here! This one's for you. Look at the umbrella!"

(2/4)

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In another time, Gil might've mumbled something about the umbrella not being the pressing issue, and that he didn't really go in for girly drinks, and could you see i-i-if there was anything else? It's not that time, and he takes it, only a flick of his eyes betraying judgment. He looks at the umbrella. "Hah."

Then he plucks it out, stakes it into the ground like a banner, and downs the drink. Downs it! Like a shot! You didn't have a chance to ask if he wanted to do it together, or tell him that it was more of a sipping-type drink, or inquire if his alcohol tolerance has increased at all since two or three years ago— all things you could've possibly maybe done. It's just gone, drained, and Gil sets the empty glass next to the umbrella.

For a second, your respect rises: he doesn't spit it out or vomit or anything, even though you know exactly how it feels going down. Then he sputters a bit, and you decide to reserve your opinion. He snorts. He blinks a lot, and opens his mouth to touch the roof of it. He has grown suddenly alarmingly pink. So far so expected.

He keeps blinking, though, and stretching his face in funny ways, and he's planted his palm on the ground as if to keep balance. He's definitely slumping more than he was. Hmm. Did the icebox actually have ice in it? The drinks didn't go bad? The jungle fumes didn't corrupt...

"Am I drunk?" Gil manages.

"What?" You make to scoff, but end up tittering. "Gilbert! Geez! You're not that much of a— I mean, I know you're a wimpy drinker, and you drank that really fast, but— they're not that strong. I mean, they're... they're pretty strong, but they don't just... the alcohol has to be absorbed, or something like that. Right? And that takes at least a couple minutes! I think you're just—"

"I did absorb it." He does sound a little drunk. (But he sounded drunk before this, so.)

You swirl your glass. "I mean... maybe a little? Maybe you're a tiny bit tipsy? Or more than a tiny bit... but not drunk. Don't freak yourself out, or you'll feel worse!"

"No, no. No, I..." He waves a hand around his face. "I... I don't think I... swallowed it."

"Yeah! You just chugged it straight down! You have to be careful about that." You put your hand on your hip. "Maybe you were feeling crummy, but you don't want to puke, okay? If you have to puke, can you do it behind the tree?"

"I don't need to puke. Um, I... um... I think Pat said... goo."

"She says a lot about goo, Gil."

"No, I... she said it absorbed things. Uh. Liquids."

...Oh! Oh, no. "You don't mean—"

"I think it all went to my head... uh... through my mouth?" More vague gesturing. "I think I'm drunk. Very... efficient."

"Sorry."

"You didn't do shit, I... I mean, she told me... I didn't put it together. Uh. I'm not that drunk. I'm not going to piss my pants, or... I can walk okay. I don't think I'm saying my words all fucked-up yet?"

Kind of? He sounds different, but he's not slurring particularly hard. "Uh, it could be worse."

(3/4)

"Could be worse. Could be worse. That's good. Mmm." Gil pulls his lips down and his eyebrows up, then does the reverse. "That's good. I think I talk more when I'm drunk."

You were stinking drunk too, the night you first rescued him, but Richard took careful notes. "I think you, um, spilled your entire life story? The last time we drank?"

"See? I probably... I probably... it fucking sucks, Lottie. It sucks dick. I just start talking about stuff nobody cares about, or stuff they shouldn't... stuff I care about, but nobody else... it's none of their goddamn business, right? Like, goddamn. But I just, you know, I just can't... it comes out. I get so fucking thick. Hate being drunk. Gimme a fucking... gimme a smoke. I can deal with that. Gimme a smoke."

"Uh," you say. "You're holding one."

"Aw, shit." Gil taps the ash off his cigarette, then takes a drag, tilts his head back, and blows a cloud of smoke into the air. He lolls his head against the tree.

"Sorry you got drunk," you say again, uncomfortably.

"Aw, go kick bricks, Lottie. I'm not... I mean... I know what fucking alcohol does, I just didn't think it'd be so... you already know everything, anyways. There's nothing I can spill like a stupid drunk fuck that you haven't already... I'm not... I'm out of secrets. Sorry if you wanted dark secrets. You know 'em. Ha-ha."

"That's good." You pause. "Maybe?"

"I don't know. Maybe it is good. I trust you with, um... I don't think you'd spill them or anything. So it's okay. It feels kind of good, knowing that somebody, uh... are you going to have a drink? No pressure. Ha-ha. But you said you wanted a drink, and you're just standing there holding..."

"Ah," you say, and rectify the second of those by sitting down precisely where you were. Gil puts a welcoming(?) hand on your knee. "Yeah! That's better!"

You glance down at your knee and at your drink, and swish the latter.

>[A1] It's worse having him be *drunk* all of a sudden, like you really did dope him— except you didn't! It's not your fault. It still feels like your fault, though, a little. Cope by chugging a glass yourself, and maybe a second (you need three or four to really feel it). [+ ID]
>[A2] Just sip gently. You wouldn't mind getting tipsy, but Richard isn't here to walk you home, and you do still need to ask Gil all about what happened.

>[B1] Tactfully remove the hand. Your Aunt Ruby would be scandalized.
>[B2] Gil had a low upbringing and was never taught the proper rules about the touching of highly eligible young ladies. Also, he's drunk now, so he's not really... he probably... you assume he's just being friendly. Leave the hand where it is, but keep a watchful eye on it to ensure it doesn't budge upward or elsewhere.
>[B3] As above, but keep an *un*-watchful eye on it. An eye that might accidentally permit further minor indiscretions. (Minor. He is of course your retainer.)

>[C] Write-in.

>>5945567
>[A1] It's worse having him be *drunk* all of a sudden, like you really did dope him— except you didn't! It's not your fault. It still feels like your fault, though, a little. Cope by chugging a glass yourself, and maybe a second (you need three or four to really feel it). [+ ID]
>[B1] Tactfully remove the hand. Your Aunt Ruby would be scandalized.
I feel like even in a romance path Charlotte would remove the hand.

>>5945619
>I feel like even in a romance path Charlotte would remove the hand.
No worries. The options presented don't constitute any kind of long-term "routelock": they may affect how Gil and Charlotte interact in the short term, but aren't going to make or break any far-future escalation of the relationship (or lack thereof). Charlotte's feelings, whatever their nature, are complex and not easily untangled. Gil's just drunk and slightly handsy.

>>5945567
>A1
We can't let him be drunk alone!
>B2
It's like a hug but with less contact

>>5945760
+1

>>5945567
>>[A1] It's worse having him be *drunk* all of a sudden, like you really did dope him— except you didn't! It's not your fault. It still feels like your fault, though, a little. Cope by chugging a glass yourself, and maybe a second (you need three or four to really feel it). [+ ID]
>[B2] Gil had a low upbringing and was never taught the proper rules about the touching of highly eligible young ladies. Also, he's drunk now, so he's not really... he probably... you assume he's just being friendly. Leave the hand where it is, but keep a watchful eye on it to ensure it doesn't budge upward or elsewhere.

>>5945760
Support

[A1], and...

>>5945760
>>5946075
>>5946077
>>5946079
>[B2]

>>5945619
>[B1]

[B2]. Writing.

>Social drinking

Surely Gil doesn't actually mean anything by the hand and the knee— he's drunk, firstly, and self-admittedly stupid, and you don't think he was taught anything about physical contact with eligible young ladies. Maybe where he's from young ladies are touched frequently on the knee, and nobody ever thinks anything of it. A rough-and-tumble place, to be sure. But still. It is only the knee, not the waist or the thigh; it could be worse. And you have hugged him before, in moments of duress, which could be taken as a step beyond a mere knee, though it doesn't feel that way. There are some occasions where a hug between an (unmarried) man and woman could be appropriate, even respectful. There are fewer occasions with a touch on the knee.

And yet it's only a touch, very far from a caress, and Gil is drunk, which doesn't make it an appropriate occasion, per se, but does explain the violation of norms. You shouldn't distress him by removing his hand, which he's probably put there as a show of (in his mind) amity and fellow-feeling. You will leave it, and you will avoid his questioning gaze, and you will swish the glass back the other direction and tilt your head back and dump your drink down as fast as he did or faster. It tastes less like fruit and more like turpentine, done like this, but you're used to the burn and suffer it admirably.

"There we go," you say, and wipe your nose, and smile so he doesn't suspect anything. "Now we're even."

"Aces! Wow, you didn't make a face or anything!" Gil grins. "You're not drunk, though, I bet."

"Um, no." Why did he have to say that? Now you feel weird about it again, even though you didn't drug him. You didn't. "Um, I'll be feeling something in a couple minutes, but, uh... no. Still sober. Sorry."

"Aw, what's there to apologize for? Having an iron gut? Just 'cause I'm a pussy who can't hold my liquor, doesn't mean... doesn't mean, you know... doesn't mean... you probably don't even need to get drunk right now, huh? If you said everything went great, then you're probably— I mean, you were just being polite. I'm the one who needed a goddamn drink, not..."

He doesn't know about Claudia. "How about I have a second one? So we're really even, accounting for the— accounting for the goo factor."

"Oh, well, I mean, don't do it if you don't— don't do it if— aw, shit." You've taken up your glass again, which has miraculously refilled, and have downed it too. "Okay! We'll both be drunk. That's cool also."

Two drinks will mark you as merely "inebriated," not full-on crying-and-screaming drunk, but you don't think it'd help to tell Gil that. "I'm just doing my noble duty. You needed a... so you're feeling better?"

"I'm feeling drunk! Um, that's... yeah. That's better. Big improvement. I'd rather be a dumb shitbag than, um..." He works his mouth.

"Brainwashed?" you provide.

"No, I... huh? No... what?"

(1/3)

You shift. "You weren't... mad at me, were you? Because Us brainwashed you into thinking you wanted to be there forever, and then I rescued you against your will, so I thought maybe you were mad at me or didn't want to talk to me ever? But if you're not brainwashed, then..."

"I wasn't brainwashed," Gil says.

"Oh," you say. "...How would you know?"

"I was them. I knew what we were thinking, because I would think it. I don't think they could hide anything from... from me. Open book. You know. And there was nothing about brainwashing. I don't think we knew how to... I mean... we were pretty naive. We knew shit-all about the extent of the metaphysical gullshit we could—"

You're starting to feel warmer. "'We', Gil?"

"—we could— we could— what?"

"You're not a 'we.'"

"I was," he says, and frowns. "And I'm... I'm a bunch of bugs in a suit, so if I wanted to be a 'we,' then I... I don't think anyone could say I wasn't."

"I thought you kept saying you were just one person," you say.

"Uh, I am, but... I'm just saying, I could. If I wanted. I thought it was really goddamn weird before, but now, um... I can see the appeal, I guess." He pinches his lips together.

"And you're not brainwashed?"

"Lottie!"

You fold your arms righteously. "What?!"

"Please don't fight me! I-I don't want to fight you, or be mad at you, or... but you really ask for it sometimes! I-I-If you'd just lemme talk—"

He's stuttering. Also, you think you're tipsy, if not more than that. You're warm and light-headed and you could take those physiological signals and run with them and wind up in a stupid drunk fight with Gil, because you do that. You start getting all noisy a couple drinks down. You don't want to get mad at him or fight him either, and you really, really, really don't want to discover yourself with your teeth in his neck, or your sword in his throat, or your flaming sword in his flammable beetles. You sit on your hands. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Talk, then."

"I... okay... um, thanks. I'm not brainwashed. I just..." Gil furrows his brow. "...uh... I-I don't know how to... you're not going to get it. I-I-I think you're just going to say they fucked with my head, so it's not worth believing anything I... I felt about..."

Damnit! How did he know? "No I won't. I'm a— I'm a fantastic listener, I'll have you know, and I'm known for comprehending things rapi... rapidly! Yeah! That's why I'm also a famous detectivess, Gilbert. So pray, carry—"

"Is detectivess a real word?" Gil says.

"What?"

"I thought it was just detective...? Like, even girls were still detectives."

"I— Gil, you're drunk! Stop asking nonsensical questions." You straighten up. "Go on, convey what was so gosh-darned amazing about being kidnap-sorbed into a giant ugly goo..."

(2/3)

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"I really don't think that's a real word," he mumbles. "But, um... I can... I don't know. It was like I died and went to... uh... it felt like... the glowy shit. You know? The infinite, um, uncon... uncondish... the peace and love shit. Don't say brainwashing, Lottie."

You sit on your hands harder. "I wasn't..."

"I bet. Anyhow, um... yeah. I... uh..." He's staring off vacantly again. "Everybody knew everything about me, and I knew all of them, um, and they all liked me, and, um... yeah. I-I didn't feel so alone in there. I guess."

"...Ah." Did you drink too much too fast? Maybe not too much, but possibly too fast. You're feeling a little queasy.

>[1] Write-in. Real options in the morning, most likely.

(About +ID: You'll get the benefits when the mood lightens back up.)

>>5946385
Just kidding. I went to brush my teeth and came back feeling a little more alive.

>[1] Inquire if there were possibly any BAD PARTS to getting KIDNAPSORBED by a GIANT UGLY EVIL GOO MONSTER?
>[2] Tell him that he doesn't know anybody in there. Maybe Teddy, if you're being really generous, but everyone else in Us died hundreds of years before Gil was born. They're not his friends.
>[3] Tell him that Us cruelly made Dream Gil into a loser. That's not the behavior of so-called "friends."
>[4] Ask if he'd rather be there than here, then.
>[5] Tell him that he's not alone, because you're here. So. That doesn't even make any sense.
>[6] Tell him that you felt alone while he wasn't there.
>[7] Write-in.

>>5946396
>[1] Inquire if there were possibly any BAD PARTS to getting KIDNAPSORBED by a GIANT UGLY EVIL GOO MONSTER?
>[5] Tell him that he's not alone, because you're here. So. That doesn't even make any sense.

>>5946396
>1
like the degradation of his mind
>3
>5

>>5946396
>1
>3
>5

>>5946396
>[2]
>[3]

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Not feeling super hot tonight, sorry folks. Will update tomorrow.

>>5946647
>>5946964
>[1, 3, 5]

>>5946411
>[1, 5]

>>5946990
>[2, 3]

Called for [1], [3], [5], and writing.

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>Pardon me??

"I see," you say diplomatically. "That's very... interesting, Gilbert. Considering that, at that very moment, your mind was being dissolved into soup?"

"I don't know about that," Gil mutters.

"No? Because that's what Pat, known goo/manse expert, said was happening. If you stayed in there, you'd degrade, just like the rest of them did. Into soup! Soup! You know those people in there don't even know their own names?"

"That's not..."

"That's what they told me the first time. They couldn't even remember their names. And Pat also said goo's full of tiny little shredded fragments of Law, which, I have to say, does not sound even a little tiny bit like the people in there are intact and functional and not made of soup. So what you're telling me is, you were made to feel like it was really cool and awesome that your mind was being—"

"I... I-I don't... I think it would've taken a long time for that to..."

"But you wanted to stay that long! Maybe because they were already dissolving your brain, Gil? Did you think about that?!" You fold your arms. "Maybe that's why you're acting so dumb. Half your brain's already soup."

"I'm just drunk," Gil snaps. "And I- I- you don't even know what it was like, okay? You don't know... you don't... we don't forget... everyone in there knows their names. You're always so goddamn jud... jush... judgmental, Lottie. It's just tough to remember the little things when you have 8,000—"

"So your name's a little thing now?" you snap back.

"In the grand scheme of things, yeah! But it's not like... we don't... we want to hang on to... that's what the dream is there for. Even if we're soup, or whatever, we're still alive in there, and normal, and it's... it's peaceful..."

"Peace and love and holding hands and everyone's happy and pagan and doing pagan rituals! Oh boy! Do you even remember it, Gil? Be real. What do you even remember?"

"I remember what it was like in there," Gil says. "And, um, I think I... I think I came away with some extra, uh... I know some things about... I know more about fish now."

"Do you remember what happened in the dream?"

He looks sheepish. "Uh... some... i-it was a dream, so..."

"Oh!" you say. (You are definitely inebriated now, and are leaning far forward.) "Uh-huh! Interesting. Wow. Fascinating. Were you aware that Us made you a loser in this dream?"

Gil tilts his head back.

(1/4)

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"Wow! I'm guessing no! Maybe it told you you were really cool and awesome in there? Because you weren't. You were just some useless wimpy doormat. All you liked to do was sit in the freezing cold and fix stupid fishing rods, and you completely let me and Horse Face boss you around— and Horse Face was mean to you! He kept making fun of you for not having any lady friends! Even though you were 25, which is— it's a highly eligible age, Gilbert. But Us made you in the dream be hung up on some random girl who ditched you! Why would it even do that? Because it's mean. It probably thinks it's funny to make you all pathetic, considering that—"

"Mlthethic..."

"Huh?" He's speaking completely into his lap. "Talk louder!"

"...I am all pathetic." He's lifted his head, but won't make eye contact. "I am a fucking wimpy... whatever you said. We got it right. I-I don't know what else you want from us."

No you're not, is what you would say, if these things were true: you were not inebriated, you were not ticked off, Richard were here to intervene. "Well, it could've made you better, couldn't it?"

"No," Gil says. And then: "Was I happy?"

No, is what you would say, if these things were true: you were not inebriated, your heart was not pure and honest. "Um, I mean... yeah... sort of."

Gil toys interestedly with the butt of his cigarette.

"But you're happy now! You were happy..." Until you made him talk about this. "You're happy all the time without needing to get kidnapsorbed and souped. That's, like, the worst possible way to be happy! That's terrible! And— and— even if you're wimpy in real life, Us just made the entire lady friend thing up. That's an evil fabrication meant to make you less happy. You're not actually hung up on some girl."

He has managed to transmute the butt into a full unlit cigarette, and is fishing his matchbook back out.

"You're— you're not. You don't even know any girls! Except for Madrigal, but she's already hung up on Ellery, and I don't think you'd..." You attempt to imagine Gil and Madrigal interacting in any way. "I don't think it'd work, Gil, let's be real."

Gil has the cigarette pinched between his teeth again.

(2/4?)

"It— it wouldn't. I hope we're on the same page about that. Plus, she's an old crone, basically, and you're still eligible— I said that. So, ergo... is that the right word? Hum." Richard would know. "Ergo, Us made it up. Ergo, you're probably even happier out here than you were in there— did I mention it was freezing cold for no reason? They could've made it not freezing cold, Gil. And even if there was a lot of people in there, and they were all your fake friends, or whatever, and you felt 'not alone'—" You make quotation marks with your fingers. "—you're not alone now? Obviously? Duh? I am right here, sitting right across from you, Gilbert, so I don't know what you're on about, 'not alone,' like that's some special— I mean, maybe compared to being beetles, but I rescued you! And we're doing great! So you can't possibly say that Us did anything special..."

If you keep talking, maybe you won't notice that Gil isn't responding. Except you have stopped talking, if only to take a breath, and you're only two drinks in, which isn't nearly enough to shut down your incredible powers of reasoning, which are at present noticing the way Gil's face is crinkling, and the the way he hasn't lit his cigarette— he's just holding it in his teeth, and holding the lit match in his hand. It could burn him like that. He claimed that he spoke more when he was drunk. Where is that, huh? Where did that go?

You're only two drinks in, which means that you're not ready to cry yet or scream yet, but you certainly could. If you weren't trying to have a nice supportive helpful conversation with Gil, you would. But you're... you have to remember, the whole trip went well! It went fine. It went great. You did nothing wrong the entire time. There's nothing for you to cry or scream about, except Gil's annoying brainwashing, which will wear off sooner or later. Probably sooner. You'll make it sooner. "...There had to be something bad about it, Gil. Even if you were holding hands and singing songs and learning about fish and you were happy and you had 8,000 friends and you didn't miss me at all, it can't have been perfect. Right? Nothing's perfect. Except God."

"Didn't miss you?" Gil says.

