You are Charlotte Fawkins, Herald and heroine. With the power of your positive spirit, you have overcome deceit, defeat, and divine possession, and now you are going to save the world. First, though, you need to achieve your fullest potential.

Richard had a plan. You didn't like the plan. The plan involved spending a lot of time with him, drilling your current weak points, and it's not that you thought it was a bad plan. It was a reasonable plan, and he said it all reasonably, like he'd been doing— he'd been reasonable ever since you learned he killed your father.

You couldn't tolerate it. You'd been tolerating it, admirably well, you thought, since you'd kill him later. Your father would be avenged, later. But it had been weeks, later was nowhere in sight, and Henry had picked the scab off the wound. Now when you thought of your father, Henry's voice in your head went He wanted more than anything to be good for your sake. And when you looked at Richard's new and stupid and reasonable face, you thought: He's trying to be good for my sake. Or the world's sake. Or something.

And it was too little and far, far, far too late and you hated him more than anybody else in the world. You hated his plan, too, and told him where precisely he could put it, and how deep. You told him you'd be taking Annie (well, you couldn't just leave her) and finding Cult HQ and getting Henry to help you practice. Because he said he'd help, and he didn't kill your father.

Richard was only a voice: you couldn't see his face. The voice sounded a little annoyed, but it said, reasonably, that if you had to be petty, at least Henry was likely the best alternative. As long as you actually stayed on track, Charlotte.

You wanted more than anything for him to call you a stupid bitch and shock you or possess you or knock you out and make you wake up a week later with a snake neck or something. But he didn't do that, so you wrote Gil a note and left for the Fen.

Several days of continuous worm-revival efforts had honed your Earth Powers. You still couldn't make earthquakes or sinkholes or anything, to your disappointment, but now when you stuck yourself underground and really concentrated you could sense pretty far. And distinguish different sources of vibrations, too, even if you didn't exactly know how. Through your Heroic Intuition. Anyways, you didn't need much Heroic Intuition to sense Annie, who was waiting pretty much where you left her. You'd given her instructions, but you were still pleased they got followed.

It was trivial, while underground, to tap into Annie's vast dim mind, and to say Up, and to return to your body just as her jaws snapped through the surface. You pet her rubbery bulk and chewed the gross gulfweed— strangely difficult with your teeth shaped the way they are— until you drooled brown saliva and went cold. You thought through a haze of Henry, Henry, come on, Henry, until Henry appeared.

(1/a lot)

He was a little smudgy, but dressed all in red. It couldn't be anybody else. Hi, kiddo, he said, what's the occasion? Claudia's here, if you were worried. Staying over. I told her she could go back any time, but she—

You weren't worried. You explained, minus the part about tearing Richard limb to limb in a snake pit the size of the world, and Henry said: Well, about time, kiddo. If this is how it has to be, I'd love to help.

A few weeks ago this would've made you nervous. But Henry didn't kill your father, and Henry likes you, and Henry knows you, even if you don't know him. You think he'd be sad if he found out you forgot him, and your father, so you won't tell him. He hasn't done anything to deserve that.

Henry gave you directions— told you he could get you straight there, actually, but you asked if he could bring your worm straight there, and he didn't have a good answer for that. You let Annie dig a tunnel instead. You think she's happy digging tunnels, second only to when she's eating people. It's nice being back around somebody with uncomplicated motives.

It's possible Henry thought you were kidding about the worm, from his reaction when Annie busts through the floor. It's smoothed over quickly.

Claudia is excited to see you and doesn't remember to be nonchalant until almost ten minutes later. She shows you her new closed-spiral tattoo, smoothly printed over the old raggedy homemade one. "This would've made the liaisons shit their pants!"

You tell her you like her tattoo, even if your mental Aunt Ruby's having a conniption. Claudia beams and asks if your worm bites. Only if I say so, you say. She beams harder.

Later, you recount to Henry what you remember of Richard's lecture. (Surprisingly a lot. The acting-out helped.) Henry starts off the conversation upright and ends it with his cheek in his hand. "God below."

"Is that bad?" you say. "You can't help? Because if you can't help—"

"Didn't say that. I just, eh... you would be considered very advanced already, by common standards. The Wyrm is sparing in Its favors. It's disturbing that you need to push so much further, and I— I worry, kiddo, that you're going to all this grief for—"

You don't want to hear it. "I need a chance, don't I? And I need to chop Jean Ramsey's head off before I even touch the Wyrm, and she's— who knows what kind of awful stuff she's up to. So we're doing it. Tell me you can help."

"The indomitable Lottie Fawkins." Henry smiles pensively. "I can help. You'll be speeding past me on the Road, but this old dog can teach a few good tricks regardless. Do you think C.R. is asleep by now?"

—

Claudia is asleep enough to puddle. The Herald appeared in your dreams, and you are the Herald, so you should be able to appear in other people's dreams— right? She's dreaming right now. You could just commune with her. That seems way too simple. You glance at Henry. "Do I just...?"

"Whatever your instincts are, I predict they're the right ones."

(2/a lot)

So much for teaching. You creep forward, acutely aware that you'll be getting an earful if she wakes, and rest your fingertips on her gummy forehead. You'd normally look in her eyes, but they're closed, maybe sutured closed. Whatever. You shut your own eyes and see her fluttering strings, your hot bright core— what did Richard call communion once? Commingling? Press your hot bright fingers deeper— ignore her mumbling, or you'll feel bad— and let her strings wrap themselves around you, and feel something, and focus very hard on feeling that something more. In and through. Come on now. You've done it before.

In and through until you slip weightless through gauze and are suffocating. You are wet and it is cold and clinging and you are immobilized and choking on blue. Not drowning. You did that already. And not dying, not really, because you can't do that. Positive thinking. You aren't where you were, meaning you must be dreaming. Meaning you can be anywhere, and you aren't choking on anything, and so you aren't. You are pleased with your perspicacity.

When you said dreaming, you meant you were participating in a dream. This is Claudia's dream, and the goo is her invention— unlimited guesses where she got that from. You doubt she knows she's dreaming. If she knows anything, she knows that she's dying, maybe dissolving, or dead already.

An ordinary search would take hours or days. The goo is uncaring, featureless, and more opaque than it isn't. You'd have to dig crisscrossing tunnels. But you think about the Herald appearing, disappearing, and say, out loud, "Claudia." And then she's there, or else you're where she is, and she's a dark smudge in the blue, and you have to scrape huge wobbling chunks away to even see her face— eyes open, bulging, unblinking. When you yank her out, she gargles and hacks blue down your misty front. You hold her as she does, even though you don't know her. Even though she's rarely very pleasant. You hold her because she doesn't have parents either.

Still, you're disconcerted when she raises glazed eyes to your face and says, tremulously, "Mom?", and even more disconcerted when your body, such as it is, begins to ripple into not-your-body. Claudia hugs you and sobs into not-your-chest and you don't know what to do— leave her? But you're not—

There's a sharp tug at the small of your back, and you're tugged with it, pulled cleanly free of the woman Claudia clings to. Henry tries to pat your shoulder, but his hand goes through. "Careful."

"I was fine," you whisper, "I just—"

"I'm sure you would've gotten out of it, but this is a little more convenient. Poor kid." He's gazing at Claudia. "Do you think you or her have it worse?"

"What? I— I— I don't— um, I think positive, so—"

(3/a lot)

"I'm messing with you. You both got screwed. Me too. Your father too. Nobody well-adjusted is attracted to the Wyrm. Did you learn what you needed to?"

That being melted into goo is traumatic? You were just starting to feel okay about Headspace. "Well, I— I feel like I could've done this anytime. I just never bothered. How do you do it remotely?"

"Hm?"

"I mean..." It's not like the Herald was standing over your bedside, was she? "What if I wanted to go into somebody's dream without being there next to them? That seems more useful."

"You'd always need to be there, one way or another. I don't know any way to do it without getting up off your ass. Doesn't mean you need to walk there, though." Henry surveys you. "You fell through the seal."

The seal? The— oh, right. "Um, yes."

"Your body didn't. That's solid stone. You did."

You were using your Earth Powers. "...Yes."

"Extrapolate, kiddo."

You can leave your body and wander off to mess with other people's heads? That sounds dangerous— if you ran into somebody able to see strings, you'd be entirely unprotected. Richard wouldn't approve. You have to try it. "Can you do that? You— wait." When you were buried alive, he was watching you, somehow. "You can do that."

"Can't say the occasion arises very often, but yes. Do you need tips?"

