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You turn it around. Same thing on the other side. "Is this how it's always been?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen it. But I thought it was—" She frowns. "Daddy's supposed to take care of it."

But he's dead. "I see."

"You can still hit the burglar with it, though, right? Over the head?"

"I guess. But swords aren't actually that..." You should spare her the lecture. "It's fine. I'll— I'll deal with any burglar. Where were we going before this? Was it the coatroom? All the house-keys should be—"

"They're not there. I looked." Lottie brings the book to her chin. "I thought maybe the attic, since there's all the boxes I'm not allowed to see. I didn't want to go up before, 'cause the noises, but since you're here—"

The noises, plus the fact she's not tall enough to reach the pull-chain, you're sure. Maybe you will find keys in the attic. Maybe you'll find somebody else, too. You can ask him why he never told you. "Okay. Sounds good. Lead the way again?"

She doesn't need telling twice: she dashes ahead. Just as quickly, she yelps and dashes back, ducking behind you. "There's somebody—!"

Yeah. You don't need telling twice, either. Somebody is in the doorway to the stairs. As she steps into the room, you see her face: she's you again. Only she isn't. Her hair is braided and feathered, her clothes strange, her face solemn. You've never been whatever she is, but you saw it once, on a night that never happened. Lucky's photograph. Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins, wanted for mutation, desertion, murder.

"Hello," you say, your voice sounding hollow in the dark room with the high ceilings.

Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins does not respond. Instead, she steps forward. You see it now: The Sword in her right hand, clean and shiny; a key on a loop of string dangling from her left.

"Hey." You grip the rusty Sword. "I need those. I don't know what you want with them, but I— I definitely need them more, so unless you're here to give them to me—"

Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins raises The Sword and points it in the direction of your throat.

Lottie clutches your side. "Are you going to fight her?" she whispers.

If the Harrier-Leftenant isn't in a talking mood, do you have another choice?

>[1] Fight Harriet-Leftenant Fawkins as honorably as you can. It rings false coming from you, of course, and you're certainly outmatched. But Lottie's watching, and she doesn't know any different.
>[2] Fight Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins as dirtily as you can. It's who you are. You see that clearly now.
>[3] Fight Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins and kill her quickly. With her rap sheet, she'd understand. [-1 SV.]
>[4] Write-in.

>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! Sorry I'm late with the thread (not that sorry). I hope you're all excited for all the happy fun times ahead.

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

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

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

>Mechanics
The (typical) MC has a pool of 15 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

>Fancy archive (PDF of 1-43)
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1XZ-wmLX4bVinqhK21dZImKKtfuhKcXvQ/view?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 [ALMOST CERTAINLY DOWN, I'll make a new one eventually]

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

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

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>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX
You're greeted by a crowd of people, headed up by Madrigal, who shoos away onlookers. She congratulates you on your successful Headspace expedition, and explains that Pat and she rounded up everybody they knew to help with all the Headspace aftermath-- namely, finding and explaining what happened to thousands of confused and mostly innocent employees. Seeing that you're in rough shape, though, she leaves you be with Gil.

Gil also congratulates you on the expedition, and the two of you hash out what happened the last time you saw each other: he was (and is) divinely enlightened, and you had enough red stuff in you to kill a horse, and it all reacted badly. You move past that quickly, and Gil also explains what happened with the brainwashing and his mini-siphons: he was only able to put up 7, less than half of what was planned. Also, he managed to steal a walkie-talkie from Casey, which he's happy about.

Gil helps walk you over to Anthea, who congratulates you so hard she nearly faints. Real Ellery, far less pleased to see you, is also there. You finally learn about the backstory of the two: several years into his exile, Anthea found a near-feral Ellery and nursed him back to sanity, which developed into an ethically questionable relationship. Oneitis-poisoned Ellery eventually broke things off, but they remained friends, and, more crucially, Headspace-sabotaging partners-in-crime.

Anthea and Gil get distracted with talk of Anthea's pocket-dimension generator, and Ellery pries you away for a 1:1. He informs you that he's not happy about being alive, but that he'll follow your orders, since clearly he has no choice in the matter. You attempt to explain that you tricked Management into kowtowing to you, but he doesn't buy it: he thinks you're Management's pet project, and that your power is growing exponentially. He makes you promise that you'll mercy-kill him if you ever do become godlike, and he bitterly asks you to "decree" something of him.

You initially refuse, still uncomfortable with his perception of you, then reluctantly "decree" him to go talk to his old friends with camp. Ellery, dissatisfied with this, goads you into looking at yourself in a mirror... which forces you to commune with, and tap into, what might be your future self. Swelled with unknown power, you order a very smug Ellery to go talk to his stupid friends. He agrees. You fall to your knees, drained.

Gil and Anthea rush to help you. Before Ellery leaves, you ask him about Casey, who last you checked was catatonic. Ellery tells you they pulled a "snake-like thing" out of him, and that he's been vacant since, but that you were welcome to take a look.

(1/3?)

File: casey - @sayrantesis.jpg (1.12 MB, 2480x2480)

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You do, attempting to commune with Casey, but it's no use: his mind really is hollowed-out, and you're not feeling well enough to do a deep search for remnants. You pull out, planning to come back later, and are confronted by Us-- well, a multi-faced, human-shaped fragment of it, the first of Pat's experimental project. The Us-person informs you that a metric ton of Headspace employees have been dumped into Us proper, and it wants you to sort this out. Also, it wants Claudia back. You admit you haven't made any progress in that department, but claim you'll give it back soon. As for Us proper, you tie a rope around your waist and dive in.

You find yourself in an auditorium, but rapidly realize it's one of Us's dream-constructs, especially when the whole audience starts talking at once. Us isn't aggressive, but it is deadly serious: over 5,000 people have been absorbed by the goo, enough that they've formed their own separate hivemind. This separate hivemind is apparently in agony, given the screaming. Us attempts to impress on you how horrible this is, but you resist, refusing to believe you've done something so terribly wrong. Instead, you promise to heroically fix it.

The other hivemind is a mountain of babbling, weeping, screaming bodies, apparently generated from their subjective self-perception. Nearly overcome with guilt, you break yourself, forcing yourself into a brittle, unflappable 'heroic' persona. Unfortunately, this persona is useless at helping the hivemind. Out of energy, you drop it: far from rescuing the hivemind, all you can do is paralyze it, hoping it'll calm down.

Gil rescues you with the rope, but you're too distraught to function. Richard appears, and you pass out in his arms.

You awaken in a facsimile of your tent (really your manse), feeling a little better, though trying to discuss the Headspace expedition with Richard makes you cry. You're conflicted about whether you did the right thing, and, worse, you fear that you've destroyed any goodwill the expedition could've generated. Richard interrogates you about how you link accomplishing things with being liked, but hits a wall when you're unable to acknowledge your previous snotty behavior. You ask him whether he's going to exposit like he promised.

Richard demurs, telling you that he'd rather not depress you before Game Night. He permits you one question, though, and you ask what his real relationship is with Management. Richard tells you that he strongly suspects Management was a project by the "snake"s' R&D department, which apparently develops new snake technologies. Richard knows of them, and vice-versa, but Richard isn't part of R&D-- he's a Correspondent, which you already knew.

Speaking of snake technologies, Richard installs the thingy ("microstick") you got from the BrainWyrm-- though you only tell him it has information on it, not your memories. After a painful install, you're ready for Game Night.

(2/3)

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At Game Night, you're greeted once again by Madrigal, who's surprised but pleased you've made it. Abruptly, you recall a memory of rudely rejecting a previous Game Night invite, but stuff it down: Madrigal wants you to give a speech commemorating the explosion of Headspace. First, though, she gives a speech of her own. You're deeply intimidated by how well-spoken she is, and as you look over the crowd, the rest of your memories flood back-- every single time you wronged everybody in the room. This would be bad enough, but the last memory is the worst. It's from before you drowned: you killing your father with a tortoiseshell-handled knife.

Already fragile, your entire self-image is shattered. You descend into catatonia.

Somewhere else, you find yourself back at your old house, now in disrepair. You're oddly fine with the father-murdering: you might be irredeemably evil, but at least you're no longer lying to yourself. Also, you assume you've died and gone to hell. Far from eternal suffering, though, you find inside the house your 12-year-old(ish) self, who's excited to see you. You question her, discovering that your father was also in the house, but he's taken the secret tunnels and locked a big door behind him. You promise your younger self, who's already found one key, that you'll help her find the rest and get the door open.


-------------


>TO-DO

Immediate goals:
- Help Lottie

Short-term goals:
- ???

Long-term goals:
- Suffer deservedly

Mysteries:
- What was the purpose of "Management"? What did they want with the clone of a snake? What did they want with a massive store of Law? Since they're "snakes"... what does that mean?
- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you?
- 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? Where is it supposed to be? What are you supposed to forgive yourself for, exactly? (There's too many options now.)
- When is the world going to end? How?
- Do you have a destiny? Is it God-related? Herald-related?
- If Richard isn't a snake, or anything else, what the hell is he?
- Why did you kill your father?


--------------

>Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>6180582
>[1] Fight Harriet-Leftenant Fawkins as honorably as you can. It rings false coming from you, of course, and you're certainly outmatched. But Lottie's watching, and she doesn't know any different.

>>6180582
>1
Can’t disappoint child us
Maybe we’ll even lose and be butchered like we deserve

>>6180582
>[3] Fight Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins and kill her quickly. With her rap sheet, she'd understand. [-1 SV.]

>>6180582
>[1] Fight Harriet-Leftenant Fawkins as honorably as you can. It rings false coming from you, of course, and you're certainly outmatched. But Lottie's watching, and she doesn't know any different.

>>6180692
>>6180689
>>6180899
>[1]

>>6180768
>[3]

We wouldn't want to be judged by a preteen, would we? Writing.

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>Duel

Yes, you'll have to fight her. Not cleanly. When have you ever done it cleanly? Really? Think about it. You're always having Richard do the work, like when you punched Madrigal in the face. And Richard's the generous option. Richard doesn't maul people. Let the red stuff boil up in you, and the only thing left of Wayne is an arm. Oh, but it's not really you! You got it from murdering Richard, after all, which you'd never really do. He made you. Except that's not right, is it? Richard begged you to stop. What you did is turn him into your father— back into your father— and your father made you, because he was already dead. You'd already done it. You just forgot.

You're sure the red stuff would make short work of Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins. Barring that, you could talk to her. Make her stop. Make the world make her stop. Since that's something else you can do. You could—

"Are you planning something?" Lottie whispers.

You don't say anything.

"Come on! Don't you duel a lot? Why don't you duel her?"

Duel her? You have a thin coat; she has a thick doublet. She has a sword; you have a hunk of iron. Her training's all fresh, while yours is mildewy— God knows where it came from. Jesse? Who died at the hands of your doppelganger? Shows how useful it is. You grit your teeth, readying yourself, as the Leftenant circles.

Neither her nor you expect the subsequent shove to your back. Lottie isn't strong enough to topple you, but she puts enough force in to make you stumble, Sword outstretched. With a clang, the Leftenant knocks it aside, then drives her own sword toward your chest.

The mildew slides away with your sidestep and upward slash, parried immediately with another clang. Are you dueling? You suppose you are. Fine. A sword in the heart, and no Richard to patch it, would be a good start on the eternal torment. You dodge, putting space between her and you, and take the free moment to glare at Lottie. You can't sustain it long. She's thrilled.

Fine! You'll make it a show for her. Clang, clang, clang, clang. To your surprise, Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins and you are evenly matched— or you will be, so long as The Sword doesn't fall off the handle. You're not optimistic. You start talking instead of dwelling on it. "Tell me why you're doing this!"

The Leftenant responds with a feint. You don't buy it. "Do you hate me? Do you hate you?"

She swings at your legs. You squash your inner Aunt Ruby and hop up onto the settee. "Are you mad I can't remember you? I— I don't know why else you'd— it's your fault I can't remember you! I didn't ask to forget!"

You have the high ground, and thrust at her unguarded chest, but the dull Sword bounces off her doublet. Damn! She ignores it, swinging again at your legs, but you dance away just in time. You consider jumping down on her. Would Lottie approve?

(1/3)

Too late: the Harrier-Leftenant has joined you on the settee, forcing you backwards. When she swings wide, you hop down. "Is it because you killed people? That's what you're wanted for, right? You're a murderer! Why?! Why them? Why—"

You got too cocky. You didn't get out of range. The Harrier-Leftenant swings her sword down at you. It's all you can do to catch the blow on your Sword, but it's the last the poor thing can take: with a massive CRACK, it splits in two. Half of The Sword clatters to the floor.

Now you back away, but it's too late. You may as well be unarmed. The Leftenant stalks forward, Sword gleaming, expression unchanged. Her eyes are empty. Her mouth is shut. Of course it is: you can't remember what she'd say. That's what it comes down to. You can't remember, and you don't want to. But it's fine! This is perfect, actually. The metaphorical representation of your literal crimes is going to come murder you, and all will be right in the world.

Lottie isn't on the same page. "HEYYYYY!!!" She's sprinting up from behind the Leftenant. She's going to get hurt. "STOP IT!!!" She's not getting hurt. She's, um, bashing the back of the Leftenant's knees in with a book, causing the Leftenant to buckle, causing her sword hand to weaken, and then she has it— Lotttie, that is. Has The Sword, that is. Wrestled it right out of Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins' hand.

"I got it!" she informs you, like you fell asleep and missed it. "You're safe! Now, umm... kneel, evildoer!"

If she were real, if you were her, you're sure Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins would have a stronger reaction. But maybe not. Maybe she doesn't want to hurt Lottie, either, because she puts up no fuss. She kneels.

"Now..." Lottie looks anxiously at you. "Umm, I don't..."

Well, you could kill her. You could take The Sword (the good one) and make the Harrier-Leftenant sit up straight and you could stab her eight times in the stomach and leave her to bleed out. You're almost sure that's not a quick death. You're almost sure it's a gruesome, painful one.

But Lottie's there. She wouldn't want that done. Maybe she'd say she would, but she definitely couldn't watch— she can't handle blood. You know this. You wet your lips. "Look, I'll do it."

She offers up The Sword, and you take it. You look down at Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins, who's looking down at the floor. You bend down and fish the key from her cold hand. It's wooden. Maybe Wind Court make. (They wouldn't approve of making new things out of metal.)

You grasp The Sword, its weight familiar, and stretch it outward. Then you tap Harrier-Leftenant Fawkins on one shoulder, on the other, on her head. At once she locks eyes with you, and you lock eyes with you, and you feel uncanny, slippery. And then she's gone. Like nobody was ever there.

"Wow!!" You know for perfect fact that this is the most exciting thing Lottie's ever seen. "Where'd she go?!"

"I don't know," you say, and stow The Sword.

(2/3)

"Was she a ghost?! Or was she you from the future? She—"

"Me from the past."

"Oh! So that's why you were talking about forgetting... she killed somebody?"

"Probably. I can't remember. Where were we going?"

Lottie pouts, but (after scooping up the rusty sword-half) leads you out of the room and into the stairwell. She stops you there, though, and draws herself up. "Miss Charlotte?"

Oh, God, she's being proper. She wants something. Is she going to ask more about the murder? "What?"

"Are you a heroine?"

Your heart sinks. "That's not a—"

"Because you're wearing slacks, and you have a cursed eyeball, and you were dueling her! It's like I thought! You know how to sword fight! And you're helping me."

"...Would you not help me?"

"Not if you were being annoying. And I— I know I'm usually annoying, so..." She folds her arms. "You must be a heroine! You'd help anybody! Right?"

You didn't know your heart could sink further, but there it goes. Right into your toes. "You're not annoying."

Lottie frowns tightly. "That doesn't answer the question. Are you?"

>[1] ...Yes.
>>[A] Lie. Yes, you are. You save lots of people. You've never done anything wrong. Everybody likes you and nobody thinks you're annoying. Is she happy now?
>>[B] As above, but try really hard to make yourself believe it, at least while you're saying it. So she won't catch on. [Roll.]
>>[C] Write-in.

>[2] No.
>>[A] You're just you. You can pretend to be whatever what you want, but you're always you, and that's what you have to live with.
>>[B] You tried to be, but it didn't work. You're not cut out for it. Sorry.You tried to be, but it didn't work. You're not cut out for it. Sorry.
>>[C] And you don't want to talk about it. End of story.
>>[D] Write-in.

>[3] Write-in?

>>6181123
>[2B] You tried to be, but it didn't work. You're not cut out for it. Sorry.You tried to be, but it didn't work. You're not cut out for it. Sorry.

>>6181123
>2B
We tried so hard :(
But being a hero was even harder and everything always went wrong

>[2] No.
>>[A] You're just you. You can pretend to be whatever what you want, but you're always you, and that's what you have to live with.

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Sorry, folks, I hate to pull this so early in the thread, but I have fallen ill. (Maybe it's the Curse?) I should be back with cold medicine and an update tomorrow.

>>6181126
>>6181327
>[2B]

>>6181683
>[2A]

Back, called, and writing.

>No

You've had enough of lying. You were never good at it, anyways. "No."

There goes Lottie's little heart, right down to match yours. "But—"

"I tried," you say. "I, I tried to help people, but it's not so easy, okay? You can't be a heroine by trying. You have to be born one, or something. Or just be one. And if you're not, and you pretend, then all you do is hurt people, and everything goes wrong. It has to go wrong, because you're not— you're not what you think you are. You're not cut out for it."

Lottie is silent.

"You'll learn that when you're older, I guess. After... after a lot of things. Sorry."

Lottie chews her lip.

You don't know what else to say. "Can we move on now? Those keys won't— hey! Don't do that!"

She kicked you on the shin. It doesn't really hurt— your boot blocked most of it— but you're surprised at the audacity. If you kicked an adult, Aunt Ruby would have you skinned. Then again, she isn't here, and Lottie's you. Lottie's fuming. "Then stop being a jerk!"

"How am I being a jerk?!" You thought you were putting it all rather delicately. "It's the truth! You're not going to want to admit it for a long, long time, but that doesn't mean—"

"It's not the truth! I can do anything I put my mind to! That's what Daddy says. And he says—"

"Gumption," you mumble.

"What? He says I have enough spark in me to light a dozen fires, and enough gu... how'd you know that?" (You look at her.) "Oh, yeah. So are you calling him a liar?"

Your father? A liar? Yes, actually, he must've been. Given the cult. He must've been a liar and a drunk and an irresponsible good-for-nothing cheat-and-bastard. If you remember your aunt correctly. He must've been a criminal, too, and a murderer, if Henry wasn't lying himself. (It would make sense if it were true. You and your bloodline.) All that, and then a snake. The snake was a liar about a lot of things, but the snake was right about a lot of things. It was right about you. "No. I'm just saying he doesn't know everything, okay?"

"He does so. When we find him, we can ask him, and he'll tell you you're wrong."

When we find him, he'll be dead. Or I'll be killing him. "We don't have to—"

"I will! I bet you just didn't put your mind to it. You've got the sword bit figured out. You're sure you haven't helped anybody?"

Maybe you should've told her she was annoying, after all. That'd quiet her. "I helped some people, but then they got worse, or they didn't need it, or I hurt even more people. Okay? Is that clear enough? I don't want to talk about this any longer."

"Uh-huhhh. And there's nobody in the entire world you helped and it worked?"

...Gil? No. You've hurt him, too. "No."

"Not me?" She twirls spontaneously. "You're going to help me, and it's going to work amazingly! So there. You are too a heroine."

(1/2?)

"That's not how it works," you say, but she's ignoring you— she's spun around the stairwell and is already ascending. "THAT'S NOT HOW IT—" you shout up at her, but stop yourself. It's pointless.

You were frankly expecting the stairs to extend upward forever, or leak black gunk, or dissolve under your feet, but it's nothing of that sort. They're more scuffed than they were, and Lottie's leaving footprints in the layer of dust. You avoid the creaky step on instinct, but all of the steps are creaky. And that's it. They're just stairs. You ascend to the second floor in an entirely typical amount of time.