"Well, obviously? Since you were so busy, and your brain was melted—"

"I missed you."

"Oh," you say.

"I liked everybody there... and they liked me... and I wasn't lonely or anything. But I shti... still... I remembered you. I thought it'd be perfect if only you were... if only you... if you were there too. I thought you deserved to feel how I... how... you work sho hard, and nobody ever notishes. Notices. Notices. Um... if you were in there, everyone would care so much about what you did, and I think you'd really— I think you'd find out how—"

"I'm not getting myself souped, Gil." You fold your arms. "Besides, they already read my whole mind, and they were mean to me even after that. So you're not making any sense."

(3/4?)

"Mmm."

"You're— you're not. I'm glad you still remembered your retainerly loyalty, um, but— well, now I'm here. We're both here, Gil, so we're both happy. You have to think positive, remember? We are both happy. Objectively. There's zero reason for either of us to be feeling anything except happiness, and perhaps relief, at your life being—"

"I'm sorry," Gil says despondently. "I just... I can't... I'm sorry. I think I'm busted."

"...I didn't say that, but—"

"No, it's... I can't... I'm just busted in the head. I can't get happy, and if I get happy, I can't stay, um... I just go back to second-guessing it, or I... it's never enough. And I-I guess it felt like I had enough, for a... for a second. But obviously it wasn't going to last, and I should've— I mean, I should've known, because— I mean, it never lasts. For me. I just go right back to being me. I don't think I even really deserve, um... deserve to be that happy, or whatever. So I-I-I-I'm really sorry if I've been crashing the party— your party— I-I really shouldn't get drunk. I just ramble about stupid pathetic shit, like missing... like missing being a bunch of shitty goddamn dead people..." His ankle is jittering. "Gods! I-I-I'm just... I don't know how you put up with me, Lottie. I-I-I wouldn't put up with me. I-I-I-I probably would've left me to be beetles, and I probably would've deserved... that's what I deserved. I-I think that's honestly what I deserved, Lottie."

His match, forgotten, is smoldering close to his fingers. Wow! You weren't expecting that to work!

>[+2 ID: 7/14]

Huh. You were not... expecting that to work.

>[A1] Oh well. If Gil is ditching the whole annoying ungratefulness schtick, you won't look that gift horse in its maw. Leave it be so he doesn't change his mind.
>[A2] Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not missing being Us: good. Busted in the head? Deserving being left behind? That's totally different. Disabuse him of these notions. (What do you say? Write-in.)
>[A3] Write-in.

>[B1] Okay! Now that he's feeling normal, you can share all about your amazing newfound power...s. The eye, and you should probably also tell him that you absorbed Claudia, right? Since, um, you did. And it'll probably be relevant soon-ish. (Do you show him? Y/N)
>[B2] No, no, no. You don't want to spoil the improved mood with talk of red stuff. You'll just tell him whenever it matters... or you won't, and he might not even notice. Either way.

>[C] Write-in.

>>5948067
>[A2] Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not missing being Us: good. Busted in the head? Deserving being left behind? That's totally different. Disabuse him of these notions.
We don't do undeserved things to people, because that would be wrong. Meaning he deserved to be saved.

>[B2] No, no, no. You don't want to spoil the improved mood with talk of red stuff. You'll just tell him whenever it matters... or you won't, and he might not even notice. Either way.

>>5948104
Kek support

>>5948067
>A2
We need to lobotomize the depression out of him
>B2

>>5948624
>A2
>What do you say? Write-in.

If you just support >>5948104, that's fine too, but I assume you're not actually telling Gil he needs a lobotomy.

>>5948626
>I assume you're not actually telling Gil he needs a lobotomy.
Maybe need and lobotomy are the wrong words
We should phrase it as uh giving the interior of his manse a makeover to promote good vibes and healing energy. Fix the feng shui in there.

>>5948104
>>5948067
+1

>>5948104
>>5948245
>>5948624
>>5948649
Writing!

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>Chillax bro

You mean, you're glad that worked, obviously. (You thought for a second that he might want to go back there.) This is just rather more negative thinking than you were expecting. "You're being silly," you say dismissively. "Do you think I'd save the undeserving, Gilbert? Do you think I, Charlotte Fawkins, would deign to waste my precious heroic energies on somebody I thought was weird and lame? Of course not. You should feel honored I—"

"Didn't you say you bailed out Garvin?"

You scowl. "Well... yes... on account of my incredible generosity... but that doesn't matter! That's right now, while my heroic energies are overflowing. When I found you, I— I hadn't— I wasn't exactly the same as I am now. I had to conserve my heroism, so I could protect the Crown with it. So it's not like I was going around rescuing any old person, okay? I could've left you. Did I leave you?"

Gil shuts his eyes. "No..."

"So there you go! You were judgeth, er, worthy. Worthy and deserving. And if you say you're not again, then you're basically insulting me and my profound judgment right to my face." You nod vigorously. "Even more than insulting, actually, because— it's wrong to do undeserved things to people. So if I rescued you, and you didn't deserve it, then it was basically evil and cruel of me. Do you think it was evil and cruel of me to rescue you from Beetle Hell? Should I have preserved my virtuous spirit by leaving you to rot?"

"No, I— no— no. I... I'm glad I... it's not that I-I-I wanted to sh— stay in there! And it's not like I-I want to, um, to- to go back. I-I-I'd— I'd— it'd kill me if I went back there. Back to that. I'm not pissed you... I-I don't feel like you did anything wrong. Rescuing me."

Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're not following. "So what are you all beat up about?"

"...Uh..." He sucks his cheeks in. "It's not about... i-i-it's not that I'm never happy at all about it, I just, uh... I just know intul, intil, intellesh... uh... in-tell-ec-tu-al-ly that, uh, if I-I am ever happy about it, that it won't stick. And, um, that I don't deserve... I mean, I know I don't deserve it. So there's not really any point in..."

"In what?" You're either not following, or you don't want to be. "...In being happy? And you don't deserve... being happy? Gilbert!" His ankle is jittering. "That's not just silly, that's... I mean, that's patently ludicrous. Who's telling you that? Is it Horse Face?"

"What?"

"Is it Richard? Or was it Richard, I mean? I don't think he'd say that anymore... or was it Pat? She's always so pissy for no reason! Tell me who it is immediately, and once we're back to camp, I'll accost and inform them—"

(1/4)

File: positive thinking!.png (158 KB, 472x545)

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"Nobody's telling me," Gil says dismally.

"Huh? But... I mean, someone must've told you! Otherwise, you're saying you just made it all up for no reason, and you're too smart to make things up for no reason."

"...Not for no reason..."

Gil is probably the most confusing person you've ever met. "So you— you did make it up? You just decided to tell yourself you shouldn't be happy? What's the reason?"

"..." He doesn't say anything for a long time. "...It's just true. I-I'm not a good person, Lottie. I-I-I'm a shitty person, and shitty people don't... they don't... they don't get to be happy. Only good people are happy. Like you. You're such a good person, and you're happy all the time, and you... yeah. I-I'm not you, Lottie. I'm shit. Sorry you had to rescue me, and not... and not... not anybody else."

You shift. "Um, you're right that I haven't done anything wrong in my life, but I'm not— I'm not happy all the time."

"Most of the time," he mutters.

"Not most of the time! Um, much of the time, of course, but I... I... maybe I simply do too excellent a job of concealing my inmost anguish, which does rear up, um, on occasion. Probably more than you think it does. You just don't notice because I'm a famously positive thinker, and— you're a horribly negative thinker! That's what this is. You're drunk, and you're negative thinking all over the place, and it's making you all miserable for no reason. You're literally... who's going around telling you you're such an awful person, huh? Did Horse Face or Richard or Pat say that?" You fold your arms. "Or did you just invent it to make yourself feel bad?"

"I didn't inv- invent it..."

"So give me proof! I want proof you're an awful person. Because you're always nice to me, even if you've been grumpy sometimes, and you went out of your way to save me just the other day— and Dream Gil wasn't an awful person, huh? You said Us didn't change anything about you. Well, Dream Gil was sort of... he was sort of lame, but he was nice too! He wasn't awful! So there. You're literally making things up just so you can think them at yourself and be sad."

"I'm not..."

"You are."

"I'm not!"

"You obviously are. And you want to be happy, right? Blah blah blah, don't deserve it— doesn't matter. Do you want it? Yes! So just..." You spread your arms wide. "...stop! Just stop telling yourself that! It's really easy! You do deserve it, because you're my retainer, and it will last, because... you're not in beetle prison anymore! There. Bam. Say that, instead of whatever junk you were saying before, and you'll feel better. Also, you'll be more useful, instead of moping all the time. Also, you're on fire."

The match has burnt all the way down to Gil's fingertips, which are— are not strictly "on fire," but they appear to be bubbling and scorching. Gil startles and drops the match. "Aw, shit!"

(2/4)

"That's all I have to say. Oh, and, uh, if you keep negative thinking, you're basically calling me evil, and stuff. Since I should've just left you to turn into beetles and be free of your torment, if you're so awful and miserable, instead of prolonging your suffering. Also, if you need help making your mind all nice and happy, I can probably go inside it and fix things, if you wanted. There! That's what I have to say."

"I think I need another drink," Gil says cogently.

"...The same kind? Because you, uh... the last one..."

"Sure." He pauses, striking another match. "I won't chug it. I just... I feel..."

"Feel what?"

"...I don't know." Cigarette finally lit, he grasps for an empty glass, twirls it idly— (your eyelids twitch)— is holding a pink-filled shot glass. He holds it up. "That works."

"Are you going to do a shot?" you say, because you'd like to watch him.

"I... it wouldn't go down, Lottie. I'd just..."

He furrows his brow.

"Gil?"

"...I'd..." As you observe, he shuffles the glass between hands, then delicately sticks his thumb inside. "Ahaha. Aw, shit. Aw, man."

"...Gil?" You lean over to observe, and Gil holds the glass up for you. The level of the liquid inside is dropping slowly, like it's sprung a leak. It has not sprung a leak. "Oh. Oh, my."

"This is fucked." He doesn't sound unhappy about it. "I can— I can feel it being— goddamn! Imagine if I took a bath in some booze, Lottie, imagine what the hell that'd... that'd do to... I'm not planning on it!" He saw your face. "I just think it'd be... well, looky here."

The shot glass is empty, and his thumb is pink and swollen. You contemplate. "Is it drunk?"

"Is my thumb drunk? Is it... is it... ha! Haha! I have no goddamn idea. I... is my goddamn thumb drunk..."

He snickers. You snicker at him snickering, and at the thumb, and at the way his cigarette bounces when he snickers, and at the ashes he's spilled onto his jacket, and from there: everything's fine. There's no tension. You're just friends.

You're...

God, you are inebriated. You're just a lady and her retainer, who happen to be on excellent terms. Yes. And there's nothing wrong with that. After some lighter chatter, you recall something important: "Oh! I defeated Management!"

"Huh?"

"I forgot to tell you! I made them go back to... to Managementland... I vanished them! I util... used my amazing eye powers... did you know I have eye powers?"

"I can't keep track of- of all your- of all your powers."

You bat your eyelashes. "Thank you! Well, I do have eye powers, uh... as of today! I can see the very fabric of the universe! You look all funny, universe fabric-wise."

Gil squints dimly. (Four of his fingers are now pink and swollen.) "I do?"

"Yeah! Not bad-funny, just... you're very fancy. You make a lot of pretty shapes, instead of being all jumbled— most people are jumbled, I think. But not me! God squished me."

(3/4)

File: how gil works.png (455 KB, 1115x925)

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"Oh." He's concentrating very hard. "That's cool... what kind of shapes?"

"Uhh, I don't... complicated ones? Like a star... circle... web?"

"Mmm. What about when 'm... I'm beetles?"

"I don't know! You haven't— oh." Gil is glowing and melting and is, actually, beetles. You are next to a large amount of beetles. (It never completely stops being weird.) "...I can look?"

You do: Gil, embeetled, is geometric and complicated. So far, so similar. Rather than the orderly star-ish shape, though, the beetles' strings are sprawling and irregular, not to mention in constant motion. It looks like cat's cradle with 400 fingers, or like a spider got drunk. Like...

I am coining the usage 'webs,' and this 'webbing' is what produces what you know as Gil.

Oh, no! Richard lectured about this! God. Is this what he sees all the time, these— the strings? Are you getting all Richard-y now? You're so glad he's not here to comment. "Uhh," you say. "They're all... it's like they got all spread out."

"Cool," slurs Gil, but makes no move to reform. If he had an evil intruder, would the evil intruder also turn into beetles? How would that work? You don't know if he even has an evil intruder. "Gil? Do you have an evil intruder?"

"Huh? I don't..."

"Has Us inserted a nefarious interloper into your mind?"

Gil has no shoulders to shrug at present, but makes a sound you interpret as "I dunno."

Well! That's fine. Well, that's not fine, but— you should probably operate under the assumption that he does have an evil intruder, to cover your bases. You can deal with this. Easy.

>[1] Look into his eyes! His, uh, his 800 eyes. You'll do a little ferreting around in his mind (for his own good, obviously). Easy! [Communion. Spend 1 ID.]
>[2] Maybe he doesn't consciously know of any nefarious interlopers, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know anything, especially if you can convince him of that. Then he'll help you get it out! Easy! (Advanced Gaslighting.) [Roll.]
>[3] Simply offer more drinks to Gil, such that he can't tolerate them and passes out, which will encourage his evil intruder to take over his mind and body! Easy!
>[4] Write-in.

>>5948975
>[1] Look into his eyes! His, uh, his 800 eyes. You'll do a little ferreting around in his mind (for his own good, obviously). Easy! [Communion. Spend 1 ID.]

>>5948975
>[3] Simply offer more drinks to Gil, such that he can't tolerate them and passes out, which will encourage his evil intruder to take over his mind and body! Easy!
What problem can alcohol not solve

>>5948975
>>[1] Look into his eyes! His, uh, his 800 eyes. You'll do a little ferreting around in his mind (for his own good, obviously). Easy! [Communion. Spend 1 ID.]

>>5949063
>>5949244
>[1]

>>5949107
>[3]

Writing.


>>5949107
>What problem can alcohol not solve
Not this one, apparently!

>>5944585
>Have we considered curtains for the manse
Meant to respond to this days ago, but: Charlotte hasn't considered it, but she also has no idea how to redecorate in there. She doesn't really know (or has forgotten) any formal manse-building techniques, and she doesn't have the intuitive grasp on it that someone like Richard or Gil does. It'd be a challenge to make a chair, let alone giant blackout curtains.

Might be worth asking Richard once he's back, though!

File: corinth contraption.jpg (264 KB, 736x1106)

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>Journey into the center of Gil's mind (again)

"Well, I— I really think we should find out? Because, if you do have an evil interloper, I think we better fight it right away, before it starts trying to steal your identity or murder me in my sleep or something. Right? So if you can't tell if you have one... maybe I should check for you?"

Gil makes an indistinct noise.

"'Yes, Lottie, I would love it if you checked me for evil intruders!' Why, thank you. I will. I don't think it'll take very long... uh, if I fall over, don't worry! I'm not dead, just... not-dead. Um. Vacant? Don't worry! I think you'll be able to tell when I'm in your head, anyways." You pause. "Can I pick you up?"

No response, meaning it's fine, probably. You reach into the beetle pile and scoop a couple up. "Hey..." they say.

Oh. "I can set you down if—"

"No... itsh... itsh kind of... itsh funny... you have soft hands..."

You probably should've stopped him at two bonus shots, tops. "Um, thank you. Hold still!"

Beetles have eyes. There's nothing stopping you from looking into a beetle's eyes, or from seeing into a beetle's Very Being, particularly if a beetle also has a person in it. No additional difficulty, no change in technique needed. (Positive thinking.) You clasp gently onto one of the beetles, a fat green one, and shake the rest off you.

Up close, your chosen victim is ugly-cute, its shiny shell and little legs contrasting terribly with its demonic bitey mouth and beady black eyes. You've never been one for insects, exactly, but at least Gil isn't a swarm of flies— or mosquitos! Beetles you can tolerate.

"You're big..." Gil offers. "Please don't... eat... please don't eat me..."

"Eat you?" Is he joking? "Why— I'm not going to— look, whatever. Hold really, really, really still."

Beady black eyes, like little gems. Faceted gems. Does Gil see in compound? He's said he can see behind him... but... gosh. Thinking of it gives you a headache. Well, no matter: onward and upward, and all that. Thumb that shell, and look into those eyes, and look, and look, and try to see the person in them— look and see through.

>[-1 ID: 6/12]

—

Confusion! Chaos! You are- are- are- are- are- are- are- Charlotte Fawkins, now and forever, but it feels roughly as though you've been shot through one of those Corinth contraptions, the ones with the balls and the pegs and the cups— like you've been shot through, and split upon hitting the first peg, and are bouncing around in multiple places at high speed. Will you be caught in a cup, or will you slip through the hole and be lost forever? What will you win? If you weren't a little drunk, you'd be taking this worse, but as it is you're merely dizzy.

(1/2)

If Richard were here, he'd pull you into shape. Richard is not here, but the fuzzy notion of Richard helps remind you what you're doing here. You are- are- are Charlotte Fawkins, and this is Gil's mind— or not his mind exactly, but a surface reading, a fuzzy notion of its own. He is like this. Or he is like this when he is beetles. Or he is like this to you: maybe he doesn't feel it anymore, this ricocheting overload, after he spent so long with it. No matter. You feel it, and you will put sense to it. You will put a body to it and you will put a place around the body, even if neither are real. (It comes readily now.) You will stretch out your arms and legs and head, and you will open your eyes.

And you will see pink? Goodness, it's pink in here— the entire place is brimming in pink fog, thick as soup. Pink soup. You can hardly see your hands, let alone any distance in front. Goodness. You hadn't any idea you could smell in a strictly fake mind-hallucination-realm, but your brain appears to be making an exception, because it smells like nothing but booze— like the rank stench of after an after-party, like you could drop a match and spark a fireball. Not that you could "drop" anything, because the ground's missing. You are evidently floating, to say nothing of floaty-feeling. Like your head might migrate off your neck, or your hands off your wrist, and you wouldn't much notice.

No sign of any evil interlopers, though this says nothing, because you can't see squat. You are definitely sure there's no evil interlopers within two feet of your face.

>[1] This is irritating, but ultimately just a nuisance. Work out some way to get the fog out of here, plus a proper floor in, then look around. [Roll.]
>>[A] How do you do it? You're effectively imagining all of this, so feel free to get unrealistic or wacky with it. (Write-in. Optional. May provide roll bonuses.)

>[2] Ugh! You feel like you're getting drunker just breathing it in. You've been in Gil's mind before, so you sort of know your way around— maybe the interloper, if it exists, is hanging around somewhere deeper? (On the other hand, you didn't ask Gil if you could pry deeply...)
>>[A] Maybe the interloper has infiltrated Gil's childhood memories?
>>[B] Maybe the interloper is allying itself with Gil's imaginary vision of the future? Specifically, uh, the giant evil imaginary future you in there?
>>[C] Maybe the interloper is hanging around the smug personification of Gil's divine blessing?
>>[D] Write-in.

>[3] Write-in.

>>5949690
>[1A] Blow the fog away with a giant mechanical fan

>>5949690
>1A
Inhale it all with our GIANT POWERFUL LUNGS

>>5949698
>>5949821
Two viable options! I have very different ideas about how each of them would go, so for clarity I'm going to put it up to an explicit secondary vote (also for the benefit of anybody swinging by later).

>[1] Blow the fog away with a giant mechanical fan. [Roll.]
>[2] Inhale it all with our GIANT POWERFUL LUNGS. [No roll, possible other effects]

Have at it.

>>5950114
>[1] Blow the fog away with a giant mechanical fan. [Roll.]
IDK man inhaling this stuff...

>>5950214
You don't want to get super drunk while messing around in Gil's head? Cowardice.