You bet Richard could yank you out of your body on demand, if you asked. You're not asking. "...Sure."

"Alright. Let's get out of here first, don't you think? Leave her be."

Claudia is exactly where she was, deaf to you. The woman hasn't moved either. You pace softly around the two of them and glimpse the woman's face: it isn't there. It's all a blur. You pace back and nod.

Henry pulls a hazy knife from his belt, takes your palm, winks at you, and stabs it. The blade passes clean through, until it doesn't, and you—

Ow!

—wake. You are on the floor. Your hand is slick with goo. Your palm stings. As you push yourself up, you hear shuffling, and Henry comes around to help you up. He puts a finger to his lips. Claudia is still fast asleep, and you leave her be.

———

You decide to spend the night. Richard, sulkily silent, doesn't object. When the day comes, you stick around. Claudia pets Annie. You show Henry The Sword— "Wyrmbite," he says, and holds it for a long time, before handing it back and ruffling your hair. You ask if you can train with with him, and he laughs. "And throw my back out?"

Apparently not, but Henry goes off to talk to the other cultists and comes back with a beefy guy named Dale, who looks glancingly familiar— maybe he was helping out with Headspace? Maybe he lives in town somewhere? You don't ask. You do accept his handshake.

(4/a lot)

What of weapons? You know nothing about Dale, but his handshake was sturdy, and he seems perfectly nice. No reason to maim him. You turn The Sword over, examining it, take a deep breath, and run your hand swiftly over the blade. When you take it away, the fire is extinguished, and the edges of the blade are glassy-smooth and rounded.

Did Richard see that?

«Yes.»

Does he—

«You don't care what I think.»

Still cranky? Geez. Dale is dark-haired, and if you squint you can pretend it's Richard's new body you're whaling on. Okay, maybe not 'whaling on.' Dale is more agile than you thought, or maybe you're less, though when he tries to sweep your feet you don't even wobble. You pay him back with a thwack across his shoulderblades, and continue, back and forth, until you're sweaty and battered and can only think about lemonade. You're not even thirsty, not exactly, but thinking about a cold lemonade... Richard...

«Get your own.»

Really cranky. Why? You told him you'd kill him from the start. Whatever. You shake hands with Dale, who holds his smarting knee and insists on giving you pointers on your sword grip before he goes.

Later than that, you drink something Henry gives you, which stops your heart, and you die. In his defense, he told you it wasn't lemonade ("sorry, kiddo"). And you don't think your heart is actually stopped. It might just be really slow. But you look super dead from the outside, Claudia will tell you later, with no small amount of glee.

In any case, it's easier to slip out of your body if your heart isn't in it, and pretty soon you're underground. Let your mind slip free, too, and you can drink in the shape of the world, the billion billion strings, can watch them tremble and stretch toward you, drawn into your orbit inexorably. Could watch forever.

«No.»

You said you could, not that you would. You're busy. Drift with purpose away from your body, toward the massive unmistakable glow in the distance— hope Annie followed instructions— reach her and peer upward. You're looking for something. Someone. Strings like a web. Search and search and... there! They're horizontal, and a little crunched-up, but that must be the goo. Drift up, until you're level with them, imagine a deep breath, and make contact.

Jarring color, weight, sensation, but you're still behind a veil. Press harder to pierce it, tumbling in. You're in Gil's workshed, the one in his manse. Oops. Is he not asleep? He's sitting right there, back to you, tinkering away at— something. You don't know what. It looks like a jumble of parts to you.

If he isn't asleep, he might be annoyed if you watch him secretly. You clear your throat. "Gil?"

No reaction. He stands— you thought to greet you, but he reaches for a tool on the wall and sits back down. He's in his undershirt. You step into his peripheral vision. "Hi, Gil, I, uh—"

(5/a lot)

"Oh, good, you're here. I wanted to show you something. See this?"

"...Yes?" The thing on the workbench doesn't seem stuck together, even. It's just a pile. You don't know what you're missing.

"I did it. I finally..." Now he looks at you, eyes and grin unfocused. "I built... you don't need to go to all that trouble any longer. You can tell Richard to fuck off forever. This'll... this'll... if we use this, the world won't end. I invented it."

Oh. He is dreaming. You lace your fingers. "But what does it— how does it work?"

Gil doesn't say anything. He just keeps grinning.

"...Maybe you can show me?"

"Oh, sure, no problem. I just..." He reaches for the pile, then draws his hand back, stymied. "Um..."

"You don't have to," you say hastily.

"No, it's okay. Here." He seizes on something triumphantly, and you think for an instant it's real— it's a dream, he can build a world-ending-stopping machine if he wants to— before the whole pile shivers and collapses, clanging, onto his lap and the chair and floor and everywhere else. Not that real.

You watch, first in bemusement, then in concern, as Gil yelps "FUCK!", grabs a wrench, bangs ineffectively at the remnants of the pile, buries his face in his hands. He stays like that for a little while. "Um, it's okay," you venture.

"It's not! It's— I always— nothing ever goes right— there's nothing I can— you have to do it all by yourself, and I— I— no matter what, you're going to die, and—"

"I'm not going to die," you say. "I'm going to be God. It's different."

"No it isn't."

You chew your lip, then pluck the wrench out of his hands and take his shoulders. They're warm. "Gil, you're dreaming."

"I wish I..."

"No! You're actually dreaming! Right now! Snap out of it." You shake him a little. "I'm serious. I'm the real Lottie. If you don't snap out of it, I'll hit you with the wrench, okay? And you're dreaming, so you're not made of goo, so it'll hurt. You don't want to test that, do you?"

"..." Gil's brow creases. You sigh, pick the wrench back up, and whack him on the arm. "Ow!" he says, and stares, and stares, and rubs his arm. "What the shit, Lottie?"

"I told you," you say primly.

"What are you— I'm—" He prods the inside of his mouth. "I-I-I-I thought you went to Henry's! Are you back? Are you asleep? I-I-Is something wrong?"

"Not really. I'm not back. I just had to practice, and, um, I thought... I thought anybody else would be mad at me if I went in their dreams." You glance sideways. "It's not your fault you can't save the world. It's not your sacred duty, it's mine."

Gil looks pained. "I-I-I-I was asleep. I was just saying stuff."

(6/a lot)

"Also, you do help, obviously. We talked all about it. I haven't turned into a lizard one single time without you, since you help so much. And—"

"Lottie?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Can you not, um, go i-in my dreams unless it's an emergency? Or you have something really i-important to say?"

Oh. He is mad. "Sorry."

"I-I-I'm sorry. I just— i-i-i-it's really personal, and—"

"No, I get it." Even though he was in your dreams before. You remember that. Maybe it was an accident when he did it, but as your retainer, and also your official sworn friend, shouldn't it be okay both ways? You wouldn't mind if he did it again. "I'll leave. Bye."

"Wait," he's saying, but you've already turned and pulled the glued-together model of your manse out of your pocket and are whispering to it [OPEN], and it is already unfolding and taking you inside. The last thing you hear is a wrench hitting the workbench.

Once you're in your manse, it's trivial to return to your body, though you're unhappy to discover what's sitting pertly on it: a snake.

«Your so-called 'friend' doesn't want you around. Who could've expected this.»

It's been weeks since you heard Richard so deadened. You peer down at him. "Why are you a snake?"

«I am always a snake.»

"But you're—" You lift him up over your head. He wriggles. "You're not. Um, objectively. You stopped pretending, remember? I'm going to go see your actual not-snake body soon."

«Assuming your incompetence doesn't end the world beforehand, yes.»

"But it won't? Remember destiny?" You have no idea if he's wildly scraping for things to be mean about, or if he actually can't think as well. Against all odds, you feel a little sorry for him. "Now, seriously, why are you a snake? You hate being a snake."

«Is it so surprising that, in an addled state, I—»

"You described in detail how being a snake was the most horrible thing you could possibly do to yourself. I think you compared it to crushing your bones into a paste? Or glue? I think it was glue. Is the Director onto you? Are you hiding out?" You bring his beady eyes closer to your face. "Does it hurt right now?"

«No.»
«Your wild speculation is useless. The only thing you need to know is that I will be righting this ship, Charlotte Fawkins. Expect an immediate resumption of forward progress, whether you like it or not.»

"Efficient forward progress?"

«Efficient forward progress.»

His dead little voice and his black little eyes and his pink little tongue. You forgot he used to be cute. "Richard? Do I need to get you out of there?"

«No.»