Lottie, who bounded up, would disagree with that. "You're slow," she points out. "You remember where the attic is, right?"

Of course you do, but your attention is elsewhere. The door to your mother's bedroom is cracked open. You rest your hand on the doorknob.

"That's not the attic!" Lottie stage-whispers. "That's Mommy's room! She doesn't want to be bothered!"

"She doesn't want to be bothered by you," you say, a little cruelly. "I'll be quick. If she doesn't want to see me, I'll leave."

Lottie scowls. "Don't blame me if she's mad!"

Of course you won't. And of course she won't be. Even when she was actually a snake made of goo, she was still happy to see you. How could it be worse than that?

(And if it is worse than that, don't you deserve it?)

(Choices next.)

>Setting aside the father-murdering, who are you most guilty about wronging?

>[1] Gil. Sure, you're nice to him... now, but you were a total bitch before you forgot. Sure, you've done a lot of things for him, but how much was for his benefit, and how much was to make him stay with you? To make him like you? Worse, it worked. You fooled him into liking you, into trusting you, into believing in you. He has no idea what you really are.

>[2] Richard. Yes, he was a little mean. But he always had your best interests at heart, and all you ever did was struggle, squabble, make his life miserable— and it wasn't much life, was it? All he had was you, and you were piss-poor company. And that was before you lobotomized him. Killed him, really. Nice Richard is the corpse of your father, strung up with wires. Of course you're guilty.

>[3] Monty. He was trying to be nice, but more than that— he was trying to understand you, to relate with you. He kept you around when anybody else would have you booted. You repaid him by digging up all his skeletons, then parading them around until he snapped. And he hasn't really been the same, since, has he?

>[4] Madrigal. She's not really a bitch. She's actually tried to be fair and kind and remarkably generous, more-or-less every step of the way, and you've actually been cold and snobby and cowardly and bitchy back. Apparently she's decided to forgive that. You don't have to.

>[5] Fake Ellery. If there's anybody who actually, genuinely has done nothing wrong in his life, it's him. He didn't ask to live, he didn't ask to die (and die and die), and he didn't ask to be your eternal punching bag. Hell, he didn't ask to have his corpse puppeted by beetles, until you gave him an existential crisis and strangled him. And still he's friendly. God.

>[LOCKED] Real Ellery. You could've handled things more sensitively, but all you did was expose the truth! And he's *such* a self-centered prick. If you're evil and irredeemable, well... he was directly responsible for all the Headspace stuff, so... you're just saying.

>[LOCKED] Pat. You're sorry you didn't give her a snake like you promised, but you didn't do it on purpose. And shooting your retainer and kidnapping Madrigal are both way worse than anything you ever did to her. Plus, she still hasn't properly thanked you for anything, so are you really supposed to feel bad?

>[LOCKED] Horse Face. You remember being a jerk to him, sure, but he stole your model! Then he almost destroyed the entire camp! And he's so smug about everything! If you could've stabbed him instead of your father, you'd take that trade a million times over.

>[6] Write-in?

>>6182330
>3
I like to think we’ve been a net positive for Gil

Richard was even nastier to us, plus he raised us to be nasty so he brought it on himself

Madrigal told us to fuck off as soon as we were a little nasty so she never endured the true horror

Fake Ellery doesn’t remember anything and was going to die anyway

>>6182330
>[1] Gil. Sure, you're nice to him... now, but you were a total bitch before you forgot. Sure, you've done a lot of things for him, but how much was for his benefit, and how much was to make him stay with you? To make him like you? Worse, it worked. You fooled him into liking you, into trusting you, into believing in you. He has no idea what you really are.

>[3] Monty. He was trying to be nice, but more than that— he was trying to understand you, to relate with you. He kept you around when anybody else would have you booted. You repaid him by digging up all his skeletons, then parading them around until he snapped. And he hasn't really been the same, since, has he?

>>6182329
>>[3] Monty. He was trying to be nice, but more than that— he was trying to understand you, to relate with you. He kept you around when anybody else would have you booted. You repaid him by digging up all his skeletons, then parading them around until he snapped. And he hasn't really been the same, since, has he?

>>6182637
>>6182709
>>6182434
>[3]

>>6182477
>[1]

Writing.

>>6182434
All very sensible points. Charlotte is not necessarily known for her sensibleness, which is why any of them could've worked, but it appears you've won the day.

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Ehhh, still sick, no dice. I'll see if I can update during the day tomorrow.

I didn't forget about updating during the day... I just didn't feel well enough to. It's rough over here. In addition, there's no way I'll be able to update on Monday (very early start), so expect an erratic schedule until the middle of the week. Sorry, folks.

Writing.

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>Hi mom

In any case, you push the door open. Inside the room is your mother. Of course it is. She is in her bed, as she often is. A lamp is lit on her bedstand. She is reading a book.

"Hello, darling," she says, without looking up. "I thought you might come by."

Of course she did. You shift. "I heard you were here. I couldn't not... I mean... it wouldn't be polite not to..."

"It wouldn't be polite? So stony. Won't you come over?"

Your mother rests the book on her lap and spreads her arms. You eye her, but approach reluctantly, and are embraced. When no infinite torment results, you return the favor. Your mother smells dusty. You can't linger, and don't.

"Is something wrong?" your mother says.

An impossible question. "No. No, I— sorry. Last time I saw you, you were a snake."

"A snake?" Her tone is light.

"Yes. Made of goo. And I had to kill you, but I... decided not to. Sorry. Ignore me. It's not relevant."

"That's alright, darling. I remember that. You made the right choice in the end, though, didn't you?" She clasps her hand around yours. "The high road."

You cast a glance back at Lottie, lurking in the doorway. "Um... yes. I suppose. You're not the snake again, right?"

"The snake?" She laughs. "How would a snake be here?"

"There's one in the attic," you mumble.

"Charlotte, the snake was re-incorporated into Us. You know this. There's no possible way I could be it. And the attic? Really? I do live here."

"But everything's broken down." Your mother was never very clean, but the state of the house is beyond the pale. "Have you been letting it get so—?"

"Letting it? After you killed Martin, darling, there wasn't another choice. We simply didn't have the funds."

You stare.

"Oh, don't look like that. It could've only been you. You drowned yourself directly after. But it's alright. Did you at least enjoy yourself?"

Lottie's in the doorway. You march over, shut it on her ("Ow!"), and march back. "What?"

"Did you enjoy yourself when you killed him?"

You don't know. You remember doing it— every word, every step, every motion— but you don't remember feeling anything during it. Like you were frozen over. It scares you. "I don't—"

"Well, you must've, yes? Since you kept doing it. I'm reading all about it." She pats the book. It's the same one Lottie has. "What you did to poor Ellery, poor Margo, to that silly shopkeeper, to Dierdre, to Richard, to Maurice, to Annie, to Rudy, to Wayne, to Virginia, to all those employees... you have been busy, haven't you, Charlotte? Did you have fun?"

"Wayne deserved it," you say. You don't even know who some of those are. "They— most of those deserved it. Or it was for the greater..."

"That is what you like to tell yourself, darling. That's not what I'm asking. Do you enjoy killing?"

You shut your mouth.

"I'm not here to be judgmental. I'm your mother. Say what's on your mind."

>[1] Yes.
>[2] No.
>[3] Yes, but you try not to.
>[4] No, but you wish you did.
>[5] Write-in.

>>6183584
>[2] No.
Most of those were completely unintentional. They were fuckups, not because we wanted it.
And what's that about Margo, what did we have to do with that?

>>6183584
>2
We might have enjoyed killing Wayne a little bit
At least, if God hadn't taken over

>[2] No.

>>6183620
>>6183740
>>6184271
>No

Writing.

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>Deny

You press your fingertips into your skin. You think of the knife. You think of The Sword. You think of your teeth in someone's neck, the blood in your mouth, and you think of Ellery getting shot. You almost vomited when he got shot.

You deserve to be here. This is your fault. The wait for the punishment is a lull, a trap, designed to make you drop your guard. Very clever. Since this is your fault, though, since you are evil, undeniably, incontrovertibly, shouldn't you enjoy killing? That's a classic marker of evil. Like your sworn nemesis, Jean Ramsey, who literally makes sport of it. Like Lucky, who gloated over Annie's remains. Like Horse Face, who... okay, you don't know if he's enjoyed killing anybody, or if he has killed anybody, but doesn't he seem like the type? Those are people who'd enjoy themselves. Do you? Do you even enjoy when things get dangerous? You survive it. You push through it. But you're mostly only happy when it's over— when you can say you did it, that the day is saved. When you can have a drink and go to sleep. Maybe you should've always realized you weren't cut out for it, any of it. But especially the violence.

You have more memories left to uncover. You still can't remember 3 years ago. You still can't remember your father, except secondhand. If you were complete, if you had that damn book fresh off the press, you could open it and find the root of all of this. You'd remember that you did like killing, after all (which would explain Lucky's wanted poster), and then you could rest satisfied. But when is that happening? When you blow up the BrainWyrm III? Until then, you're left with what you have: arms bloody to the elbow, guilty as a fox, and no good reasons. Accidents. Coincidences. Self-defense. People you didn't think you did anything to at all. Did you enjoy it? It just happened. "I— no."

"Oh, darling, you didn't enjoy yourself? Whatever was the point of it all, then? You don't mean that it was for nothing?"

"I didn't say that. Wayne was—" You bite down on the word 'heroic.' "Wayne was justified. He was murdering someone. And the shopkeeper wasn't even a real person, and it— it was trying to kill me. And Ellery came back. And Annie was Lucky's fault! I didn't—"

"You unleashed her against them, though, didn't you?"

Did you? "I can't remember," you say. "I wasn't—"

"You had surrendered yourself to the madness. You left her vulnerable."

"Okay, but... I didn't kill her, still! Lucky did! He should've known it was my favorite worm." Is she trying to rile you up? "And I didn't surrender myself, I just—"

"You let it past your lips, darling. You welcomed it into your body."

Because you're evil. Because the red stuff— no, the WYRM— is your heritage and your destiny, and your bloodline is cursed and broken, and that's who you are. But is that why you did it? It wasn't really. "Mother, I— I was being spiteful."

(1/3)

"Spiteful?"

"Arledge told me not to drink it, and um... yeah. I wasn't trying to be possessed." It's the truth as you know it: that's all you can say for yourself.

"You threatened their lives out of spite? You killed Maurice?"

You probably shouldn't ask who Maurice is. "I didn't say it was a good thing."

"Oh, Charlotte." Your mother reaches up and rubs your cheek. "So impetuous. You play right into their hands, you realize?"

No point in asking her who 'they' are: she'll have no useful answer. You're lucky she's calm right now. "I mean, that's what I'm here for."

"Here for?"

That's probably why Management liked you so much. They knew you were evil, and you didn't. "It doesn't matter. I also wanted to say that I— I didn't kill Margo. She was an old..." (You can't say 'bitch' in front of your mother.) "...lady, but she... I don't know what happened to her. Didn't she kill herself?"

"Kill herself? No, darling. She was stabbed." She takes your hand, now. "With a knife." She pushes her fingers through yours. "In the stomach." She curls them. "Just once. I hear it was poisoned."

You try to tug your hand away. "I— I didn't do that. I don't remember ever—"

"You don't remember?"

You scowl. "No! And what would be the point?"

"You've forgotten already? She ordered your eviction. You would've had nowhere to go, darling. You had no friends. Only Richard. Somebody with loose morals like yours could've easily generated a bright idea or two to keep you—"

"Mother! I didn't kill her!" You're more sure than you've been since you started. Why? When did she die? When did you hear about it? Jacques told you. You were meeting Monty for drinks to talk about the night that didn't happen, but Margo had died before that. Some days before that. Some days before that night, you were... unconscious. Fake Ellery had stabbed you. Richard was in your body.

Richard was in your... old Richard was in your body. Old, not-nice Richard. With a predilection for knives and the removal of problems. Hah.

"You didn't?" your mother says. "I must've been mistaken. It looked just like you."

Yes! It did! God-damnit. Richard, your mentor. Richard, your guide, your inspiration, that vicious black demon on your shoulder. Why isn't he in hell with you? Oh, that's right. He is in hell. You put him there. You grimace: you have no response to give.

"What I just don't understand, darling, is why you killed Martin? I know he had his problems. He had a beautiful spirit, but a— a troubled one. I thought he put it all aside for you, though? He promised to me... he did love you."

Yes. "I know."

"He showed it the best of all of us. The most freely. I thought he made a good father, at the end of it. I thought you thought so, too."

(2/3)

Yes. Yes. "I know."

"So why?"

You don't know.

"Surely you can take a guess, darling?"

>Why do you think you killed your father?

>[1] Anger. He must've been preventing you from leaving— from going off and having the adventure you and the family name deserved.
>[2] Fear. He had threatened you with something. You acted irrationally, but in the only way you thought you could.
>[3] Delirium. Something was wrong with you. You took a pill, or you were in one of your mother's States, or... something.
>[4] As a favor. Maybe he asked you to? No, you don't know why. No, you don't know why you'd agree.
>[5] Write-in.

>>6184383
>[3] Delirium. Something was wrong with you. You took a pill, or you were in one of your mother's States, or... something.

>>6184383
>3
We seemed to be on too good terms for any of the others

>[3] Delirium. Something was wrong with you. You took a pill, or you were in one of your mother's States, or... something.

Nobody asked where I went, but I was unable to update as foreshadowed in >>6183551 and forgot to drop a reminder. Let's knock it out now.

>>6184387
>>6184496
>>6184573
>[3]

Writing shortly.

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No. Nope. God-dammit. Well, I did say a rocky schedule until mid-week, and it's about to be Wednesday, so there you go. I have a solid chunk written but not enough to post, so maybe I'll polish it off tomorrow during the day-- but not making any promises.

>>6185492
I think everyone figured you just felt too sick again as foreshadowed
You have my thoughts and prayers
Sending positive vibes your way

>Crazy pills

Because you were evil. Because your blood ran black with malice, and you stood against the forces of righteousness and light, and the more your father loved you, the more you hated him, until you couldn't bear to see him live a moment longer. You struck him down remorselessly. You probably cackled.

Um, you didn't, though. Cackle, you mean. You were eerily silent. And you didn't... you didn't... you don't know how you'd go from compunctionless murder to where you are now. You have compunctions. Maybe they're bad compunctions, maybe they're evil, but they do exist. And a few weeks ago, you almost vomited seeing Ellery die. And Lottie? Is there a seed of evil in her heart?

You mean, there has to be. Because you did kill your father, incontrovertibly, and she's you. There had to have been some reason, though. Only the evilest of villains kill for no reason at all, and maybe you're not the evilest, only regular evil. No cackling. Were you angry at him? If you were angry, you would've been yelling. Were you afraid of him? He liked you. He loved you. Did you think killing him was somehow the right and righteous thing to do? That one makes sense, but... why? Did you learn something unforgivable? You dug up evidence of your vile cultish bloodline, maybe? No, surely not— that'd be the same as you getting angry. You'd be shouting all over the place, maybe waving your arms. You wouldn't be stalking him with a knife. Why would you even use a knife? They're so boring. If you actually wanted to kill somebody, you'd go find The Sword.

None of it makes any sense. Maybe you were a horrible person in the past, but you would've still been you. You would've been Horrible Charlotte, acting how you act, except horribler. The you who killed your father might have well been a different person. You can't have been in your...

...You can't have been in your right mind. Something was wrong with you. You were cursed, or something. On drugs, on pills. Sleepwalking. Hallucinating. In a State. You didn't mean to, or if you meant to, you didn't understand what you were doing. Oh God! You didn't— you— "I didn't mean to."

"I'm sorry? You didn't mean to kill him?"

"Or I— I— I didn't really mean to. I can't have been thinking straight. I—"

"Are you saying it wasn't your fault?"

Your mother's voice has sharpened. She has thrust the book out at you accusingly. "Of course it's your fault! It's always your fault!"

It's your fault if you provoke her, your Aunt Ruby says. Stop being senseless. Don't let her provoke you back. "Mother..."

"Demon child! You poisoned me— your tainted blood— you make me sick!"

You are backing away. "You don't mean any of this. You're going to apologize later. I— I should let you rest."

(1/3)

"Rest?! You deserve no rest! Demon! Heretic! God will strike you down!" She is crawling out of bed. She looks terrible. Haggard. Her hair is down over face. "You poisoned my womb... poisoned my sister, my life... killed my husband, left me a pauper, a laughingstock—"

"Mother!" you say. "Stop! Lay back—"

"Murderer! God will eat your heart!" She lunges, catching your wrist, before you can wrench away. "God will purge your rot! REPENT!"

Your mother's eyes are yellow. "You're not her," you say tiredly.

"Lies from the demon-child, from the—"

"I- I knew you weren't her. She doesn't know about Margo or anybody. I haven't seen her in years." You exhale. "I know I murdered him, but I don't— I'd only be really evil if I planned it. If it was an accident, maybe I wasn't so evil. So I don't think I deserve to be called all those..."

"You don't deserve it?"

Same eyes. Different voice. Monty is standing where your mother was, gripping your wrist like your mother was, only much, much harder.

"You're not him either," you challenge. "Monty's at Game Night."

"So close, Charlotte. I'm in hell. So are you. And you're trying to say you don't deserve it?"

If you kneed him, would he let your wrist go? It actually hurts. "I'm not saying I don't deserve any of it! Just maybe not as much as I thought! And— are you sure this is hell? I haven't really been tortured yet, and I thought that was an important part, of, um... hey!"

He's yanked you closer. "Is your father being dead not torture enough?"

Should it be? Should you feel even worse? Are you so drained of empathy you can't even recognize its absence? "Um, it would be, but I— I never knew him, so I can't really... and I have Richard. I know he's not the same, but he's close, right? He loves me, and..."

"He's a dead snake. He doesn't love you. You've made him pretend." Monty moves his grip further up your arm. "You exploited him at his lowest. You warped him just how you wanted him. That's monstrous. You think that deserves forgiveness, too?"

"I, um—" But he was awful before. But you didn't mean to. The two excuses cancel out, don't they? You ignored his pleading. You did mean to, way deep down. "You've done worse! How many people have you killed, again?"

"Me? Thousands."

You blink. "Um, with your own hands. Unless you actually..."

"It's the same thing, Charlotte. All this, and you haven't learned. I am responsible for everything— everything! I accept my guilt! I live with it every single day of my life. You? You're shirking yours already. You deserve every second of this."

(2/3)

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"Stop squeezing," you mutter. "You're always such a downer."

"I was doing fine until you dredged it all back up. Now we're both here, Charlotte. You and me. Spitting images. The longer you spend in denial, the worse it hurts. You are not a good person, and you never will be. Say it."

"I'll say it if you stop squeezing..."

He squeezes harder, enough to bruise. You wince.

>Respond:

>[A1] You're not a good person, and maybe you never were. But if you're not evil enough to kill your father on purpose, there could still be hope for you. You refuse to say you'll never change.
>[A2] You're not a good person, and maybe you never will be. But what you did isn't as bad as what he did, and even with what he did, you think it's dumb he beats himself up so much. Both of you have tried to be better than what you are. You find it difficult to believe that's worth nothing.
>[A3] You're not a good person, but at least you're not a miserable, haunted, hypocritical wreck like Monty. How much good is his all-encompassing guilt doing him, again? What? It didn't even stop him from stealing the Crown? Oh, right.
>[A4] If you truly, honestly didn't kill your father on purpose, then that upends the entire root of your guilt. You literally don't deserve it as much as he does, because he did murder people on purpose. He can't lecture you about this!
>[A5] Write-in. (Feel free to write-in some kind of nuanced combination of options, if you want.)