>>5950114
>>[2] Inhale it all with our GIANT POWERFUL LUNGS. [No roll, possible other effects]

dronk

Okay, folks, looks like we're tied.

>>5949698
>>5950214
>Fan

>>5949821
>>5950273
>Inhale

I'd normally do a coinflip for the result, but since there's a couple mitigating factors...

>It's pretty late to be calling for rolls if [1] were to win
>This anon >>5949698 voted before the additional clarification (and before the "inhale" write-in was ever posted), so it's unclear whether he'd stick with it or switch his vote given full knowledge
>[2] is more fun to write

I am going to exercise my tyrannical QM powers and tiebreak for [2]. Your understanding is appreciated.

Writing.

>I smoked pure alcohol and I DID inhale

Gosh, this fog is a nuisance. You're going to have to do something about it, aren't you? Should you even be breathing it in? You can hardly fight evil invaders drunk, can you? Though, thinking about your evil invaders... you were stone-cold sober when you fought the Gold-Masked Person (fought Jean Ramsey), and look how that went. And you were on a frightening dose of snake venom when you fought the Yellow-Eyed Thing, and though you can't remember any of that clearly, the Thing hasn't come back, has it? You eviscerated it through the power of... of... you can't say "the power of drugs." That's not civilized. The power of... opening your mind? To new possibilities?

Being drunk certainly accomplishes that. Isn't it true that you say all kinds of things drunk that you never would sober? And do all sorts of things, too? Maybe you regret some of them later, but... you don't think that'll happen! Because, unlike Gil, you're a positive thinker. You don't sit around second-guessing everything— that's Richard's job! And Richard isn't here. And maybe it's also true that you're already inebriated, and that you're only growing moreso, such that many things are starting to sound like good ideas. Maybe what you need is to— to— to get even more drunk. So you can open your mind and see the intruder. Yes! Are there flaws to this plan? You can't see any. Nobody's here to tell you any. If Claudia's around somewhere, she isn't talking— and would you listen to an irritating ill-bred teen-ager anyhow? How much experience does she have with getting drunk, huh? It's none of her business. If she's even watching. If she's even there.

This isn't about Claudia, though, and you're not going to find her in here. It's Gil's mind, and Gil is theoretically inside it, and his theoretical interloper is as well, which is why you are inhaling deeply. For his sake. Sometimes heroines must make deep sacrifices for the well-being of others. You are inhaling, and inhaling, and...

Oh dear. You have inhaled. You've hit the limit of your lung capacity, in fact, and you're not drunk enough yet. This is awfully inefficient, isn't it? Will you have to exhale and re-inhale? You'll just have to sit here breathing like an idiot? At least you feel like you're accomplishing something, drinking. The liquid goes in and it stays in. Done. With this, not only do you look ridiculous— cheeks and chest all puffed— but there's nothing to show for it. It's not as though you've made any dent in the fog, except swirling it a little. Embarrassing! If only you could keep going! Er, no. You're positive thinking. You can keep going!

(1/5?)

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Yes, you can. You can. So your chest is puffed, so your lungs are burning— so what? Does that sentence hold meaning? You're thrice-removed from reality; twice-removed from your physical lungs in your physical chest, wherever that is. If it's still in the Namway manse, make that four-times-removed from reality, which in your unversed opinion means you can do whatever the hell you want. Keep going! Breathe deeper. The fog stings, the fog swells, the fog dulls: breathe deeper. If you are not insensibly drunk, you will be shortly, but you don't need deep thinking to execute basic commands. Breathe deeper.

Two things can be true at once: that the Laws in this un-place are embarrassingly flimsy, and that there is nevertheless structure here. You bring it with you. You don't have a choice. If you're to put yourself in a location, you're imposing space-knowledge and space-expectations; if you're to put yourself in a body, you're to chain yourself up in body-knowledge and body-experience and body-expectations. Sure, you can slip them. You can inhale and you can opt to keep inhaling, continuously, endlessly, no matter what reality says about it. But look what happens then! One expectation loosed, and a half-dozen more tighten upon you.

Something you know about your body: it contains space.

Something you know about space: fog takes it up.

Something you know about your body: it contains limited space.

Something you know about space: when there's not enough of it, more is created.

Something you know about your body: it is remarkably pliable.

Something you know about you: something is the matter. Something is distorted and weird, or else it is monstrous and evil, or else it is wounded and rotten. Something is wrong. You know it, but can't speak it, and still other people smell it. Gil smelled it at first but forgot. Maybe chose to forget. Something is wrong, wrong, wrong; something has been gored away; something has broken; and the shape of the hole or the cracks or the shards is the shape of a snake. You're all snake-shaped in there. You just know it.

Fog takes up space, and when it can't fit in your lungs it leaks into your stomach and bones and blood and head. So far, so practical. The trouble is that you can't make reasonable decisions any longer, what with you being a cleverly Lottie-shaped drink-sponge, and thus there's nothing and nobody telling you to stop. If anything, you've formed a rudimentary goal: fog is bad, thus no fog is good. If you breathe all the fog in, there won't be any. This is Good. You like Good very much! You are, by all accounts, rabidly pro-Good. So why stop? Also, you're not sure you remember how to stop.

(2/5)

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Fog takes up space, and your body contains limited space, and when you've sucked up and soaked up every tiny drop you can— when you're probably more alcohol than person— there's more of it left. Why wouldn't there be more? Would you try to drink up a rainstorm? You probably would. There is excellent news, however: you will not explode! You'd never be so crass. Maybe a lesser body would explode, or begin to leak some sort of fluids, but you, Charlotte Fawkins, are pliable. You are easy to work. You have been warmed and kneaded and stretched, for years and years, and your blood is drained of troublesome byproducts, and above all you are accustomed. You take the forming and fettling in relative stride. If you did not key to it, it could never occur.

You are remarkably pliable, and something is the matter with you: you are lacking something you should have, or have too much of something you shouldn't. The red stuff, you'd say, the sun, but you were wrong before those. Take those as symptoms. Your memories, you'd say, and it might be those, but— who jumps off a cliff? Who jumps into the ocean? Not somebody all put together. And that was before, too.

These things do not occur to you in waking life. You do not want them to occur to you. They're all crammed down into the mud, the sucking earth, where implications lie dormant. When your conscious mind is very drunk, though, they burble up. And when your conscious mind is this exotic hallucination's sole definer, they burble out.

Thus you suck the fog in, or maybe the fog is sucked into you, now. If you feel anything, it's a happy vacuousness, like your brain's helium-filled and rising. All for the better. You do not panic when you distend; you do not react at all, even as you bulge and thicken and and lengthen and strengthen and create space to hold it all, the fog, the you. Something is very much the matter. Something is wrong. You are not recognizable: are weird, distorted, toothy, twisty, monstrous, broken, red as an open wound.

This is not the red stuff's doing. But if the red stuff had a mind to speak of, it could not be said that it was not pleased.

Also, you're not drunk. Maybe a little. Inebriated. You did inhale all that fog, after all. But there's that whole thing about body mass, or whatever it is, so you feel fine.

Maybe confused. You were drunk, and there was fog, and then... um... oh, God, did you black out? You blacked out! Total blank for a good while, then, er, no fog. So it worked? You got rid of it! You knew it'd work. Ha-ha. Well, further excellent news: Gil's over there. Weirdly tiny. Sort of floating. (You guess you didn't fix the lack of floor.) Oh, but— damnit! No interloper!

(3/5)

...Unless it looks like Gil? That's what the Yellow-Eyed Thing did, didn't it, look like people? (Except for the eyes.) And if this interloper is goo-based, it has even more reason to be sneakily looking like Gil! Like your gooplicate! You have so much experience in these things. God, you're good. Anyhow. Your detectiving powers shall be put to use in, uh, in short—

In now! You're there already. In front of him, you mean. Did you appear there? You had a weird sense of movement, all slinky-ish, but you also covered way more ground than you should've. That's minds for you. Ahem. Gil isn't any less tiny now that you're in front of him— also weird. Is it because of the beetles? You sort of came in through the beetle route, so now he's beetle-sized, even if he looks like himself? That has to be embarassing. You shouldn't mention it.

Oh, well, good news: he's noticed you without you having to say anything. Bad news: he's flailing. Definitely flailing, and kind of inelegantly kicking backwards. Fleeing? One could say fleeing, if he weren't so bad at it. ...More beetle instincts? Are beetles known for fleeing? It is pretty cute, you'll admit. Or suspicious? Is it actually suspicious?

You're not that good at detectiving without talking to the suspect first, so you should do that:

HI GIL!

Gil's facial expression is difficult to read at his size, but he lessens the flailing. He says something you can't really hear. Oh. Uhh... well, this is super not real, so you can just choose to hear him. Yes! That should work.

SAY THAT AGAIN?

"Hi..." he says weakly. "...Lottie?"

YES! HI! I TOLD YOU I WAS GOING TO CHECK OUT YOUR MIND FOR INTRUDERS, AND... I AM! ARE YOU NOT DRUNK ANYMORE? YOU DON'T SOUND DRUNK ANYMORE. (Also suspicious? Maybe?)

"I... I-I don't think I, uh... yeah. I-I-It went away. Somehow. ...I assume it was you."

YEAH PROBABLY. I INHALED ALL YOUR ALCOHOL FOG.

"...I-I-I can see that. Um. I-I'm not convinced I haven't inhaled... some other thing. Ha-ha."

WHAT?

Gil doesn't say anything.

WELL ANYWAYS. HAVE YOU SEEN YOUR INVADER ANYWHERE? UNLESS YOU ARE HIM, IN WHICH CASE YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GIVE IT UP. SORRY. IT'S NOT GOING TO WORK.

"I-I'm not... I'm Gil."

THE REAL ONE?

"Not according to Richard... ha-ha. Um, but, I'm the original. Yeah. Um. And you're the original... Lottie?"

IS THERE A NON-ORIGINAL LOTTIE? WELL BESIDES THE GOOPLICATE. I KILLED HER SO SHE DOESN'T COUNT.

"A-hah. Um. You're right. Only one Lottie..." Gil trails off. "Uh. Well."

I STILL NEED TO FIND THE INTERLOPER BY THE WAY.

"Um. Yes. Let me know what I-I can... what I can do to, um... yeah. Help. If you maybe need to get magicked, or..."

(Jk, choices next)

>[1] Hmm. Since you have the (probably?) legitimate him right here, maybe you can just sort of do that, uh— when the eye disassembled you? To him? It didn't hurt, and you really would like to sift through his constituent pieces.
>[2] Double-hmm. If you have him right here, maybe you can, just... make the interloper appear? Like, out of him? Or something?
>[3] Magicked? You don't know why you'd need magicked, but he could probably use a magicking himself. Maybe the blessing is harboring fugitives? Bring Gil there, if you can.
>[4] If Gil's here, and he's cooperative and sober, he can be a tour guide through his memories while you look around for the interloper! Amazing! For, um, interloper-hunting, and not for being nosy. You'd never be nosy.
>[5] Write-in.

>>5950562
I liked my fan idea more.
>[3] Magicked? You don't know why you'd need magicked, but he could probably use a magicking himself. Maybe the blessing is harboring fugitives? Bring Gil there, if you can.

>>5950562
>2
I see we’re keeping Gil’s fear of being eaten alive and well

>>5950562
>[2] Double-hmm. If you have him right here, maybe you can, just... make the interloper appear? Like, out of him? Or something?

>>5950561
>>[2] Double-hmm. If you have him right here, maybe you can, just... make the interloper appear? Like, out of him? Or something?

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>>5950716
>>5950975
>>5951051
>[2]

>>5950585
>[3]

Called and writing in a while. Also, I've cleared out my AMA inbox! I'll be attaching the last couple ones to my next few QM posts (picrelated). CuriousCat is bugged and won't let me post them on my profile, but you can still submit more questions here: https://curiouscat.live/BathicQM

>>5950585
So it goes, I suppose.

>Split the difference

Magicked? You? Psshaw. You feel fantastic. Maybe Gil's angry you made him sober, so he's trying to take it out on you? Maybe he's been corrupted by the pagan essences, such that he likes the way the blessing makes him feel, and he's seeking any excuse at all to use it? Understandable, if not all that flattering. It's also besides the point. You came here for the interloper, and the interloper is missing. All you have is a Gil— the real Gil, allegedly. You do think he's real. You don't feel funny in your gut about him. But if he's the only thing around, if everything else is you and void... if he has Us-gunk inside him...

NO I DON'T THINK I NEED MAGICKING. ARE YOU REALLY SURE YOU'RE NOT THE INTERLOPER?

"Yes!" Gil says defensively.

I KNOW MAYBE YOU DON'T THINK YOU ARE, BUT WHAT IF IT WAS, LIKE, BURIED IN YOU SOMEWHERE? IN YOUR BODY? MAYBE DORMANT, OR SLEEPING, OR HIDING DELIBERATELY? I THINK THAT SOUNDS REALLY PLAUSIBLE GIL

"I-I-I don't! I mean... why are you so fixated on this idea in the first place? What says there has to be an interloper, whatever that... I-I don't even know what you mean, exactly. Like a person?"

UHH I DON'T KNOW LIKE ANOTHER CONSCIOUSNESS OR SOMETHING. OR MULTIPLE IT COULD BE MULTIPLE. SINCE YOU WERE IN US AND I WAS REALLY REALLY CAREFUL GETTING ALL OF YOU OUT BUT I'M KIND OF WORRIED I GOT SOME US OUT WITH YOU. YOU'RE REALLY POSITIVE YOU DON'T FEEL ANYTHING AT ALL LIKE—?

"I-I-I don't... I-I don't think I've had enough time to..."

WELL THERE YOU GO! IT COULD BE LURKING RIGHT NOW GIL. I THINK INVESTIGATING THIS WOULD SAVE A LOT OF TROUBLE IN THE FUTURE. WHAT IF I JUST GOT IT OUT OF YOU?

Gil folds his hands. "Uh..."

I FEEL GREAT RIGHT NOW. I SUCKED UP LITERALLY ALL OF THE FOG AND LET ME TELL YOU GIL THERE WAS A WHOLE LOT OF FOG. SO I THINK IS THIS ALL EXTREMELY NOT REAL AND I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT PRETTY MUCH. LIKE GETTING IT OUT OF YOU. THOUGHTS?

"...Uh... I-I-I don't... how?"

WHAT DO YOU MEAN HOW

Gil is struggling for the words. "...Using what method? Uhh. And why do you have to... I-I-I mean, I appreciate you looking out for me, but... you're in my mind? Not yours..."

WE'RE IN MY MANSE GIL IT COUNTS. ALSO I THINK UNREALITY IS UNREALITY IS UNREALITY NO MATTER HOW YOU SLICE IT, OR AT LEAST THAT'S THE IMPRESSON I'VE RECEIVED FROM RICHARD WHO REALLY LIKES TO GO ON ABOUT THIS STUFF. ALSO IF THE INTERLOPER IS HIDING IN YOU WHO SAYS YOU CAN FIND IT? I THINK IT'D KEEP HIDING? NO I REALLY BETTER DO IT. DID I MENTION I FEEL GREAT? OH YEAH THE METHOD UHH I THINK I'D JUST THINK REALLY HARD AT YOU AND THEN IT'D HAPPEN.

"Oh."

Does Gil sound small because he's actually, literally bug-sized? You could squash him, not that you ever would, but you could. You better do this whole interloper-finding thing fast, so you can put him back to normal after. You'd rather not think about squashing him.

SO ARE YOU GOOD WITH THAT?

(1/2)

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Gil looks up at you, and there could be something in the contours of his face or the whites of his eyes, but from this distance he looks like color-blocks. Yellow on pink on green on brown, is Gil, and black is the void; you are red, but you imagine you're white-gold and shining. There is no nuance at this size and there is little mercy. This is how Richard felt, for a minute, before he plunged his two-foot fang through your skull.

"I-I guess," Gil says eventually. "I-If you think it'll be safe..."

OF COURSE IT'LL BE SAFE. WHEN ARE THE THINGS I DO NOT SAFE. YOU NEED TO HOLD STILL THOUGH OR I'LL GRAB YOU. HOLD STILL. HOLD STILL. I'M STARTING...

...now! It's so easy! You don't have to visualize it in any great detail: a little push is all it takes, then he's off, he's writhing, and you start really wishing you could see closer. If only you had a magnifying glass. Though, can't you— is there anything stopping you from choosing to see closer? If you wanted? Huh. Should've thought of that before.

Well, you can see closer now. Your eyes rotated counter-clockwise, and there is Gil, pale and sweating, eyes darting, hands shaking— so, Gil. But his attention is fixed on his chest, and as you watch he writhes once more, shoulders rolling, fists pounding on his side. Oh dear. And there his chest bulges and stretches, which feels familiar to you, except you don't remember fingers being involved. And yet there are fingers here, pressing out of Gil's chest, wearing glovelike his poor weak skin until it stretches too far and ruptures. There is a mannish arm behind the hand. Gil is miming like he's trying to speak, but he's switched to clutching his throat now, and soon more fingers erupt from his swung-open mouth. His eyes are very big. You couldn't see his eyes before.

Gosh. Well. You didn't intend this, exactly. Uhh. You wanted it out of him. Maybe you should've been specific. You assume that's the interloper there? Er. Maybe it's fine? Maybe you should let this run its course? You don't think he's in pain— goo can't feel it, Pat said. He's just a little freaked out. You just, uhh... hmm. Mmm.

(Choices next.)

>[1] Positive thinking! Gill will be fine. He's (probably) not in pain, and he can't die, this literally being his head. The absolute worst case is that he'll be unconscious for bit while you deal with the interloper yourself. Let it all happen unimpeded.

>[2] He's not in pain, probably, but that does look an awful lot like distress. He's still your retainer, tiny or not. You should do something.
>>[A] His blessing would probably help here, right? You don't know why it's not triggering, but you do know how to reliably get it *to* trigger... [-1 SV]
>>[B] What do you do when you're in distress? You get drunk! And you have a chest full of alcoholic fog right now. Attempt to breathe some out and calm Gil back down. [Roll.]
>>[C] Just, um, talk to him! Make him feel better! He likes the sound of your voice, right? (What do you say? Write-in.) [Possible roll.]
>>[D] Write-in.

>[3] This isn't... this isn't... you feel weird. You feel really weird. Did something happen to you? How are you doing this to him? Forget the interloper— snap out of it. Snap Gil out of it. Stop. Stop!

>[4] Write-in.

>>5951259
>[2B]

>>5951259
>2C
GIL
GIL
I KNOW THIS IS WEIRD AND FREAKY
BUT EVERYTHING IS FINE
THE PLAN IS BEING FOLLOWED
I HAVE LOCATED THE INTRUDER(S) AND THEY ARE BEING EXTRACTED
YOU'RE MADE OF GOO SO YOU'LL REFORM IN LIKE A SECOND
IT'S ALL GOOD

>>5951259
>>5951463
+1 to this. He just needs a good ole' pep talk!

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>>5951463
>>5951814
>Pep talk

>>5951351
>Breath Weapon: Alcohol

I think we can go roll-less for this one. Writing.

>Molting

Maybe you better just talk to him. Yeah. Works every time.

GIL? GIL? HEY HELLO!

Either he looks at you or his eyes are rolling back in his head. Good enough.

YES HELLO HI MY ESTEEMED RETAINER, YOU MAY NOTICE THAT YOU ARE UNDERGOING SOME
UH
YOU MAY NOTICE THAT SOME WEIRD THINGS ARE HAPPENING TO YOU RIGHT NOW!

Gil's new arms are groping at his chest, his face, each other. His old arms are attempting to valiantly fight them away, but you gues they're not very stron right now.