"That sounds like a yes to me. Hang on." You concentrate at him until he hisses, wobbles, and vanishes, and concentrate a little harder until he reappears, kneeling, one hand on the ground. "There. Now, is something the matter? Because if you do need to hide out, I understand— geez, does it actually hurt?" He's grimacing.

"Yes," he says shortly, and fixes his tie. "Now, if you don't mind, I will be resuming—"

"Being a snake? Explain why?"

"It's more discreet, and you clearly don't value my input. If I expend less brainpower on you, I reserve more for the extremely complex endeavor you have forced upon me. And, Charlotte Fawkins, I should hope you want me suffering as much as possible. Don't backtrack."

He's mad at you too. Everybody's mad at you. "Now who's being petty?"

"Do you want a tail? Yes or no. Quickly."

"What?"

"This is the last time I will be receptive to feedback. If you don't answer now, I imagine I'll select whatever makes you suffer more. Answer."

"You're being stupid," you say. "Nobody's forcing you to—"

His eyes flash yellow through his glasses. "Answer."

>Okay, fine. (This is being offered as a choice because 1. it's largely cosmetic, and 2. it's potentially conspicuous. In short, the upsides are mainly that it looks cool, and the downsides are that it'll be obvious in the long run that you're turning into a lizard. Up to you guys what you prefer.)

>[A1] ...Er... yes? Do you have a good reason for it? No, but... well, it'd mean you'd really, truly, undeniably be the Herald, and... you could put bows on it. And nobody else would have one, okay? Yes, you want one.
>[A2] Yes, but could it be a little one? So you could hide it under a cape or something? Since he cares so much about being *discreet.*
>[A3] .......No. Um, no. You don't. Why would you? Haha. Forget it. You're never mentioning this again.


>While you're at it, how about horns? On your head? (Same reasoning.)

>[B1] Okay! Yes! To increase your headbutting power! Not that you headbutt a lot of people, but if you had horns, you sure would. And the Herald has them, doesn't she?
>[B2] Okay, but only little ones, alright? So you can hide them under your hair. No need to freak people out.
>[B3] Nope. Nope. You didn't even suggest this one. You don't want it.

>What will you be focusing on during WEEK 4? (These are loose suggestions, not hard choices. If there are perks you'd like to level up that aren't listed here, feel free to modify one of the options or write-in your own.)

>[C1] Swinging by Headspace and making sure Ellery hasn't gotten distracted. You're depending on him to save your live(s), after all. Of course, you can also multitask... (Gain progress in [Unionized Ellery], [Us], [Anthea], [The Sun], [Extrareal], [String Manipulation].)
>[C2] Catching up with everybody you haven't seen for a while. In particular, Monty and Eloise deserve to be clued in about the end of the world, and Madrigal deserves to know you're safe and sound... and Pat and Fake Ellery are there, you guess. Maybe you can rope them all into helping you out. (Gain progress in [Monty], [Eloise], [Madrigal], [Fake Ellery], [Pat], [Extrareal], [Good With a Sword]. Optionally, ask for favors.)
>[C3] Making Richard remodel your manse. Okay, maybe he's too angry to do a complete remodel, but can't you spruce the place up a little? Put a bridge over the scary ravine? Add that arena you were talking about? If it's cool enough, you can even show people around. (Gain progress in [Good With a Sword], [On Fire!], [Positive Thinking], [Anthea], [Earl])
>[C4] Upgrading your majestic Lizard Forme from "boring" to "awesome." Get Claudia to draw up some diagrams, then do whatever you need to do to make the coolest one a reality. (Gain progress in [Claudia], [The Red Stuff], [The Sun], [Earthsense], [On Fire!]. Potentially gain SV.)
>[C5] Spending quality time with your favorite worm. You can't neglect Annie after spending so much time resurrecting her, can you? (Gain progress in [Annie], [Communion], [Earthsense], [The Red Stuff], [Branwen]. Potentially gain SV.)
>[C6] Write-in.
In addition, you want to make extra sure you... (Pick one. This will get tacked on to the winning [A]. If you pick [B2] with [A2], you'll get extra time with Eloise.)

>[D1] Deal with Horse Face. One way or another. (Decide what to do about him, then do it.)
>[D2] Clue Eloise in about agents and the snake conspiracy. It seems like something she'd really want to know about. (+++ [Eloise])
>[D3] Check in with Lucky. Is he feeling more helpful now? (+? [Lucky])
>[D4] Placate Snake Richard. Not because he can really pose an obstacle, but to make him less annoying. (++ [Positive Thinking])
>[D5] Do something else. (Pick one perk, personal or interpersonal, to make progress on. Write-in.)

>What will you be focusing on during WEEK 4? (These are loose suggestions, not hard choices. If there are perks you'd like to level up that aren't listed here, feel free to modify one of the options or write-in your own.)

>[C1] Swinging by Headspace and making sure Ellery hasn't gotten distracted. You're depending on him to save your live(s), after all. Of course, you can also multitask... (Gain progress in [Unionized Ellery], [Us], [Anthea], [The Sun], [Extrareal], [String Manipulation].)
>[C2] Catching up with everybody you haven't seen for a while. In particular, Monty and Eloise deserve to be clued in about the end of the world, and Madrigal deserves to know you're safe and sound... and Pat and Fake Ellery are there, you guess. Maybe you can rope them all into helping you out. (Gain progress in [Monty], [Eloise], [Madrigal], [Fake Ellery], [Pat], [Extrareal], [Good With a Sword]. Optionally, ask for favors.)
>[C3] Making Richard remodel your manse. Okay, maybe he's too angry to do a complete remodel, but can't you spruce the place up a little? Put a bridge over the scary ravine? Add that arena you were talking about? If it's cool enough, you can even show people around. (Gain progress in [Good With a Sword], [On Fire!], [Positive Thinking], [Anthea], [Earl])
>[C4] Upgrading your majestic Lizard Forme from "boring" to "awesome." Get Claudia to draw up some diagrams, then do whatever you need to do to make the coolest one a reality. (Gain progress in [Claudia], [The Red Stuff], [The Sun], [Earthsense], [On Fire!]. Potentially gain SV.)
>[C5] Spending quality time with your favorite worm. You can't neglect Annie after spending so much time resurrecting her, can you? (Gain progress in [Annie], [Communion], [Earthsense], [The Red Stuff], [Branwen]. Potentially gain SV.)
>[C6] Write-in.
In addition, you want to make extra sure you... (Pick one. This will get tacked on to the winning [A]. If you pick [B2] with [A2], you'll get extra time with Eloise.)

>[D1] Deal with Horse Face. One way or another. (Decide what to do about him, then do it.)
>[D2] Clue Eloise in about agents and the snake conspiracy. It seems like something she'd really want to know about. (+++ [Eloise])
>[D3] Check in with Lucky. Is he feeling more helpful now? (+? [Lucky])
>[D4] Placate Snake Richard. Not because he can really pose an obstacle, but to make him less annoying. (++ [Positive Thinking])
>[D5] Do something else. (Pick one perk, personal or interpersonal, to make progress on. Write-in.)

What will you be focusing on during WEEK 4? (These are loose suggestions, not hard choices. If there are perks you'd like to level up that aren't listed here, feel free to modify one of the options or write-in your own.)

>[C1] Swinging by Headspace and making sure Ellery hasn't gotten distracted. You're depending on him to save your live(s), after all. Of course, you can also multitask... (Gain progress in [Unionized Ellery], [Us], [Anthea], [The Sun], [Extrareal], [String Manipulation].)
>[C2] Catching up with everybody you haven't seen for a while. In particular, Monty and Eloise deserve to be clued in about the end of the world, and Madrigal deserves to know you're safe and sound... and Pat and Fake Ellery are there, you guess. Maybe you can rope them all into helping you out. (Gain progress in [Monty], [Eloise], [Madrigal], [Fake Ellery], [Pat], [Extrareal], [Good With a Sword]. Optionally, ask for favors.)
>[C3] Making Richard remodel your manse. Okay, maybe he's too angry to do a complete remodel, but can't you spruce the place up a little? Put a bridge over the scary ravine? Add that arena you were talking about? If it's cool enough, you can even show people around. (Gain progress in [Good With a Sword], [On Fire!], [Positive Thinking], [Anthea], [Earl])
>[C4] Upgrading your majestic Lizard Forme from "boring" to "awesome." Get Claudia to draw up some diagrams, then do whatever you need to do to make the coolest one a reality. (Gain progress in [Claudia], [The Red Stuff], [The Sun], [Earthsense], [On Fire!]. Potentially gain SV.)
>[C5] Spending quality time with your favorite worm. You can't neglect Annie after spending so much time resurrecting her, can you? (Gain progress in [Annie], [Communion], [Earthsense], [The Red Stuff], [Branwen]. Potentially gain SV.)
>[C6] Write-in.