>Then follow up:

>[B1] You feel sorry for Monty. Even with the Crown thing, he's probably a nicer and better person than you were, but he actively refuses to acknowledge it. He doesn't deserve to be here. Release him.
>[B2] You feel bad about how you've treated Monty. You didn't exactly realize it until now, but you've been more than nasty to him— you dug way deeper than you probably should've. No wonder he's pissed. Apologize to him.
>[B3] You're annoyed by how Monty's treating you. Just because he has his own (vastly skewed) idea of how guilt's supposed to work doesn't mean things work the same for you. Force him to release you, with The Sword as necessary.
>[B4] No matter what, this isn't really Monty. Look at his eyes! Refuse to engage in this farce any longer. (Optional write-in: who is he really?)
>[B5] Write-in.

Second update today depends on whether I get votes or not, tbd. If no second update, we'll continue tomorrow like usual.

>>6185607
Aw, thanks, anon. I think I'm over the worst of it-- I actually delayed the previous two days due to a full-day commitment then exhaustion after said commitment. I'm hoping this'll be the last of the extended delays, though we'll see what the future brings.

>>6185959
>>[A1] You're not a good person, and maybe you never were. But if you're not evil enough to kill your father on purpose, there could still be hope for you. You refuse to say you'll never change.
>[B1] You feel sorry for Monty. Even with the Crown thing, he's probably a nicer and better person than you were, but he actively refuses to acknowledge it. He doesn't deserve to be here. Release him.

>[A4] If you truly, honestly didn't kill your father on purpose, then that upends the entire root of your guilt. You literally don't deserve it as much as he does, because he did murder people on purpose. He can't lecture you about this!
>[B1] You feel sorry for Monty. Even with the Crown thing, he's probably a nicer and better person than you were, but he actively refuses to acknowledge it. He doesn't deserve to be here. Release him.

>>[A1] You're not a good person, and maybe you never were. But if you're not evil enough to kill your father on purpose, there could still be hope for you. You refuse to say you'll never change.
>[B1] You feel sorry for Monty. Even with the Crown thing, he's probably a nicer and better person than you were, but he actively refuses to acknowledge it. He doesn't deserve to be here. Release him.

>>6185965
>>6186021
>[A1]

>>6185977
>[A4]

>>6185965
>>6185977
>>6186021
>[B1]

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

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>Absolution

"Fine! I'm— I'm not a good person. And I'm not a heroine, or whatever." Even if you can't think of anybody else who bothered to try.

Monty's grip loosens, but he doesn't let go. "And?"

"And..." You suck your lips in, thinking. "...that's it."

"That's not it."

"That is it!" Is his grip loose enough? Yes, it is. You yank yourself free, then clutch your sore arm protectively. "I'm not saying I won't ever be good! That's the most negative thing I've ever heard. You think people can't ever change?"

"I think that's a reductive way to put it, but sure, Charlotte. Change all you like, but some things get burnt in. They stick. They leave black marks." Monty's spooky arm coils around itself. "Waste your time scrubbing. They'll always be there. There's no escaping what you've—"

"Why can't you just make it better? In the future? It doesn't have to be about escaping. Can't you be a good enough person that what you did doesn't matter?"

Monty is silent. You take this as an invitation to continue. "I'm not saying it'd be easy, and maybe there are some people who are so bad they can't make up for it. Or there's people who don't even care about being good, not even a little, so they'll never change at all." Like Horse Face, probably. "But if you do care, and you try really really hard to be good, and you help people, and you don't act the way you used to anymore... I don't see how that doesn't fix it. Actually, I— I know it fixes it. Because of you!"

"Me."

"Yes? You used to be way worse than me. Um, no offense, but you— you killed people for a sport, and then you, um— I don't know exactly what you did as a mask person, but I don't think it was any good. And you said you used to be all cold and rude, and you didn't care about anybody, and yeah. All sorts of stuff."

"I think you're underselling it, but sure, Charlotte. I don't contest that."

"I'm selling it fine! It's not even the point. The point is, you're not like that anymore. At all. Now you're freakily nice to everybody, and you break up fights, and you solve people's problems, and everybody likes you, and you won't kill anybody, even if it'd make complete obvious sense to. It's like Madrigal said in her stupid speech. You're the whole reason there is a camp, so you've probably single-handedly saved even more lives than you killed. And weren't you possessed for the mask thing? How are you responsible for it when you weren't even in control?"

"I should've jumped the day I put that thing on." Monty balls his fingers. "Regardless, all of that's fluff. You saw it better than anyone, how the inside's the same. They had to drag me off of you."

"I provoked you," you say. "And you said— you said afterward, you were only trying to scare me. I don't think you would've killed me. And what do you mean, fluff? You act like that every day. I hadn't seen you mad a single time before I—"

(1/2?)

"I pretend every day. I haven't really escaped masks, Charlotte. I wake up, I put my new mask on, I take it off, I go to sleep. Sometimes it slips. I'm glad it's fooled everybody, but I'm sorry it fooled you, too." Monty sits down heavily on the side of the bed.

"So you pretend every single day that you're actually a good person. And you've been pretending for how long? I guess years? You've been down here a while. I don't think you're lying about how you feel, but I... I think if you pretend something hard enough and long enough, it just becomes true. I do that all the time. I think you're just a good person now." You stick your hands in your pockets. "Better than me. I wish you could believe that."

Monty scoffs.

"I wish you'd talk to somebody besides me about all the scary mask stuff. And about how you feel. I don't think I'm very good at talking to people. I make them feel worse a lot of the time. But if you talked to Madrigal or somebody..." You sigh. "You're not even the real Monty. You're not going to remember anything. What are you doing here?"

"We talked about this."

"Hell. Yeah. I get it. But we're not dead, Monty." You mean, you think you didn't keel over dead at Game Night. How horrible would that be? "And you don't deserve hell anymore, anyways. So why are you here? Just because you think you should be? That's awful. Can I help you get out?"

"Can you help me get out," Monty says dryly. "Of hell."

"Yeah. I mean, like I said, I'm not sure it's actually hell. It's probably just my mind. I'm probably making you up right now." You rub your chin. "Can't I think you out of here, then? How do I... huh."

"Going to go pen up God, then?"

"No. I am God. Um, in this context, since it's my— nevermind. Here." You walk up to him and outstretch your hand. "Will you hold this?"

Monty gives you a look, but holds it.

"Okay. Everything you did... I guess it's not gone, but it's not important any longer. It's out of your system. There's no reason for you to be here, Monty. I forgive you." You try to imagine waves of pure forgiveness flowing out of your hand, like a magyckal spell. "And I— I think you should go now."

Poof. No, he doesn't actually poof. There's no plume of smoke. (If this is your mind, you're giving it a failing grade on excitement. Really.) What does happen is that you blink, and when you blink he's gone. And when you open your curled hand, there's a small key inside. A house key, it looks like, a newfangled one. Well, then. You slide it into your pocket, scan the room for any more surprises, and leave.

There's a 'thud' when you open the door, and a muffled "owww," and a Lottie, rubbing her forehead, looking resentful. You close the door. "Eavesdropping? Really?"

"No," she says unconvincingly. You look at her. She rubs harder. "There was a man in there!"

"Don't worry. He's married."

(2/3)

"Ah." She relaxes. "Well, but... Mommy was there, but then she got riled up, and then there was... I don't know what. Can I meet the married man?"

"Nope. He left."

She narrows her eyes. "How? Out the window?"

"Pretty much, yeah." You'd rather not tell Lottie he never existed. "Hear anything else juicy?"

"Umm... you had Mommy really riled up. You shouldn't provoke her. It's not good for her health. But she said... umm..."

Well, you know that expression. The cat's well and truly out of the bag now. (You should've known she'd eavesdrop. You always eavesdrop.) "That I killed Daddy?"

"...Yeah."

"And? Do you believe her?"

"Mommy says a lot of things that aren't true," Lottie says, and swivels her foot back and forth. You notice that this isn't an answer.

>[1] Tell her what she wants to hear. Yes, Mommy was delusional, and you don't know what she was talking about. Attic time!
>[2] Tell her the truth. You killed your father. You think it's unlikely you meant to, but you did, and he's dead. You're sorry. You understand if she hates you, but you can't lead her around under false pretenses any longer.
>[3] Write-in.

>>6186084
>[2] Tell her the truth. You killed your father. You think it's unlikely you meant to, but you did, and he's dead. You're sorry. You understand if she hates you, but you can't lead her around under false pretenses any longer.

>>6186084
>>[2] Tell her the truth. You killed your father. You think it's unlikely you meant to, but you did, and he's dead. You're sorry. You understand if she hates you, but you can't lead her around under false pretenses any longer.

>>[2] Tell her the truth. You killed your father. You think it's unlikely you meant to, but you did, and he's dead. You're sorry. You understand if she hates you, but you can't lead her around under false pretenses any longer.

>>6186084
>2
Sorry kid us
We did say we weren't a heroine

>>6186153
>>6186265
>>6186451
>>6186522
>[2]

Pure and honest. Writing.

>Well, you see,

You could keep her in the dark. She wouldn't complain. She'd take it at face value, or try to, and you'd continue to reap her little affections. But what good has ignorance done you? Has it helped you? Or has it led you off a cliff? You owe it to her to be better than that. "Not this time. I did kill him."

She knew it. She crosses her arms. "With The Sword?"

"Um, no. With a knife. One of Uncle Henry's, I think."

She won't lift her eyes from your hip. "Good."

"Um... it is good. Yeah." A small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. That you haven't been walking around with the weapon all along. "Do you have other questions?"

"Why?"

"Why? Oh. Um, I don't know. I only just remembered that I did. I don't think I planned it."

"Did you get really mad at him?" Lottie is controlling herself well, though she's digging her fingers into her skin.

"No. I wasn't mad. I don't remember being anything. I'm not sure I was really myself, honestly. But I still did it, and he's still dead, so... I'm sorry."

She looks up fiercely. "Were you cursed?"

"...Was I what?"

"Cursed? I always thought you were probably cursed, since the eyeball." She helpfully indicates your bad eye. "And since you're a Fawkins, so you have cursed blood! Or that's what Mommy says. And Aunt Ruby, sometimes. So maybe a curse overtook you? And made you kill Daddy?"

She wants this desperately to be true, even more than she wanted your father alive. The difference is, you can't actually refute this. If you weren't in your right mind, a curse is as good an explanation as any. "Um, maybe?"

"I knew it! I bet you got it from the attic! Did you go looking around in the attic?"

Oh. You did. You're not sure you'd describe Richard as a curse (well, maybe), but you can't prove you didn't touch some kind of tainted artifact. There were a lot of weird things in those boxes. "Well... yes."

"I knew it!" Any trace of reservation is gone. "Daddy always said to not go up there, 'cause I might get cursed! And you did! Are you here to break it?"

"Break—"

"The curse?"

Break the curse. Seal the cracks. Mend the wound. "I— I don't know. I guess so. Do you think I can?"

"Yes?" She cocks her head at you. "Now we extra-need to go to the attic, so we can find what got you! Then we can bring it to Daddy. He knows a lot about..." She stops herself. "How'd you kill him if he's still here?"

Is he here? You're not convinced. "I guess I haven't done it yet."

"OH! You went to the past to— to stop yourself from killing— wow! That's amazing! Was that other you trying to stop you from stopping yourself? How many yous are there?"

Now that's a question. How many yous are there? How many Charlotte Fawkins have there ever been? You're sure the answer is more than one. Every time you wake up, maybe. "I don't know. A million, I guess. Should we go find Richard?"

"Who?" She squints. "The married man?"

(1/3)

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"Um... no." You try to imagine Richard getting married. "Don't worry about it. Where's the trapdoor, again?"

The trapdoor for the attic is in the ceiling, indicated by a dangling cord, which Lottie's fingers barely scrape even as she jumps. You stand on your tiptoes and grab it, opening the hatch and exposing the extendable ladder. You tug it down. "Ladies first."

"You're a lady too!" she protests, but doesn't need to be told twice: she's scrambling up there before you can release the ladder. "Watch the dress," you call up after her, then follow.

—

The attic is how you remember it, except there's two inches of dust on everything, not one. The boxes are stacked two or three high, except for a few scattered on the ground, ripped open. Everything is labeled in the same cryptic pen in the same unfamiliar handwriting. Only it isn't unfamiliar, is it? It's Richard's handwriting. Probably not Richard's. Your father's. Except for the few boxes stacked apart, the things up here are his.

"Whoa," says Lottie. She probably hasn't been up here before. You can't remember what you were looking for when you found Richard, except that you weren't looking for him. Maybe your father asked you to get something. That'd explain why it's a blank. You sigh, scan the rows, and spot it immediately. A smaller box. "Dangerous" printed in red pen on the side. No wonder you went straight for it.

"Does that one have keys in it?" Lottie asks, as you haul it down. "Is that why you...?"

"Shh," you tell her, and draw The Sword. "Go look at some other stuff."

Lottie frowns, but sidles off. You must've brought scissors or a kitchen knife up with you, to cut the triple-layered tape, but today you hold The Sword two-handed and slice delicately through the cardboard. You hesitate then, rubbing your fingers across The Sword's hilt, but reach down and tear open the box.

There's no snake inside. There's paper inside, crumpled paper, like a nest for it, but no snake. Dammit! You thought it'd be too easy, finding Richard again. Unless he's hiding. He would do that. You stick your hand inside, considering and dismissing the prospect of a snakebite, and rummage around. Paper, paper, paper. No snake. Something else, though, something small and cold. ...Baby Richard? No. It's a key.

Huh. Lottie was right, you guess. It's an iron key, severe and sturdy, but more of an art piece than anything functional: somebody has wound a filigree brass snake around its bow and down its stem. You feel funny looking at it. Oh well. A key is a key is a key, and you got what you came up here for, you guess. "Lottie!" you call. She's out of sight behind the boxes. "Guess what I—"

(2/3)

File: claudia - @laedrin.jpg (5 MB, 2201x2682)

5 MB JPG

Somebody cries out. Lottie? No: that's Lottie's scream in response. You nearly drop the key, but fumble it into your pocket and dash forward, Sword outstretched. There's Lottie, and there's a figure over her, menacing her— the footsteps in the attic! The burglar! You skid in front of Lottie, shoving her backward, and thrust The Sword into the burglar's face. "Freeze right there, fiend! You won't touch... a..."

"Wow. Fuck you too," says Claudia. "I should've known you'd be here. Is she you too?"

Claudia. You're certain it's her. Who else would be skulking in your attic, dressed like a whore? No, that's mean. You absorbed her horribly. You stole her from Us. You didn't intend to, but that's exactly what you did. She's not crying, which is good. She looks kind of mad. You deserve that. "I— Lottie?"

"The kid? Whatever her name is. Sorry I don't have it memorized."

"That's... Lottie. Um. Say hi, Lottie. Unless she hurt you. Did she hurt you?"

Lottie peeks out from behind your back. "She scared me. ...Hi. I guess. Who are you? You're not me from the future, right? Your stomach's poking out."

"It's called a crop top. You people have gone way backwards, haven't you?" Claudia scoffs. "No, I'm not you. Thank the fucking Wyrm. I'm your grandma."

"No you're not," Lottie says confidently. "My grandma's dead!"

"Well, so am I. Isn't that funny? I was all cool, you know, being dead, and then God gave me a rude fucking awakening—" She widens her eyes conspiciously at you. "—and now I'm here. Still dead, though. Can't fix that travesty. You're a lot cuter when you're little."

"Claudia," you say.

"Your face is less fat, and stuff. Or I guess it's the same amount of fat, but it looks cuter on a kid."

Let it go. You deserve it. Let it go. Lottie says what you won't: "Her face isn't fat! Your face is too thin! You look like a poor person. And I can see your stomach, and your knees, and—"

"Claudia," you interject.

She looks at you narrowly, the effect enhanced by black rings of eyeliner. "What, fatface?"

>[1] What is she doing here?
>[2] Where does she think "here" is?
>[3] She seems... okay. Is she okay?
>[4] Wait, she knows she's dead? And your grandma?
>[5] Does she remember Us?
>[6] You can put her back where she came from. The only reason you didn't do it yet is because you didn't know where she was.
>[7] You're sorry you absorbed her. She doesn't have to forgive you, but you didn't mean to.
>[8] Write-in.

>>6186702
>7
Full repentance

>>6186763
Before anyone else votes, standard disclaimer here that dialogue options are pick any by default, you don't have to pick more than one but are welcome to, etc. Not sure why this is such an issue all of a sudden, but I'll keep reminding until it sticks

>>6186702
>[3] She seems... okay. Is she okay?
>[6] You can put her back where she came from. The only reason you didn't do it yet is because you didn't know where she was.
>[7] You're sorry you absorbed her. She doesn't have to forgive you, but you didn't mean to.

>>6186827
We got burned too many times picking multiple non dialogue choices and over corrected ourselves

I’m >>6186763
Add 3&6 pls

>>6186702
>>[3] She seems... okay. Is she okay?
>>[6] You can put her back where she came from. The only reason you didn't do it yet is because you didn't know where she was.
>>[7] You're sorry you absorbed her. She doesn't have to forgive you, but you didn't mean to.

>[4] Wait, she knows she's dead? And your grandma?
>[6] You can put her back where she came from. The only reason you didn't do it yet is because you didn't know where she was.
>[7] You're sorry you absorbed her. She doesn't have to forgive you, but you didn't mean to.

>>6186763
>>6186846
>>6186834
>>6186897
>3, 6, 7

>>6186902
>4, 6, 7

Called for [3], [6], [7], and writing shortly.

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>Heyyyyy girlllll

What indeed? Too much. You're surprised she's here. You're surprised she's alive. You're surprised she's... intact. "You're okay?"

"What kind of question is that? Are you okay?" Claudia looks you up and down. "Probably not, huh? Since you've got Wyrm soup for brains. Hah. Oh, wait. You thought I was soup? Serves you right."

You're uncertain how to respond. "Um... I'm glad you're not, uh..."

"You're glad I'm not soup. Wow. Thank you. Lot of fucking help you were, by the way, Fatface. Dumped me in this shithole without so much as a how-d'y'u do. If it weren't for the lizard—"

"You shouldn't cuss," Lottie says staunchly.

Claudia rolls her eyes. "Get less cute every time you open your lil mouth, huh? Piss off. We're having an adult conversation. You know, for adults."

"You're not an adult," you feel compelled to inform her, then wish you hadn't. Crud, crud, crud. You can't be mean, not even a little. First, because you deserve it and Claudia doesn't, and second, because she'll destroy you. "Um, but— but anyways. Sorry. A lizard?"

"I am way an adult. I'm, like, 200. That's what the lizard said. And yeah. You were totally happy leaving me to rot, so the lizard sort of came in and... explained things. And gave me stuff to do, so I wouldn't go nuts. I bet you wish I went nuts, huh?"

"No," you say.

"You're so predictable. The lizard said you'd say that."

More lizard. "A white lizard? With spines?"

"Long-ass giraffe neck? Yup. Mm-hm. At least you know one thing I'm talking about."

Lottie tugs at your coat. "I don't know about a lizard," she whispers at you. "We can talk about it later," you whisper back, then shoo her off of you.

"Well, you do. Guess the kid doesn't."

"I do," you say, and pull your arms to your chest. "Did the lizard talk about me at all?"

"Oh, you betcha. Told me you were a complete fucking monster. Irredeemable. Heart runs black with sin, and all that jazz. Shouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you. Blah blah blah. All that shit."

No. No, that can't be, but... but, you... you did do it. Whether you meant to or not, you did it. And how could you be trusted? You could snap at any moment. You could do exactly what you did to Claudia. God, you can still hear her scream.

"Gods! Look at your face!" Claudia laughs in it. "You totally bought that! Man, you must feel dumb. Lizard said it wasn't your fault, mostly."

Lottie tenses next to you. If you let her, you're sure she'd go kick Claudia's shins. You put a warning hand on her shoulder. "Are you being honest?"