I ASSURE YOU THAT EVERYTHING IS— YES! IT IS PERFECTLY FINE! THIS IS AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY TO PRACTICE POSITIVE THINKING, GILBERT, BECAUSE THE WAY I SEE IT, THIS IS ALL PART OF THE PLAN, WHICH I HAD PREPARED, BEFORE THIS HAPPENED— OH GOODNESS

Another wave of thrashing, this one caused by the sudden development of a much fatter, nastier bulge. No fingers here— it's all round, like a melon, and rising upward.

GIL ARE YOU LISTENING? I'M TRYING TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER? I BET THAT'S PROBABLY THE INTERLOPER RIGHT THERE AND WELL I SAID I'D GET IT OUT OF YOU? IT LOOKS LIKE IT'S GETTING OUT OF YOU SO LIKE I SAID, PART OF THE PLAN! IT DOESN'T HURT RIGHT? YOU'RE MADE OF GOO SO IT DOESN'T HURT? UH IF IT DOES HURT THEN... DON'T WORRY! YOU'RE MADE OF GOO! SO EVEN IF IT BURSTS OUT OF YOU YOU'LL JUST REFORM BACK INTO YOUR— OH GOD. WELL THERE IT GOES

There it went, the melon bulge, pushing outward, until there was a terrible rip and a splatter and the skull of a fully grown man exited Gil's upper chest— Gil having at this point gone limp and silent, which, if he wasn't going to listen to you, was probably for the best. The man, who looks damp, is presently extricating himself from Gil's hollow-looking skin. A number of beetles are doing the same thing.

INTERLOPER! you say.

The interloper ignores you, shooing away the clustering beetles as he shakes his foot out of Gil's empty leg. He does not appear be concerned by the fact he's floating.

INTERLOPER! HALT! I ORDER YOU TO CEASE... HATCHING! OR WHATEVER!

Having removed himself fully, the interloper— dusty-haired, squinty-eyed, squarish— first brushes down his shirt, then coughs gently, then reaches for and slings Gil's skin over his shoulder. The beetles follow as if hypnotized.

HEY!! YOU CAN'T—!! STOP IT!! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM!?! I'M NOT SOMEBODY YOU CAN JUST GO AND— AND— I WILL EXPLODE YOU! I CAN PROBABLY DO THAT! I CAN EXPLODE YOU!

(1/2)

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"You're Miss Fawkins," the interloper says politely, and with his free hand gestures outward, unrolling a strip of wooden planks underneath him; with his free hand gestures upward, filling the void with blue sky; with his free hand gestures downward, drawing up a calm ocean around the planks, which form a pier. You are in the air above it. (The air? Huh.) The interloper is not in the air, but is on the pier, and has become squintier at the introduction of the sun. To counteract this, he draws from his pocket thick square glasses, and then and only then do you connect the dots:

TEDDY?!

Teddy the interloper nods tersely, adjusts his grip on Gil, and sets off down the pier.

>[1] HEY! HEY! HE CAN'T— HE NEEDS TO SET GIL DOWN RIGHT NOW! WHAT IS HE EVEN DOING?!
>[2] OKAY THE REAL LIFE TEDDY WOULD BE BOTHERED BY BURSTING OUT OF SOMEBODY'S CHEST RIGHT? HE DOES NOT LOOK BOTHERED. IS HE ACTUALLY TEDDY OR IS HE YET ANOTHER EVIL DUPLICATE?? WHAT DOES HE THINK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW??
>[3] WAIT YOU'RE CONFUSED. TEDDY DIED AND WAS A PART OF US. IS HE STILL US? DOES HE KNOW WHAT US IS THINKING STILL?
>[4] WHERE EVEN ARE YOU?? A PIER?? HUH?? WHY?? HOW??
>[5] WAIT MISS FAWKINS? WHICH MISS FAWKINS? DOES HE THINK YOU'RE CLAUDIA OR DOES HE KNOW YOU'RE CHARLOTTE AND IF SO, HOW???
>[6] (ATTEMPT TO EXPLODE HIM)
>[7] WRITE-IN.

>>5952077
>[2] OKAY THE REAL LIFE TEDDY WOULD BE BOTHERED BY BURSTING OUT OF SOMEBODY'S CHEST RIGHT? HE DOES NOT LOOK BOTHERED. IS HE ACTUALLY TEDDY OR IS HE YET ANOTHER EVIL DUPLICATE?? WHAT DOES HE THINK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW??
>[3] WAIT YOU'RE CONFUSED. TEDDY DIED AND WAS A PART OF US. IS HE STILL US? DOES HE KNOW WHAT US IS THINKING STILL?
>[4] WHERE EVEN ARE YOU?? A PIER?? HUH?? WHY?? HOW??
>>[5] WAIT MISS FAWKINS? WHICH MISS FAWKINS? DOES HE THINK YOU'RE CLAUDIA OR DOES HE KNOW YOU'RE CHARLOTTE AND IF SO, HOW???

>>5952077
>4
That's pretty impressive actually
He's quite devoted to his fishing

>>5952077
>>[2] OKAY THE REAL LIFE TEDDY WOULD BE BOTHERED BY BURSTING OUT OF SOMEBODY'S CHEST RIGHT? HE DOES NOT LOOK BOTHERED. IS HE ACTUALLY TEDDY OR IS HE YET ANOTHER EVIL DUPLICATE?? WHAT DOES HE THINK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW??
>>[3] WAIT YOU'RE CONFUSED. TEDDY DIED AND WAS A PART OF US. IS HE STILL US? DOES HE KNOW WHAT US IS THINKING STILL?
>>[4] WHERE EVEN ARE YOU?? A PIER?? HUH?? WHY?? HOW??
>>>[5] WAIT MISS FAWKINS? WHICH MISS FAWKINS? DOES HE THINK YOU'RE CLAUDIA OR DOES HE KNOW YOU'RE CHARLOTTE AND IF SO, HOW???

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>>5952110
>>5952317
>>5952628
>[2], [3], [4], [5]

Writing.

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>WHOA WHOA WHOA

Teddy. It makes sense, you suppose— if anybody in Us was going to glob onto Gil, it'd be him. Too bad this explains nothing else at all.

LIKE... THE ACTUAL TEDDY? YOU'RE NOT JUST SOMETHING ELSE PRETENDING TO BE TEDDY?

"Nope."

ARE YOU REALLY SURE? BECAUSE I THOUGHT
UH
I THOUGHT TEDDY WAS A NORMAL— I THOUGHT HE WAS JUST SOME GUY WHO WAS MAYBE DISTANTLY RELATED TO GIL SOMEHOW, BUT YOU'RE— I DON'T THINK NORMAL GUYS WOULD BE ALL COOL AND COLLECTED ABOUT BURSTING OUT OF SOMEONE'S CHEST, IN MY OPINION?

Teddy shrugs. "It's a puzzle for sure."

BUT— ARE YOU HIM? DO YOU THINK YOU'RE REALLY TEDDY? I MEAN THE ONE WHO... UH...

"Died?"

YES THAT

"Sure."

God, he's a tough nut to crack: IN... IN WHAT WAY? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE?

Teddy takes a while to answer. He hasn't stopped walking. You guess you're lucky that the pier's so long. "You're from the future, aren't you?"

UH NO I'M FROM RIGHT NOW
...BUT I GUESS THAT'S THE FUTURE TO YOU?

"Mmhm. What do you think happens after death?"

I, UH... (You know what you were taught, but nobody bothered teaching you about the Wyrm, so is it even worth believing it? Why did you never ask Richard what actually happens?) IF YOU'RE GOOD, YOU GET BURIED IN THE DIRT AND GOD WILL GROW TREES AND THINGS OUT OF YOU... SO WE CAN HAVE WOOD AND FOOD! AND IF YOU'RE BAD, YOU GET THROWN IN THE OCEAN AND YOU GO TO HELL AND FISH BITE YOU FOREVER AND STUFF. UM. I'M NOT REALLY SURE ABOUT THAT ANYMORE THOUGH. PEOPLE DON'T DIE VERY OFTEN ANYMORE SO I DON'T HAVE TO THINK ABOUT IT THAT MUCH

"That's backwards, but at least you believe in something. He doesn't."

WHO'S HE

"Gil."

OH
DID YOU TALK TO HIM ABOUT IT EARLIER?

"No." The pier creaks under Teddy's steady footsteps. "Before I died, if you died, the gods would take your body into the sea and change it into a fish's."

YEAH I HEARD ABOUT THAT. SO WHAT SO YOU CAN FISH THEM BACK UP AND FRY THEM FOR DINNER? SOUNDS TERRIBLE

"I wouldn't say so. To be eaten is to sustain the living; you get your life through them. If you don't like that, we do bleed the fish out." Teddy gazes out across the water. "If there's no blood, it's only a fish. The person sinks back into the ocean and joins into the world again. To answer your question."

TO ANSWER MY QUESTION WHAT?

"What happened to me. I died, and I was bled out. I don't know whether I was a fish in between, but I doubt it matters. I joined back into the world."

HUH? WAIT DO YOU MEAN US? BECAUSE—

"It was interesting. I was very diffuse. I was pulsating. There were others there— strangers, mostly. Some I knew in passing. I couldn't remember them having died, but I couldn't remember me having died, either. I still can't. I suppose I drowned."

(1/3)

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YEAH
...A LOT OF PEOPLE DID. UM. I THINK PROBABLY ALMOST EVERYBODY ALIVE

"There you have it. I don't think I was ever especially lucky, but nevertheless. There were no boundaries between the others and I. We were fully porous; no secrets could exist, no private thoughts; if one knew we all did. From what I understand, this extreme mingling produced a... gestalt, a higher mind, of some kind, that spoke on our behalf. I can't attest to that."

I CAN DON'T WORRY
SO YOU CAN'T REMEMBER ACTUALLY BEING US?

"He remembers it from the outside. I have impressions." Teddy stops briefly to re-adjust Gil's skin. "I told you, though, I was diffused out across... I was a part of the world. I was impressionistic myself."

AND YOU'RE NOT NOW?

"Less."

HOW?

"The gods determined that I could serve a use."

THEY'RE DEAD TEDDY.

"I don't believe that." Teddy makes glancing eye contact. "My relative in blood is adrift in the world. He needs guidance. The gods have placed me back into the world, as a spirit, to provide this guidance."

YOU'RE NOT A SPIRIT TEDDY.

Without breaking his stride, Teddy gestures, and the pier whips left, whips right, zigzags, grows hills, then flattens and straightens like nothing ever happened. "What would you call it?"

I... LOOK I'LL HAVE TO ASK RICHARD OKAY. HE'D KNOW! BUT NOT A SPIRIT! SOME SORT OF STOWAWAY... MIND... THING. I GUESS. HOW DID YOU DO THAT?

"I made it happen."

OKAY BUT HOW?

"I wanted it. It happened. The gods put me here, and now I belong to it, from what I can surmise."

TEDDY YOU TALK WEIRDLY FANCY FOR SOME GUY WHO FISHES ALL DAY. IT'S KIND OF DISTRACTING? I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT

"I don't see how those things are related, Miss Fawkins. I could have been well-read. Or other people's speech was mingled with mine, and this is how I've come away. I couldn't tell you."

MISS FAWKINS?

"Yes?"

WHICH MISS FAWKINS?

"Charlotte? Or Lottie, if you prefer it. He seems to think you prefer it. Miss Lottie Fawkins."

OH. I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU WERE MIXING UP...
HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME? IF YOU CAN'T REMEMBER US?

"He knows it."

...YOU KNOW WHAT GIL KNOWS?

"I am him," Teddy says nonchalantly. "He's me. The boundaries are porous. To answer your question, yes."

Oh, God. BUT YOU'RE NOT... I MEAN, YOU'RE HOLDING HIM.

"His skin. Yes. I don't want you to get this wrong. I haven't replaced him. He's not dead. He's not some hideous amalgam. I know what you were thinking. No, I mean, we make one world between us. He is in it, I am in it. We can reach out and touch one another. Are you following?"

Err. You'll believe it when you see it— or see Gil, alive and well. How is Teddy still walking? Is this how piers normally are? You don't think you've ever seen one in real life:

MAYBE? PERHAPS? UH TEDDY CHANGING THE SUBJECT WHY ARE YOU ON A PIER. I MEAN IT'S A NICE PIER I GUESS BUT. THIS IS STILL GIL'S MIND RIGHT? DOES HE HAVE A SECRET PIER LOVE?

"I like piers," Teddy says.

(2/3)

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I PROBABLY SHOULD'VE EXPECTED THAT

"Also—" Teddy hefts Gil's skin. "He'll feel better in the water."

TEDDY THE WATER IS LITERALLY RIGHT THERE
YOU CAN JUST LIKE. LOOK DOWN. AND SEE IT?

"No, I don't think so. There."

There! The end of the pier! It's nothing special— a sudden drop-off, unadorned. The water underneath looks the same as the water everywhere else. Teddy walks up to it, nevertheless, and whistles sharply. The milling beetles cease to mill, suddenly, and stream in an orderly fashion into Gil's empty skin. Teddy's holding it out like a bag. When they're all inside, he bundles it up, trapping them inside.

YOU'RE JUST UH
YOU'RE GOING TO THROW THOSE IN THE OCEAN?

"Do you think he'll drown?"

You consider the facts. .......NO? BUT THERE'S GOT TO BE A BETTER WAY TO—

"There isn't," Teddy says, and knots the top of the Gil-bundle, and drops it into the lapping water below. It doesn't even splash.

OH
YOU JUST
YOU JUST DROPPED HIM?

"Should I have done something else?" Teddy looks over the top of his glasses at you. "It was what there was to do. Aren't you itchy in there, by the way?"

IN WHERE?

"In there."

God! As soon as you send one smug cryptic bastard to the snake hospital, another one crawls right out of the woodwork. In there, your ass. Itchy? Itchy why? Is it about your clothes? Because you... you... uh... your clothes... that you are wearing... those clothes. That you are wearing. On your arms and legs, which you have.

You hate manses so, so much. You clear your throat: LOOK UH I DIDN'T MEAN TO—

"I didn't think you did."

I'M NOT NORMALLY A UH... A... I'M NOT NORMALLY ANYWHERE IN THE VICINITY OF ANY TYPE OF REPTILE. I NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT. I AM NORMALLY A CHARMING AND ATTRACTIVE YOUNG HUMAN LADY. ALSO I WEAR CLOTHING!

"I wasn't worried. It's partially his fault. If some part of him wasn't frightened, his mind wouldn't make you frightening." Teddy smiles enigmatically. "I can strip you of it, if you'd prefer?"

>[1] Write-in. (Optional.) Real choices in ~8 hours, you know the drill folks

>>5952757
>we're not getting stripped by a man we're not married to!

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Sorry for the delay here, folks. I had a bit of an unexpected personal thing going on. (I'm fine, a friend wasn't.)

>[A1] OKAY YOU'RE NOT SOLD ON THE TERMINOLOGY HERE BUT UHHH IF HE CAN PUT YOU BACK TO NORMAL THEN. SURE?

>[A2] NO NO NO YOU ARE NOT LETTING A STUPID MIND HITCHHIKER DO ANYTHING TO YOU. YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF. [Roll.]

>[A3] EXCUSE YOU? HOW PRESUMPTUOUS! HOW RUDE! YOU ARE *NOT* PUTTING UP WITH THIS GUY LONG-TERM.
>>[A] JUST GET RID OF HIM FOR THE TIME BEING. THEN HE'LL THINK TWICE ABOUT BEING ALL SMUG IN THE FUTURE. [Roll.]
>>[B] GIL DOESN'T NEED SOME WEIRD GUY IN HIS HEAD TELLING HIM WHAT TO DO. YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE WHO'S ALLOWED TO HAVE ONE OF THOSE. BANISH HIM FOR GOOD. [-1 SV, two times]
.
.
------
.
.
>[B] YOU HAVE SOME MORE QUESTIONS HERE. (Optional.)
>>[1] YOU THOUGHT GIL WAS MADE OUT OF GOO, BUT THAT EMPTY SKIN DID NOT LOOK GOOEY AT ALL. WHAT GIVES?
>>[2] SO IS TEDDY JUST AROUND LIKE PERMANENTLY NOW?
>>[3] GIL ISN'T 'SCARED' OF YOU. THAT IS RIDICULOUS.
>>[4] SO DID HE KNOW YOU WERE A GIANT REPTILE THE WHOLE TIME AND HE JUST DECIDED NOT TO SAY ANYTHING OR?
>>[5] IS HE GOING TO TAKE OVER GIL'S BODY AND PUPPET HIM AROUND? JUST ASKING
>>[6] CAN HE TELL YOU WHAT GIL THINKS ABOUT... (About what? Write-in.)
>>[7] [EXAMINE TEDDY'S STRINGS]
>>[8] Write-in.
.
.
>>5952767
kek

>>5953094
>[A2] NO NO NO YOU ARE NOT LETTING A STUPID MIND HITCHHIKER DO ANYTHING TO YOU. YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF. [Roll.]
>[B] YOU HAVE SOME MORE QUESTIONS HERE. (Optional.)
>>[1] YOU THOUGHT GIL WAS MADE OUT OF GOO, BUT THAT EMPTY SKIN DID NOT LOOK GOOEY AT ALL. WHAT GIVES?
>>[2] SO IS TEDDY JUST AROUND LIKE PERMANENTLY NOW?
>>[3] GIL ISN'T 'SCARED' OF YOU. THAT IS RIDICULOUS.
>>[5] IS HE GOING TO TAKE OVER GIL'S BODY AND PUPPET HIM AROUND? JUST ASKING
>>[7] [EXAMINE TEDDY'S STRINGS]

>>5953169
>>5953094
+1

>>5953094
>A2
>B3457

>>5953169
>>5953206
>>5953228
>[A2]

>>5953169
>>5953206
>>5953228
>[B3, B5, B7]

>>5953169
>>5953206
>[B1, B2]

>>5953228
>[B4]

Called for [A2] and Bs [1, 2, 3, 5, 7]. I need dice.


>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 15 (+15 Been Here Done This) vs. DC 75 (-20 Just Imagining It, +15 Gil's Just Imagining It, +20 ???) to desnake yourself!

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 7/14 ID.

>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 84 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>5953363
Y

Rolled 7 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>5953363
>N

base DC 60? harsh

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>5953374
>>5953526
>99, 22

Rolling the last one. This will either be a Success or Mitigated Success.

>>5953590
>99, 22, 24 vs. DC 75 -- Mitigated Success
>No spendy

Writing.

>>5953526
>base DC 60? harsh
60 isn't that high! It's only a notch above baseline. Also, there was a no roll option right there

>I can do it myself!
>99, 22, 24 vs. DC 75 -- Mitigated Success

Huh? No, no, no! You twist yourself up:

STRIP ME?! YOU WILL NEVER STRIP ME, FOOL! I DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY WERE TEACHING PEOPLE 200 YEARS AGO, BUT I AM A WELL-BRED YOUNG LADY, NOT SOME KIND OF WHORE WHO—

Teddy's expression is quizzical. "Strip you of it. Remove that guise. Not your... you're not wearing clothing."

I KNOW! YOU DON'T HAVE TO GO AND POINT IT OUT!

"It doesn't matter much one way or another. If it helps, I wouldn't expect clothing. Given your circumstances. Would you like help?"

(The nerve of this guy!) NO! LEAVE ME ALONE! I CAN DO IT MYSELF!

"Okay," Teddy says.

I CAN! I DON'T NEED HELP FROM A... A LIAR! I KNOW GIL ISN'T SCARED OF ME. I SAVED HIS LIFE? MULTIPLE TIMES?

"Sure."

AND I GAVE HIM A BODY? I GAVE HIM LIKE THREE BODIES— AND I HAVE BEEN REALLY NICE TO HIM— HAVE I EVER HURT HIM EVEN ONE TIME? ONCE? NAME ONE TIME I EVER—

"I didn't say he was scared of you hurting him."

OH. WELL WHAT DID YOU SAY THEN.