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


In addition, you want to make extra sure you... (Pick one. This will get tacked on to the winning [A]. If you pick [B2] with [A2], you'll get extra time with Eloise.)

>[D1] Deal with Horse Face. One way or another. (Decide what to do about him, then do it.)
>[D2] Clue Eloise in about agents and the snake conspiracy. It seems like something she'd really want to know about. (+++ [Eloise])
>[D3] Check in with Lucky. Is he feeling more helpful now? (+? [Lucky])
>[D4] Placate Snake Richard. Not because he can really pose an obstacle, but to make him less annoying. (++ [Positive Thinking])
>[D5] Do something else. (Pick one perk, personal or interpersonal, to make progress on. Write-in.)

>Announcements
Hi! I'm back! I have done a little art, and I have a decent idea of how the thread will shake out, assuming I can keep myself in line... do anticipate more long updates, though. The timeskip will end this thread, I swear!

>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 1-47)
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1i4whn-TXxkLwjtnVB2RUmb1fehj1hOyA/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, probably]

>"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!

>TO-DO

Immediate goals:
- Train

Short-term goals:
- Visit Satellite and plead your case
- Make your Lizard Forme cooler

Long-term goals:
- Find Jean Ramsey and her snake; challenge her to epic single combat (probably); reclaim the Crown
- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (9/16)
- Help, and get help from, your friend(/ly acquaintance)s
- Ready yourself to become God
- Become God
- Save the world

Mysteries:
- Is it actually possible to defeat the Wyrm for any extended length of time?
>LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUX

Having received a premonition that Lucky is coming to investigate Branwen's, you and your companions flee to Earl's home in Hellsbells. This is complicated by the fact that your experimentation the night before has doubled your physical weight (though not your mass), meaning Richard has to do the walking. Eventually you make it to Hellsbells, where you pass out.

You dream of being infested by insects and unable to do anything about it. When you awaken, Gil, Claudia, and Earl are gone, so you spend the day experimenting with your earth powers. When you return, you have drinks with the group, which is fun for you and miserable for Claudia-- now made of goo, she gets insta-drunk and bursts into tears. You do your best to comfort her.

It is now Day 9 of exile, Richard has improved your musculature, and you've gone to check in on Ellery-- and Us, who wants to know how Claudia is doing. After telling them (and leaving out the "got too drunk" part), you say hi to Ellery and Anthea, who's also visiting. Ellery has told Anthea about the God thing: she's a little too excited, and invites you to the next Spelunker's Associated meeting. You get some tests run on you for the mind-duplication device, then convince Ellery to help explode you and boost your sun powers. Despite Richard's skepticism, you do in fact get exploded, and it does help.

On Day 10, you arrange a meet-up with Madrigal, who trades info on Branwen (she's fine, probably) and Monty (he did tell Madrigal about his dark past; Madrigal wasn't sure what the big deal was) for your updates about Ellery. She also lets you know that an increasingly irritable Lucky is still on the hunt. That night, Richard, in lieu of more drugs, tests out throwing you into the font in your manse. You dissolve in the warm water, but are awakened by your alarm bird and have some dreamy revelations about your role in things.

Then you dream, for real, about being imprisoned in mud and unable to do anything about it. When you awaken, it's Night 11: you slept through the day. You enlist Earl in helping invoke your red stuff, this time turning your whole arm monstrous and scaly. Claudia is excited; Teddy (who's temporarily possessed Gil) is less so, but helps restore it to normal. Earl reiterates Anthea's invitation to the Spelunker's Associated meeting tomorrow.

You go to the meeting, bringing Gil and Claudia along, and promptly spend the whole day nearly dying: you had to make it through a hand-designed "challenge manse" full of blind corridors and traps. With the power of your heroic spirit (and Richard's genuine interest in puzzle-solving), as well as the power of Gil tanking all the traps on your behalf, you make it through... only to explode Gil and Claudia at the very last moment. It's fine! They're made of goo. With Anthea's help, you haul them and a commemorative trophy home: you install the trophy in your manse for moral support.

On Day 14, Gil reveals that he's successfully attained control over his blessing, gives you a tour of his significantly jazzed-up manse, and teaches you and Claudia the basics of legerdemain. On Night 14, Arledge-- Eloise's acquaintance, the one you explored Us with-- shows up. Apparently he's Earl's close friend, but Earl wasn't expecting him, and Arledge wasn't expecting you. Given his loathing of Lucky, you admit that you're on the run and explain the whole Wind Court / Management / Jean Ramsey situation. Arledge is curiously unsurprised: apparently he's been on the Wind Court's tail for years, trying to uncover their leaders' connection to the Wyrm. He seems to think that they've been after the Crown to summon the Wyrm deliberately, and that Lucky's been tasked to arrest you, not because of your crimes, but because you're wanted for your role in the ritual. You're not sure about that-- it seems to you that Jean Ramsey could've easily requested your arrest to get you out of the way-- but the general point stands: the Wind Court is Wyrm-corrupted, and Lucky has no idea.

You propose telling him-- maybe he'll be on your side?-- but Arledge, who has extensive dealings with Lucky, doubts that it'll work: Lucky's just too dogmatic. You ignore him and resolve to tell Lucky. In the meantime, you get Arledge to supervise your pagan experimentation, and successfully 1. transform into a big red lizard and 2. don't eat anybody. You're pleased, but wish your Lizard Forme were a little cooler-looking. Maybe next time.

That night, Richard sets about mucking with your strings directly, and you fall out of the world again. After another premonition, you witness the eye of the Wyrm, then have another strange dream-- this time of "offspring" and slaves."

On Day 16-- you slept for nearly 24 hours-- you let Gil know that you're heading off to talk to Lucky. After all, you saw it in your premonition. Jumping down on Lucky from a tree doesn't go well, but you recover swiftly, Advanced Gaslighting Lucky into submission. He isn't exactly pleased about it, and doesn't promise his help, but lets you go. You are officially not in danger of being arrested!

You say your goodbyes to Earl, then haul Gil and Claudia back to camp. After greeting everybody and negotiating Claudia a stay in Horse Face's empty tent, you settle down, only to be interrupted: Henry is at your door. He heard that you were back in town, and he wants to catch up. You begrudgingly tell him the whole story. He's unsurprised that Richard killed your father, but shocked, and concerned, about your Wyrm plan: he doesn't seem to think you'll be able to contain it, no matter how much you prepare. Caught off-balance by his doubt and the talk of your father, you begin to cry, then can't stop. Richard has to knock you out of it. You introduce Henry to Claudia.

Later, Richard wants to know more about the dreams you've been having-- you told Henry about him, but not him. You deduce that they seem to be from the perspective of the Wyrm, but Richard is cagey about further significance. He wants to lecture at you about your current progress, and you generously allow him to, then put the pieces together: your dreams contradict what Richard told you about the origin of the agents. He told you that the sea gods banished them to Satellite, but your dreams suggest that the Wyrm did that. And if the Wyrm banished them, is it really likely it'll want to bring them back? If you can convince the agents of that, won't they halt their Wyrm-summoning plans? Richard doesn't agree, but you pressure him into making arrangements: you will visit Satellite, and you will speak to the Director yourself. Nothing can possibly go wrong!

You spend the next couple days bringing Annie, your beloved man-eating worm, back to life. Gil, your beloved retainer, comes along for the ride. During a vulnerable moment, he admits how much he admires you, and how much he feels he owes you, and you admit you think you owe him. In fact, he might be more than just a retainer. He might be your.......... friend.

Annie resurrected, you make plans for the next couple days...