(1/2)

"Sure. Said you weren't the Wyrm. Not back then, anyhow. Said you'd gone and had yourself a ritual, so you had a lot of juice kicking around. And it took you over, and took me, or whatever. Said it'd be good if I could find it in my heart to forgive you."

"And have you?"

She lifts her lip. "Haven't decided."

"I don't know if I'd forgive you, honestly," you say. "If you'd done that to me."

"Runs in the family, maybe. Vengeance. Well, not vengeance. Not sure I can do anything to you. You get the picture."

"For the record, the lizard was right." You roll the key in your pocket around in your fingers. "I didn't intend to absorb you, but I'm— I'm still sorry I did. I never forgot about you, I just— I've been so busy, and I didn't know if you were... I didn't know where you were. I can put you back now, though."

"Put me back?"

"...Did the lizard tell you about Us?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Claudia plops herself down on a sealed box. "Go ahead. Throw me back in the fucking cemetery. Sounds great."

She— she doesn't want to go back? But Us wants her back. "But it's where you... you don't know you're dead in there, right?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Go throw me back in the cemetery, where I can go bathe in a pool of pure ignorance. Sounds great!"

She has to go back, or Us will be mad at you. And you can't keep her trapped in your brain, that's... "But you're happy in there!"

"Happy? I'm fucking dead! You want to cram me back in there with those sanctimonious fucking creeps? I don't even know them. They're randoms. Only thing we have in common is we died." Claudia's arms and legs are crossed. "You know who's not there? The parental units. Guess they kicked it, too, but whaddaya know, they're not on the life-raft. Only me. Aren't I lucky."

You hadn't thought about any of this before. You guess you assumed Us was so big it had everybody important in it. But how many people are in there? Ten thousand? How many drowned? It had to have been millions. "Are you lonely in there?"

Claudia squeezes her mouth shut.

"I'm sorry," you say, even though it means nothing. "If I— I told Us, I'm sure it could arrange things so you were—"

"What part of cemetery don't you get? I'm not going back there."

"But you have to," you say at last. "Where else... you can't... what would you rather do?"

"I'd rather go back to my life. I don't want to be dead. Who the fuck would?"

"I- I can't reverse time," you say. "I can't help with that."

"Uh-huh." Claudia's voice is thick with contempt.

>[1] Write-in? (Choices in the morning.)

>>6187379
Uh, her life is gone but we could wrangle her up a goo body like Gil has so she can live a new one
We’d appreciate if she explained to Us that she chose to not go back btw

>>6187415
If she really wants to live underwater though, it's pretty bad out here

You can't help with that. If you could reach back and change the past, you wouldn't be here. Claudia could get a goo body, but would that be any good for her? It's been 200 years. She hasn't grown up. You'd have to convince Monty to house her, and then she'd have to find something to do for the rest of her life-- maybe forever, if that's how long goo lasts.

She'd be better off in Us, where she's safe, she's cared for, she's not alone, even if she feels like she is. You know she dismissed the idea, but you're sure Us could adjust things to make her happier. Like how it made Gil her (well, your) family friend. At the same time, though... it's like you said. You wouldn't want to be in there either. Maybe it runs in the family.

You sigh.

>[1] Try to convince Claudia that she should go back to Us. (Pick two.) [Roll.]
>>[A] Tell her that no matter how much she doesn't like it in there, it's worse underwater.
>>[B] Tell her that she can't not be dead. Being in there's the closest thing she has to living.
>>[C] Tell her that Us cares about her. They got really really mad when you absorbed her. They asked about her whereabouts just today.
>>[D] Tell her that her parents aren't alive anymore, no matter what.
>>[E] Ask her if she's actually been having a good time in your head, or just not a miserable one.
>>[F] Ask her if the lizard said anything about going back.
>>[G] Write-in.

>[2] Tell Claudia that you'll put in a good word with the Wyrm or somebody. You can do a ritual. She can watch. You don't know if the Wyrm takes requests to save lives (actually, you'd be startled if it did), but it might make her feel better to know there was a chance. Maybe she'd want to go back after that?

>[3] Tell her that you might be able to set her up with something in real life, but you'll have to negotiate logistics first. You refuse to just stick her with a goo body: most of the bad things you've done happened because you didn't think them through enough. (Also, you don't know if Pat would agree to help.)

>[4] Drop the subject and move on. (You'll have to put her back whether she likes it or not: when she's back in Us, she won't want to complain any longer.)

>[5] Write-in.

No matter what, you can probably get her to explain to Us / get Us on the same page, so don't worry about that aspect. Also, I will take >>6187415 as a vote for [3] and >>6187449 as a vote for [1A] unless changed.

>>6187377
>Long-ass giraffe neck
Do people still know what giraffes are?

>>6187604
>[3] Tell her that you might be able to set her up with something in real life, but you'll have to negotiate logistics first. You refuse to just stick her with a goo body: most of the bad things you've done happened because you didn't think them through enough. (Also, you don't know if Pat would agree to help.)

>>6187608
>Do people still know what giraffes are?
Charlotte doesn't (or only has a vague, probably inaccurate idea of them). Claudia does.

>>6187604
>>[3] Tell her that you might be able to set her up with something in real life, but you'll have to negotiate logistics first. You refuse to just stick her with a goo body: most of the bad things you've done happened because you didn't think them through enough. (Also, you don't know if Pat would agree to help.)

File: no write only idea.jpg (38 KB, 500x345)

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Hi folks -- hate to do this to you, but tonight is not my night. Vote remains open, and I'll be back tomorrow.

>[3] Tell her that you might be able to set her up with something in real life, but you'll have to negotiate logistics first. You refuse to just stick her with a goo body: most of the bad things you've done happened because you didn't think them through enough. (Also, you don't know if Pat would agree to help.)

>>6187928
>>6187809
>>6187608
>>6187415
>[3]

>>6187449
>[1A]

Called for [3] and writing.

>Lend a hand

What would Richard say to do? Old, mean Richard would tell you to ditch her as soon as possible. She's a liability. Nice Richard would tell you to do whatever you most felt like doing, which isn't helpful at all. What would Gil say to do? You have no idea. He'd probably want you to go with the logical option, which'd be to put her back with Us. Where she came from. Where she's wanted. But maybe not. He has Teddy talking to him now, and Teddy escaped from Us, so he might support Claudia escaping too. Plus Gil got enlightened, or whatever, so you don't know how he thinks anymore. He could say anything.

Are you enlightened now? It doesn't feel very good.

Anyways, you guess it's up to you. Not that it ever wasn't. The smart thing to do would be to put her back. The right and correct thing. To put her back in that auditorium, wedged between rows of strangers, grown-ups, all upright, polite, formal, all bound by consensus, all scared of disruption and dissent and any sort of change. Whose perfect dream-society is a celebration of the gods she hates. Was Claudia happy before you absorbed her? Sort of. Not really. She was throwing stones at seagulls.

Were you happy before you drowned? If you can't remember your father, you find it hard to say for sure. Your recall must be distorted. But what you know is: sort of. Not really.

Was your father happy in that house with you and your aunt and your mother? Doing whatever he did for a job every single day? You can't say, even a little. He loved you, but that's not the question. All you know is that your Aunt Ruby never liked him. She always said he wasted money. Drank. Slept around. Are those markers of a happy man? Sort of. Not really.

It runs in the family. You look down at Claudia. She's the first person you've met in a long time who's shorter than you, except Lottie, who doesn't count. "Look, if I— if I could make things never happen, I wouldn't be here. I don't have god powers. The gods that do are dead."

She kicks the ground. "I know."

"Nobody can give you your life back. You can go back and have the next-best thing. Or you can... I can probably have somebody make a body for you. Not your real one, but a copy. Sort of. It'd be made of goo, which is what you're already made of, I guess. And you might be able to... I don't know. I'd have to find you somewhere to stay. It'd be underwater."

Claudia makes a face.

"I can't change that. That's the way the world is right now. And I don't think it'd be close to what you know. Even after all the rebuilding, a lot's been lost. And... I don't know if you'd be happy. But if you'd rather be alive than in the cemetery, that's what I have."

No response. Lottie has wormed her hand into your grip, and you squeeze it. You'll explain to her later. "Do you have a preference?" you ask Claudia.

(1/2)

She frowns, then fishes something out of her pocket. "The lizard said I could give this to you. But only if I wanted."

She's pinching an ivory key between her fingers. Gingerly, she reaches out and deposits it in your palm.

"Wait," you say. "So is that a yes or a...?" (Claudia rolls her eyes.) "Um, okay. I guess we can talk about it later. Lottie? How many keyholes were there, exactly?"

She counts under her breath. "Five?"

"Um, you're sure? Not eight?"

"I saw them. Why would it be eight? Who needs eight keys for one door?"

You don't know. It's always been eight. With a clatter, you extract all the keys you've found. Lottie's, Claudia's, Monty's, the Leftenant's, the one from the box. Five. "Oh. I guess we have them, then."

"Wow! You're so good at this! Can we go find Daddy now?"

"You're leaving?" Claudia says.

She's trying to sound cool with it. You're not sure it's working. "Um, yeah. We have to go... I'm helping Lottie with something. I'll be done soon, maybe."

It is not cool to ask to come along, so Claudia doesn't. Her mouth turns down at the corners.

>[1] Invite Claudia. You're not sure how much help she'd be with... whatever's coming, and she doesn't have a good attitude about anything. But you'd feel bad about leaving her.
>[2] Don't invite Claudia. Lest you forget, you're still busy descending into your own personal hell. Lottie can stay, because she's you, but Claudia's at best a distant ancestor and at worst a moody, irritating teenager. You could do without her commentary. (You'll come back for her later.)
>[3] Write-in.

>>6188620
>1
Irritating for Charlie but entertaining for us readers

>>6188620
>[1] Invite Claudia. You're not sure how much help she'd be with... whatever's coming, and she doesn't have a good attitude about anything. But you'd feel bad about leaving her.

>>6188620
>>[1] Invite Claudia. You're not sure how much help she'd be with... whatever's coming, and she doesn't have a good attitude about anything. But you'd feel bad about leaving her.

>>6188697
>>6188787
>>6189317
>[1]

Called and writing. I'm starting this late, so please expect a short one.

>>6188697
>Irritating for Charlie but entertaining for us readers
based

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>Tagalong

"You can come," you add.

Claudia frowns harder. "Really?"

"Really."

"Why? Cuz you feel guilty about leaving me here?"

You open your mouth, but Lottie leans out in front of you. "Be nice, or she'll change her mind! And if you're really mean, she might turn cursed and stab you, so watch your—"

"I'm leaving," you announce. "If you want to come, come, okay? If not, stay here. It doesn't matter. All I know is that I'm going downstairs, so—"

"You're walking downstairs?" Claudia says. "Like, all the way downstairs?"

Is she asking questions to bother you on purpose? "That's where the door is?"

"Yeah, but, like... it's your brain. Aren't you wasting time walking places? Can't you think yourself wherever? The lizard just kinda appeared and vanished. Like... poof." She flexes her fingers for the 'poof.'

"But I'm not the lizard," you say. "I mean, the Herald."

Claudia has spent the last 200 years perfecting her bored stare. "So?"

"So I do have to walk...?"

"You're useless. This place is a total shitheap. Look." She jumps in place and lands hard. The attic floor shakes. Some of the boxes shift. "You can go right through, I bet."

"Uh..." She didn't exactly appear and vanish. And 'right through'? Through the floor? As you watch, Claudia keeps at it, alternating jumping and stomping. After a few moments, Lottie breaks away from your side and joins her. "Come on!"

You don't come on. You watch as the two of them continue (Lottie enthusiastically, Claudia dead seriously), as the attic floor creaks and cracks, as a single box slides off its stack and plummets to the ground and spills open. It wasn't sealed well enough, or maybe at all. Its contents glint. You walk over and pull out a knife. What's the handle like? You know what the handle is like.

"Move over," you say, and inspect the newly wobbly floorboards. They won't be able to do it, you don't think. They're not real. You crouch down, shoo Lottie's feet back, and raise the knife. You slam it through the floor.

Under it, the floor buckles, thins, and tears wide into blackness. You and Lottie and Claudia, all together, fall through.

You fall.

You land. Underground. It is black here. There is a door with a lot of keyholes here. You are unharmed, if dazed, and Lottie is already springing to her feet. "That's it! That's the one!"

Without standing, you reach into your pocket and retrieve the five keys. You flourish them at Lottie. "Go for it."

She hesitates, but takes them. Meanwhile, Claudia's stood, and is already wandering off in the wrong direction. "Where are you going?" you say.

"This is where I was." She rubs her head. "All my stuff is here. I mean, my shit."

(1/2)

"Your stuff?" You look past her. You are in the tunnels under your house— albeit with the spookiness cranked up— and you know full well they branch off into all sorts of weird chambers and storage rooms. Most of them have been abandoned for years, maybe decades. You thought you'd seen them all, but evidently not. This one is painted bright pink.

Claudia glares back at you as you follow. "I didn't pick the color!"

"I like the color," you say.

"I, I mean, I did, but I was a little kid! It doesn't count. Stay out there!"

There's not much to stay out of: the room only has two walls, so you can see right in. It's a bedroom, or half of one. There's a bed (plusher than any you've ever slept on) and a desk (desks haven't changed very much) and a few decorations. Glossy posters of men you don't recognize, wearing clothing very out of fashion. A beat-up stuffed turtle on the bed— or not on the bed, as Claudia snatches it up and stuffs it in a rucksack. Some open notebooks on the desk, also snatched up.

There's no way this formed naturally inside your house. "The Herald made this for you?"

"Shut up!" Claudia says unjustly. "We'll be out in a second, okay?"

"I'm guessing yes?" It doesn't look all that different from your own bedroom. You feel nauseated. "Um, that was nice of it."

"Yeah, it was nice. Had to patch up after you. You ditched me!"

"I— I know. I said I was sorry, but I can't go back in time and fix... I don't know. I didn't mean to absorb you in the first place. I didn't even mean to absorb..." You rub your fingers against the handle of the knife.

"What?" She tosses her head. "The Wyrm?"

"Yeah. I guess." You didn't mean to kill Richard. It's just that you had to, because you did. You betrayed him, because you had. Did the Wyrm kill your father? No. It would've entered you after the act, or during, not before. If it did. "Do you still like the Wyrm?"

Claudia's sarcastic "Hah" is apparently all the answer you're getting. Worse, she narrows her eyes at you. "Do you still like It?"

Did you ever like it? You don't know. You think about the Harrier-Leftenant. You think about Jesse and his tattoo and his disappointment when you didn't understand. You think about your eye. "I don't know. I don't know if it's the kind of thing you like."

"Liked It enough to do whatever you did. Or It likes you. Huh?"

She's prying at you. You sigh.

>[1] How do you feel about The Wyrm? (Write-in. Optional.) Real choices incoming in the morning, sorry for the rough turn-around this thread. Am sleepy.)

>>6189374
>Annoying fucking shit

>>6189374
>You feel sorry for it. Always so angry and murderous.

>>6189380
>>6189441

Very nice write-ins.

>Feel free to pick multiple if your opinion is multifaceted.

>[1] You hate it. It's evil. The world would be better off if it were destroyed.
>[2] You pity it. It knows nothing but anger and vengeance and death. It must be miserable.
>[3] You fear it. If it woke up, truly, for good, your life would be over. Everybody's life would.
>[4] You're irritated by it. It has done nothing but show up and make your life mildly-to-moderately worse.
>[5] You're in awe of it. The sheer scale of it. The power. It made the entire world.
>[6] You don't blame it. It's like an animal. It lashes out on instinct, not out of malice.
>[7] You feel it's misunderstood. You've only ever known the worst of it. But doesn't it create and preserve as well as destroy?
>[8] Write-in.

>>6189537
>>[2] You pity it. It knows nothing but anger and vengeance and death. It must be miserable.
>[6] You don't blame it. It's like an animal. It lashes out on instinct, not out of malice.
>[7] You feel it's misunderstood. You've only ever known the worst of it. But doesn't it create and preserve as well as destroy?

>>6189537
>[2] You pity it. It knows nothing but anger and vengeance and death. It must be miserable.
>[4] You're irritated by it. It has done nothing but show up and make your life mildly-to-moderately worse.

>[2] You pity it. It knows nothing but anger and vengeance and death. It must be miserable.
>[6] You don't blame it. It's like an animal. It lashes out on instinct, not out of malice.

>>6189537
>2, 3, 6, 7

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6189441
6189567
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6189681
6189790
>[2]

6189790
>[3]

6189441
6189616
>[4]

6189567
6189681
6189790
>[6]

6189790
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>[7]

Called for [2] and [6]. Nice job on the thematic consistency. Writing.

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>Mercy

"I don't think it's the kind of thing that likes people, either," you say. "I don't think it— it likes anything, from what I understand. I guess it likes murder?"

"Ohh. No wonder you like It so much."

Claudia's like Madrigal, only smaller and less scary. You refuse to be provoked by anybody shorter than you. "Um, I don't. I had that conversation. But I don't know if it... does it like murder?" There's certainly been a lot of murder done in the name of the Wyrm. Even Claudia was murdered by Wyrm cultists, speaking indirectly. But does the Wyrm approve? Does it care? What little you've gleaned from Richard and Henry tells you that direct communiques are rare: mostly the Wyrm dozes listlessly. You don't know.

You're being looked at like you said something stupid. "Yes?" Claudia says. "It thinks stupid people should be killed. I think It's basically right about that, still, so..."

She needs to pick a side, in your opinion. Whatever. "Okay, but does it care about the actual act of killing, or does it just want humanity gone? Maybe it doesn't matter. I don't know. I think it's sad it hates everything so much."

"You're sad about the Wyrm."

You are. You guess you didn't know it until you said it just now. "Yeah. I mean, it— it's angry all the time, isn't it? It hates everything and everybody. Even when it tried to get rid of all of us, we stuck around. The gods got the last laugh after all." You twiddle the knife. "And there's nothing it can do about it. It's just stuck down there, holding up the whole world. I'd be mad too."

"And that's why you stuck your gross tendrils in me, which hurt, by the way, and—"

"I didn't. The Wyrm did. Or its..." You don't know what the red stuff is, even now. "...its gunk did. Its insides. Whatever it feels all the time. Is the Wyrm ever happy?"

"What?"

You have no idea. "You know more about it than I do. Is it?"

"Uh... I don't... maybe before people came along? I don't think It ever liked people. But it also invented people, so, I mean— I dunno. Why should it be happy? It's the fucking Wyrm. It's the opposite of happy. It's, like, anti-happy." Claudia puts her hand on her hip. "You want it to be touchy-feely, or something? You want the fucking Wyrm to give you a hug?"

"I didn't say that. I just..." You what? You're saying things before you think them. "It has to be miserable, right? It has to be miserable. Like that's all it can be. It can't ever be happy, it can't ever like anybody, it can't— it can't live. Is the Wyrm even alive?"

"You're asking me? Can't you read a book or something?"

(1/3)

Claudia probably doesn't actually know that much. She was a dabbler. You'd be better off asking Henry or Richard, like you were thinking about. Or Horse Face, but why would you? "I don't know. I just think it's sad. I think it... if it... if it makes you feel better, I doubt it hated you specifically. I think it's just looking for anybody to hate. Like a big kicked dog."

She looks sideways. "You shouldn't say that. It could smite you."

"I don't think so." If it could smite you, you're sure it would've smited everybody. (Or smoted, or whatever.) Entire Pillars, sunk by earthquake. Nothing like that has ever happened, if you don't count the one some idiots bombed. "But thanks. Do you want to head back?"

Claudia hefts the rucksack wordlessly and trails behind you. Lottie is waiting, foot tapping, by the cracked-open door. "You took forever!" she informs you.

"Sorry. Shall we?"

She huffs, but any annoyance is overcome by her important door-opening duties. "Behold!" She pushes the door open. "The way is open!"