Teddy is swinging his legs down over the side of the pier, his hands propped back behind him. "I said he was scared of you. He doesn't have to know it."

TEDDY I WOULD LIKE TO REMIND YOU THAT I CAN EXPLODE YOU. I KNOW WHAT THIS IS! YOU'RE TRYING TO WEAKEN THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN ME AND MY FINEST RETAINER, SO YOU CAN SNEAK INTO HIS BODY WHEN I'M NOT LOOKING AND MAKE HIM SAY MEAN THINGS TO ME, AND—

"I'm not going to do that."

YOU'RE NOT GOING TO— WAIT WHICH PART?

"Any." Teddy flicks his hand absently, and gulls begin to wheel and squawk over the horizon.

YOU'RE NOT GOING TO SNEAK INTO HIS BODY AT ALL? BECAUSE IN MY EXPERIENCE THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENS A LOT WHEN IT COMES TO—

"I won't sneak."

UHH BUT YOU WILL...

"It'd be a matter of conversation. I have been bound here to provide help. I will." Teddy nudges his glasses. "It wouldn't be a conversation with you."

WOW. I SEE HOW IT IS THEODORE. I SEE HOW IT IS. YOU'RE GOING TO BE HAVING ALL THESE SECRET CONVERSATIONS WITH MY RETAINER, POISONING HIS MIND, MAKING HIM SCARED OF ME—

"He already is."

I DON'T BELIEVE YOU! TELL ME WHY.

"Who wouldn't be? Look at yourself."

You have been trying to avoid doing just that. SO WHAT, you say. IT'S NOT— I'M NOT ACTUALLY—

"No. It's never actually happened. Not for real."

TEDDY I AM NOT TURNING INTO A BIG SNAKE THING FOR REAL. THAT DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE. NOBODY CAN DO THAT, UNLESS— I MEAN MAYBE IF THEY'RE A PAGAN— BUT THAT MEANS THAT I EXTRA WON'T DO IT! THEY'D KICK ME OUT OF CAMP!

"Sure. It's not plausible."

YES EXACTLY.
...
SO YOU AGREE THAT HE'S NOT—

"It's the potential. Not that he thinks you are. Not that he thinks you will. He thinks you could."

COULD WHAT. TURN INTO A BIG SNAKE THING. BECAUSE I AM HAPPY TO REASSURE HIM THAT DESPITE MY MYRIAD OF IMPRESSIVE MAGYCKAL POWERS THAT TURNING INTO A BIG SNAKE THING FOR REAL IN REAL LIFE IS NOT SOMETHING I WILL EVER—

(1/3)

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"Can you say that for sure?"

WHAT? YES.

"You've been developing rapidly. Could you do all the things you do a month ago?"

I... I HAVE A HIGHLY SORCEROUS BLOODLINE! IT'S NOT WEIRD THAT I...

"It's not about the cause. It's what you do. You warp people around yourself. You see into them. You tell him one day that you killed Richard with a knife and you tell him the next day that you saw God and in between those you possess a man. You tried to kill him with a worm."

NO I DIDN'T! THAT WASN'T ME! THAT WAS THE RED STUFF!

"You killed Richard with a knife, and you drank the blood of the WYRM, and it caused you to try to kill him with the giant worm you tamed."

I THINK YOU'RE LEAVING OUT THAT RICHARD TOLD ME TO KILL HIM SO I WASN'T— I WASN'T DOING ANYTHING WRONG— IT'S NOT LIKE I'D STAB GIL WITH A KNIFE OR— IF SOMEBODY TRIED TO STAB GIL WITH A KNIFE I'D EXPLODE THEM! HE HAS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT!"

"Did you always use to threaten to explode people?" Teddy rubs his nose. "It's not about posing a danger to him. It's about you. What might become of you. What you might become. What is becoming of you... what you are becoming. Maybe."

FOR THE LAST TIME I AM NOT PAGAN. I DO NOT GO AROUND TURNING INTO THINGS TEDDY. UNLESS YOU MEAN INTO AN EVER MORE BELOVED HEROINE.

"I'm just answering the question. He is scared about not comprehending you. He is scared about what could be in store for you and for him. He is scared about the WYRM inside you and he is angry he did not have the courage to remove it. Do you see how these could factor in to your current state?"

...
...MAYBE

"That's all. Do you want help?"

NO! I SAID I COULD... I CAN GET OUT MYSELF! (But it is warm inside you, and so heavy, and fog still swirls in there.) LEAVE ME ALONE! I— I— YOU CAN'T GET RID OF ME LIKE YOU GOT RID OF GIL!

"I assume you're just looking for a response."

NO I'M NOT! YOU LURED HIM INTO... AND YOU TIED HIM UP AND THREW HIM IN THE OCEAN! HOW DID YOU EVEN... HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE GOO! HOW DID YOU UNGOO HIM?

"He is the ocean. And he's still goo. The spirit needn't match the flesh."

UH OKAY BUT ISN'T HE ACTUALLY BEETLES RIGHT NOW? ARE THE BEETLES MADE OF GOO?

Teddy has to think about that one. "He doesn't know."

DON'T YOU KNOW THINGS?

"Not about that."

You look and look and look and look down at the top of Teddy's head. ARE YOU GOING TO BE HERE FOREVER? I MEAN IN GIL'S HEAD.

"As long as I'm serving a purpose, I will be. If I'm not, I won't." Teddy's voice is deeper than Gil's, even, unvarying. "I think it will be a good while before I have no purpose."

GREAT.

(2/3)

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"It is nice to have something to do. I agree. If you don't mind, I was actually thinking of doing some fishing."

UH
HERE? ARE THERE... FISH?

"I don't see why there couldn't be." He examines the reel of a lengthy fishing rod. "Fishing isn't exciting to watch, Miss Fawkins. If you'd like to join me, you need arms."

I AM NOT SITTING THERE FISHNG WITH MY RETAINER'S DEAD MIND INTERLOPER.

"Then there's nothing left for you here, isn't there? You're a busy woman. You have a lot to do. Why not do it?"

I—
WELL YES I WAS ALREADY PLANNING ON LEAVING. SO YOU KNOW. ALREADY PLANNING ON IT. JUST AS SOON AS I STOP BEING A SNAKE THING ALL BY MYSELF. WHICH I WILL DO. EASILY.

"Mmhmm." Teddy's hooking on a squirming red worm.

You look away. Enough of him! After Horse Face, Pat, and Teddy, you're going to need a cleansing from irritating people. Maybe another drink, if you find yourself uncomfortably sober. You'll figure it out. How to remove yourself, though? It can't be that hard. Even if Gil and/or Richard mostly got you out the last times, it can't be that hard! Positive thinking. After all, you are not actually a very large snake-type reptile, and such a thing isn't even possible, and this is also not real at all, and if you can make the interloper appear presumably you can make yourself appear? Yeah! Yourself, desnaked. Except you don't want to fall 30 or 40 feet onto the pier, or into the ocean, so maybe you're actually, er, inside yourself? Your actual body is? It'd be warm and wet and red in there, and you'd be hunched, and...

Why did you specify the hunching? Your back hurts. You are there, or assume you are, because it is warm and wet and black in here. It could be red if you lit it up. The ground is slippery and slopes slightly downwards, a bad combination, but one you compensate for by gripping the walls. (You feel something vaguely in the back of your mouth.) Down, down, always down, and you creep down and down again, hoping to find light. Silly you. There's no light, and the path wraps around and around itself, and before you're aware the fog is wisping up you're breathing it in. By the time you are aware, you are fuzzing at the edges. It has grown more potent down here. You step, step, heave, stumble. Fall. Then it is warm and wet and black in your head, too.

—

You sleep.

—

>What will you do when you awaken?

>[1] Look at Horse Face's gadget selection.
>[2] Get the list of victims... you mean, the list of Headspace possession targets from Eloise.
>[3] Find Madrigal, so she can help you get in touch with Real Ellery. You should probably tell him that you're blowing up Headspace. Possibly. Theoretically.
>[4] Take care of various small tasks in your tent, like reading Henry's letter or testing out your newly magycked bad eye. (Look, you need to decompress too.)
>[5] Write-in.

>>5953660
>[4] Take care of various small tasks in your tent, like reading Henry's letter or testing out your newly magycked bad eye. (Look, you need to decompress too.)

>>5953660
>>[4] Take care of various small tasks in your tent, like reading Henry's letter or testing out your newly magycked bad eye. (Look, you need to decompress too.)

>>5953660
>1
Decompress by stealing (legally) from Horse Face

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I was out and about this evening, so no update. Updates might be sparse-ish this week in general due to IRL busyness, but I'll try to get us through the last of the pre-Headspace errands before the thread ends, so we're in good shape for 39.

Speaking of IRL busyness and Thread 39, by the way, I may have to put it off for a month (i.e. skipping April, next thread in the ~first week of May). I have a heavy workload this semester and finals are going to be brutal. Just wanted to give you guys a heads up in advance!

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>>5953668
>>5953885
>Small stuff

>>5953960
>Tall stuff

I'm back! Writing.

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>Checking boxes

It is not an easy sleep and it is not a restful sleep. You pitch and dip like a ship in a storm, and when you dream it's a dropped egg: gooey, runny, all in fragments. Shattered sharp stress-dreams, of Gil leaving you to go fishing; of Lucky mistaking you for a worm and slicing you in two; of Richard coming back, but you fixed him too well, and he's nasty and angry again; of a gaping open wound in your chest, so big you can climb inside and...

See. There she is.

"She looks so dopey. I don't believe—"

She is asleep.
...And drunk. It is not an attractive combination. Do not hold it against her.

"Oh, okay. I won't hold that against her. I'll only hold the other obvious fucking thing—"

She was under a powerful influence. Can you condemn that, when you strived all your life to achieve the same? The Fawkins, forever grimy and desperate and red.
She will come here soon enough.

"She's come here now! Why not just give her a nice kick up the—"

No! Do not wake her. She does not know where she wanders. To know too soon would destroy everything.

"It's destroying me right now!"

You are being tended to. Settle down. Look, she is leaving already.

"She's walking closer."

Not closer to us. Where?

"...To the fucking pit? Wow. You told me not to go to the pit, and you're all cool with Miss Piss Drunk stumbling—"

She comes this way often. Look at the grooves in the ground. She will keep coming until it is healed or until it opens wide and swallows her.

"Looks like she isn't waiting for that."

She worries at it. Can you imagine the scab of a wound this size? How much it itches? The less attention she tries to pay, the larger it looms in her mind. She dreams of it. She can't help it.

"Of a pit?"

That's not how she percieves it.

"Okay. I was going to ask why she's crying about a pit."

It's not a pit. I told you. It's a wound.

"Looks like a pit."

It's widened. Especially recently. Don't be flippant.

"Should've left me screaming, then. Oh, shit! She—"

She tried to look in, and fell. Yes. It is good this way. Better than forever looking.

"So it's okay if she falls into the creepy pit, but if I try to go look, you're all—"

Yes. It isn't yours. You escaped this fate, even if you found another. Hers is still onrushing. The fall— it will wake her.

"What about me?"

Not you. I'm sorry. You are not the same, even if she borrows you from time to time. Your deliverance will have to wait.

"Great."

I have been told that patience is a virtue. If you are so worried, however, I will speak to her at the next opportunity. Alright?

"...I guess."

You are strong-willed. You and her are not so different. Take faith. I will see you soon, Claudia.

"I guess. Bye, lizard."

Goodbye.

—

(1/5)

You hit rocks and splatter, hit goo and dissolve, hit sea and drown, hit sea and choke and panic— it's red, thick, you can't breathe it— your panicked exhales foam it, it coats your throat in metal, it's blood, blood, it's— blood, it's— it's— ah!

>[-1 ID: 6/14]

Your legs spasm. You cough on ordinary water, and blink hard, and— you are awake. No blood anywhere. Ew. If Richard was good for anything, he did tend to intervene in your nastier dreams. Was that all? Sea of blood? You're usually more inventive, but you guess you did... you were... uhh... Teddy? Did that really happen? Did any of that really happen? You are on your cot, in your tent, and there is a hideous amount of light streaming in through the slits in the canvas. You attempt to move your arm to block it, but the motion drives a big iron spike through your forehead. Ow, ow, ow. God, what did happen? There was Us, and you vanished Management, and Gil got absorbed... maybe you did dream it, except for the fact that you're not in your nightclothes, and it's not morning. Not with that hideous, accursed, blasphemed, God-blessed light, which is conspiring to angle directly into your eyeballs. Augh!

What is the matter with you? What was the last thing you... were you a big reptile thing again? Or did you dream that too? It doesn't seem real at all anymore, not with you and your normal legs and arms and head and stuff, not that you can move them. Not that you can't move them, but if you do, you get nails driven through your temples. Is this some side-effect of reptileness? Or, no. You were... you were drinking... moderately drinking. Not enough to feel anything later. But then there was the fog, all that fog, and—

It's a hangover. God-damnit! It's not that you don't know what a hangover is, or can't recognize their symptoms. It's that Richard, generous Richard, would unfailingly banish them from your brain with some combination of salts and fluids and happy energy juice. God. You would strangle a man for some happy energy juice, as long as the man stood still right there, and maybe bent over and stuck his neck out. You really do not want to get up.

You don't want to, but you have to, because you're a mature young lady and you have people to talk to and you're raiding Headspace tomorrow. Oh, God. Tomorrow? Why did you make it tomorrow? You could put it off, technically, but... urgh. You can imagine the mean-Richard gloating already. Time to handle yourself. Didn't you... didn't you buy some painkillers from the general store...?

(2/5)

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Yes! You did! God, you're so smart. So, so smart and intelligent. Where did you put them? On your shelf? On your desk? Somewhere around there. If you can just sit up, you can probably see it... ow! Ow! Ohhh. You've— you can do this. It's not like you've been stabbed. Remember when you got stabbed in the shoulder? Remember when you got stabbed in the stomach and your stomach turned into goo? Remember when you stabbed Richard in the stomach? No, don't remember that. Remember when Ellery threw that bubble potion at you then shot at you with a crossbow? That one didn't hurt, because he kept missing (ha-ha), but, God, it was annoying. He's so annoying. Are you going to have to tell him about Headspace? You guess you don't "have" to, but you feel like he'd get all mad if you didn't...

But that's a later problem, because if you had to talk to Ellery right now his voice would make your head literally explode. You mean it. All over the walls. You're just going to stand up, and you are going to walk over to the shelf, and you are going to consume painkillers. Then you can lie back down. Okay? And Richard says you never make a plan. Okay. Step one. Stand up...

>[-1 ID: 5/14]

Ooh. Ow. Agh. You're up, ish, despite your body's vehement protests. Every time your head pounds, these blue lines pulse with it. Now to walk over, and— oops! Oh, God, what— what is— oh, God. The mantis! You almost stepped on it! (Would it have punched your foot straight off?) It's still tied to a string, and the string is still tied to your cot, where it belongs. Phew. "Sorry..."

The mantis doesn't respond, except to waggle its antennae or feelers or whatever they are. This is probably for the best. You stagger over to your shelf (thank God your tent isn't that big) and grope around. Is there a bottle? A bottle? A bottle! Hooray! You open it with your teeth, which means you spray a little venom onto it by accident, but it's fine. Whatever. It doesn't do anything if you just touch it, you think. Pills, pills, pills, pills... pills! Yes! You down three. Three is probably enough. Ahhh. Not that you feel any better, but you feel better knowing that you will feel better. You were so clever, buying these. So clever. You basically knew Richard would be useless some day, and you...

...Richard? That's not... he's supposed to be gone! But that's him on the desk, all beady-eyed and coiled up, same as usual. You rub your eyes and he remains. "Richard...?"

No response. He doesn't even bother flicking his tongue. "Richard? Are you back already?"

Nada. And if he were back, wouldn't he be a person? He'd look like your father. He doesn't like being a snake, he said, and from what you know about snakes you can't blame him. You scoop this snake up and hold it out. "Hi, snakey. Where've you been? Do you miss Richard?"

(3/5)

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Nothing, of course, because snakes this size can't talk. That's what Eloise told you, they can't talk. Henry thought it was weird you found a talking snake in your attic, especially a Richard-sized one... hum. You loop the obliging snake around your shoulders and sit back down. Henry also sent you a... yeah! A letter! You can read that lying down, can't you?

It hurts nearly as much to lie down as it does to stand up, but it's all okay, because it'll go away soon. Hopefully that general store guy sold you the right pills. He would, right? Because he's your secret fan? Yeah, probably. Also, he wouldn't want to get in trouble for poisoning a beloved young lady. Anyways. The snake's sprawled over your shoulder now, which is cute of it. It's honestly pretty cute overall when there's no Richard in it yelling at you, though it does stir your stomach up to look at its blank expression. You hope Richard feels better soon. (It could also be the hangover stirring your stomach up. Or the pills.)

Henry's letter, Henry's letter... is in your pocket, safe and sound. You squint at the wax seal, then break it and slide the letter out. He's written it in fancy pen. Your Aunt Ruby would approve.

"Hi kiddo,

I hope you're doing well, whenever and wherever this finds you. I hope you didn't give Garvin too much grief for delivering this.

You asked me for a way to raise a giant worm from the dead. I would first like to reiterate that this is neither something typically done, nor something Old Earthquaker would give its stamp of approval to, so you're wading upstream on this one. Not impossible, but nothing reliable. Please don't get angry if your attempts fail.

That being said, I think my initial gut response to this conundrum still holds. You can't actually "resurrect" something like this, not without divine interference, but I think you have good odds of forcing your old worm's "self" (do worms have selves?) onto a new worm, which you can get wherever you found the first worm, I assume. I regret to say I do not know very much about worms. Regardless, let's assume you've located another worm, or at least something sufficiently worm-like. I think this would work best if you were able to physicalize your memories of the first worm in some way— are you wondering how? It really depends. On the low end, you might be able to meditate upon a significant object until it took on meaning. On the high end, I believe some native creatures engage in this practice— aren't there those oysters with memory pearls? Do you know what I'm talking about? Snakes eat memories too, of course, though they're rather more reticent about spitting them out. You could ask your "snake friend" about it, if you trust him enough to help. I would be wary of him.

(4/6)

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Alternately, I suspect that those manse people are good at rendering the intangible tangible, though I don't have much first-hand experience. I'm a bit too much of an old dog to learn all those new tricks, kiddo. If you know more about it, you could find something there. In any case, though, once you have those physicalized, I'd try and get the Worm #2 to ingest them. Or if the memories are powderable, maybe get it nice and dusted. Then and only then would I engage with its mind. I hope I don't need to tell you to be careful? Things that big are nothing to sneeze at, no matter how simple their minds are. You don't want to end up turning *yourself* into a worm! Your father would be very unhappy with me if you did.

I think you can intuit it from there. You're very talented. I apologize that I couldn't provide much new information, but I would definitely get those memories physicalized. If you have any mementos of the old worm, you could use those to meditate on or in combination with a more exotic physicalization. A combination might be most effective.

I wish you the best of luck, and please don't fail to contact us if you run into difficulty, want to talk, or need somewhere to stay. I know we got off to a rocky start, but I think fondly of you and am glad we've been drawn together again. To facilitate communication, and so Garvin needn't play errand boy, I have enclosed two options for you..."

Oh! There's stuff wedged at the bottom of the envelope! You shake it out. A bundle of seaweed... and a little doll?

"...firstly, this gulfweed is excellent at "bridging the gulfs" between people. (I don't think it was named for that, but it's quite a coincidence.) Chew it until your saliva runs bitter, then spit it out. (Don't swallow! It's mildly poisonous!) You should begin to feel woozy, possibly depersonalized. This is good. When you do, start thinking vigorously of me. I will feel it (on my end) and I will appear to you. If I do not, I am otherwise occupied, but I will do my best to answer. (Conversely— if you begin to think of me uncontrollably and insistently, I may be trying to get in urgent contact. Go somewhere quiet and open your mind. Only for grave matters, I promise!)