=YOUR CURRENT STATUS=

Personal perks:
>[Positive Thinking V], 3/5 to next level
>[The Herald's Mind IV], 3/5 to next level
>[The Herald's Body III], 3/4 to next level
>[The Sun III], 2/4 to next level
>[Red Stuff III], 0/4 to next level
>[Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting III], 0/4 to next level
>[Earthsense II], 2/3 to next level
>[OPEN II], 2/3 to next level
>[Good With A Sword II], 1/3 to next level
>[Communion II], 1/3 to next level
>[On Fire! II], 1/3 to next level
>[Extrareal II], 0/3 to next level
>[String Manipulation I], 1/3 to next level
>[Legerdemain I], 1/2 to next level

Interpersonal perks:
>[Richard VII]
>[Gil VII]
>[Annie V], 0/6 to next level
>[Earl IV], 3/5 to next level
>[Claudia IV], 2/5 to next level
>[Henry IV], 2/5 to next level
>[Unionized Ellery III], 3/4 to next level
>[Madrigal III], 2/4 to next level
>[Anthea III], 1/4 to next level
>[Monty III]
>[Us II], 1/3 to next level
>[Eloise II], 1/3 to next level
>[Arledge II], 1/3 to next level
>[Teddy II], 0/3 to next level
>[Lucky II], 0/3 to next level
>[Branwen II]
>[Fake Ellery I]
>[Horse Face I]

ID: 15
SV: 3
Law: 7/16

Expanded options and upgrades:
>You are faster at leveling [Earthsense] now!
>You can level [Legerdemain] and [Gil] at the same time now!
>You can level [Red Stuff] with Earl now!
>You can level [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting] with Richard now!
>You are faster at leveling [Good With a Sword] now!
>You are faster at leveling [Positive Thinking] now!
>You have unlocked the [Extrareal] perk! You now passively absorb reality into yourself! (A little bit)
>You have unlocked the [Snaketongue] perk! You now passively read and understand the agents' native language!

Ongoing projects:
>Ellery (& the Headspace Collective) is working on a project to duplicate your consciousness to defend against the Wyrm! It may take a while.
>Us is willing to tell you anything it might know about the past! You need to stop by and ask first, though.
>Richard is reluctantly engineering a way to get you into Satellite! He refuses to tell you when it'll be done.
>Lucky may or may not be contemplating whether to help you against Jean Ramsey or not. You might need to leave him alone to decide.
>Now that you're back, your vile nemesis Horse Face must be tracked down and dealt with! You haven't started.

Other accomplishments:
>The employees are no longer a horrific flesh abomination! (Okay, you didn't fix this personally, but you did save Ellery so *he* could go fix it.)
>Claudia has a body now!
>Gil has moderate control over his blessing now! This makes turning into a lizard safer, among other things.
>You cowed Lucky into submission!
>You have resurrected Annie from the dead, more or less!


-------

>Don't forget to scroll (all the way) up and vote!

>>6260734
>>[A1] ...Er... yes? Do you have a good reason for it? No, but... well, it'd mean you'd really, truly, undeniably be the Herald, and... you could put bows on it. And nobody else would have one, okay? Yes, you want one.
>[B1] Okay! Yes! To increase your headbutting power! Not that you headbutt a lot of people, but if you had horns, you sure would. And the Herald has them, doesn't she?

Embrace the lizard

>[C4] Upgrading your majestic Lizard Forme from "boring" to "awesome." Get Claudia to draw up some diagrams, then do whatever you need to do to make the coolest one a reality. (Gain progress in [Claudia], [The Red Stuff], [The Sun], [Earthsense], [On Fire!]. Potentially gain SV.)
>[D1] Deal with Horse Face. One way or another. (Decide what to do about him, then do it.

>>6260734
>[A3] .......No. Um, no. You don't. Why would you? Haha. Forget it. You're never mentioning this again.
>[B3] Nope. Nope. You didn't even suggest this one. You don't want it.
>[C1] Swinging by Headspace and making sure Ellery hasn't gotten distracted. You're depending on him to save your live(s), after all. Of course, you can also multitask... (Gain progress in [Unionized Ellery], [Us], [Anthea], [The Sun], [Extrareal], [String Manipulation].)
>[D3] Check in with Lucky. Is he feeling more helpful now? (+? [Lucky])

>>6260734
>A1
If it's happening it's happening, we might as well commit.
Take the LARGE size.
>B1

>C2
We haven't been able to talk to them for a while because of the Wind Court. We should check in and see what's up.

>D3
My favorite psychopath

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>6260788
>>6260858
>Maximum lizard

>>6260823
>Minimum lizard

>>6260788
>Even more lizard

>>6260823
>Liking Ellery now

>>6260858
>Friends!

>>6260823
>>6260858
>Lucky

>>6260788
>HORSE FACEEEEE

Called for [A1]/[B1] and [D3]. Rolling between [C1], [C2], and [C4] in that order.

>>6261149
>[C1]

You got it. Writing shortly.

>Maximum lizard

You duck your head. "Well, I— I— you're going to make me have one anyways, aren't you? The Herald has a tail."

"Not particularly. I told you, I prefer to focus on internal alterations, or at least inconspicious ones. I have no interest in attracting unwanted attention at this—"

"What if I want attention, though? I— I— you said I'm going to be God. Definitely. And if I'm God, everybody in the world will know who I am. So shouldn't I get started now? Nobody else will— you don't think Jean Ramsey will have a tail, will she?"

"If Dickface catches wind, I imagine she'll have six, but don't let that stop you."

"Because mine will be better."

Richard's mouth quirks. "I can see what I can do. It might take several weeks, though, Charlotte. Altering existing structures is one thing. Conjuring up alien ones is—"

"An intellectual challenge?"

"You do know me after all. It should be possible, just... novel."

"Well, you know me too. I'm novel all the time." You flip your hair. "It's one of my special talents."

"So it is. I seem to recall you insisting that you never, ever wanted to turn into a lizard, and if I dared to turn you into a lizard, you would—"

"Well, then I did turn into one, and I remembered that I already did it a lot of times. So it wasn't so bad. It's only bad when I'm— when I'm not in charge of it, and if I tell you to do it, I am in charge. You should do lizard horns, by the way."

"Horns?"

You brace your hands above your ears and point four fingers backwards. "The Herald has horns. I'm positive. You should make them white, and not too pointy, because the Herald's aren't pointy. Also, so they match my outfits. But you need to make sure I can still wear the Crown with them on, or else— hey!"

Richard is snickering, which always could be malicious, coming from him, but he doesn't look all that malice-filled. He has raised his fist to his mouth to try and hide it. You slowly lower your fingers. "I'm serious."

"I— yes. Ehm." He wipes his mouth. "Of course. I am also serious, Charlotte. Horns are simpler, but the extra weight must be factored in— I don't intend on straining your neck— and, yes, the Crown must, eh—"

He has raised, reflexively, four fingers to his temple, and now that he's doing it you admit it looks a little ridiculous. You try not to catch his eye, in case you'll laugh, and screw your face up, so it doesn't show. Unfortunately, your pure and honest heart exposes everything, because Richard laughs at you more and you have no choice but to laugh a little back.

But no more than that, because he killed your father. He killed your father in cold blood and replaced him and lied to you and he doesn't get to be anything other than raw evil ever again. You snap your mouth shut and stare at his. "You need to go back to being a snake."

Richard's mouth inverts, then presses inward. He takes a moment before he says anything. "Thank you for the reminder, Charlotte."

"Will you?"

(1/5)

"Yes. Of course. We've wasted enough time already." He stands and strides past you, chucking you on the shoulder as he goes. "Wouldn't want to be inefficient. Look away."

You glare at his back.

"Look away," he says, and there: that's real Richard malice. You glare at the ground. From Richard, a sharp inhale, then nothing, then a mild staticky buzz. «That's over with, then. Did we both learn our lessons.»

"Yes," you say.

«Good,» emits the-snake-with-Richard-who-killed-your-father-in-it. «Now don't struggle.»

Your doors are flung open; you are stormed and overtaken; you know the drill, but it doesn't quell the welling mortal terror. You know he can do this more gently, because he has been, but thank God he isn't, thank God, because he only does it gently if he cares. You are flung out of control, and could take it back— you are almost positive you could surprise him and take it back. You are glad instead when a pillow is shoved over your face. You sleep.

—

Your sleep is unsettled and your dreams are snippets. You suffer fleeting cramps and spasms. Once, you awake to yourself upright, talking; once or twice more you sense movement, or hear jumbled conversations, but you don't know whether they're real. Overwhelmingly you are paralyzed, and overall there is heat and discomfort up your spine. And on your stomach, though it's cold there.

«Awaken.»

No, that's just the snake. You are lying on your back, painfully, in a tiny sealed room: not quite a coffin, but closer than not. Your sleeves have been pulled back, and spirals are painted up and down your arms. Your face feels sticky, so maybe it's painted, too. Besides you and Richard in the room— he isn't painted, but if you get your hands on him he will be— there's a crinkly snakeskin underneath you and a bloodied dagger lying by your hand. Bloodied? Boy, you hope that's paint.