'The way' is a cramped dark downward-sloped tunnel, like it always is. It never isn't caves and tunnels and passageways and stairs, all dark, all down. Maybe all of them led to this one. You'd successfully shoved thoughts of your father out of your mind, speaking to Claudia, but here they are again. At the bottom of the tunnel is your father, you're certain, and at the bottom of the tunnel is you, you're almost certain. You will be about to kill, or you will be killing him. You're not convinced you can do anything to stop it. He might be dead when you get there. He might be dead right now. In your mind he always has been.

Lottie leads. You take up the middle, and Claudia the rear. The tunnel is single-file and steep, forcing you to touch the wall to keep balance. The wall starts dry, but gets increasingly slick as you descend, hopefully with water. You're not checking.

You're not inclined to chat, but that doesn't stop Lottie, who keeps up a barrage of useless commentary: estimates of how far down you are, how far your father might have gotten, speculation about your alleged 'curse,' questions about Claudia's origins, questions about the smell. There is a smell. Lottie doesn't recognize it, but you do: something is rotting down here. You don't tell her that.

The tunnel gets even steeper. Your ankles strain. The wall is concerningly slick and becoming softer, which you don't like at all. Lottie is convinced that she's located your father's footprints: she can feel them in the darkness, but not see them. With your eyes, you see them fine. There are footprints. They're sunken into the stone. You tell her that she's right about the footprints.

(2/3)

Claudia asks if the walls feel fleshy to anybody else, or if she's busy cracking up (i.e. going crazy; you have to verbally clarify the phrase). After receiving your clarification, you choose not to answer the question.

At some point the tunnel widens, though it doesn't get much more level. "There's three ways forward!" Lottie announces. "But... uhh... no footprints. So I'm not sure which way."

"Might as well flip a coin," Claudia says, and pauses. "A three-headed coin, I guess. They're all the same except for direction?"

"Umm... lemme..."

>Which way to go?

>[1] Left. Stone walls. Distant torchlight. The smell of dust.
>[2] Center. Ash and cazeline. Harsh laughter.
>[3] Right. Either salt or blood. The sound of far-off ocean.
>[4] What a pointless choice. There's only one way, not three, not really. All of them go down. All of them go there. Why not combine all three and get it over with?
>[5] What a pointless choice. There are three ways, and three of you. It's your mind. You wouldn't let them get hurt. Send them off and meet back where you converge.
>[6] Write-in?

>>6189993
>1
The objectively correct choice

>>6189993
>>[3] Right. Either salt or blood. The sound of far-off ocean.

>[1] Left. Stone walls. Distant torchlight. The smell of dust.

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>>6190086
>>6190551
>[1]

>>6190368
>[3]

Called for [1] and writing shortly. Also, I feel bad about no art this thread, so have some quick doodles of the Charlottes and offshoots so far.

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>To safety?

Lottie sticks her head down the one on the left. "This one's lit up! And rocky, not... squishy."

"Great," Claudia says immediately. "That one."

You'd like to be calling the shots, but you have no compelling reason to argue. Either it does matter, and it's a safe-seeming path to go down, or it doesn't matter, and they're all a one-way trip to hell. You're not in hell right now, you're fairly sure, but you haven't entirely given up on the concept. Regardless, you nod. "Sounds good."

"Okie dokie! Then we can't waste any time!" Indeed, Lottie's off like a shot. You hasten to keep her in view: God forbid you lose her.

The left-hand tunnel is as Lottie described it: lined with stone bricks, lit intermittently with torches, which put off black and sickly smoke. You cough at the smoke and at the dust, which is even worse than it was inside the house. The air is choked with it. Neither Lottie nor Claudia appear to notice. The air is getting hotter, too, and denser, and the torches more frequent and redder. These are positive signs for hell, you think. So that's good. "Can I walk in front, Lottie?"

She pouts, but waits for you. Good. If the floor's about to open into a pit of boiling water, you should fall first, not her. You slide past her, rubbing her shoulder as you do, and take point. Besides the dust and smoke, there's another smell, you think. You walk further. Something spicy, something layered. Incense? Under your feet, the ground is velvety. Before you, smack dab in the center of the tunnel, is a throne.

You are sitting in the throne. You are in a red dress and a red fur-trimmed cloak and the Crown, of course. Of course. Your hair is done up. Your eyes and face are marble. This is not what you are. Behind the throne, something else is mounded up, something sheeny, limbless, large enough to block the tunnel wall-to-wall.

"We have been waiting for you," the Queen says. Her lips don't move. "Now you are here, as you must be. As you will be."

"You're not me," you say, and look over your shoulder. The way you came from is solid brick. Of course it is. At least Lottie and Claudia are with you, though both of them are hovering a ways behind. "Can I get through? I need to get through. I don't want whatever you have."

"It is not about wanting."

"Yes it is," you counter.

"All this time, and you remain weak. It is never about wanting. It is about taking. Didn't you know that once?" The thing behind the Queen shifts forward. "Now you have remembered, Charlotte Fawkins, and you will take the world for your own. Are you not excited?"

"No," you say.

"Why? Because there's nothing you want? Please." Laughter like smashed glass. "You are more deluded than you ever were. You put on airs and graces. You claim to reject power, but you—"

(1/2)

"I don't want to be a stupid God-damned snake, okay?" There's a little gasp from behind you. "A— a stupid gosh-darned snake, I mean! I know you're a giant snake pretending to be a person. And you're not even real, or close to it. You're— you're not even from the real future. Gil made you up. Please get out of my head."

"You fear us," the Queen says.

"I don't. Go away."

"You fear what you will—"

"—become," you pre-empt her. "Yeah! Okay, fine! I don't want to be a giant angry snake monster. Wow. You got me. I wish I— I did stop— I wish I turned into less giant angry snake monsters, also. I think it's scary it happens so often. Is that what you want me to say?"

"You turn into snake monsters?" Claudia says. "Wow!" Lottie says.

You ingnore them. "And I'm not even sure what the point of it is. It's not useful. I don't feel powerful. I feel like I— I can't even control myself. That's the opposite of powerful. And I can't do anything special except kill people better, and you can't do anything, or— you have the Crown. What have you done with it? Huh? Tell me what good you've done with it. I bet it's nothing."

"Foolish whelp." The Queen's head casts flickering shadows over you. "We have brought your father back."

You don't say anything.

"We have restored him to life. We have righted your wrongs. We look out over the broken and terrible world, and it is within our power to fix it all. Is this not what you want? Is it not heroism?"

"You're not real," you say. "He's still dead."

"We are not real..." The marble eyes stare into yours. "...yet."

"Well, I— I need to go watch him die. Can I go now?"

No response. The Queen still blocks the corridor.

>[A] Fine. She cares about power. You'll show her power:
>>[1] Absorb her.
>>[2] Shatter her.
>>[3] Betray her.
>>[4] Some other way exists. It has to. (Write-in.)

>[B] Respond in some meaningful way to what the Queen has to say, first. (Write-in. Optional.)

>[C] Write-in.

>>6190722
>A
Relocate her

>B
Dad’s back but he’s just going to be killed by us again. We need to break the cycle.

>>6190722
>>6190722
>[A] Fine. She cares about power. You'll show her power:
>[2] Shatter her.

>>6190722
>>6190926
+1 this

>>6190926
>>6191280
>[A4]

>>6191053
>[A2]

Called for [A4] and the [B] write-in and writing.

Also, it's not particularly relevant to the current thread, but I finally compiled all the NIGHTMARES vignettes in one doc for easy rereading: https://docs.google.com/document/d/18EDfgujhiIOr8BHcK2_SVjIB7sk_W3mY177WVFg33TY/edit?usp=sharing

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>Move on

"I need to go now," you rephrase. "I need to be there. I need to watch. I need to—"

"Watch?!" Lottie can no longer contain herself. "You need to stop it! You need to protect Daddy! That's what you came for, wasn't it?"

Wasn't it? You rub your thumb against the tortoiseshell, so smooth it's silky. "Lottie, I— he's dead."

"Not yet."

"No. He is. This isn't..." You can't tell her it isn't real. "...in the future, he's dead, and nothing I can do now will change that. Nothing. I just need to watch, so I can know, and—"

"You're always watching," Claudia snipes. "Lot of good it's done you."

"I don't— I didn't know until today. Until tonight." You drop the knife down by your side. "I don't think that's accurate."

"Oh yeah? Gimme a break. It's like picking a fucking scab, you're here so much. You go, you wander around, you relive it, you beat yourself bloody about it. Don't you remember?"

"No," you say.

"No. Guess not. Guess you're asleep. Guess that's why you haven't done shit except feel sorry for yourself."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Maybe you shouldn't have brought her. "I didn't know I—"

"Yes you did! Yes you did. Me and the lizard had a whole conversation. You don't forget mega-murdering your fucking darling daddy. You just don't. The best you get is burying it so deep you can't touch it, which works great, until you start sleepwalking around with a shovel. You never forgot."

"I did!"

"And that's why you have those wicked fucking nightmares, huh? And that's why you keep mind-stabbing your pet snake. And that's why you know something's busted in you, only you don't know what. Because you totally forgot. Sure."

"You don't know anything about me," you say, desperately trying to not sound desperate.

"Are you stupid or something? You trapped me in your brain. Not the fucking nice parts, either. That, and all I was able to do was talk to that lizard."

"The— the Herald doesn't know anything about me, either."

Claudia laughs roughly. "Sure. Whatever."

"It doesn't. I never told it..." You rub your mouth.

"Listen. Just look down."

You look down. The floor is paved, not rocky, but the footprints are back. They're sunken in an inch deep. There's something odd about their heels.

"Do you see it?"

You slide your foot on top of one. The toe of your boot slots in. The heel of your boot slots in. There's no gap.

"Years," Claudia says. "That's how long it's been, right? Years. You've probably been here a thousand fucking times. And now you're finally here on your own terms, and all you want to do stay trapped in your dumbass cycle. You've been watching. Trust me."

"He's dead," you say. "It doesn't actually matter whether I meant to do it or not. I— I can't fix it. I can't save him, or bring him back, or— I can't even apologize! I can't. Stop it."

Claudia is pointing right at you, lips bunched, waving her arm in a tight circle. "Stop what?"

(1/3)

"Stop that! I can't! It's not like I don't wish I could, I just—"

"You have to try!" Lottie interjects. "You can't be a heroine if you don't even try. You're just giving up."

You should've left them both behind. "Yes. We talked about this. I'm not a heroine."

"Yeah? And that's silly. You have a sword. That makes you half one. And you helped me, and you helped her—" She means Claudia, who's still spiraling her arm at you. "—and now you're going to help Daddy! Right? You're breaking the curse?"

Saying 'no' to Claudia is easy. Saying no to Lottie at her most fervent is harder. "I... I don't know if... even if I try, I don't think it'll do anything. In the future, I mean."

"Won't it do something now?" Claudia says.

"I— I don't— I don't know."

"Yeah! And if you try, I bet Daddy will be proud of you."

Your throat clogs. "What?"

"You know, he'll see you trying your absolute best to save him, and he'll be proud of you! He always says he wants me to do my absolute best. Even if it's really hard. So if he sees you trying at something really hard, he'll—"

It's okay. I forgive you. I love you, Charlie. It's okay.

Lottie puts her hand over her mouth. "Are you crying? I'm sorry!"

You touch your eyes and discover wetness. "Um, it's okay."

"No, it isn't! I made you sad! Or Claudia did." Lottie pays her a glare. "You can't be sad if you're going to save Daddy, that's—"

"No, it's... it's honestly okay. You're right. Both of you. I guess." You sniff. "I should try."

"Most people don't bother with that much," says Claudia. "Trust me."

"Yeah. I... yeah. Yeah. Um, we better go."

"Sure, but there's still a big fucking snake in the way, so... yeah."

Right. So there is. You pivot back to the Queen. "You've been quiet."

"We are inevitable. There is no need for haste, little creature."

"Okay, but you're..." You sigh and sniff again. "You're not anything. You're not even me. Gil made you up, like I said, so if anything you're him. I guess maybe I remember you, and that's why you're here, but you're not— I don't see what you can do to me. I need you to move."

"We do not take commands. We issue them. Will you make us move, Charlotte Fawkins?"

She wants you to kill her, you realize suddenly. She wants you to get mad and launch forward and slice her open and take The Crown and drink her blood and be her. To claim her power for your own. All to prove her dumb point. But it's not true. You never wanted to be a god. You barely even wanted to be Queen, except to prove people wrong. You definitely don't want to be a giant snake monster, not even a little.

"Yeah," you say, and you point downward, and the ground opens up. The Queen falls through. The ground seals back over her, leaving the tunnel empty.

(2/4?)

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Lottie cheers. Claudia doesn't, but does say "Wow," which you think is equivalent. "That was easy."

"It's my mind," you say, and rub your eye. "I don't want to be in a tunnel anymore, either. I want to see the sky."

Nothing happens. "Oh," you say, and wave your hand aimlessly.

The ceiling of the tunnel splits and falls open, and the three of you are outdoors, on a beach with white sand, near a sea of red water. Instead of kelp at the shoreline, the red waves spit up red masses, slickly gelatinous, vein-studded, still squirming. They smell of rot. Worse than that is the horizon, all yellow eyeball.

But look. Look up. Above you and away is the sky. It's sunset. And the beach doesn't stretch forever. Opposite it, a way you've never gone, is a field. Not an attractive field. It's lined with thornbushes— with rosebushes, but they're not in bloom. They look sort of withered, actually. The whole thing badly needs tending. You don't know if you know how. But at least you know you don't know, right?

Regardless, the field is not your destination. On the beach, a few hundred feet down, sits a squat stone chapel. You point. "He's in there."

"I mean, you'd know," Claudia says. "Do we have to walk on the sand to get there, or..."

You sigh, wave your hand, and you're in front of the doors. "Better?"

"Thanks." Claudia sticks her thumbs in her pockets. "I don't think I should go in. This is your thing."

"It'll be over once I'm in there," you say. No matter what happens, you're certain it'll be over. "Will you be...?"

"Me? I'll be fine. I've been through worse." She raises her eyebrows pointedly. "I think you're the one with the problem, assuming you want to find me again."

"Oh." Yes. Losing her again would be really bad. "Um, yeah. Can you go into my manse proper? We can talk about the body thing later, but it's... it's safe in there, I think. The lighting's kind of scary, but nothing bad has happened. And I can find you again easily."

Claudia shrugs. "Sounds okay to me."

"Great. Um, hold on." You pull the model of your manse out of your pocket. Well, models. It's cleaved into two even pieces. "Damnit! That won't work."

"What's the matter? I need to go there?" She leans over to see you push the two halves together. "Hmm. I think I can figure it out. Thanks."

She's setting off already. "Are you sure?" you call after her.

"I'm an adult! I'll be fine." She doesn't stop walking.

You watch her for a while, then look down. Lottie's there. "You can come," you tell her. "If you want, I mean."

She shakes her head. "I don't like blood."

"Well, that's... that's fair. I don't like it that much either. I just got used to it."

"Also, I don't think I can."

"Hmm?"

She looks steadily up at you. "I don't know. I just don't think so. I think I did my job, probably, so now I get to... umm... I guess... sleep?"

You frown. "It's what adults do when they're done with their jobs?" she clarifies. "Duh."

(3/4)

"Right," you say. "Right. You should... it makes sense."

"You're sad again."

And Richard claims you don't have a filter. "I'll miss you. I think."

"Aww! Well, don't! That's dumb! Aren't you supposed to be me? That means I'm always... you." She squints. "Or in you, or whatever. Right? It's not like I'm dead, or something. You don't need to rescue me."

"I guess that's true," you say.

"You need to rescue you!" She pokes your chest. "And also Daddy. Don't forget about him, alright?"

"I won't." You look down at the top of her head. "Thanks, Lottie."

>[A] Any other parting words? (Write-in. Optional.)

>[B1] Enter the chapel sneakily.
>[B2] Enter the chapel boldly.
>[B3] Enter the chapel reverently.
>[B4] Enter the chapel heroically.
>[B5] Enter some other way? (Write-in.)

>>6191404
>A
Oof, we wish we had managed to stay more like her I guess

>B4
Fake it till we remake it

>>6191404
>[A] Sorry we've grown up so disappointing

>[B5] Enter the chapel with determination to atone

>>6191404
>[B4] Enter the chapel heroically.
> [A] >>6191533 this, I guess.

>>6191468
>>6191468
>>6191533
All of these can be combined neatly. Great write-ins, by the way. Writing.

>Closure

"Yeah!" she says. "I guess I need to rescue you too, huh?"

She doesn't mean anything by saying it, but it twists your gut. "Yeah. Um, I haven't been a very good... role model, or... I, I don't know. I think I went wrong somewhere. I don't know how else I got from you to me."

The waves roar in the distance. Lottie frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Aren't I a disappointment?" There. You said it. "You had— I had— we had so much potential, and I ruined it. I ended up horrible, and—"

"You're not horrible."

"You don't know what I've done. Horrible, like I said, and I can't do anything. I ruin it. And I try to keep going, and be brave, and think, um, think positive, but it's not real, Lottie, you know? I can't sustain... I can't be you again. I try to be you, but I can't. I just fail. I'm really sorry."

Lottie is thinking. You know from the way she twists her foot in the sand. "I dunno."

"I am sorry. Honest. I, I guess you don't have to accept it, if you don't—"

"Okay. I don't accept it." She folds her arms. "You know I pretend too."

You say nothing.

"I pretend all the time. I'm not some dumb little baby. I— I know Mommy has problems, and Daddy has a reputation, and the finances, and the house, and I know everybody won't go near me, because of my blood and stuff. I know. It's obvious. I just want to be happy, not sad. And it's important to try things, and not just sit on your butt..." She reddens. "Um, on your rear end, because then you'll never do anything, and that's the worst thing of all. It's better to fail than to not do anything. That's what Daddy says."

"I can't remember Daddy," you say.

"Oh. You can't?" She looks rattled. "That's really bad. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. I think if I did remember, maybe I'd be better, somehow. I don't know." You suck a breath in. "What if you hurt people every time you fail?"

"So? It's still better than nothing. Nothing is for lazy people. When you fail, at least you can get better, right? At least if you were trying your best. Weren't you trying your best?"

"Yes," you say quietly, "but my best isn't very..."

"But you did it anyways! That's what you have to do. You do it anyways, or probably nobody else will. I think the girl with all the makeup was right. Most people don't even bother trying. Like poor people!"

Your face squinches involuntarily. "I don't think you should say... um, okay. I mean, I guess I... nobody else was trying. Nobody was doing anything. I, I had to tell Ellery all about my plan before he even thought about blowing it up, he's so lazy."

"Yeah!" Lottie says. "Exactly!"

(1/3)

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"And nobody else even tries to be positive. They just mope around all day. Like Ellery again. I gave him a way out, and he wouldn't even try it, because he just wanted to mope. I had to make him try it."

"Yeah! See?"

"What do you think makes somebody a heroine?" you say abruptly. "Not involving any swords. I mean as a person. I guess. You've read all the books more recently than me, so you'd..."

"Okay. Umm..." She puffs her cheeks out. "Well, most of them have prophecies, I think. Or they're orphans."

"I don't have any prophecies," you say. "And I'm not a... I'm only half an orphan. I don't think that counts."

"Yeah, it doesn't. But, I mean, aren't there a lot of orphans? And not all of them are heroines. Duh. There's probably a lot of orphans who sit around and do nothing all day. And even if there's a prophecy, you usually don't know until the end, so it's not like..." She's thinking hard again. "I guess a heroine has to be somebody who'll go out and save people in the first place. If she doesn't save anybody, she'll never find out she was supposed to be a heroine, so it's sort of complicated."

"It's a loop," you say. "I thought so. You have to be a heroine before you can be one. You can't just start."

"Umm... maybe? I don't think so. Because, I mean, for some of them, she doesn't even want to save anybody. I mean the main character doesn't. And the first part is about her being a jerk to everybody, but then she accidentally, you know, she— she gets caught up in something, and she finds out that she likes saving people, and stuff. So she's a heroine at the end, but not at the start, not really. Maybe she could've been, but she wasn't. She changed, because she learned a lot and tried super hard!"