(5/6)

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Secondly, if you feel the need to speak in person but can't risk actual travel, I have enclosed this effigy. (Apologies if this is stirring thoughts of any old stories; I'm afraid some of those are rooted in fact.) I have made it very basic on the off-chance this envelope is waylaid, so it's not completely functional yet. Do you still make those charming little things with clay? If you do, it would be ideal if you could mix some clay with a healthy amount of your blood— use that to put some "flesh" on the effigy, and make it look like you. It needn't be exact. If you've ditched the clay, you'll need to soak it in blood direct, and maybe you can draw a face on it. Bury it deeply in mud or black earth and go to sleep. (If you want to be extra helpful, sleep on the ground.) Don't get caught, or you'll have to answer some awkward questions. I will take it from there.

I hope to hear excellent things from you, Charlotte, and that you stay well and stay safe out there. Say hello to your "snake friend" for me.

All the best,
Your uncle Henry"

Oh! Well, that was a nice... he wrote that so nicely. It could still be cult trickery. You don't know anymore. Can you be susceptible to cult trickery if you're already in the cult? You have God in your body. Did you ever tell Henry you swallowed the sun?

Well, whatever. It's nice to have two more doohickeys to add to your pile of doohickeys, and you'll definitely be trying out all that stuff with Annie. It's your noble duty to bring her back to life, considering you already got her killed twice. (You sigh.) What now? Can you stand? Uhh... ow. Maybe you can, but you'd like to avoid it. No pain killed yet. What can you do that just involves sitting? Or preferably lying down?

>[A1] You know Henry gave you this gulfweed in order to contact him, but there's a fair amount in this bundle, and it only sounds like you need to chew a little bit. Shouldn't you test it out before needing to rely on it? Yeah. Yeah. (Who do you attempt to contact/pester? It can be anybody, though they're not guaranteed to pick up. It can also be multiple people, though you'll be using more gulfweed. Write-in.)
>[A2] What? Henry says you need to do stuff with clay? Gosh... what a ludicrous thing to ask of you... what horrible, unthinkable drudgery... you'll simply have to *drag* yourself over to your desk and *force* yourself to make an adorable little doll version of yourself, so you have it for emergencies......
>[A3] Augh. Just sit here and look at things with your bad eye— you can kind of see the strings already, you just can't make sense of them with both eyes open. Look at your furniture and the snake and the mantis and everything. Why not?
>[A4] Write-in.

What do you do once you're feeling better?
>[B1] Go harass Horse Face!
>[B2] Go harass Eloise!
>[B3] Go harass Madrigal and by extension Real Ellery!
>[B4] Write-in.

>>5955114
>A2
oh man how awful
if only we didn't need to for emergencies
>B1

>>5955114
>A2
>B1

>>5955114
>>[A3] Augh. Just sit here and look at things with your bad eye— you can kind of see the strings already, you just can't make sense of them with both eyes open. Look at your furniture and the snake and the mantis and everything. Why not?
>[B3] Go harass Madrigal and by extension Real Ellery!

>>5955425
>>5955478
>[A2, B1]

>>5955644
>[A3, B3]

Called. Writing in a while.

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>Handicraft

You tilt your head up and squint. "What do you think I should do, snakey?"

The snake remains unhelpful. Ah well. As much as you'd like to stay lying down, the longer you do, the worse it'll be to get up later. Sitting up's a good compromise, and Henry has just suggested an excellent seated activity. An effigy! It sounds rather sinister, doesn't it? Like something to place curses on. If Henry wanted to curse you, though, he's had you where he wanted you multiple times, so it wouldn't make sense to wait this long. Also, you don't know if curses are real. (You'd like them to be, but surely you would've seen one by now.)

Maybe you better assume that it's exactly what Henry says it is— an esoteric means of travel. You don't have any need to visit the cult right now, but the future's wide open, and it couldn't hurt to have the option. Yes. A logical reason for working on this right now. Nothing to do with liking to play with clay. It's logical, and it's useful, and...

Oh, who cares? Who are you defending yourself from, the snake? You like playing with clay, and you like sitting down even more, and anything that gives you an excuse for both is fair game. What was the last thing you made, the model of your manse? Was that last week? Too long. You used to be doing this almost every day, any time Richard wasn't making you slog around Crown-hunting. Or any time you weren't drunk. It's not easy to sculpt drunk.

Good thing you're sober. More than sober. Advanced Sober. Sober-Plus. Your hearing is sensitive, and your vision acute, and your mind exquisitely tuned to every motion you make— meaning every motion generates pain, but it's fine. It's fine. Medicine soon. Clay now.

You plop down unsteadily in your chair and scavenge out your supplies: the effigy, the hulking block of clay, your pocketknife (once essential; after the rescue of The Sword, sadly neglected), your cutting wire, the hook and the needle, Henry's letter— in case you missed something. Actually, after a re-review, you stand and grab an empty bowl off your desk's top shelf. Mix blood in with the clay, Henry said, and you'll need somewhere to put it.

Mix a "healthy amount" of blood in. What constitutes a healthy amount? You have the bad feeling it's more than a couple drops, especially since Richard watered your blood all down. A teaspoon? A tablespoon? As much as the clay will hold? You guess you'll try for the last of those and stop sooner if you feel faint. Gosh. What should you cut? You don't to bleed out. Your palm, maybe? Your left palm, the one you don't use. That works. The Sword's a little unwieldy for making little cuts, so you'll try the pocketknife. Shut your eyes, Lottie, and hold your hand against the bowl, and—

(1/5)

OW! Ow, hell, ow. Like the world's largest paper cut. You jerked as it sliced in, and that set your head pounding again, so there's pain there and pain here and pain everywhere. Oh, God. Richard usually takes care of this, doesn't he? He might yell at you for it, but he takes care of the pain. Imagine that! Imagine that.

>[-1 ID: 4/14]

At least you're bleeding now, directly into the bowl— don't think about how it stays in the bowl, or it'll start floating away. It's probably heavier than the water, is what it is, even if it doesn't gel up like everyone else's. That's right. It's very red, which makes you want to drink it a little, but you consider puking it back up and resist. Your own blood! What would be the point?

Once you can't see the bottom of the bowl, you retrieve your pre-cut chunk of clay and begin to knead it out (one-handedly) on the desk. Your other hand continues to drip. When the clay is nice and softened, you pick it up and drop it into the bowl, where it splashes.

God, why does this have to be messy? Is Monty going to wander in and accuse you of murdering somebody on your desk? The clay you use isn't normally absorptive, but it seems to be making an exception here, especially as you knead it around some more. It's turning pinkish, which makes sense, but the texture is changing, which doesn't. It's definitely changing, right? You slice off a small knob of regular clay to compare. Yes, definitely. The bloodied clay springs back at your touch, while the regular stuff dents. Odd.

It works for your purposes, though: once you start to mold it onto the effigy, you realize what the bloodied clay reminds you of. Skin! You mean... maybe you shouldn't dwell on that. But it reminds you of skin, in color and feel, and succeeds at looking uncannily realistic. It yields well when you take the needle to it, too, to carve out the face and fingers, and sticks well when you build out the hips and the, er... listen, it's not perverse, okay? This is supposed to be you! And it is looking awfully like you, which you're pleased by, since you were never very good at making people. Awfully like you if you were bald and nude. Hmm. The bald can be fixed: you cut a few strands of hair off and use the needle to poke them into doll-Charlotte's scalp. The nude? You don't have tiny clothes lying around, and you don't have a Richard to conveniently produce them, but you do have a... oh, damn, you're bleeding all over the desk again. One second.

There. Isn't it a good thing you've reduced half the clothes you brought to rags? Now you have plenty of rags for blood-stanching, A), and doll-clothing, B). With some cutting, some fluffing, and a brilliant last-minute plan to use up the remaining blood, doll-Charlotte is now wearing a pretty red dress. Done! You did a pretty good job, if you say you yourself. She does look like you. And your head hurts less now!

>[+2 ID: 6/14]

(2/5)

Your palm still hurts about the same, so it's swings and roundabouts, but oh well. At least you can stand up without wanting to die. You won't need the doll soon, right? You're not going to be traveling to Cult HQ while you're in the middle of Headspace? Probably not. You think about letting it sit near your finished models, then think about Horse Face thievery, and stash it behind your bookshelf's coin bank instead.

With your headache gone and your spirits raised, you resolve to step outside, which ("Ow!") is not quite as invigorating as you expected. Does it have to be so bright? Really, does it have to be? Good thing Gil is right across the way.

His tent door is tied, but you wedge your head through it anyways. "Gil?"

He's in there, which is good. He's awake, which is better. He's sitting up on his cot, staring vacantly at the wall, which is... it can be improved. "Gil! Snap out of it!"

"Ah!" He jolts. "I-I-I... Lottie?"

"Sure am! Feeling okay? You don't have a hangover, do you? You also got pretty drunk, so..."

"Oh, god, that was fucked. It just... it went straight to my... I-I-I didn't say anything really stupid, did I? Or do anything stupid? I-I can't totally..."

There was a hand on your thigh. He didn't mean anything by it, though. He doesn't know the rules. "Not really. You just rambled a little bit."

"Thank fuck." Gil's shoulders slump. "Sorry i-i-if I was bothering you at all, though, I really just... I can't handle my liquor at all. Give me a smoke any day of the week."

"You weren't bothering me. I was drunk too, Gil. And I'd rather have you rambling than feeling so bad you can't talk, okay?" You cross your arms. "It's important for my retainer to be in good health! Are you feeling better now?"

"Me?" He glances conspicuously at the wall. "Uh... yeah. I-I'm better."

"That's good. Why did you look there?"

"Huh?" Gil says.

"And why were you staring at that when I came in, huh? No, hold on. I'll utilize my immense powers of detectiveness." You hold your temple and squeeze your eye shut— your good eye. The world flares up blue. Hmm. You're still bright and sunny, though you have wavy threads all up and down your arms and legs, and Gil's still all fancy-patterned, except the thin center of the pattern is vacant. No, not vacant. It's walked off. It's spinning right over there, right by the wall, linked to Gil with long strands.

You open your eyes. "Ahem. Is Teddy there?"

"I-i-i-is— is what? Is who? I-i-is... he's not... he's stuck in Us, Lottie, not..." Gil is conspicuously glancing anywhere but the wall, now.

"Aren't you supposed to be a good liar? I talked to him, Gil. You passed out—" He did pass out, once he saw his chest ripped open. It's honest. "—he showed up, and we talked. It's okay."

"Oh." Gil reddens. "Cool."

"I don't care if he's there, unless he starts trying to say mean stuff about me. I'll banish him if he does, okay? Can he hear me? I want him to hear that."

"...Yes."

(3/5)

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"Great! Well then." You clap your hands together (ow). "I was thinking—"

"Oh, shit!" Gil boggles. "What happened to your hand?"

"Nothing special. I was working on a doll. Anyways! I was thinking that we better go see Horse Face. He said he'd lend me something for Headspace, but I wanted to go see what he has first. And you like gadgets, right? I thought you'd maybe be interested in—"

"Garvin's lending us his shit?" Gil scrambles to his feet. "Yes! I-I-I-I'm— I'm— I'm interested. Now? I-Is he expecting us?"

"Gil! If people are expecting you, you lose the element of surprise. That's obvious. Come on!"

—

"Would you look at that! To think what shape you were in a few hours ago... and now the spitting image of yourself. Come in, come in!" Horse Face is at home, thank goodness, and you're glad you made Gil do the knocking. "You too, Charlotte, if you must. I see you lurking."

"I wasn't lurking!" you protest. "I was... standing to the side."

"For you? That's lurking. You don't remember being a mere glob, do you, Gil? It was remarkable! From an unfeeling lump, sprang—"

"Um, I-I-I remember being Us, sort of. And I-I remember waking up again in my body... nothing in the middle. Not that I'd really want to remember being a glob of goo?" Gil makes a face.

"No, no, of course not! Though it could be illuminating, were you able to retain it. Nevertheless. Congratulations on the return to individualhood! Quite a readjustment, I'd imagine? Or are you already enough of a multiple that it wasn't so bad?"

"I-It was pretty bad... uhh... but I'm okay now. I think. Are you okay? Lottie said she bailed you out, but—"

"Horse Face!" you interrupt. "I want your stuff. Your— you know. The stuff you have in your dumb warehouse. Gil and I have a very important mission tomorrow, and you signed a contract, and— that's it. You signed a contract. You owe me."

"I'm glad you're doing well too, Charlotte." Horse Face is placid. "Of course I'd be happy to lend something out. What did you have in mind?"

"What did I... can't you just show me everything?"

"The tour would last several hours. I'm sure Gil would be interested, but I wager you'd be falling asleep, yes? Why don't you tell me what you need, and I can go see if I have something that'd fit." Horse Face smiles. "Win-win, don't you think?"

Sure, whatever. Maybe you don't actually want to hear Horse Face ramble about his thingies for hours. But you were sort of hoping that you'd spot something in there, not just rely on what he brings you. What do you need? What do you even have? You've spent the last few days preparing, so you ought to be pretty well-stocked...

(4/5)

>CURRENT HEADSPACE EXPEDITION RESOURCES
- Yourself, your amazing innate talents, etcetera
- The Claudia persona you can adopt at will (untested outside manse)
- Gil, and whatever amazing innate talents he can be convinced to try out, e.g. goo shapeshifting, turning into beetles, his divine blessing, general Headspace & manse knowledge
- Teddy, you guess, whatever he's good for
- The Sword (on fire)
- Gil's pistol (formerly Wayne's)
- A mantis shrimp (can be coaxed to punch through solid objects and/or people)
- A snake, sans Richard
- About a dozen portable, reliable mini-Law siphons (need to be stuck throughout Headspace)
- Headspace-branded wristband, bandana, teeshirt, bouncy ball
- An EZ-M.A.N.S.E. pin, uninvestigated
- A SUPER-M.A.N.S.E. pill, uninvestigated
- A small bomb(?) inside of a plum can
- A rucksack
- A bottle of mild painkillers
- A baggie of Headspace-prescribed medication: several moderate stimulants, one powerful dissociative
- A bundle of gulfweed (intended for contacting Henry, but...)
- Presumably the mind and body of whoever you decide to possess
- Whatever you make Horse Face give you!

...okay, yes. Not bad. But not so good you don't need anything, either. What do you need?

>[A1] Something to heal you. If if you get seriously hurt in there, and if Richard doesn't come back in time, you could be screwed. (You guess you can thank Henry for reminding you of that.)
>[A2] Something to soup up a bomb. You have one, kind of, but is it strong enough to blow up a gigantic manse with a bazillion people in it? ...Maybe? If you put it in the right spot? You need to do better than that.
>[A3] Something for Gil. You feel bad that you never gave him time to finish anything cool for himself, and you don't want him to get messed up on a mission you drug him on. Maybe Horse Face can help.
>[A4] Something... something... something red. Look, you're not crazy. You're just thinking— what if it goes really wrong, and Richard isn't there, and you need to save your life? Or Gil's life? What if you don't have enough left in you to do it? Horse Face is sure to have a sinister artifact or five, right?
>[A5] Write-in. (Can be a general need or a specific device, if you have an idea in mind. Subject to veto.)

(The [B]s are optional.)

>[B1] Ask Horse Face about effigies. What do they mean? How do they work?
>[B2] Ask Horse Face about people who sort of... hang out... in other people's heads. Is that an actual thing, or is Gil special like usual? Spirits aren't real, right?
>[B3] Ask Horse Face how he got back. Did he also just wake up in bed? It doesn't make any sense.
>[B4] Ask Horse Face where Pat went.
>[B5] Tell Horse Face to tell Henry thanks for you, if he sees him anytime soon.
>[B6] When Horse Face comes back, be Claudia for a second. See how he reacts. For research.
>[B7] Write-in.


>[C] Write-in.

>>5956191
>A3
Most likely to get horse face to pull out the good stuff


>B3, 4, 5, 6

>>5956191
>>[A3] Something for Gil. You feel bad that you never gave him time to finish anything cool for himself, and you don't want him to get messed up on a mission you drug him on. Maybe Horse Face can help.
>B1, 2, 4, 5, 6

File: write.png (1.14 MB, 902x905)

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Hiya lads. Very busy IRL this week, so no update tonight OR tomorrow night. I hope to pick things back up on Friday. Vote remains open.

>>5956191
>[A3] Something for Gil. You feel bad that you never gave him time to finish anything cool for himself, and you don't want him to get messed up on a mission you drug him on. Maybe Horse Face can help.
>[B1] Ask Horse Face about effigies. What do they mean? How do they work?
>[B2] Ask Horse Face about people who sort of... hang out... in other people's heads. Is that an actual thing, or is Gil special like usual? Spirits aren't real, right?
>[B3] Ask Horse Face how he got back. Did he also just wake up in bed? It doesn't make any sense.
>[B4] Ask Horse Face where Pat went.
>[B5] Tell Horse Face to tell Henry thanks for you, if he sees him anytime soon.

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Hi folks. I got 3.5 hours of sleep last night. For obvious reasons, I will be updating tomorrow (/today/Saturday) evening.

>>5956297
>>5957028
>>5956846
>[A3]

>>5956846
>>5957028
>[B1]

>>5956846
>>5957028
>[B2]

>>5956297
>>5957028
>[B3]

>>5956297
>>5956846
>>5957028
>[B4]

>>5956297
>>5956846
>>5957028
>[B5]

>>5956297
>>5956846
>[B6]

I see you guys have conspired to make me write every single dialogue option again. Alas! Called for [A3] and the [B]s and writing.

>Spread the wealth

...Oh, god, you can't decide. What if you ask for something and Horse Face doesn't have it? What if he thinks the thing you want is stupid? What if you think it sounds good, but it'll actually end up worthless? This is why you wanted to go look at everything. If you looked at everything, something would call out to you, all heroic-like. It'd glimmer in the moonlight or whatnot. Are you supposed to predict what'd glimmer in the moonlight?

Richard would tell you what to ask for, except he's dying of stab wounds, so it's just you. And Gil, you guess, who's looking at you sideways. Have you taken too long to answer? Is there something on your face? Or is there something he... he...

Oh! You just had a brilliant idea! "No, I'm not going to tell you what I... let Gil go with you!"

Gil's lips part. "Me?"

"Yeah! You said he'd be interested, Horse Face. You said that. And he's my retainer, so I hereby transfer all my rights to using your stuff to him, so you can't say he wasn't in the contract... and he knows more about your doohickies than I would. Not that I don't know about them, but he'd know more. So I know he'll pick out the best thing for us! Right, Gil?"

"I-I... yeah, I... yeah." He's reddened. "Yes. I-I-I can..."

"Unless you don't want to. In which case, you can help convince Horse Face to—"

"I-I want to."

"Oh. Okay. Great! So, Horse Face, I command you to let my retainer entereth into thine walls of thine weird boring warehouse thing, so he can check out your stuff. You'll do that? I can stay out here, as long as you don't take too long."

Horse Face bows. "If that's what you'd like, I would be delighted."

But not delighted about giving you a tour? Figures. "Yeah, yeah. But you can't leave yet! I have some other things I need to tell you! I read Henry's letter."

"Wonderful. And?"

"I'm— I'm not telling you what it was about. But I read it, and... uh... if you see him, tell him thanks, I guess. For what he said. It was useful."

"I'm glad to hear it. Do you have a lot to unload on me? Shall I sit down?"

"Yes," you say firmly. "Sit! Don't walk off while I'm talking to you! I also wanted to know, um, how you got here."

"My, that's quite a question." Horse Face, newly crammed into his armchair, tilts his head back. "I was born, I'd suppose. Before that, who's to say? From where are one's strings pulled? The mother and father, one would presume, but that can't account for all of it. From the gods? But they're dead, and children continue to be born. From the universe? We—"

"I-I don't think that's what she meant," Gil says.