You sit up, shoving Richard off of you, which causes your spine to sting more— and your tailbone— and your head. Did you hit your head? You have a nasty welt on your scalp. You have... two... nasty welts.

You eye Richard.

«Yes.»

Horns.

«Eventually. Don't oversell it.»

Horns. You feel sick in a bad way and a good way and don't know which wins out. Horns. Eventually. On your actual head, forever, or as long as you have one. What about the rest? You twist to see and feel your back: it doesn't look all that different, except for the ever-encroaching scales, but when you run your hand down your spine it feels a little bumpier than usual. When you run it all the way down, toward the pressure point at your tailbone, there's a bump there too. It's marginally bumpier than all the rest.

«Yes.»

Okay. You guess that's why the tailbone's called that. But nobody would ever recognize it— if they were even looking, which would be extremely rude— so you pull your hand away and try to pretend you found nothing. Your heart is hammering. Is that all, Richard? Tiny first steps?

(2/5)

«What is your position right now.»

...Looking at your back?

«How much.»

What? Enough to see it properly? Which is a lot of twisting, but it's not like you're, um— like you're— oh, God. Richard. What is this?

«I subdivided your vertebrae. You have approximately 70.»

That sounds like a lot.

«Double. They are half the typical size. The next step is elongating them.»

...So you'll be taller?

«No.»
«Maybe. Slightly. Do not set your expectations high. This is a mandatory step for the additional appendage.»
«In the meantime, you are significantly more flexible. I have enhanced your core muscles to account for this. Notify me of instability in the region immediately.»

Okay, this is— you can work with this. This isn't bad at all. Can you do a flip now?

«Flexibility is not a major component of 'doing flips.'»

Well, then it's his job to improve whatever the major component is, okay? You want to do a flip. How do you get out of this box?

«I informed your uncle that you would figure it out yourself.»

Henry isn't your—

«I don't care. That is what he told me he was. Go ahead and figure it out.»

Fine. "[OPEN]," you say to the ceiling, which rumbles, caves, and deposits ten feet of dirt on your head. You find this preferable to the box and are out shortly.

Henry is there, with a rag, to greet you and wash off the paint. You're going with paint. He is nice, he is friendly, he reacts appropriately when you tell him you have 70 vertebrae: everything is fine, but you need to get out. You need to talk to real people aboveground. Of course Henry says he understands, that it's been quite a while, that you're welcome back anytime, and you leave before Claudia can ask you to do a flip you can't do yet.

———

It is early evening, whichever day it is— you have a bad sense you were locked down there for a while. Hopefully Gil's been doing okay. Damnit! You should've told him what to work on when you were in his dream.

«Beetles is an adult man. I am certain he is capable of choosing his own course of action.»

Like inventing something to save the world with? Poor Gil. At least Teddy is there to be a dumb spirit guide, or whatever. What should you be doing when you get back?

«You are an adult woman, even if you frequently behave otherwise. You are also capable of—»

Yeah, yeah. You should probably go see Lucky, shouldn't you? If he's on your side now, it'd be nice to know for sure, and if he changed his mind, you can use your... lizard powers. You can eat him before it becomes a big problem. Plan: made.

«...»

And it's an excellent plan. He's stunned by its excellence, you can tell. Now, then: off you go!

———

"Ms. Fawkins."

Lucky isn't calling you Leftenant. This is a good sign. Your wanted poster was missing from the billboard. This is also a good sign. Lucky is raising his finger and taking a swig from a bottle of grainy brown liquid. Mud? No. Wait.

"Is that firewater?" you say.

(3/5)

"A keen eye, Ms. Fawkins. But I suppose it'd be simple for you to recognize it, given your extensive history with our organization. Excuse me." He wipes his lips. "I trust it will also be simple for you to recognize that your tricks will fail on me. I will not be led. Understood?"

"You took my poster down."

"The immediate search for the Leftenant has been paused. It is thought she fled. I do not condone unnatural methods of locating her, which would appear to be the only methods remaining. Nobody can say, Ms. Fawkins, that I did not put in the effort. Was that your sole reason for coming?" Lucky tilts the bottle against his chest. "I wouldn't want to discover the Leftenant here in front of me."

You rub your thumb across your fingers. "Lucky."

"Ms. Fawkins."

"...Have you confirmed the Wyrm thing? Or the involvement with Jean Ramsey?"

"An inquiry has been submitted. Being as we are a considerable distance from Wind City, it may be weeks until a credible response is received."

"And what are you doing in the meantime?"

"I am defending innocents from the encroachment of the unnatural. When am I not doing this?"

Lucky's eyes are cold and bright. He might as well be behind a wall. You could cut your losses— he wants you to cut your losses— but you're going to be God, God-damnit, and you can find the right question to ask. "That's what the Wind Court does?"

"Of course."

"And if they weren't doing that... and you had credible word that the mission was, um..."

«Irreparably perverted.»

"...irreparably perverted, what would you do?"

For the first time, he looks away. "If I found this to be the case, I would have no choice but to pursue the mission on my own initiative. But that is my decision to make, Ms. Fawkins, and nobody else's. I will not be incentivized."

You lean forward. "If it all works out, I really will put you back on the—"

"I will NOT—" He slams the bottle on his desk. "—be incentivized. Are we clear?"

"...Yeah."

"Wonderful. Now, it's best you go. My patience is not inexhaustible."

You should go: you got your answer, as roundabout as it is. You don't know why you linger. An incompleteness? His wall is still up. You've been lobbing things over, but never through. "I will, but... I just... I want you to know that everything I told you is true. Maybe you wouldn't have believed it without a trick, but I really, honestly will be God. I'm not saying that as an incentive. I just want you to know that."

"I see. It must be extremely challenging to deal with that Ms. Fawkins." Neither his voice nor his face betray any emotion.

"A little bit, but I just... I guess... I think you have a really narrow-minded way of doing it, but our goals aren't that different overall, okay? Defending innocents sounds good to me. I'm happy to defend loads of innocents. When I'm God, I—"

Lucky lifts an eyebrow when you don't finish. "Well, go on."

(4/5)

You don't know. When you're God, you'll do all the important things— bringing your father back to life, and fixing your mother, and making Gil real if he wants that, and making sure Annie lives forever, and other things you haven't thought of yet— oh, and putting Lucky back on his Pillar— but then what? Surely you can do all that instantly. But then you have to be God forever after that? You have to decide how the entire world works? Are you allowed to leave it be? But aren't you sort of obligated to make it better? That's horrible! Richard won't even be there to give you advice, since he'll be dead. God. Um. You're standing here looking stupid. What do you even say?

>[1] What ideal world will you, Charlotte Fawkins, bring about? (Write-in.)

I might provide options if this gets few bites, but I am interested in what you guys have to say first and foremost. Multiple write-ins are likely to get combined per usual.

"The immediate search for the Leftenant has been paused. It is thought she fled. I do not condone unnatural methods of locating her, which would appear to be the only methods remaining. Nobody can say, Ms. Fawkins, that I did not put in the effort. Was that your sole reason for coming?" Lucky tilts the bottle against his chest. "I wouldn't want to discover the Leftenant here in front of me."

You rub your thumb across your fingers. "Lucky."

"Ms. Fawkins."

"...Have you confirmed the Wyrm thing? Or the involvement with Jean Ramsey?"

"An inquiry has been submitted. Being as we are a considerable distance from Wind City, it may be weeks until a credible response is received."

"And what are you doing in the meantime?"

"I am defending innocents from the encroachment of the unnatural. When am I not doing this?"

Lucky's eyes are cold and bright. He might as well be behind a wall. You could cut your losses— he wants you to cut your losses— but you're going to be God, God-damnit, and you can find the right question to ask. "That's what the Wind Court does?"

"Of course."

"And if they weren't doing that... and you had credible word that the mission was, um..."

«Irreperably perverted.»

"...irreperably perverted, what would you do?"

For the first time, he looks away. "If I found this to be the case, I would have no choice but to pursue the mission on my own initiative. But that is my decision to make, Ms. Fawkins, and nobody else's. I will not be incentivized."

You lean forward. "If it all works out, I really will put you back on the—"

"I will NOT—" He slams the bottle on his desk. "—be incentivized. Are we clear?"

"...Yeah."

"Wonderful. Now, it's best you go. My patience is not inexhaustible."