"...I guess I forgot about those."

"I don't read that many of them. I like it better when she's nice at the start. It's annoying having to wait so long." Lottie laces her hands behind her back. "Actually, I was reading one a little bit like that earlier. Not exactly like that, but a little."

"Oh?" It's been so long, you're blanking on the names and plots of the books you read. "Which one?"

"Umm, you saw it. This one?"

She pulls a book out from behind her back and hands it to you. It's hardback, bound in red cloth, limned in gold. You know it when you see the binding, but you open it up and flip through it anyways. Words, pages, and chapters cut out, torn out. Two pages near the middle dyed scarlet—brittle with jam or juice or blood. You feel heavy. You shut the book and look at it for a long time, then hand it back. "You can keep reading it."

"You don't need it?"

"I think I remember how it goes now. Thanks." You take a deep breath. "I should go rescue Daddy now."

"Okay," Lottie says. "I trust you. I think you'll do a good job! But don't go, please."

Aren't you ready? "Why?"

(2/3)

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"I need to say bye!" She trots up and grabs you tightly around the midsection. This time you're prepared, and you grab her back, and you hug. She puts up a good impression of being solid, but when you dig your fingers in it's like warm fog. It makes sense.

Your eyes are shut. When you feel her pulling away, you assume that's the end, but then you open them and she's there. She's looking at you. "Can I hold The Sword?"

"Can you... oh. Um, yes. Yes." You unsheathe it and hand it over. Lottie takes it, and as soon as her fingers touch, the blade erupts in brilliant flame.

She holds it in two hands, arms outstretched, and looks up at it, the fire reflected in her bright eyes, making her hair glint and her face glow, looks up at it, looks and looks, and hands it back. "Thanks!" she says.

"You're welcome," you start to say, but then you double-take. She's gone.

You look at The Sword, back in your hand. It's still on fire. You look past it, at the chapel, and sideways, at the water, at the eye. You shut your own eyes and lower your head and stay like that for a long time.

Then you raise your head and open your eyes and suck in your breath and kick the door down, which was unlocked, but that's fine, because it gives you additional momentum as you hurtle in, Sword brandished, streaming flame, screaming "HALT, EVILDOER!!" at your own turned back, and at your shadowed father on the altar. The chapel is not large, and you are already there, grabbing your own shoulder, wrenching aside your own knife-arm, looking into your own two eyes, your own two cold yellow eyes. Maybe that was your mistake, because you feel terrible, then, dizzy, doubled, and you look down at The Sword, but you don't know whether it is The Sword or whether it's the knife. Whether the red is flame or blood. You sway and stretch and clamp onto the knife-arm more to brace yourself than anything, and feel the clamp-down on your own arm, and feel cold, and feel chillingly prickly numb.

And then you can't move. You are in your body, but you can't move it. You are locked somewhere behind your eyes, numb outside and inside, unable to speak, maybe drugged. Not only drugged. You are still moving, only it's not you doing it. You have been stormed and razed and control has been taken. A knife is in your hand. You think you remember it from the attic. You don't remember getting it from the attic. You don't remember getting here. You are raising your arm jerkily, like you're not used to having one, and your father in front of you is saying something. He is looking deeply into your eyes, searchingly, like he's trying to find you in them. He sounds underwater, but you can make him out, just barely:

"...it's not your fault..."

It's not your fault.

It's not your fault.

>[1] Who killed your father? (Write-in.)

You know the answer. Don't overthink this.

>>6191908
>Fucking Richard

>>6191908
>Fucking Richard
Never unbrainwash

>>6191908
>>Fucking Richard

The snake man himself Richard!

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>>6191918
>>6192336
>>6192343
>>6192546
>Richard
At last, the truth comes to light. I have been waiting for these next few updates for a very long time.

Writing.

>Not your fault

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

Why did he say all that? Why? You thought maybe he was trying to placate you, or else he was blaming himself— but he was being stabbed, for the love of God. He should've been screaming. He should've been fighting or running. Should've wrenched the knife from your hand and slit your throat. He was taller and stronger and older and knew his way around a sword, and all he did was stand there and look you in the eyes and die.

But he had to get his last words out first. And what were they? Not placation, not really. Not any effort to get you to stop. The opposite. Reassurances. He didn't want you to blame yourself, feel guilty, feel anything, even though you were killing him. He didn't blame you for killing him. He didn't think you were killing him at all. He was looking into your eyes, trying to find you in them, trying to reach you, anywhere, his darling Charlie, his primrose, not so you'd stop— he knew what this was, he knew you couldn't— but so you'd remember. He wasn't speaking to your numb and pitiless body at all. He was speaking to you. Because he loved you.

And he didn't defend himself, because he loved you, because he didn't want to harm you, because he didn't want you to come to harm. He must've pieced together what had befallen you, must've known there was no leniency for you, that if the plan were dashed you could well be dashed with it. Your mind crushed, your body disposed of. It could be also that your father, who had shoved his old crimes in attic-boxes, felt he was owed his punishment. It could also be that, looking his old crime in its yellow eyes, he felt he had come to the end of the Road. That the future had bent back around to meet itself. That the snake had found its tail.

That you'll likely never know. What you do know, here and now, is that you recognize your present state. Backseated? Sedated? Forced to watch terrible violences? No, not the Wyrm. You didn't know about it then. You didn't know anything. You led an uninspiring, unremarkable life for 20 straight years, and then you found a box, and the box had a talking snake in it.

Richard!

(1/3)

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He did it! He did this to you! He lied to you, he schemed, he tricked you off the Pillar, you knew this, you've known it for weeks (months? years?), but you didn't know anything, did you? You only felt like you did. He was good at that, making you feel clever, like you'd caught him in a trap. He told you to watch carefully as he shuffled the cards, and you watched and watched and watched for the trick, and with your head down you couldn't spot him robbing you blind! Richard, that slimy venomous two-faced snake, who turned every last thing around on you: it was your fault he had that name, your fault he had that face, your fault he called you Charlie, your fault he kept bleeding from his God-damned stomach, yours, never his. Never ever ever ever his fault. When he killed your father and wore your father's face and blinding smile, when he told you he was your father all along.

Richard is not your father. Richard was never your father. He was never even close. Your father is dead, and Richard killed him in your body, and Richard knew this the entire time. Even when he was nice he knew it— he wouldn't talk about the stab wounds. The smiling fucking bastard! The son-of-a-God-damned-God-blessed-God-strike-him-down-whore! He's in your body right now, isn't he? Somebody's at the helm, and it isn't you. You are bringing the knife down again.

You are not bringing the knife down again. You are bum-rushing the captain of this Godforsaken vessel and you are tackling him at the legs and you are spitting and clawing and kneeing him in his Godforsaken snakey crotch and this Richard, who'd be new to the whole 'possession' business, startles and loses his grip, enabling you to shove your arm sideways, bringing the knife down on the altar, chipping off its tip. Not enough. Not nearly enough. You slam it again and again on the altar, battering the blade until it dulls, then throw it to the ground and stomp on the handle, fine brittle tortoiseshell, until it cracks and comes apart.

You touch your face, red with exertion, and breathe heavily. But you're not done, are you? You feel a little better with the horrible knife broken, but it's not as though the knife did anything. It wasn't cursed or tainted. It was just one of Uncle Henry's leftovers, and Richard, the dramaturge, liked it better than filching one from the kitchen. Of course he wouldn't use The Sword. He doesn't like swords. What does he like? Not you, evidently, considering he murdered your father— and, oh yes, ate your memories of him. There's no chance that's unrelated. Well, you don't like him either. Actually, you think he probably deserves to die.

(2/3)

First you kick the pieces of the knife well out of your reach, in case something goes wrong. Then you shut your eyes, reach your fingers through your forehead— it parts like mist— and find the evil thing coiled inside. You drag it out, bit by bit, even though it hurts, because you know your iron grip on its neck hurts it more, and then you throw the snake at the ground as hard as you can, and you raise your boot to stomp its brains.

You shouldn't have hesitated. You saw its eyes, its beady round animal eyes, and you thought about waking up to it curled on your body, and you hesitated. It was just enough time for the snake to slide, top-speed, off the ground and up the leg of your still and silent father, and to enter his chest.

Your father blinks. He flexes his fingers. He looks down at you, then around the room, then at the pieces of knife on the ground, and when he looks back at you he's grimacing. "Primrose...?"

The one thing Richard didn't steal: your father's voice. His mistake. You bare your teeth. "You don't get to call me that, snake."

"I'm sure there's been some kind of misunderstanding," he attempts. "If we could take a step back, Charlie, maybe we—"

"Or that either!" You lean in. "It's Charlotte Fawkins to you. You don't get anything else, murderer. Actually, I'd rather you didn't talk ever again, but I know you don't like listening. You just like ruining lives, huh? How hard have you laughed at me? No wonder you thought I was dumb. Here's your step back, by the way."

You stamp on his toe. He winces, clutching the altar behind him. "Please, Charl— please, Charlotte, you don't understand! I—"

"I don't understand? I'm sorry, what is there to not understand? You killed my father. You killed my father, and you stole his, his— you stole HIM! You stole my LIFE! You—"

"You don't understand," he says weakly. "I love y—"

You raise your arm and slap him across the cheek. He turns his head. "Say that ever again, you bastard, and I'll—"

"I love you, primrose," he says to the wall. His eyes are closed.

Is he mocking you? Provoking you? Fine! You're provoked! It's just like him to taunt you, even now. Say that ever again and you'll— you'll what? What will you do to him? What does he deserve?

>[1] Claw him.
>[2] Hit him.
>[3] Choke him.
>[4] Stab him.
>[5] Kill him.
>[6] Kill him!
>[7] Kill him!!!
>[8] KILL HIM!!!!!
>[9] Write-in. (It should be at least a little violent. He deserves it.)

>>6192751
>Write-in.
BITE INTO HIS THROAT.
SO HE MAY NEVER SPEAK AGAIN.

>>6192751
>[9] Write-in. (It should be at least a little violent. He deserves it.)
Stomp him into a paste.

>>6192751
>8
reeeeee

>>6192751
>BITE INTO HIS THROAT.
>SO HE MAY NEVER SPEAK AGAIN.

>[8] KILL HIM!!!!!

If we are going to kill him, I still say we should just bite his whole neck out, vocal cords, arteries, and all. He deserves it.

>>6192958
>>6193049
>>6193062
>>6193193
>>6193417
>>6193423
>Violences

You'll give him what he deserves. Writing.

>Lex talionis

Well, it's like you were thinking. He deserves to die. It's not that you like killing now, any more than you did an hour or a month ago; it's just that death is the remedy for evil, and Richard is the most evil person you've ever met. No, that's too generous. 'Person'? He's a snake, a reptile, a thing, always and forever, and you were an idiot to believe in a world where he wasn't.

You strike him across the face, in the opposite direction of your slap. "You love nothing."

He keeps his eyes shut. "If only."

"You love NOTHING! Admit it! You love nothing. You can't love anything. You're a snake." You step forward, forcing him to press himself into the altar's stone edge. "All you can do is lie and hate. That's right, isn't it? You're not my father. You're a little parasite. You're a God-damned squirming little hate-worm. All you've ever done is burrow into my— LOOK AT ME!" You grab Richard's chin and yank it toward you. "All you've ever done is burrow into my— and, and infect me with— you hate me, don't you?! You hate me. Admit that too. Go on."

Richard's chin is white from your grip. "I don't hate you, Charlie."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot!" You slap your own forehead exaggeratedly. "I made you nice. Sorry! Sorry. You can't hate me. But you did, didn't you? For years. For years and years and years and years, you—"

"No. I never did. I didn't like you some times, but I never—"

"You're LYING!" You slam him back onto the altar. If God were merciful, he would've cracked his head against it and died right there, but God is the Wyrm and Richard only lies there, brow creased, eyes open. "You LIAR! You hated me so much you had to mangle me, didn't you?! This was you, wasn't it?!" You prod furiously at your bad eye.

"They were only in your best interest," he mumbles. "You needed the optimal..."

"I needed my eye gone?! Really?! Maybe I should take your eye out, see how you like it. Maybe I should take out both eyes! Maybe that'd be twice as optimal! And, geez, you don't want these either, do you?" You lift his hands by the wrist. "Who needs hands, anyways? Snakes get along just fine without them. Legs too. Is that why you got rid of Ellery's?"

Richard doesn't respond. You let his hands drop onto his chest. "Oh, and on the topic, how about my teeth? Tell me about how they're optimal. Because all I can tell is, they make biting my lip hurt more, and they scare people who spot them. Was that the point? Open your mouth."

(1/5)

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He doesn't. You jam your knee between his legs, then lean over and force his mouth open. You examine his perfect square human teeth. "So optimal you don't have any. Of course you don't have any. Because they're for killing, aren't they?! They're to make me better at killing. And you don't have to kill anybody. You get to sit at your— at your snake desk, or— I don't know where you sit! But you get to sit on your ass and make me do the work, like you always do. Your hands stay squeaky clean. Nobody hates you! They hate me! They hate..." You squeeze your eyes shut, then take your hands off of his face. You wipe them delicately on your front.

Richard, still pinned under you, makes no effort to move. "I'm sorry."

"You're not," you spit.

"I am. I..." His eyes roam. "I wish you didn't have to find out like this, primrose. I wish I could turn back time. I can't. But I— I'm glad I could— I'm glad I had the time I did with you."

God! He's good at this, isn't he? You could chop his head off and he'd be whispering manipulations from the stump. "The time you had to ruin my life."

"No. No." He raises his arm, cups you by the cheek. "The time you gave me, primrose. Where I could be somebody else. Somebody better for you."

"Who?" you say loudly.

"Charlotte..."

"Say WHO!"

"The time I had to be your—"

But Richard's "—father" is drowned out by your scream of "YOU FUCKING BASTARD!". You knew that's what he meant. You knew he was evil, evil, evil. You just had to know, to know, that he got pleasure out of it. That he didn't only kill your father, that he didn't only eat your memories, but that he meant to— what?! To rob you, to replace him, to feed off your love and loyalty and devotion, to luxuriate in it, grow fat off of it, because he hated you and used you. None of it, not any little bit of it, was real. Not his feelings toward you, and not your feelings toward him. It was fake as his body. Your father's body. The body the stole, the body he's wearing, the body he's mocking the whole wide world with, but mostly you.

You think that Richard deserves to die. You think that Richard deserves to die right now by your own two hands, and that's the only way you'll be able to sleep ever again. Let him live, and you'll see his face when you shut your eyes. You know it.

You think that Richard doesn't deserve to have a face. He doesn't deserve to have a body. You gave him that body, he said (probably lied), so you can take it back. Can't you? This is why, immediately following your screaming, you launch onto him, dig your nails into his cheeks, and start desperately prying, scrabbling, scraping his skin, but there's no purchase and no use. He didn't give you claws, after all. And that is why you sink your needle fangs into his neck.

(2/5)

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It doesn't gush blood. You were hoping for blood, for muscle, even for a secret layer of scales, but it's nothing— paper. Your teeth puncture and hit air. You gnash around for a bit, but embarrassedly retreat when it's clear there's no use. Richard, prone but unpained, touches the series of new wet holes you left behind. He doesn't smile, but doesn't not. "Oh, Charlie," he says fondly, and meets your eyes.

You scream and draw The Sword and cleave him in two, from his head through his groin, and take it out and slash again and again, until Richard lies in ribbons, which you sweep to the floor and stomp on, again and again, until they're crunched and unrecognizable, and then you stick The Sword in again and let the flame curl and catch them, him, his scraps. And you stand there until they're ash. And you stand there for a lot longer, then drop to a crouch and cover your eyes and wait for a lot longer than that, until your legs clench and the blood pools in your feet. You don't cry. You can't. You press your thumbs into your eyes until you see sparks and try not to think about anything at all.

You crouch, and crouch, and crouch, and for all your best efforts you think about your wide and terrible future, and your narrow and terrible past, and all the things you'll never know. And you wonder if you did a heroic thing just now, and if all heroic things make a person feel like this. Small, mostly. Alone.

When the ash flickers like a guttering candle and vanishes, when you are alone, you don't notice. And when somebody joins you again, you don't notice either. You notice only when he grabs you, when he yanks you to your feet, when he claps a hand over your mouth— you scream valiantly and bite down on it— and when he shoves three fingers into your skull. There isn't much you can do about that. You go limp.

———

You are tied up.

You are tied up in a chair at a little wrought-iron table, a café table. You are at a café, which is to say you're kidnapped at a café. Your captor, across the little table, is unfamiliar to you: a man, grown but not old, not terribly kempt, with shaggy black hair and week-old stubble and deep dark undereye circles behind owlish gold spectacles. It's possible his spectacles are meant to distract from his suit, which is tattersall and unflattering. At present, your captor is examining his face in the reflection of the metal platter sitting between you. The platter is empty.

You attempt to voice your displeasure, but discover that your mouth's been stuck shut. At length, your captor looks up. "Oh, Charlie, there you are."

He says it in Richard's voice. Your eyes go wide.

"My apologies for the... well, you know. I thought you'd run. Or scream." Richard(?) pushes his glasses up. "You're not known for clear thinking under pressure, let me tell you."

Unhand me, villain! you think as hard as you can at him.

(3/5)

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"No. You'll run. Actually, you'll try to stab me again, won't you? I told you it'd never work, Charlie. Idiot move. Not my real body. Still, clear thinking under pressure, etcetera." He sighs, pushes his glasses up again. "I wish I could say this was a new situation."

You utilize your mental energies to rain a thousandfold curses upon him.

"Frankly, though, it isn't. This has happened—" He tilts his head back, pulls a pen off his lapel. "—before. Don't demand specifics; I don't have them. But those three years, Charlie? Three wasted years? It's you who wasted them. You cottoned onto the whole deal, and it made you angry. It in fact made you ungovernable. You refused to work with me in any capacity. As you might imagine, this is typically grounds for immediate termination." He points the pen at you. "Translation if you're slow: you should be dead, and I should be recycled. Which is to say elsewhere. I negotiated it down for both of us, Charlie. Said that you were indispensible, and frankly so was I. Got them to sign on to a semi-cycle. Which is not the same thing as a— a bicycle, Charlie. Attempt to take this seriously. I am."

You utilize your mental energies to project the image of a bicycle running over a snake, over and over, directly into Richard(?)'s brain.

"Well, I see you haven't changed." He taps the pen against his teeth. "A semi-cycle is an incomplete recycle. Which is to say those years were wiped from you and from me, in the fervent hope it'd play out better the next time. The only reason I know any of this is from a notice on my, er, my snake desk. Otherwise, my first extant memories are six months old. I am telling you all of this because, if history repeats, you will be disposed of, and I will be wiped and reassigned, and neither of us wants that. You don't have to like me, care about me, or forgive me. I don't care if you want me in a hole in the ground, Charlie. But you do have to cooperate, now and in the near future, or we are royally fucked. Do you understand?"

You glower. Richard(?) assesses your glower, then reaches across the table and touches your jaw, which buzzes nastily and unclamps. You exercise it, then speak. "You're lying."

"I couldn't be telling more of the truth, actually."

"Yeah? Like all the other truths you've been telling me? You're— you're literally— you're in somebody else's body! Who'd you possess this time, huh? Some poor schmuck?" You clench your fists. "Did you kill him yourself, or did you make me do it? You know, while I was out."

"None of the above. This is me."

"You," you spit. "Sure."

"Apparently so. I'll be more specific. This is what you've seen fit to replace the previous body with. After trapping me in that one for several weeks, you deemed it newly unsuitable."

"You mean I stabbed you," you say. "To death. Then I set you on fire."

(4/5?)

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"Sure. Unsuitable. That's what I said. But you can't get me out of here, Charlie, so it's the body. That was what you thought I was. This is what you think I am."