"Oh! How did I get to camp? I believe I walked."

(1/3)

Is he messing with you? "From... from Pat's manse?"

"Well, that too, yes. I exited hers, re-entered the one with all the wreckage, and picked my way back through. Taking care not to fall in, of course. Wouldn't that have been unfortunate? I re-emerged into that local wooded area—"

"The Fen?"

"That's the one. Re-emerged there— I do believe that manse has suffered a catastrophic structural failure, given how large a physical area it now takes up. That is what Pat indicated, I believe. She seemed to blame you?" Horse Face smirks. "Nevertheless. I just got back. Does that answer the question?"

It does, but it only raises more. "So Pat didn't come with you?"

"Not when I left, no. She appeared to want some time alone to think. Having one's life saved would tend to do that."

"...So is she in camp?"

"I haven't the foggiest."

"Oh." You hope she came back, or Madrigal's going to be pissed at you. (Unjustly!) "Uh... I didn't walk back. I just woke up in my cot? Is that normal?"

"Well, that's—" Horse Face stops; Gil's made a noise. "It would appear that Gil might know this?"

"Um, yeah, i-it's— it happens. I also woke up in my tent... uh, i-it has to do with layering manses. We were i-i-in three, right? The one with Us, then Pat's, then yours. Sort of all at once."

"Is that bad?" you say.

"No, i-i-it... I mean, it can be, but it's more that... I-I don't know how to... with more than two, it gets confusing. For the universe, sort of. I-it loses track of where your actual body is supposed to be. So when you leave, you end up wherever i-i-it'd make sense to wake up. Wherever you'd expect to."

"Huh," you say.

"I-I think it works because cause-and-effect get kind of fucked up here, if you haven't noticed. Um, underwater, I-I mean. But Garvin would have to..." Horse Face is nodding. "Yeah."

Well, phew. You're glad it's normal. "Okay! If you say so. Speaking of things that are normal or not, um, and also since you know about cryptotheological-type things... what are effigies?"

"Should I refrain from asking why you'd like to know? An effigy is a physical representation of something, usually a person, usually made of wood, clay, or cloth, usually containing crystal. If immersed in blood, they may function as a stand-in or surrogate for the bleeder, especially in ritual form. It's popularly rumored, though not true, that poking the effigy will wound the person it's mimicking— though it's possible they could feel a phantom ache, if it's particularly well-crafted."

"What if you buried one?" you say.

"Then the person it represents would be underground, metaphysically. Does that have further meaning for you?"

(2/3)

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Does it? Underground metaphysically... traveling without traveling... Henry's hand around your ankle, pulling you out through solid dirt. Hmm. "Maybe."

"I'm sure. I trust it has nothing to do with your injured hand?"

You swallow. You dislike Horse Face's tone, not to mention Gil's muttered "aw, shit." "That's none of your business. And I'm asking the questions, not you, given how I saved your life from Us? Remember that? I saved you from Us? So, um, also... do you know about spirits in people's heads? Ghosts, sort of? Or, uh... like... they're part of your brain, but they're not you, they're somebody else... but it's not just somebody else who happens to be inside of your brain. They're part of it also."

"She— she doesn't— she doesn't need to know about that!" Gil says heatedly. "I-i-i-it's not a relevant— it's not— she's just asking questions to bother you, at this point, Garvin, you don't have to—"

"I am not, Gilbert!" You fold your arms. "This is extremely relevant, specifically to—"

"I don't mind," Horse Face says. "Would you mean 'thoughtforms'?"

"...Would I?"

"Perhaps! They're also called eidolons, though that's not quite a catchall. Moreso for the internal ones, yes? But that would seem to fit the bill. An autonomous fragment of the mind, distinguishable from the ordinary un—person by a greater degree of knowledge, of self-awareness, a greater integration with the mind as the whole— rumored to be able to 'take over' the body as well, which produces some degree of physical change, if only in the eyes. Multiple types. The endogenous type is internal, spawning naturally, if rarely, from unclear processes... perhaps major trauma. It's said to take the appearance of its host, sometimes idealized."

That's not Teddy. "What's the other type?"

"Ah. The exogenous type is created by some forcible intrusion, and the subsequent incorporation of the intruder. I hear it can come from large injections of another's blood, with the thoughtform taking the appearance and personality of the source— would you believe it if I said there's a sect devoted to doing just that? To injecting large quantities of the blood of as many other people as possible? Principally each other. The results are not good, Charlotte, not good at all, and yet..." Horse Face spreads his hands. "We all need something to do, do we not?"

"Right." Injecting blood... or absorbing goo, you'd assume. "Well, I hope that we all found this information useful."

Gil sighs.

"Anyhow, that was all of my questions. I hereby release you, Horse Face, to go off and... bore Gil about the stuff you own. As long as it doesn't take too long! Gil! If it takes too long, I'm going off to do something myself, okay?"

"Um, that makes sense." Gil sucks his cheek in. "Thanks."

"Yes, yes. It's my noble duty to let my retainer look at weird stuff for me. Pick something cool, okay? Or multiple things? As many as Horse Face will let you have."

(3/4)

"Um, I-I'll see what happens. ...Thanks. I-I really, um... yeah. Appreciate it."

The corners of his mouth keep twitching upward. You plop down in Horse Face's other armchair, which proves overstuffed. "Of course! Now get on with it!"

>There's no way this will take a short amount of time. What will you do with yourself?

>[1] Sit there. Maybe doze off a little. The medicine's holding back the hangover for now, but who can tell what'll happen if you roam around?
>[2] Wait impatiently for however long you can stand, then follow Gil and Horse Face inside the warehouse.
>[3] Go off to do something yourself. (What? Eloise/Madrigal/something else? Please specify.)
>[4] Write-in.

>>5959552
>See inside ourselves and contact Claudia
Let's see how she's holding up and whether we can get her out. Maybe by filtering our blood in some way?

>>5959552
>2
Break and enter, and then break some more

>>5959552
>[1] Sit there. Maybe doze off a little. The medicine's holding back the hangover for now, but who can tell what'll happen if you roam around?

>>5959552
>>[1] Sit there. Maybe doze off a little. The medicine's holding back the hangover for now, but who can tell what'll happen if you roam around?

>>5959590
>>5960116
>>5960145
>Stay put

>>5959914
>Go roaming

Called. You guys already voted to test out Claudia last update, so that was going to happen regardless. Writing.

>Sit on your hands

They get on with it, with Horse Face bent low over a box-shaped device, pressing buttons and twiddling dials until the wall of his tent wobbles and stretches outward— like a bubble's been blown into it. The new space is vast and grey and chilly, and it contains a great many shelves, and you can't say you don't feel a pall of foreboding when Gil and Horse Face step inside and are swallowed whole.

Which isn't to say that you're going to rush right in and rescue them. Weren't you in there, once, briefly? And it was fine? And even if this were an evil Horse Faceian trap... you gave Gil a gun, so he'll be fine too. He can take care of himself. He rescued you that one time and everything. Plus, you said you'd wait, so you'll wait. You can wait. You're good at waiting.

So that's what you do, there in the stiff and velveted armchair. Wait. Feel the headache creeping back around the edges. Shut your eyes and hope to sleep, except you're too uncomfortable to sleep, so you only succeed in focusing your attention on said creeping headache. Damn, damn, damn. You could leave and find Eloise or someone, couldn't you? But you said you'd do that only if they took too long, and even with generous fudging it hasn't been 'too long.' It's been two minutes. Ugh! If you're 'good at waiting,' it's also only with generous fudging. Listen, you're better at waiting than you are at some other things. Mathematics, for one. Err. Sewing. There, you could be sewing. Is this so bad compared to sewing? No, it's not. There. Positive thinking.

You'd still feel better if you had something to do, though. Not just sitting there. It's humiliating, just sitting here, Horse Face off stealing your retainer— heroines aren't supposed to sit! They're supposed to be charging into places, rescuing people. If only you had an excuse to follow them. If only you had somebody to rescue. But you already rescued Pat and Gil and Horse Face, and Teddy (if you want to count liberation from Us as a rescue), and... ah! Claudia! Isn't she imprisoned way down in your head somewhere? By the red stuff? Not by you. You had nothing to do with it, pretty much. You're not sure you can rescue her just sitting here, but can you not at least survey the situation? Ascertain her whereabouts? ...Maybe make her wait instead of you?

You already tried sifting around for her and got nothing. You try again and get nothing. If you listen closely, it's still nothing. No crying. Maybe a faint rustling— but that could be the push of water against canvas, or your leg rubbing the armchair. Nothing verifiably from deep inside you. Nothing verifiably her.

(1/4)

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She's not gone, though, because you have her right there. Remember? Right in the space between your eyes— not pushing, not obtruding, not even commenting, just clinging on. Easy to forget about, this Claudia. More of an 'it' than a 'she.' More of a lump of putty than a rascally young lady. Richard would have a good explanation for this, but your stab at it, after much thought, is this: there's the Claudia, the person, who lived once, who Us dreamed up. The one you were. Then there's Claudia, the reality, who is a lot of goo with some chopped-up strings in. The first one of those is missing in action. The second one of those is welded, with a smell like burnt rubber, to the surface of your brain.

It's the second one you can wear. You're not skinning Claudia-the-person alive to do it. You're not standing over her and waving a big knife and telling her to get out of her body so you can get in. It's really, honestly not like that. Claudia-the-lump doesn't talk back. Claudia-the-lump doesn't think, you think. It hasn't evinced a single sign of thinking. It just sits there, oozing memories when you prod it, and going obligingly elastic when you pull it around you.

*

You snap your eyes open. You are- you are— who?

(Charlotte Fawkins. That hasn't changed. But you feel dislocated.)

It's hard to remember. These aren't your normal clothes, though, you're sure of it. What on earth is this? A smock? Garish pink? Bows? These are not your bows. These are not your hands. Holy gods, this is not your chest. What are these? Sandbags? Young cantaloupes?

(...Yes. Dislocated. Your hands are currently doing things your hands would never and under no circumstances should ever do. It's not as though you're out of control, exactly. You're aware and awake and can peel this off whenever you like. It's just that you're dislocated. Or, no. There's a better word. Bi... um... bifurcated? Yeah! There's you in here, business as usual. There's a wall around you. And then there's her outside, who's... still you, because person-Claudia is imprisoned. Still you. But it's a you who thinks she's...)

(2/4)

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Yes, and this isn't your hair, even if you wish it was— natural ringlets? You think they're natural, not ironed in. Gods, they go all the way up to the root. Setting the 'why' aside, whose body is this? You don't know any curly-haired healthy-breasted pink-obsessed bitches, much less any you'd wake up as. Wake up as where? You don't recognize this either. You're in a chair, which is okay. Seems like a normal chair. Maybe a fancy chair. You're in a... room? Smallish room. Walls are weird. Canvas? A big tent? Who'd move all this stuff into a big tent? There really is a lot of stuff— the chair, and another chair, and a table, and a smaller table, and a wooden chest, and a wheely cart, and a cabinet, and an eye-watering number of exotic gewgaws; weird statues and relics and things. Like the tent of some old rich explorer guy. (You've risen from the chair.) Though, now that you look at them, some of those weird statues look... well, look, you'll put it like this. You've doodled those spirals in permanent marker lots of places.

That does add a little to the 'why,' though it's mostly what you were already thinking. Sure, it could be the gods, you guess, trying to teach you some half-baked lesson. They're always doing that, teaching lessons. But what do the gods care about you? Not one single tiny shit. Therefore, it stands to reason that you've been sent here (wherever this is) by the Worldbearer, the Sleeping One, Old Earthquaker, yes, It— the WYRM! Your prayers have been answered! You can't remember exactly what the prayers were right now, but they're answered. Did you pray for curly hair? You usually have waves, which are okay, but...

Well, anyways. Is the owner of this tent a servant of the WYRM? Or just somebody who knows a lot about It? You're here for some reason, you're picture positive, so maybe you better wait for tent guy to come back. Though it can't hurt to poke your head outside, right? Let's see. Ow!

(Note to self: Claudianess does not banish hangovers.)

Ow, ow, ow! It's way too bright out there— your head's pounding like crazy. After squinting and shielding your eyes, you can just about make out... another tent? More tents to the left and right, too? What is this, a summer camp? Probably more of an exploration camp, you guess, if they still have those somewhere. Gauging by the relics. Beyond the lone tent across the way is a lot of sand, and in the distance trees, and there's something very weird about all of it. Everything's ever-so-slightly blue. And the sky's all... there is no sky to speak of, really. It's a weird uniform blue up there. Like you're underwater.

(3/4)

But you're not, right? You're not underwater? Unless you're dead, or unless the gods turned you into a clicky-click ocean person, but those don't have boobs the size of yours. Or hair. Maybe you're dreaming? On second thought, that's— yeah, okay. You're dreaming. Phew! Got that worked out! You retreat inside, just in time for the wall to open up, and for your weird family friend Gil and his weird friend Cam to come out of it. So, normal dream stuff.

"Hello!" you say brightly, and receive two befuddled stares. They're looking at you like they didn't expect you to be there. If you look at them back hard enough, can you turn them into something fun? Like frogs? Since it is your dream.

"Greetings, miss," Cam says formally. "Can I help y..."

Gil, so far resisting your froggish gaze, is looking you up and down intently. He's frowning hard. "...Lottie?"

(Ah! Damnit! You can't— you shouldn't— you rip the clinging skin off you, and take a deep shuddery breath, and—)

You are yourself. Charlotte Fawkins. No trace of anybody else. "Yes? Hello. I waited, like I said?"

Gil's frown hasn't straightened out yet. "...Yes. Um. That's good."

"Yes! Of course! Charlotte. I don't know how I... it must have been the angle of the light! Or maybe Gil touched something I said he shouldn't, hmm?" Horse Face elbows Gil playfully. "Would you like to show the lady your procurements?"

"Right. Uh, I-I didn't really... I-I didn't get that much. Sorry." Gil shuffles over to the little table and deposits his procurements upon it. One of them is a palm-sized statuette with a vicious expression. You eye it skeptically. "What does that do?"

"Uh..." Gil grimaces, sets down the towel he was using to hold it, and picks it up with his bare hand, which immediately glows bright blue. He sets it down, and the glow stops. "I-I-It's consecrated..."

"It's pagan!" you hiss.

He sighs. "I-I mean, yeah, but... look, can we talk about it later? I-I-I got this too."

>What else did Gil get?
>[1] Write-in. (Optional. real choices in the morning, any write-ins here are liable to be incorporated as possible options)

>>5960338
>A device that can be cleverly exploited to greatly increase Gil's bugs' maximum separation distance

>>5960338
>A case containing an armada of beetle sized submarines

>>5960365
>>5960457
You know what, both of these are solid enough (well, maybe not the submarines, but the presumable concept of giving the beetles a way to survive out in reality) that I'm comfortable rolling with them. Nice work. Short update incoming.

>>5960591
>maybe not the submarines
:(
submersibles?

File: refractor.jpg (42 KB, 390x400)

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>Unboxing video

"Gil," you say. "These are shapes."

They are shapes: a rectangular box, a small cylinder, and a disc with holes in it. None of them obviously shoot fire. You raise your eyebrows at Gil, who flinches.

"They— they do— I-I-I know they don't look that impressive, but they—"

"I hope this one's a bomb," you say, and hold the cylinder up to your eye. (Something's the matter with its strings. Like they're distorted, or overlapping, or... you can't tell in detail unless you concentrate.)

"No, i-it's not... can I explain them?" Gil holds up the disc. "This i-is a refractor. I-i-it... uh... it's usually more of a part in a machine than anything on its own, but..."

"You had Horse Face's entire hoard, and you got a part?"

"Hold on! Look! I-I-It's meant to change the path of strings. They filter through these prisms—" Gil taps the disc's holes, which are covered with translucent material. "—and come out skewed. I-I-I was thinking... uh... my beetles..."

"Yes?"

"You know how I-I can't really come too far apart?" He flexes his hand open and closed. "I-I-I just... stop. Even though there's nothing really physical in the way. Richard's told me it's my strings. I-I-If I can get them through the refractor, then I'll get more slack, so there'll be more room to—"

"It doesn't make more beetles, though? It just lets them fly further?"

"Um..." Gil says. "...Yeah..."

"Huh. What's the other ones?"

"Oh. I-I-I was only going to pick one of them... I don't want to be in Garvin's debt or anything, ha-ha. I-I was thinking maybe you could help?" He lifts the box. "This is—"

"A box," you volunteer. (Shoebox-sized, heavy-looking, with black sides and a clear top.)

"Uh... yeah. A box. But it's lined with glass, see?" Gil tilts it so you can see the glossy interior. "The outside's coated, so it's safe to touch, but... I-I mean, it's glass-lined. I-It'll suck the reality out of anything you put in in there."

That's more like it. "Cool! What do we need to suck the reality out of?"

"Uh... nothing. I-I don't know if it'd have that much of a practical effect, really... but!" Gil looks proud of himself. "I-I-It can't suck the reality out of something that's already not real! I-It'd just keep it safe! Like an icebox, right? Or a..."

His gaze goes muddled for a second. "Gil?" you say.

"...a freezer... I-I guess. Like a freezer. You put hot things in and they get cold; you put cold things in and they stay cold. I-I'm a cold thing, Lottie. I-I can't survive out here that long when I'm not in something. But if I was in there..."

"Then you'd be in a box?"

"You're quite a critic, Charlotte," Horse Face says.

"I'm not a critic, I'm just—"

Gil works his mouth. "I-i-it's fine. I-I just thought it could be... cool. Uh, the other thing's that canister. Can I have it back?"

(1/3)

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"Huh? Oh." You hand over the cylinder, and Gil unscrews it.

He shows you the inside. "This one has mirrors i-in it."

"Mirrors?" Long ago, you talked to Eloise about mirrors. "I thought they didn't have any special properties?"

"Not inherently. They won't generate something like this spontaneously. But they do lend themselves to certain uses, no?" Horse Face slides a pen out of his pocket and passes it to Gil. "Why don't you show her?"

Gil shows you the pen (pen-sized), then the canister (maybe an inch long), then lowers the pen into the canister. It never hits the bottom. Gil gets the whole pen in, then drops the whole pen in, and when he withdraws his hand it's gone. Vanished.

You process. "A pocket dimension?"

"Well, i-i-it's not— that's kind of an outdated—"

"Actually," Horse Face says, "this is one, yes. It is localized inside reality, not along the edges, so it isn't AUX space— even if most things got reclassified. The trade-off is, this is far less useful. The actual space inside this canister is equivalent to..." He makes a circle with his arms. "...a large backpack, perhaps? And the opening is so small! It'd be best suited for a collection of marbles, or some such."

"Or beetles," Gil volunteers.

"Yes! Provided they don't need to eat or breathe— I daresay any collection of real beetles would soon become a collection of dead beetles. You, however, would be fine. Convenient, that."

Gil shakes the pen out of the canister and offers it to you. "I-I was thinking about, um... you know. Transport? I-in case you needed to take me anywhere... it'd beat the bottom of a backpack."

"It would?" You twirl the pen, which seems no worse for wear. "Wouldn't it be scary in there?"

"Uh... I-I mean... i-i-it's sort of scary in a backpack too. And i-i-it'd be dark, and quiet... I could sleep? So I didn't have to think about..."

"I mean, if you say so. What's the difference between a manse and a pocket dimension and an awks-space?"

Horse Face chuckles. "That's a heated topic, you realize? The lines are not well-drawn. Location is the largest factor: manses are adjacent to a mind; pocket dimensions are outside a person, but inside reality; auxiliary spaces are adjacent to reality. Manses are directly shaped and influenced by their possessor; pocket dimensions are unchanging and featureless; AUX spaces are somewhere in the middle. Manses and pocket dimensions are destroyed if their anchor-point is, while AUX spaces are persistent and accessible from anywhere, provided you have access to the means of accessing them. Are you following?"