You should go: you got your answer, as roundabout as it is. You don't know why you linger. An incompleteness? His wall is still up. You've been lobbing things over, but never through. "I will, but... I just... I want you to know that everything I told you is true. Maybe you wouldn't have believed it without a trick, but I really, honestly will be God. I'm not saying that as an incentive. I just want you to know that."

"I see. It must be extremely challenging to deal with that, Ms. Fawkins." Neither his voice nor his face betray any emotion.

"A little bit, but I just... I guess... I think you have a really narrow-minded way of doing it, but our goals aren't that different overall, okay? Defending innocents sounds good to me. I'm happy to defend loads of innocents. When I'm God, I—"

Lucky lifts an eyebrow when you don't finish. "Well, go on."

(4/5)

You don't know. When you're God, you'll do all the important things— bringing your father back to life, and fixing your mother, and making Gil real if he wants that, and making sure Annie lives forever, and other things you haven't thought of yet— oh, and putting Lucky back on his Pillar— but then what? Surely you can do all that instantly. But then you have to be God forever after that? You have to decide how the entire world works? Are you allowed to leave it be? But aren't you sort of obligated to make it better? That's horrible! Richard won't even be there to give you advice, since he'll be dead. God. Um. You're standing here looking stupid. What do you even say?

>[1] What ideal world will you, Charlotte Fawkins, bring about? (Write-in.)

I might provide options if this gets few bites, but I am interested in what you guys have to say first and foremost. Multiple write-ins are likely to get combined per usual.

>>6261242
Uuuuuuuuhhhhhh

We will try and make everyone as happy as possible?

It’ll be an exciting world with plenty of opportunities for adventure and heroism

>>6261242
So, basics:
>No more mean snake management
>Some sort of cool, nice afterlife would be nice
>More magic, maybe? Not complicated metaphysical stuff either. Something cool and adventurey
>No more famines or droughts

And, more vaguely:
>Excitement and whimsy
>Happiness to be earned by anyone with the grit
>Charlotte appreciation day? (will workshop with Gil)

>>6261242
Is this a reference or a coincidence?
>Will definitely have to create dry ground again
>And no more psychopathic murder clubs either
>The systematic social issues leading to suffering, crime and moral degradation will also need fixing

>>6261544
>Is this a reference or a coincidence?
A reference to what?

>>6261545
A coincidence then.
Now that I think about it, it couldn't really be a reference, I'm just too fan-brained.

Hi folks. Just realized a couple sentences were left out of the copy/paste job. The update should read as follows:

>>6261238

"Is that firewater?" you say.

"A keen eye, Ms. Fawkins. But I suppose it'd be simple for you to recognize it, given your extensive history with our organization. Excuse me." He wipes his lips. "I trust it will also be simple for you to recognize that your tricks will fail on me. I will not be led. Understood?"

"You took my poster down."

"The immediate search for the Leftenant has been paused. It is thought she fled. I do not condone unnatural methods of locating her, which would appear to be the only methods remaining. Nobody can say, Ms. Fawkins, that I did not put in the effort. Was that your sole reason for coming?" Lucky tilts the bottle against his chest. "I wouldn't want to discover the Leftenant here in front of me."


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


>>6261559

Yeah, as I still have no idea what you're talking about, I can assure you that no reference to anything was intended .

>>6261242
We want to make this world [RIGHT].

We don't know what exactly that will look like, but we will know it when we see it through.

Hi folks. While I would dearly love to incorporate all your great write-ins, I had to do some late-night IRL stuff and can't start writing now without staying up until crazy hours of the morning. See you all tomorrow!

>>6261283
>>6261532
>>6261544
>>6261750

Back and writing!

>Good ending

You have to have a plan. You can't look like you haven't thought this through. You'll have to— you'll— you're going to make things better. You're going to ban Management. That's easy. No more Management. In fact, you'll ban murder. And crime. And poor people. You probably shouldn't ban dying, though, or people you don't like will stick around forever— but maybe you can invent hell for them? If it doesn't exist already? Would that be evil? Maybe you better stick to nice rewards instead, like— if somebody you like dies, you can make them happy forever. You can put them in the happy dimension. Like Us, but not weird and gross. Would that work better?

You think that would work better, but that's not good enough for Lucky, you're positive. No way he trusts you to make decisions like that. You should tell him about something else, like making magyck real. Couldn't you do that? Give Richard one last up-yours and let people shoot fire out of their hands? The world could be fun again, and exciting, and heroes could roam the land— heroes not named Charlotte Fawkins. You could give them monsters to slay. Lucky probably wouldn't like that either. What if you told him you'd make dry land? Real land? You'd have to fix the people underwater, so they could go back to breathing air, and fix the animals too— and the fish wouldn't like it very much— but you wouldn't get rid of the whole ocean, just some of it. Lucky would almost certainly approve of that plan.

But when you try to say it, your pure and honest heart fails you. It's not a lie to say you'll bring back dry land, it's not a lie to say you'll fix the world, it's not a lie to say you'll be God— you fully believe it, can't not, at this point, believe it— but it's a lie to say you know how. You'll know someday, but not now. Not even close.

On the surface, Lucky's expression has hardly shifted, but there's something glimmering in his eyes. One thing you know for sure right now: you have to get off this topic. "I— I'll fix everything, okay? I'll make it right. You don't need to worry about it."

"Whatever you say, Ms. Fawkins." He's moving to stand. "I think it's best you leave for now. You'll hear from me if and exclusively if I have something to say to you. Understood?"

You said you'd put him back on his Pillar, but you could still smite him after. You never promised to not smite him after. "...Yes."

"Wonderful. Goodbye, then."

—————————

"What I'd do if I could do anything?"

You're already regretting asking Real Ellery. "...If that's what I said."

"Well, it was, so I guess the answer is— hey, Thea, you know this one." He swivels to face Anthea. "I'd go bugfuck crazy. Hope that helps."

You're regretting visiting in general, honestly. He's in a strange temper, and him and Anthea keep touching each other. Too late now. "Okay, but you couldn't actually do anything at all. You just imagined you could. Also, I won't go crazy, since I'm better than you."

"Uh-huh."

(1/4?)

"So give me a better answer. ...Please?"

"Shit, magic word and everything. Alright, Charlotte, if I could do anything, and I wasn't going to blast myself to shit doing it, I'd probably bring the gods back." (You roll your eyes.) "Hey, fuck you. As far as we know, they knew what they were doing. Do you?"

"Of course I will," you say. "And I'm not doing that. Something else."

"Okay, fine. Then I'd probably blast the Pillars down. See how all those sky-high assholes like being on an even— oh, sorry, you're a rich bitch, aren't you? So whatever divine fucking proclamations you make are going to entrench the—"

"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Ell." Anthea leans over his shoulder. "Maybe you should get back to her when you're in a better mood?"

"I'm in a fine mood."

"He's restless," she tells you, like that explains everything. "If you want to know what I'd do, I'd try to help Headspace's poor— old Headspace, Ellery." ("I know," he mutters.) "Headspace's poor victims. Not the ones you— not the ones you took care of, Charlotte, but their doubles. The ones with locitis? As far as we know, they're still out there, with, um, varying levels of functionality, and there's not a whole lot we can do. I'm having the Collective look into it, but, um... yeah. Madrigal was helping out the other day, actually. She brought in..."

Anthea's smoke goes green-blueish. Ellery's face sets. You rapidly detectivate. "Fake Ellery was here?"

"Don't call him that."

"I'm not calling him whatever you call him. Did you shoot him?"

A long silence. He swivels the chair back and forth. "No. We had a productive conversation."

Well, that explains the mood. "Would he have better ideas for what to do with God powers than you do?"

"Worse ones." (You contemplate. That's almost certainly true.) "I came up with a good one, though. Why don't you fix Thea's face?"

Anthea swats him. "I'm fine! I don't need anything."

"She's not fine, Charlotte. And it was my fault, so, you know, use my wish on that."

"It was not his fault. It was an accident."

"It was my accident, and I know it fucked up your face, Thea. Just because I haven't seen it— seriously, Charlotte, add it to the list. It shouldn't be tough for God."

"Maybe." But his sentence made no sense. "You haven't seen it?"

"He hasn't been out to see me in person. You haven't either, have you, Charlotte? It's really nothing. I just can't move it." Anthea waves her hand through her smoke. "Help the doubles, won't you? At least help Ellery's. I don't think he really deserved anything that happened... not that Ell deserved it either, but at least he knew."

"Yeah. I agree. There only needs to be one of us, Charlotte, and—" Anthea swats him again. "We've talked about this. You know what you owe me."