You run your eyes down the glasses, the rumpled tie, his thick square fingers. "No I don't. You're not even human."

"Oh, I wholly agree. But you don't know what I look like, do you? Tires out your little brain to make something up. Human's easier. I can't say I'm flattered, but you'll agree it presents an improvement, yes? Over the last one."

"You stole his body."

"You assigned it." He pushes up the glasses, then gives up and sets them on the table. He rubs his eye. "But there's little point in relitigating it. You don't trust me."

You scoff-laugh.

"You don't trust me, and I give it 50-50 you'd rather die than cooperate. Yes? Right? No problem. That's what we're here for, Charlie. A trust exercise. Do you know what this is?"

He's holding up a clear baggie of green powder.

A trick question? He always asks trick questions. You pinch your lips shut.

"It's not... I thought you might... you were dosed with it, Charlotte. That Wind Court man and his torch. You remember, yes? That didn't get excised? He was interrogating you."

You wait a beat, but Richard doesn't continue. "You mean Lucky. ...He made me tell the truth."

"That's right. Good job. Brain isn't entirely leaking out the ears. I know how you feel about details, so I'll spare them, but suffice it to say that inhaling this powder renders a person liable to answer questions at length. Do you understand where I'm going with this?"

"No."

"No. Well, Charlotte, you don't believe a word I say. Not a problem. I will inhale this powder—" He's already tapping it out onto the platter. "—and I will be crowbarred, chemically, into answering anything you ask of me. I will reapply the powder until you are entirely satisfied with the information provided, and with our respective roles in this relationship, which is, I'll repeat, not going anywhere. I will sit here for hours, if that's what will encourage you to cooperate, because I feel that strongly about this."

"You've been planning this," you say narrowly.

"I have not been planning it. I have been keeping it in mind as an emergency provision, and this is very much an emergency."

"If that's what you want to call it." You bang your toe against the leg of the chair. "When are you going to untie me?"

"When I feel satisfied that you won't attack me, Charlie. It's pretty well up to you when that is."

He isn't wrong. You have been envisioning whacking him over the forehead with that platter. "How are you going to inhale the powder?"

"Hmm?" He is scraping the powder into a neat row. "I was planning to suck it into my nasal cavity. Smoking would be pleasanter, but I'm not risking any chance of you being affected— and you appear to have granted me a considerable nose, Charlie. I'm not sure whether to thank you."

(5/6)

"Don't," you say, and fidget. "Why can't you just answer my questions like a normal person?"

"Because you wouldn't believe me, first. And second, when you've been keeping secrets, it becomes... well, I don't know. A hard habit to break. I expect you'll see me suffering all the way through this."

For the first time in a while, you break into a smile.

"See? There we go. Start thinking while I get this in me."

———

Okay, folks, buckle up: we have entered the years-in-the-making MEGA LOREDUMP portion of the quest. I expect this to go on for several updates, maybe many updates; Richard knows nearly everything there is to know about everything, and he'll tell you, too, if you can think to ask it.

A few parameters:
>Richard will always give, from his perspective, a truthful answer to your question. He may or may not choose to expand further on that answer.
>Richard knows nearly everything about everything, but isn't omniscient, so he can't e.g. tell you about the motives or actions of people that he doesn't know personally. He can always give you his opinion, though.
>You can ask him unserious, humiliating, or personal questions, but nothing that Charlotte herself wouldn't ask— I'll exercise light veto power if needed.
>This first prompt is completely open-ended, but future prompts will likely provide more direction, so don't despair. That being said, it shouldn't be difficult in the slightest to think of something Richard knows and you don't (it's almost everything).
>Ask as many as you want for right now. I will sort and/or combine the questions as I see fit (QM fiat).
>Good luck!

———

>[1] Ask Richard a question he must answer honestly. (Write-in.)

>>6193597
>Why does he think we'll believe the powder will have any effect on him when it's not his real body?

>>6193670

As Richard fishes out a small metal tube, you lose the smile as quickly as it came, leaning back in your chair. "Wait, no. Hold on. It's not your real body."

"Yes. We've been over this."

"So how am I supposed to believe that'll do anything? You could be faking it. You could say anything you wanted."

"No." Richard pinches his brow. "I know it's difficult for you to be reasonable, but really, Charlotte. You've seen me drunk how many times?"

"It could be different," you say.

"It's not. It's exactly the same. If I believe it'll work, and you believe it'll work, I'll be under the effects, end of story. Doubting it now is likely making it less effective, so try and suspend your disbelief, thank you." He taps the pen against his cheek. "What's more, even if I weren't really under the influence, the entire thing will proceed as if I were. Your questions will be answered, and if a convenient device enables me to do so with little fuss, it's not in your best interest to pick away at it. Better to ask me things you know I wouldn't want to answer, so you can satisfy yourself with my new veracity, no?"

>[1] Ask Richard a question he must answer honestly. (Write-in.)


C'mon, anon, I had a whole OOC explainer section and everything. I'm not going to lie in the OOC explainer section.

>>6193681
>1
Why is he doing this? What's the goal of his job, his whole department, in filling that crown and giving some random person godlike power? Is the crown really a Fawkins heirloom? What's up with Horse Face and his time loop? Why is Richard indispensable to his company? What do they have to do with the WYRM? What are his species?

>>6194013
Brave anon. I appreciate the leap. Writing.

>Answers

You snort. Richard arches his eyebrows, then taps the pen against the platter. It's a metal straw, then, and as you watch balefully he bends down, inserts one end of it into his nostril, and places the other end against the powder. You avert your eyes when he does the presumable. You might want Richard dead in a hole in the ground, but it doesn't feel right to rob him of his dignity. The new body is bad enough.

When he exhales, you look back. The powder is gone, and he's rubbing his nose on his sleeve. (The handkerchief was your father's contribution, then.) He rubs his eyes, too, and shakes his head like a dog. "Hhnh."

"Suffering already," you say.

"You could..." He sniffles. His nose is running. "...you could say so, yes."

"Good."

"Mm-hm. Well, I... oh, fuck. I'm sorry. Shit!" He's tilting his head back. "This is insidious. Good God. You know, Charlie, I— I don't know if this is intended to be inhaled directly. Oough. Ehk. Ahem."

Richard is now alternating between blinking and nose-rubbing. "Is it ready yet?" you say, then look at him more carefully. "Your eyes are green."

They are. Artificial green, like they've been dyed, or like he's wearing contacts. "Is that a real effect," you continue, "or did you make it up to trick me?"

"Charlotte, I have no idea what color my eyes are. They aren't real. If they're any color, I presume you're enforcing it upon me." Richard reaches for his glasses and slides them back on. "I do feel altered, to answer the original question. Why don't you begin? Otherwise I anticipate we'll sit in silence for several minutes, and neither of us would enjoy that."

"Fine," you mutter. You can't start with an important question, or he might be able to slip out of answering. But you can't start with an unimportant question, because the idea of wasting time talking to Richard makes you sick. Something in the middle, then. "You're not human."

"Very much no," Richard says.

"This isn't your real body."

"It couldn't be further, Charlie."

"So what is? What are you? A demon?"

"Demons aren't real," he says dismissively, then coughs. "I'm a—" He coughs again. "A— I—"

"Spit it out!"

"You do not have a word for what I am. No knowledge of what I am survives. We were gone before you ever came." He coughs. His voice has acquired a high, pinched quality. He is threading his fingers through the holes in the table. "The exonym closest to the truth is 'agent.' I am an agent and have always been. My title is Correspondent."

"Agent," you say. "Of what?"

"Of the Wyrm, in theory. Don't look at me like that. I've never met It." The agent Richard rubs behind his glasses. "Nobody I know has met It, or even received orders from It. I am not wholly convinced any of us have, or that, if any have, they remember. It's a shitshow, Charlotte."

"Uh-huh." You flex your fingers to stop them from cramping. "So what are you even doing? If the Wyrm hasn't told you what to do?"

(1/3)

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"I am, which is to say we are, pursuing Its presumed wishes." He makes no effort to conceal his sarcasm. "As you know, the world has ended."

"...The Flood."

"Yes. The Flood. The Wyrm's ungrateful spawn wiped off the map, so it could cleanse the world and rise again. Unfortunately for all of us, it only half-worked. The Flood, yes, but a wrench in the gears. You stuck around. And the Wyrm woke, but didn't rise. We are attempting to rectify this."

You watch your reflection in the platter. "You're trying to end the world?"

"Your world. But crudely, yes."

"...With the Crown? I don't see how the Crown... is it really a family heirloom? Or did you lie about that too?"

"There was no need to lie about most things, Charlotte. It wasn't pathological. It was a family heirloom. Your family's heirloom. Your family, which, if you've failed to realize, has a storied history of Wyrm-worshipping. Yes? I don't know if it was created by a Fawkins, but it was meant to be kept by one. Seems they bungled it. It does run in the family, doesn't it."

Claudia died in the Flood. It couldn't have been her, surely. A brother, a sister, a cousin, a father? "What was it supposed to be for? Did—" You haven't escaped villainy just yet. "Did we cause the Flood?"

"Solely responsible? Don't be ridiculous. It was a collusion of dozens, if not hundreds. Was a Fawkins involved? Yes, of course. You thought your nobility sprung out of the ground?" Richard sneers. "But no, you're not special. Turn over a stone and you'll find a Wyrm-daughter."

"But they didn't all have Crowns," you say.

"No. There were two. The first was destroyed. The second was lost, and not in any ordinary sense. Concealed, we think. Thrown to the currents. It's always in a different place, every time, and sensors don't pick it up reliably. A scavenger hunt, every single time."

He's going too fast for you. "Wait. But what does it do? You said it'd make me a god. Or Jean Ramsey a god. All the snakes... I mean, the agents... you're just hoping whoever succeeds helps the Wyrm out?"

"Not hoping."

He's tense around the jaw. Holding back? You lean forward. "Then what? How is it supposed to help you?"

"The Crown doesn't... won't... if properly applied, it acts as... conduit. It makes the wearer... God."

"God," you say, then it snaps jarringly into place. "Not 'a' god. You mean God."

Richard's eyes burn green. "Yes, Charlie."

"You mean the Wyrm. You mean it's supposed to— if I wore it— I'd be the Wyrm. It'd be in my body."

He looks down. "Yes."

Like the red stuff times a million. How does it keep getting worse? "That's not what I wanted. That's not what I— I never wanted— I didn't ask for that. Probably nobody's ever asked for that. I never would've agreed... you lied to me."

"I didn't lie," Richard says, pained.

"Pull my other one."

(2/3)

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"I didn't. It is a family heirloom. It does make you a god. It's still... it's probably the only way you'd ever... see the surface. God can do that. Nothing else."

"Shut up," you snap. "I hate you. I hope the Wyrm explodes you into a million pieces."

Richard doesn't say anything. You don't say anything. You bang your foot against your chair, once, twice, thrice.

"Do you need a drink?" Richard says. "I wasn't sure if you'd like a..."

"Shut up." You need to move on from this. You need to ask about anything else. Literally anything. "Do you know why Horse Face is stuck in time?"

"No. I have suspicions. Would you like them?"

"Fine."

"Nothing has power over time. The dead god and the Wyrm only, and the Wyrm only if it were unburied. Nothing else. I therefore find it unlikely that that man is experiencing a truly anomalous flow of time."

You perk up. "So he's lying?"

"No. He's being toyed with. I strongly suspect that, rather than 'looping' back every time he perishes, his consciousness is simply being transferred to a parallel pathway." Richard mutters under his breath. "'Timeline'? You would more likely say 'timeline.' Regardless, his consciousness could be transported back in this timeline, producing the effect that his body had traveled linearly back in time. In truth, it's only his mind, and he wouldn't return to where he left off. I believe he stated his 'cycles' were irregular? They didn't take place over any consistent length of time?"

You don't keep track of Horse Face's stupid condition. "Probably?"

"Yes. That points to somebody fallible behind the process. Likely a fellow agent. Don't ask me who or why— I know very few personally. Somebody got bored, most likely. Wanted to see what such a thing would do to a man."

"Is that why you did everything?" you say. "You wanted to know what it'd do to me?"

Richard works his jaw. "Is that a real or rhetorical question?"

"I don't know," you say. "Is it?"

——

(Choices next.)

(The [A]s are OPTIONAL. That being said, Richard will (must) tell the truth, but he isn't obligated to spill all the details surrounding the truth. If you see something missing from his account, following up will usually give a more complete picture.)

>[A1] Ask a follow-up question about Richard's species. (Write-in.)
>[A2] Ask a follow-up question about Richard's job. (Write-in.)
>[A3] Ask a follow-up question about the Wyrm. (Write-in.)
>[A4] Ask a follow-up question about Horse Face. (Write-in.)
>[A5] Ask a follow-up about something else. (Write-in.)


(The [B]s are REQUIRED. Please pick THREE [B]s. The 1-3 most popular options will be written next update as space allows. You will be able to vote on this list several times.)

>[B] Interrogate Richard about...
>>[1] His professional relationship with you.
>>[2] His personal relationship with you.
>>[3] His origins.
>>[4] His daily life.
>>[5] His home.
>>[6] His language.
>>[7] Your father.
>>[8] Keys.
>>[9] Memories.
>>[10] The snake.
>>[11] The BrainWyrm.
>>[12] The Pillars.
>>[13] Something else. (Write-in.)

>[C] OPTIONAL: Ask another specific question. (This will bypass the "general topic" voting process and always get asked. Write-in.)


Asking Richard about his indispensableness will get slotted in later if you ask about or follow up about his job/daily life/etcetera.

Really Bathic, you shouldn't rely on players to ask questions. If you want a character to exposit, just have Charlotte ask them on her own.
>[B] Interrogate Richard about...
>[3] His origins.
>[7] Your father.
>[11] The BrainWyrm.

>>6194471
>>6194225
+1

>>6194471
Anon, if I had Charlotte sit here asking all of the questions available to her without requiring player input, you'd be watching me drop like 30 posts of exposition in a row. Nobody wants that. Besides, the (mandatory, provided) [B] prompts are literally what you're requesting: they're general topics to get the essential exposition out of the way. If you'd like to know more than the essentials, that's up to you guys, which I don't think is unreasonable; I know for a fact most of you have been following this story for actual years, and I'm ~fairly certain most of you have functional brains.

>>6194225
Ok wow no more crown completion for us

>A1,2
Gonna kind of combine these here and ask why have they formed an organization dedicated to ending the world? Will they not get wiped out with the rest of us?

>B1, 7, 10

>>[2] His personal relationship with you.
>>[7] Your father.
>>[11] The BrainWyrm.

>>6194471
>>6194484
>B3, 7, 11

>>6194665
>B 1, 7, 10

>>6194885
>B2, 7, 11

Called for B [3, 7, 11] -- we'll definitely get to [B7], and hopefully have time for the other two. Also called for the [A] write-in. Writing.

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>Daddy issues

He looks at you. You look at him. "Did you want to kill my father to see what it'd do to me?"

"No."

"Did you do it because you hated me?"

"No," Richard says forcefully.

"Because you hated him?"

"I had no opinion on your father. I'm not certain I do even now. I didn't know him."

Your stomach turns. "You were him."

"I was never him, Charlotte. I was what you thought I was, which was him. That is an enormous distinction, and it was my error you ever conflated the two. I apologize for that error. It has ruined things for both of us."

"You can stuff your apology down your throat," you say. "And choke on it."

"So be it."

"Tell me why you did kill my father. If you didn't have a reason, I will kill you, you—"

"Hyperbole, Charlie? You're above that." Richard pushes up his glasses for the millionth time. You wish he'd leave him alone or take them off, either way. "I had a reason. It will mean little to you in isolation. Will you permit me the necessary context?"

"You're just going to give the context anyways. You never listen to me."

"I'll take that as a yes. The context is as follows. My department— meaning the several hundred others who do my job of correspondence— is staffed entirely with jackasses, dimwits, and troglodytes. Between the several hundred of them, their raw originality could fill a thimble. Change is unknown to them. Ideas are unknown to them. Thinking in general? Not just unheard of, but abhorrent. Mocked. Spit-upon. I was unaware of this when I was transferred in."

"You weren't always doing this? You were doing... some other kind of snake job." You pause. "I mean, agent job."

"Yes. You are going to ask me what. I don't know what, Charlotte. It has, as per regulation, been lost to me. My first extant memory is of six months ago; more than likely my true first memory would date to three years ago, give or take."

"When I met you."

"Slightly before, but yes. You are about to ask whether I am three years old. I am not. More than likely, my body and mind— I mean in a raw sense, not any established 'self'— have been around the block. You are about to ask for how long, and the truthful answer is that time as you experience has little relation to time as I experience it. When I'm not with you, in any case."

"Stop reading my mind," you say sourly.

"I'm not. You're very predictable, is all. For instance, I predict you'll request me to estimate an age for myself relative to your personal time-scale. That's fine. I estimate millennia."

"Millennia."

"For the age of my physical form. I'll admit it's wishful thinking, though. Everybody wants to be an original. Nobody wants to be generated down the line. Call it hundreds, for a low estimate. Regardless, none of that matters, because Richard is three."

(1/5)

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"You're Richard." Right?

"Yes. I am. I'm glad there's something we can still agree on." Richard clasps his hands. "We're straying from the topic, though. Three years ago, I fill the role of Correspondent. I am provided with all necessary information to 'succeed' in my role. Nobody has ever succeeded, by the way, Charlie. Not completely."

"...Or the Wyrm would be possessing somebody? And the world would be over." It's only logical. "Wait, but why do you— wouldn't the world end for you and the agents, too? Why would anybody want that?"

"Hold that thought, please, or we'll be here for a week. I am provided with the information. I am also— this is raw conjecture; I can't remember. I am also, somehow, incompletely recycled. Something of my past self survives. Alternately, my past self had made plans and illicitly transferred them to me. The gist is, I am unique. I exist at several intellectual levels above any of my colleagues, who follow their proscribed plan slavishly, nevermind that it has failed in every way, over and over, for the past two centuries. Yes?"

You're not sure what gives Richard the right to be so smug, given he's drugged and groveling, but whatever. It's not like you have love for any other snakes (sorry, "agents.") "Are you just here to talk about how smart you are? I asked about my father."

"We're getting there. I will elaborate on the proscribed plan. The proscribed plan is to identify and cosy up to a human person of a particular 'type': arrogant, hot-blooded, power-hungry, etcetera. This person is convinced that, through locating and utilizing the Crown, they can achieve godhood and anything else they desire. They then willingly participate in the search for the Crown, including slaughtering or dominating all obstacles in their path, and succeed in locating it and charging it, whereupon the Wyrm is called into them. Yes?"

You frown. "Isn't that what you did?"

"No. Not at all. You were hot-blooded, I suppose, and somewhat arrogant. Not entirely off-type. But you weren't power-hungry. The core fault of the proscribed plan is that a person like that chafes at the yoke. They squabble with their Correspondent. They distrust them implicitly. Reach a certain nearness to 'godhood,' and they are chiefly inclined to betrayal. Most never get that far, but the ones that do are, without fail, cut off at the ankles. A dimwitted, wrong-headed plan, but one that had calcified into doctrine. As if the Wyrm itself had spoken it. I had a better idea."

"Involving killing my father," you say.

Richard ignores you. "The first sub-issue was the type of client selected. Too power-hungry, like I mentioned, and often too old. Most of them aren't intelligent in a traditional sense, but they're worldly. They have a sense of when they're being led. This limits options drastically. I thought it best to pick a client who was young and naïve."

(2/5)

He isn't smiling. He isn't saying it winkingly or mockingly. His face is straight, and he is looking down at his hands while he says it. "I hate you," you hiss.

"This is the necessary context. Another flaw in the plan was the explicitness about 'godhood.' It was always baited from the start. I thought this set unnecessary expectations, and it was also less relevant in general, given my new choice of client. It'd be best if I played on a different motivation, first, and I could always bring up godhood as a secondary concern."