Hmm. "But I've been to manses that aren't in people's heads? They're just out there."

(2/3)

"They're—" Gil glances at Horse Face. "They're still loci, uh, because they're usually... they're existing soft spots in reality, maybe even tiny pocket dimensions. Then somebody finds them, and they get shaped into... whatever they are. They exist because of a mind, even i-if they're not directly inside."

"Shouldn't they be called something else, still?" you say suspiciously.

"I-it's being talked about... uh, but which one are you thinking, Lottie?"

>[A1] The glass-lined box. It'd let Gil be beetles out in reality, albeit to an extremely limited extent. Good for going around and showing people, or for making real things unreal (if you ever need to do that).
>[A2] The mirror-lined canister. It'll give you a way to transport the beetles without risk of them getting squashed or discovered, for occasions when you want more immediate access than keeping him in your head.


—

For once, it's not you who dragged Gil out of Horse Face's tent. As you decided between the options, he grew twitchy; after you finished, he made his excuses and bolted, not stopping until you both made it inside his tent and he got the door tied shut. He sets down his stuff and runs his hands over his face. "Lottie, what was that?"

"What was what? What's the matter? I was just asking questions about your—"

"Don't play dumb. You're a shitty liar, you know that? You weren't... when we came back... before I-I showed you the stuff. Something was wrong with you. Garvin didn't recognize you."

Oh, crud. "Maybe he's not all that bright," you say primly.

"No! No. You looked different."

"...Are you sure?"

"Not different like... I-I mean, you had the same face and everything, but... um, I-I-I don't think I can explain it. You were just different. Like when Richard walks you around, and it's still your body, but it's not— you. Anybody can tell it's not you."

You fold your arms. "Richard's in the hospital."

"He's i-i-in the hospital?! I-I thought he was on—" Gil shuts his eyes. "Look, it doesn't matter. I-I'm not saying it's him who... I would've known it was him. It was somebody else. What's going on?"

>[B1] Tell Gil the truth: while he was stuck in Us, you were briefly overtaken by the red stuff, and it absorbed Claudia into you. You don't know if she's still conscious, whether she's suffering, or where to find her. You do want to rescue her, though.
>[B2] Tell Gil a half-truth: you absorbed Claudia, and now you have a Teddy-esque Claudia in your head. And she can take over your body and stuff sometimes, when you want.
>[B3] Tell Gil a lie: you don't know what it was. [Roll.]
>[B4] Write-in.


>[C1] Go see somebody else, and test out Claudia on them. (Who? Eloise/Madrigal/?)
>[C2] Go see somebody else. Don't bring out Claudia. (Who? Eloise/Madrigal/?)

>>5960724
>[A1] The glass-lined box. It'd let Gil be beetles out in reality, albeit to an extremely limited extent. Good for going around and showing people, or for making real things unreal (if you ever need to do that).
Making things unreal sounds like something that may be useful.

>[B2] Tell Gil a half-truth: you absorbed Claudia, and now you have a Teddy-esque Claudia in your head. And she can take over your body and stuff sometimes, when you want.
No vote on C, can't decide

>>5960724
>>5960737
+1

>>5960882
Anon, for the love of god, don't +1 an abstained vote. Please pick a [C].

>>5960724
>>5960891
>>[C1] Go see somebody else, and test out Claudia on them. (Who? Eloise/Madrigal/?)

Let's mess with Madrigal.

>>5960724
>A1
>B2
>C2
Eloise

Need latest Headspace/Ramsey deets

>>5960724
>[A1] The glass-lined box. It'd let Gil be beetles out in reality, albeit to an extremely limited extent. Good for going around and showing people, or for making real things unreal (if you ever need to do that).

>[B1] Tell Gil the truth: while he was stuck in Us, you were briefly overtaken by the red stuff, and it absorbed Claudia into you. You don't know if she's still conscious, whether she's suffering, or where to find her. You do want to rescue her, though.

>[C1] Go see somebody else, and test out Claudia on them. (Who? Eloise/Madrigal/?)
Madrigal

>>5960737
>>5960882
>>5961024
>>5961510
>[A1]

>>5960737
>>5960882
>>5961024
>[B2]

>>5961510
>[B1]

>>5960915
>>5961510
>Madrigal w/ Claudia

>>5961024
>Eloise w/out Claudia

Called and writing.

>Look it's totally fine and normal

You can't tell him the truth, because he'll get all mad at you. Or disappointed. Or mad at himself, for not banishing all the red stuff when he had the chance, even though it's been helpful sometimes. The trouble is, you can't lie, because he's right: your heart is too pure and honest for it. He'll see through you right away, like how he saw through the Claudia guise right away.

If Richard were here, he'd tell you exactly how to phrase this. Without him, you'll just have to do your best. "Uh... nothing's going on! It's not anything— it's nothing weird, okay? It's not weird."

"Lottie, come on."

"It's not! Unless your thing is weird, huh? Because I have that!" You square your shoulders. "Teddy is your spirit guide, or whatever he said, and Claudia is... is mine! That's right! You thought you were the only one? Well, ha!"

Gil sits heavily onto his cot. "You have a..."

"Yes!"

"You have Claudia? I-I-Isn't she, like... 16?"

"She's 18," you say haughtily. "And I don't see what that has to do with it."

"Nothing! Just... what kind of advice are you getting from a teenager?"

"What kind of advice are you getting from a— a— how old is Teddy? Or was Teddy?"

"29."

"What kind of advice are you getting from a 29-year-old, huh? And why does it even matter?" You lower your voice. "You know Teddy wasn't actually sent by the gods or whatever, right? You just absorbed him by accident..."

"And you absorbed her by accident?"

"Well, obviously. And now I can... you know... it's like you said. It's like Richard taking me over, but instead of Richard, it's her. See? Not so weird. You can probably— Teddy can probably take you over, can't he?"

"I-I-It hasn't been talked about," Gil says shortly.

"See? So it's probably completely normal; you just haven't tried it. Fortunately, I have tried it, and that's what happens! I get Claudiafied! And people don't think I'm me anymore! But I can put it back anytime I want, so it's not a big deal. Certainly not a big enough deal to accost people over, Gilbert."

His face pinches up. "Why didn't you tell me about any of this?"

"You were busy being drunk, for your information. Anyways. Don't you think I should try this on more people?"

"...Try..."

"You know. Go around and see if they..." You wave your hands. "Know me! Don't you think this could be useful? People not knowing me? Like, if I was trying to evade detection— like in Headspace! Maybe I could fool Management! Huh? I think we should try it on Madrigal."

"We?" Gil says weakly.

"Me. I try it, and you can watch! Observe! We were going to go talk to Madrigal anyways, so you know. But I'll go and... oh. Hmm." You frown. "She doesn't know who Madrigal is."

"She?"

(1/4)

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"Claudia. She thinks she's... she thought some very coarse things about my person, and she thinks she's dreaming. Or maybe that the gods put her underwater in my body. But! Oh, Gil!" You plop down onto the cot next to him. "She knows you! Do remember at all inside Us? She was your family friend? I think she still thinks that's true. So you can tell her what's happening, and she'll believe you, alright? Can you do that for me?"

Gil picks at his nails. "Um... yeah, but... can't you just tell her?"

"Huh? No! She won't..."

"Okay. Uh. Just because Teddy already... uh... I-I can tell him things. And he knows that he's dead, and..." Gil catches your eye. "I-I-I mean, I can tell her. Yeah. I-If you really want to try it right now."

You nod firmly. "I'll come back if anything goes wrong, so don't even worry about it. Just tell her we're going to Madrigal's, and don't let her refuse, okay? We're going there. And then maybe hang back and let her bother Madrigal on her own, so there's nothing to mess it up. Okay?"

"...Sure."

"Great!" And you place both hands flat on Gil's bedspread, and you look straight ahead, and you pull somebody else on over you.

*

"Shit! That's creepy!"

"Huh?" you say. "What's creepy... Gil?"

Gil's goggling down at you like your boobs grew three sizes, which they did, pretty much. Because you're... dreaming. Right. Which would explain how you got here, wherever here is. "Is this your bedroom?"

"No! I-I mean... kind of, but..."

You stand hastily. (You don't like Gil like that.) "Why do you have a picture of a beetle above your bed?"

"Because you put i-i-it there? I mean, not you, but— Lottie put it there. Somehow. I-I don't know, it's kind of funny?"

"It's weird," you say. It's like what somebody in a dream would have up above their bed, you don't say, because you don't want to offend the dream. "Who's Lottie?"

"...Don't worry about i-i-i-it..."

"Is that the girl you've been waiting around for?" You pace around Gil's bedroom, running your hand over all the furniture. "Where'd the stutter come from, anyhow? You don't stutter."

"I-I didn't use to..." Gil trails off. He fidgets with his bedspread. "Hey, um, Claudia?"

"What's up?"

"Do you want to go see Madrigal?"

"Who's that? That sounds like a name you made up. Are people really naming little babies Madrigal?"

"Uh... I-I guess so? I-I-It sounds normal to me? I wouldn't tell her you think her name stinks... she's kind of an asshole. I-I don't really know why we need to talk to her. But we definitely do. Need to."

(Ah. A brilliant rhetorical move from your distinguished retainer. Maybe you better... uh... there.)

*

"Yes. We need to." You rub your eye. "Uh, sorry. I figured she was going to be stubborn. Maybe we better walk over, then I can—"

"Lottie!"

"I told you I could come back whenever I wanted, didn't I? Aren't you ever going to set down that box?"

(2/4)

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"Oh. Sorry." Gil stands heavily, box in hands, and trots over. He slides the box (and the refractor and the pagan idol thing) onto his bookshelf. "Uh, I-I figured you'd come back, it's just... it happens really fast."

"What happens fast? You're sure I don't look any different?" You hold the tent door open for him.

"I-It's not how you look. I-It's not even how you carry yourself, exactly... I mean, it is, but that wouldn't be enough to be... I don't know what it is. I-I-I don't think it's tangible?"

"So I start exerting a Claudia aura?"

"Kind of?" Gil emerges after you. "I-I-It's more like you start scanning different? Or... broadcasting different? Um, like you have a big name tag slapped over your face, and it says 'Claudia'— and I-I can look past the name tag pretty easily, but maybe for other people that's all they can see? The name tag? So they just assume..."

"Yeah?" You're trying to lead the way to Madrigal's tent while remaining in the shade the whole while. Your efficacy is mixed.

"I-I-I mean, it's hard to say. Richard would know better. But i-i-it's weird, because when Richard's in your body, it's not the same... you can tell it's him, but i-it's because he walks all funny. And he talks like Richard. He's not going around making people think he's Richard. He'd probably want the opposite, right?"

"I wouldn't really know," you say. "Since I'm usually..."

"Um, right. But he wants people to think he's you, most of the time. With this, i-it's more like when you... when you make people think things."

"I don't make people think things, Gil. I convince them with my scintillating—"

"Right. But sometimes you convince them of things that don't make any sense...? And they ignore the facts, even if they're right there, and... I-I mean, it's like that, right? Garvin knows who you are, and he was staring you in the face, but he still couldn't—"

"Shh!" you say. (You've arrived.) "You'll get a better idea about it if you see it happen again, okay? Stand back there."

"Uh, sorry. Sure." Gil scurries across the way. You line yourself up in front of Madrigal's tent, inhale, and rap on the post outside. Then you—

*

You're in front of a tent. Where did Gil go? Too late. "Coming!" someone says, then the tent flap pushes outwards. It's some woman. Mid-twenties, kind of gaunt, grody scar right across the nose. "Oh shit," she says. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" you parry.

"Madrigal," says Madrigal. (The 'kind of' asshole. You remember.) "I help keep this dump going. Did you just show up, or...?"

"What do you think?"

"I've never seen you in my fucking life, so..." Madrigal looks you up and down, maybe reevaluating. "What happened to your eye?"

(3/4)

"My eye?" You touch it, then the other one, then realize you have no clue which one she's talking about. "I don't know. What did happen to my eye?"

"I don't know." She frowns. "Look... if you want a place to stay, you're going to want to talk to Monty. I don't do paperwork if I can help it. He'll either set you up or turn you down real politely, and it's none of my business either way. Do you know where he's at?"

You shake your head.

"Bang middle of camp. Hard to miss his tent. But I can walk you over, if you need it... can you see out of that eye? I'm not letting a fucking blind chick wander around here."

"I can see," you say.

"Okay... I mean, it's all blacked out. Kind of fucked up. Do you want me to walk you still?"

>[1] (Okay, sure, you'll see where this leads you. Have Madrigal take you over to Monty. See what he thinks of all this.)
>[2] (No, no, too complicated. You wanted to speak to Madrigal anyways, so go ahead and take off Claudia right here. See how she reacts.)
>[3] (No need to mess anything up. Tell her you'll talk to Monty yourself, go around the corner, go back to normal, and come back.)
>[4] Write-in.

>>5961897
>[1] (Okay, sure, you'll see where this leads you. Have Madrigal take you over to Monty. See what he thinks of all this.)

>>5961897
>2

File: 1.png (2.37 MB, 2693x2014)

2.37 MB PNG

If the QM or players are interested at all interested, I'd like to cordially invite you to participate in that greatest of /qst/ community events, the official crossover husbando/waifu (or king & queen) contest! I know Charlotte and Gil participated last year, but this is a well-established and much-loved quest, so if there's anyone else in your cast that you'd like to see have a shot at the crown, let us know!

Taking nominees now, and for the next four days.

>>5961634

>>5961897
>[2] (No, no, too complicated. You wanted to speak to Madrigal anyways, so go ahead and take off Claudia right here. See how she reacts.)

>>5961897
>[1] (Okay, sure, you'll see where this leads you. Have Madrigal take you over to Monty. See what he thinks of all this.)

>>5961897
>[3] (No need to mess anything up. Tell her you'll talk to Monty yourself, go around the corner, go back to normal, and come back.)

Kek. This sounds like something from a sketch.

>>5962482
+1

>2 complicated for me so lets just get on with it

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1.9 MB PNG

>>5961907
>>5962475
>[1]

>>5962023
>>5962473
>>5962491
>[2]

>>5962482
>>5962484
>[3]

Called for [2] and writing.

>>5962086
pic related?

File: matches.jpg (201 KB, 640x426)

201 KB JPG

>Abort! Abort!

(Monty? You can't get Monty involved! What if he sees through it? What if he starts lecturing you? Or strangling you? Madrigal might strangle you, but at least she won't lecture you. You shut your eyes and—)

*

—open them. "Uh, no. Why would I need to see Monty? I live here."

Madrigal opens her mouth. "You..."

"What?"

"...Charlotte?"

"Yes?" You straighten up. "Obviously? Is some other young lady walking around here with an effed-up... I mean, it's not effed-up. It's perfectly fine. Actually, it can see the very fabric of the universe, so, yeah. Maybe even better than a normal eye? You shouldn't go around insulting people's—"

"I didn't insult it. I thought..." Madrigal bites her lip. "Fuck, I don't know what I thought. I'm cracking up, I guess. You want to bet it's the snake?"

"The snake?"

She thrusts her hand out of the tent. There's a tiny striped snake latched to it. "This little fucker eats memories. Yeah. Told it to only eat the shit I was going to forget anyways, but I guess it didn't remember that too well, ha-ha..."

"Ha-ha," you say. (Wow. Too easy?) "Yeah. Um. That would be a really simple explanation for—"

"It's that, or you've got some Ellery-ass shit going on. I don't mean Richard. I mean some Ellery-ass shit."

Eugh! What could that possibly refer to? "Um, I don't know what you—"

"He had a guy in his head. Not a Richard guy. It was, like... him." Madrigal scratches her nose. "But him if he was, like, perfect. And they'd kind of switch places sometimes, and he'd start seeming all different, and..."

"What?" you say.

"Look, I don't know. I don't know what the fuck a perfect Charlotte would even look like. It's probably the snake. But ask Ellery about it some time, he'll tell you all about the guy— that's what he called him. The Guy. That Guy. Something like that. Ask him." She waves her hands. "But it doesn't really matter, okay? Come in. We were just talking about you, actually."

That's even more ominous than the last phrase. "In a good way?"

"Sort of? Come in. I'm not going to fucking bite you." She holds the flap wide open.

"Uh... can I bring Gil?"

"Bug Man? Is he even with you? Oh." Madrigal squints past you. "You left him over there? ...Can it just be you? It's not really about him."

He'll be fine for a few minutes without you, right? As long as Madrigal really doesn't start biting. You tilt your head, considering, then turn and flash Gil a thumbs up. After a second, he flashes one back. Good enough.

You venture inside, but stop short when you see another woman sitting casually on Madrigal's unmade cot. She looks passingly familiar, but not enough to— "I could've told you that was Charlotte. It sounded like Charlotte,"

Oh. It's Pat. It sounds like Pat. "I don't know what the fuck to tell you," Madrigal says, letting the tent flap fall. "Blame the snake, okay?"

"You're back," you say to Pat.

"Yeah?"

(1/2)

"Oh, yeah, she's back. And she has something to tell you, doesn't she, Pat? Something she really owes you?"

Pat looks like she swallowed half a lemon. "Uh-huh."

"Well, go on."

"Uh-huh." And here comes the other half of the lemon. "...Thank you for dealing with Management. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't shown up."

>[+2 ID: 9/14]

"Oh," you say, taken aback. "Well, naturally. I was just—"

"Seriously, holy shit, Charlotte. Thank you. Imagine if my new employee got fucking whacked before she even did anything, huh? And those Management guys deserve whatever you did to them. I mean, what they made Ell do..." Madrigal shakes her head. "Pat says you said you vanished them? Did you make it hurt?"

Is this something you could've made hurt? "I— I'm not exactly sure."

"I sure hope it hurt! You're going to be giving them hell soon?"

"Tomorrow. ...Probably."

"Shit, that is soon! Don't get yourself killed in there, okay? That'd be really fucking depressing. Hold on, I have something for you." Madrigal leaves her post by the wall and goes to rummage around in one of her piles of mess. Is she in a good mood or something? "Here. Take it."

She's returned, and is holding out to you a lumpy bundle of fabric. You frown. "What..."

"Socks! It's a pair of socks. All yours."

The Aunt Ruby in your brain is telling you to graciously accept all gifts, no matter what they are. The Richard in your brain is telling you that this is some kind of practical joke— that her apparent high spirits are meant to lure you into it. Or maybe they're because she's thinking about how funny it'll be, to see you humiliated. You frown. "Why?"

"Does it matter?" Madrigal is definitely looking a little shifty. "They're just socks. I bought them specifically for you, Charlotte. Why don't you just take them?"

"Do you know why she bought socks?" you ask Pat. She shrugs.

"Just take them, Charlotte. They're a fucking present."

>[A1] Sigh deeply and take the socks.
>[A2] Reject the socks. Who does she think you are, an idiot?
>[A3] Something isn't right here. Make Madrigal tell you why the hell she bought you socks. [Roll.]
>>[A] Convince her to tell you. (Write-in arguments to boost the rolls.)
>>[B] *Make* her tell you. (Advanced Gaslighting.)
>[A4] Write-in.

>[B1] Tell Madrigal that you want to speak to Ellery. *Real* Ellery. Can she help?
>[B2] Tell Madrigal that Gil has a guy in his head now, so he should be talking to Ellery, really. Also, tell Pat that she made Gil have a guy in his head now.
>[B3] Tell Madrigal and Pat that Branwen took care of Earl okay, and he's back to normal now.
>[B4] Admit to Madrigal that it actually was Ellery-ass... stuff, and not the snake messing with her memory.
>[B5] Ask Pat why she came back here. Couldn't she have stayed?
>[B6] Look at Madrigal's strings.
>[B7] Write-in.