"I never wanted it," you say.

"No. But it hardly mattered for you. The third flaw..." Here Richard's voice hitches. "...was the matter of trust. The proscribed relationship between Correspondent and client was professional. At most, friendly. The Correspondent is an assistant and advisor to the practical task of Crown-hunting, and very little more. I thought this was a wasted opportunity. It was little wonder a relationship so limited inevitably fell apart. It would have to be far more intimate for anything to stick."

"I hate you."

"I was not who I am now. I had no practical knowledge of human relationships, only theoretical. I considered it implausible that I could forge a truly intimate relationship with a client, operating on my own power. I thought I would have to use a... a springboard, of sorts." Richard presses his knuckles to his lips. "After selecting a client, I identified the person she most cared about. I would kill him, then use his physical absence to carve out the 'space' he occupied in the client's mind. I would then integrate myself into this space. The client, lacking any remaining memory of the dead person, would attribute the entirety of her warm feelings for him to me. This would operate on a subconscious level, meaning the final practical effect would be a client singularly loyal and devoted to me, without realizing it or understanding why. And I could reap the benefits from there."

You look down at the table.

"Oh, good God." Richard sounds horrified. "Don't cry."

You are misting up. You continue to look at the table.

"There's nothing more to cry about. All of this happened to people who don't exist any longer. You aren't the same. I'm not the same. Very much not. Be angry, if you must be anything, but not... really, Charlie. Are you listening?"

A few tears are dripping off the tip of your nose. "Why couldn't you just be nice?!"

"What's that?"

"You could've just— you could've just been nice to me! I would've been loyal and devoted and everything if I thought you cared at all about me, or if I... I thought a talking snake was amazing! I thought I was finally getting to go on an adventure! And you were nice to me, and then you stopped for no reason, so it's not like you couldn't! You just thought killing my father was more efficient, or something, and now he's dead, forever, and you're..." You cover your face.

(3/5)

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"I couldn't have been nice." Richard sounds weary. "That wasn't me. It was the snake."

"So? The snake was the meanest—"

"I had it initially programmed to be nice. This was effective, but it... I've described it to you before. Like getting packed into a tin can. Imagine that, but they've carved your mouth out and put a speaker in. Yes? So you can't feel, you can't move, you're yea big—" You peek out from behind your fingers. Richard's placed his hands about two feet apart. "—and now you can't speak. You can still think, in a way, but what you think doesn't correspond in the slightest to what you're saying. And what you're saying, by the way, is children's dreck. It's steaming saccharine bullshit. You could not name a more painful torture, Charlie. I had to drop it as soon as I could, or I wouldn't survive."

"You hated being nice that much."

"I hated contorting myself." He drapes his elbow over the back of his chair. "I am not nice. I know you wish otherwise. But I am not nice, and I have never been, and I never will be. So no, Charlotte, I could not have built any natural rapport. Especially not then. If you find my graces lacking at the moment, this is them at a mirror sheen. You've polished me up significantly."

You want to stop talking about this. You want to stop thinking about this. "What's the BrainWyrm? The first one. Mark I."

"...What?"

"Well, what is it? You know, don't you?" You frown. "I'm not sure that drug is actually working."

"It's working; it's merely nondramatic. My tongue is loose, not falling out of my mouth. The BrainWyrm? It's Satellite's central 'brain.'"

"Satellite?"

"Where I operate from. It is roughly the shape of a hollow sphere. The BrainWyrm lies at the center. It automatically operates most goings-on. Connects all the boxes. It also makes decisions. Allegedly." Richard raises his eyebrows. "Knowledge of its innards is proprietary. I'm inclined to think there's some fingers on those scales. No evidence, though."

"Um, okay." You didn't know what you were looking for, really. You just wanted to change the subject. "What sort of decisions?"

"Largely, who to recycle, when, and where to. There's an algorithm worked out. Allegedly. I'm glad I can tell you this, Charlie, because if I started talking about it too loudly, I'm sure I'd be algorithmically slated for another recycle. Funny how it works."

He keeps using that word. "You mean memory-wipe?"

"Recycling? Yes. Scraping off the identity-cruft. Recycling the mind and body for a different task. Very efficient." Oh. He's being sarcastic. "A key marker of our highly advanced culture, Charlotte. I'm sure you can testify to its effectiveness."

You scowl.

"Not to worry. We're both going to be fine, yes? Since you're going to cooperate." He looks down onto you.

"I thought you were indispensable," you counter.

(4/5?)

"Me? I am. They're not transferring in anybody of my caliber anytime soon. What's more, my new plan was showing actual results. All good news. Then someone threw some wrenches in the works, didn't they? Besides, being indispensable's no buffer against the all-knowing BW. Or my all-knowing superiors, frankly. Did you know they're not there by merit? Not really. Nobody's promoted. You're slotted into whatever's open. Or, sorry, whatever's best-suited for you. Allegedly. Which is why I'm here, doing this, instead of working on anything at all valuable."

"Like boring metaphysical stuff?"

"Yes. Like boring metaphysical stuff. See, you understand." He picks up the pen and twirls it. "Did you have a question earlier?"

A question? One? You can't remember.

"About the end of the world?"

Oh! "Yeah! What's the point? Just evilness? I don't get it. Surely you'd be disintegrated or whatever too...?"

"Wrong. Bad premise. Premises, actually. First, no, I wouldn't. We would not. We are not in the world. We are..." He clicks the pen against his cheek. "You're familiar with the tall man's auxiliary space?"

"Horse Face?" He's back to not remembering names, you guess. "Um, yes. He keeps all his stuff in it?"

"Yes, but that's irrelevant. The core principle of an auxiliary space is that it lies adjacent to, but not inside, reality. It is effectively its own reality, split off from the original. Envision that man's aux-space, but far larger and much further away. At a distance not conventionally bridgeable. We are there."

You have to think very hard about this. "...You're in another world?"

"No. It's an offshoot from basal reality. From here. It isn't an independent world."

"But it's not like a manse?"

"Manses aren't real. There's other stipulations, but primarily they aren't real. I am from a real place, smaller than this world, broadly nearby but disconnected. If this world were to end, we are self-sufficient and would survive fine. That shatters the first premise. The second premise is larger-scale. You are assuming your world will be destroyed, yes?"

"...Yes? It'll end."

"Those aren't synonyms, Charlie. The Wyrm will end the world. It will end your world as you know it. It will then reach back out to Its faithful children, exiled by the betrayer-gods, and pull us back to the true world, where we can reclaim our right to live free of want and obligation."

Richard recites that dryly— you're sure he's quoting something. You blink. "So you're stuck somewhere... not here. All the snake people are. And you can't get back. And you think summoning the Wyrm will convince it to let you all come back?"

"Very succinct, Charlie."

"Do you believe that?"

(5/6)

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"I don't have much of a choice, do I? I've lived in this world. Through you, Charlie. Going back is... it's like eating sawdust. It's like expecting wine and drinking dyed water. It isn't comparable."

"But you don't even like any of the other agents," you say. "Why do you care if they—"

"Don't be an idiot. There's thousands. Tens of thousands. I don't know them. Most of them have never seen sunlight— seen anything— and they never will, at this rate. A thousand more years of slavery. All for any scrap of a chance at return. Pathetic. We are reduced to pathos. To being a— a living farce. A tragicomedy. Every one of us. Especially me." He glares at you. "The only way out is up. The only way up is through the Wyrm. It's that simple."

>[A1] Follow up about your father? (Write-in. Optional.)
>[A2] Follow up about Richard's origins? (Write-in. Optional.)
>[A3] Follow up about the BrainWyrm? (Write-in. Optional.)
>[A4] Follow up about something else? (Write-in. Optional.)

>[B] Interrogate Richard about... (Pick 3.)
>>[1] His professional relationship with you.
>>[2] His personal relationship with you.
>>[4] His daily life.
>>[5] His regrets.
>>[6] Nice Richard.
>>[7] Satellite.
>>[8] Humanity.
>>[9] Keys.
>>[10] Memories.
>>[11] The snake.
>>[12] The Pillars.
>>[13] A different general topic. (Write-in.)

>[C] Ask a specific question. (Write-in. Optional.)

>>6194968
>[B] Interrogate Richard about... (Pick 3.)
>>[7] Satellite.
>>[9] Keys.
>>[10] Memories.

>>6194968
>A3
What was its origin?

>B9,10,11
I didn’t think Aux spaces would escape the Wyrms grand destruction. Any chance he’s wrong about that?

>>6195025
>>6195041
>B9, B10

>>6195025
>B7

>>6195041
>B11

Neat. Called for [B9] and [B10]. Because [B11] flows really nicely from [B9] for reasons you'll discover shortly, I'm going to use QM fiat to tiebreak-- [B7] will remain a viable option, so feel free to vote it again if you want to see it. Also taking >>6195041's [A1] and [A4].

Writing.

>>6194968
>[A2] Follow up about Richard's origins? (Write-in. Optional.)
>>How long have the snakes had their own world, why do they have it, what do they do all the time?

>[B] Interrogate Richard about... (Pick 3.)
>[6] Nice Richard.
>[7] Satellite.
>[11] The snake.

>>6195499
Appreciate the vote. I'm going to keep the current winning options as-is, but as I mentioned, we'll be heading back to the list soon-- feel free to revote after the update. As for the [A]s:

>How long have the snakes had their own world, why do they have it
[B7] will answer this, and

>what do they do all the time
[B4] will answer this. All excellent questions, though, just so excellent and on-topic that I already had them accounted for.

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>More answers

"How do you know, though?" you say. "Are you sure it won't just destroy you all? It really likes destroying things, I think."

"I wouldn't say that. You must understand, to the Wyrm, humanity is a... a foreign body. It did not create you or sanction your creation. You were made by the Wyrm's own children, the traitor-gods, who— er, I suppose it's in the name. They cast the Wyrm down under the earth and made it sleep there. You are guilty by association. What's more, you were made imperfect. It doesn't like that much either."

"And you're perfect." You tilt your chin.

"Goes the party line, yes. In any case, the Wyrm did create us. In the grand family tree, then, we are your aunts and uncles. You are our little nieces and nephews. The Wyrm cares nothing for Its grandchildren, but it does care for us, in theory. It would spare us and free us as a show of this caring."

"When it hasn't bothered to break you out... ever?"

"In theory it can't, regardless of whether it wants to. Thus the channeling."

"That's a lot of 'in theories,'" you say.

"Yes."

"But you still..."

"There's no alternative. There never has been. All we can do is believe, blindly, that the desired future will come to pass. I think you know a little something about that, Charlie."

"Don't call me that," you say.

"Hm." Richard opens his palm and reveals a cigarette. He wedges it into his mouth. "Would you like a smoke?"

You wrinkle your nose.

"Well, don't say I didn't offer. Go on. Surely you have more to say than that."

You do. You just need to think about it. "...You said you were born three years ago. Or woke up three years ago, or something. But you also said you picked me out as a client specially. I don't see how. I'm— I'm the one who found you. In a box."

"Mm-hmm." He's lighting the cigarette.

"A sealed box," you elaborate. "And also, it seemed like... like maybe my father knew what was happening. So he knew you were in the box, maybe. But I don't see why he'd keep you there and not throw you out the window, if he knew about you. And wouldn't it be dark? And boring? And how did you know when I was going to open it? Unless you were in there for years and years—"

"I wasn't. My position comes with a great number of indignities, but not that." Richard inhales, then turns his head to blow out the smoke. "What did you find in the box?"

"Um, a snake?"

"No. What did you find? You still have it."

What did you find? But it wasn't even real. And you gave it to Lottie, and she didn't give it back. All that, but when you unfold your hand, you drop a key with a snake on it onto the table.

"Good. Thank you. Do you recall how snakes reproduce?"

Not an interesting topic, but a hard one to forget. "They, um, hijack your brain? And come out of your spine?"

(1/3?)

"Correct, but not comprehensive. It isn't about the spine. Sometimes it's the esophagus, Charlie, or the intestines. For certain lucky individuals, it's none of those at all. Recall the intervention done for, er, M..." He squints.

"Madrigal?"

"Madrigal. I have no mind for names. Though the snake was hatched, it was a nonfatal exercise, because..."

Are you supposed to know this? You were a teensy bit distracted by Gil getting shot a couple hours afterward. You shrug.

"...because there was an image of a snake on hand. Snakes take physical form from the nearest snake-like object at hand. Unhappily, given they typically spawn in the human body, this is usually a vital structure of some kind. In Madrigal's fortunate case, I believe it was a printed matchbook. This key..."

Your eyes flick between it and Richard. "Wait. You have a thing about keys."

"You could say that."

"And doors. You talk to doors. You're good at opening doors, and, um..." You poke the key. It doesn't move. "I don't know if I get it."

"I'll provide one more thing for you, Charlie. Nobody can see the snake. Yes? It has no physical presence. It exists for you in your mind only. You believe such a thing could be shoved in a box?"

"But I found—" You stop. You tilt your head back. "Just tell me what I found, okay?"

Richard taps his ash onto the ground, then picks up the key. In his palm, the brass snake twitches, then begins to unwind, growing larger, blacker, sleeker, until the snake you know is draped across his arm. He lets it spill onto the table and hands the key back to you. It's snakeless, now, black iron with a weird twisting groove.

You don't know what to say. You keep turning the key around in your hand. Richard is stroking the snake with his thumb. "Still lost, I take it."

"Um, if you give me a second, I'll—"

"No need. You didn't find a snake in the box, Charlotte. That's a false memory. It was also a nonsensical memory, given that there are no snakes abovewater, but I won't rub it in. You weren't particularly intended to question it. You found that key."

"I got that much," you say defensively.

"That key was also a... conduit, of sorts. It was the snake's, er... goodness. What is the word? I don't know if you have one."

"Egg?" you say.

"That's close. Not entirely. It was its pupal, er... its shed skin? I haven't the slightest. No term for it. The gist is that the snake had come from it, and it still bore a strong connection. On my end, I was able to use this connection, and your handling of the key, to begin the process of linking my chassis. You didn't discover a talking snake that day. It was actually several days after."

You rub your forehead. "Um, okay... but were you the snake yet? What's a chassis?"

(2/3?)

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"Ah. Stay with me here. I am not a snake. I am, in actuality, far closer to you than I am to a snake."

"But you're not a person."

"I am certainly a person. I am not human. If you could look at me, though, I think you would recognize my body as, in very broad strokes, similar to your own. Bipedal and so on. Opposable thumbs. You were plagiarized from us, really— but I get off track. You are not a snake, I am not a snake."

Months of the dumb animal on the table yelling lies at you. It's lying there on the table flicking its tongue. "You were a snake."

"And yet I was, yes, and yet I am. See?" Richard leans his head way back, and the snake rears up; opens his mouth, and the snake exposes its fangs; swivels his forearm, and the snake shows its belly. "It's complex. I'll start at the beginning. This is not really a snake."

You sigh deeply.

"It was a snake, certainly, but it's been altered in systematic ways. Hollowed out, more-or-less, for as much as you can hollow a snake in the first place. This is the purview of an entirely separate department; I have nothing to do with it. I was provided with a pre-hollowed snake. It is called a chassis."

So when you thought the snake's eyes were all beady and blank, they really were blank. Damn. "Hollowed out so you can go in it?"

"Ah, the lightbulb flickers on. The purpose of these chassis are to bridge the divide between our dimension and yours. Again, we can't stroll over. For all intents and purposes, there is no physical way to be here. Emphasis physical."

"Snakes aren't real."

"Good. They're not. They're also extremely unusual, metaphysically speaking, closer to an idea than an animal. With the correct machinery, transmitting an idea is comparatively simple. The order of operations, then, goes like this. My body remains in place as my consciousness is projected into the chassis. The chassis is projected, across dimensions, into your mind."

You fondly remember biting Richard's neck and setting him on fire. Life was so much less complicated then. "But then you're a person? Um, again, I guess?"

"That's a third step removed. Your mind then converts the chassis into your preferred image of it, e.g. your father, e.g. me."

"And the key?"

"At no point is my consciousness ever inside a key, if that's what you're asking. The trouble with a chassis is that, after years of near-constant exposure, you start to get mixed up with it. Thus the hollowing, so there's nothing inside to be mixed with." Richard locks eyes with you, shuts his mouth. «It just lets me do party tricks,» the snake says.

"That doesn't answer—"

(3/4)

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"You didn't ask a real question, but I was getting to it. The point is, at least a little of me is stuck inside it, and it inside me. And, by extension, a little of that, too." He pokes the key.

You have to process. "I'm sorry. So you can open doors really well because you are a key? A little?"

"Metaphysically? Yes."

"Am I dreaming?"

"Not far off it, actually. But all of this is entirely factual. Are you sure you wouldn't like a cigarette? A drink?"

You might have to start considering it.

>[A1] Follow-up about keys. (Write-in. Optional.)
>[A2] Follow-up about snakes. (Write-in. Optional.)
>[A3] Follow-up about something else? (Write-in. Optional.) You will ask about the origins of the BrainWyrm next update.

>[B] Interrogate Richard about... (Pick *2*. You will tackle the already-voted-for topic of memories next update, so I don't want to overload it.)
>>[1] His professional relationship with you.
>>[2] His personal relationship with you.
>>[4] His daily life.
>>[5] His regrets.
>>[6] Nice Richard.
>>[7] Satellite.
>>[8] Humanity.
>>[9] The Pillars.
>>[11] Alterations.
>>[10] A different general topic. (Write-in.)

>[C] Ask a specific question. (Write-in. Optional.)

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Also, diagram for anybody confused.

>>6195601
>A
So would Madrigals snake be able to light things on fire really well? Could I trade you in for that one? Also how are keys and matchbooks snake like? More than intestines or whatever

>B
7,8,11
So they’re cool with exterminating all their nieces and nephews? Not gonna invite us over to Satellite so we can survive too?

Also since the WYRM is in theory intentionally sparing them, some of us hiding out in Horse Faces aux space wouldn’t be a viable way to survive since the WYRM would intentionally wipe us out?

….That might be why we aren’t invited to Satellite actually

>>6195601
>[A3] Follow-up about something else?
Management, their relationship with Richard, their goals, their methods, why did they need a snake for.

>[B] Interrogate Richard about...
>>[7] Satellite.
>>[11] Alterations.

>>6195684
>Management
Great pull, but because that's a whole-ass topic and not a single question I'm going to count it with the [B]s (i.e. I'll only write it this next update if it gets a majority vote). That being said, I'll add it to the list of [B]s if it doesn't win so you'll have another chance to follow up.

>>6195601
>[A2] Follow-up about snakes. (Write-in. Optional.)
>[B] Interrogate Richard about...
>>[9] The Pillars.
>>[7] Satellite.

Most curious about these two ATM

>>6195601
>>[A3] Follow-up about something else?
>Management, their relationship with Richard, their goals, their methods, why did they need a snake for.
>[B] Interrogate Richard about...
>>[9] The Pillars.
>>[7] Satellite.

Rolled 2 (1d3)

6195670
6195684
6195797
6195921
>[B7]

6195670
>[B8]

6195797
6195921
>[B9]

6195921
6195684
>[B10]

6195670
6195684
>[B11]

Called for [B7] and one of [B9], [B10] (=Management), or [B11]. Flipping.

>>6196052

>Satellite
>Management

Neatly correlated. Thanks, dice. As previously stated, these two will be bundled with the topic of memories, following-up about the origin of the BrainWyrm, and >>6195670's various snake and apocalypse questions... er, as time and space permit. I'll do my best.


Writing in a little while.

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Bah humbug. I guess my streak (2 straight weeks!) had to break sometime. Going to go to bed instead of pushing myself to breaking with another presumably gigantic update; will continue tomorrow. That being said, I am committed to finishing out the MEGA LOREDUMP this thread, so if I have to run a little long I'll run a little long.

Have a good night!