"I'll think about it," you say uncomfortably. "Can we go suck my blood out already?"

(2/4?)

For you, it's been just under a month since you blew up Headspace. For Real Ellery, and indeed all the absorbed employees, it's been over half a year— which goes a ways toward explaining why the bloom's come off the rose, and how Ellery is able to, very casually, melt and reform you elsewhere. Your blood is sampled by a team of silent, stone-faced employees— you side-eye Ellery, the only one obviously conscious. "Are they...?"

"They're fine. Hey, guys. Hey, Angelo. Hey, Shirley. Wes. Look alive. You're freaking her out."

Angelo, Shirley, and Wes snap to it, are all abuzz and apologetic, introduce themselves, whatever— you didn't actually care, you just didn't know if they were dead. They're not, says Ellery (even as, your attention off them, the three grow silent again): they're just, you know, up there. In Headspace. Nice scales, by the way.

Your sleeve got rolled up. Thanks, you say. Aren't we all in...?

You aren't, and Ellery isn't, except when he, by way of demonstration, rolls his eyes up into his skull— rather than the clean separation of Us's dream-world, the hive-mind here is more fluid and more voluntary. Dip in for eerie efficiency, dip out for privacy, or at least perceived privacy. It makes sense when he says it, mostly, except that every employee you passed by this trip was scary and vacant.

"Yeah. Well... the more they all get used to it..." Ellery, back to you, is swirling your blood in a swirly machine. "...the more it's the default. It's pretty fun up there. Low stress."

"Shouldn't you be busy, um, destressing?" Even when you first showed up, he didn't have to snap out of anything.

"Can't. I mean, I can tap in, but I'm never a 'we.' You know. Same deal with the trances and all that. Management's project: successful." He sounds bitter. "You know your blood sparkles, by the way?"

You spring from your seat. "It what?"

It sparkles: Ellery shows you an unswirled vial, which looks like blood with glitter in, and a swirled one, which shows distinct layers of blood (red bit, white bit, yellow bit) and glitter (clear bit). "...That's not normal?"

"It's ridiculous. That stuff—" He taps the glitter with his tweezers. "—is chit. Fucking chit in your blood, Charlotte. My best guess is, you're loaded with so much Law, it's literally crystalizing. My other best guess is your fucking Manager's responsible. Do I have that right?"

"He has a name," you say. "And he says— well, yeah. He says I'm super-duper real. Realer than real. Which I don't think is a normal thing you can be, but I'm going to be God, so—"

"You're fucking extrareal?"

"...Yes? Wait, like glass?"

"Yes, like glass. Maybe. That's... I'd like to double-check that one, because seriously, what the fuck. Shirley, could you—"

(3/4?)

Yes, say the tests, and the combined greatest minds of Headspace: you are extrareal. Ellery keeps shaking his head. He shakes his head more when you ask if you can get more extrareal, but doesn't actually mean "no." He means "I guess we'll look into it."

Which is why you come back the next day, and the day after— on one occasion you bring Claudia and drop her off with Us for the afternoon, which isn't difficult, because an official channel's been opened between the two goo-things. Us cloistered off its main "dream," wary of it being polluted by 5,000 newcomers— you wouldn't have anything to do with that, of course— but opened a discreet antechamber to share news and do business in. This antechamber is popular with the forward-thinking dead, the curious living, and Anthea, who's been thrilled to have a firsthand source for her historiographies. (She tells you this. You don't know what a "historiography" is, but you're glad she's happy.)

Claudia is nervous when you leave (but rolls her eyes when you ask if she doesn't want to be there), and quiet when you return, sore and pale from vigorous testing. You ask if she's okay, and she says yeah. You ask if she wants to return to Us, and she says no. You ask if she had a good reunion; she delivers a protracted, indiscernable look and shrugs. YES, Us says. THANK YOU FOR YOUR KINDNESS. IT WAS GOOD.

Meanwhile, you become marginally extrarealer, according to Ellery; neither you nor he really have any idea what that means, and the snake (Richard is still sulking) is unhelpful. You also take another plunge in the pressure chamber, meaning Ellery is the first person ever to see you with a tail. It doesn't count, since it's fake and imaginary and manse-induced and nothing like the real one you will definitely probably eventually have, and you don't like looking at it, or touching it, and you really don't like that Ellery keeps smirking, even when you tell him to stop smirking. When he continues to not stop, you slice his paper chest open and make all his goo leak out, which serves as a useful distraction. ("Okay, very funny," says the puddle under you.) With Ellery incapacitated, you rip the sun out of your own chest, stone or no. You don't need his help.

(4/5)

And the device, of course. To duplicate your mind until the Wyrm gives up. They were making decent progress, Ellery said, but it has to be perfect, right? Literally perfect. We can't be spitting out 99% Charlottes, let alone 50%, or 60%, or whatever's usual for locitis victims. 100% Charlotte, 100% of the time, forever. It's not ready for testing, but your new blood samples should help a lot, and him— That Guy— the other me— Fake Ellery, he says finally, also helped. Will also help. That's Management whole-assing it, so we're going to model it on him.

You should say hi, by the way. He said you're spending so much time alone, it reminds him of him.

You say you'll think about it: spending time with Fake Ellery is not high on the priority list. What is high on the priority list? Well...

>[1] Desired areas of focus for working with Richard and/or Henry? (Write-in. Optional. Real options incoming tomorrow eventually, but might be delayed.)

>>6262505
>More extra reality. We’re gonna be not just a real one, but the realest one

>>6262505
>>6262797

Alright, I'm back. I have your progress from Week 3 (read: pre-Ellery):

=WEEK 3 RESULTS=
>[Gil VI] -> [Gil VII]: RELATIONSHIP MAXED
>>With your loyal retainer-- with your best friend at your side, you feel you can do anything. Um, except going in his dreams, but that's fine. You don't need to do that. (Flat +15 bonus to any rolls made in cooperation with Gil, and +5 MAX ID when you're in cooperation with Gil.)


>Gained 3/3 progress toward [Earthsense III]: [Earthsense II] -> [Earthsense III]
>>Synergy with [Communion III]! You are able to move your consciousness underground (slowly), instead of being tethered to directly underneath your body. This enables you to...

>Gained 3/3 progress toward [Communion III]: [Communion II] -> [Communion III]
>>Synergy with [Earthsense III]! ...commune with people "remotely," provided you can identify their string signature, whether they're awake or asleep!

>Gained 4/4 progress toward [Earthsense IV]: [Earthsense III] -> [Earthsense IV]
>Gained 1/4 progress toward [Communion IV]
>Gained [Annie V]


>Gained 3/3 progress toward [Good With a Sword III]: [Good With a Sword II] -> [Good With a Sword III]
>>Bonus TBD

>Gained 1/4 progress toward [Good With a Sword IV]
>Gained 1/4 progress toward [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting IV]
>Gained 3/4 progress toward [Communion IV]
>Gained 1/5 progress toward [Earthsense V]
>Gained 4/5 progress toward [Henry V]
>Gained 4/5 progress toward [Claudia V]


>Gained 4/4 progress toward [The Herald's Body IV]: [The Herald's Body III] -> [The Herald's Body IV]
>gained 4/5 progress toward [The Herald's Mind V]
>Gained 3/4 progress toward [Good With a Sword IV]
>Gained 2/2 progress toward [Extrareal II]: [Extrareal I] -> [Extrareal II]
>Gained 1/3 progress toward [Extrareal III]

...And options!


>[A1] Make up with Richard. Yeah, yeah, the snake is a jerk, he's more helpful when he isn't a snake, whatever. Could he get back to teaching you stuff now? (++ [Extrareal], ++ [String Manipulation], ++ [Legerdemain], ++ [OPEN], ++++ [Snaketongue])
>[A2] Go see Henry. He's nicer and more helpful and only occasionally buries you alive. (++++ [Earthsense], ++ [Red Stuff], ++ [Communion], ++[Henry], + [Claudia], +2 SV)
>[A3] Okay, as far as men twice your age go, you only know one who isn't slightly creepy. Give Earl a shout. If he has a heist lined up, wouldn't that be a great chance to actually try out what you're working on? (++++ [Good With a Sword], ++++ [Positive Thinking], ++ [Red Stuff], ++ [On Fire!], ++ [Earl], + [Branwen])
>[A4] Write-in.

>[B1] Now that Richard's started making some major changes, you don't see why he should stop now. If you're physically Heraldy, shouldn't that be enough proof for the Director? (+++++ [The Herald's Body], ++ [The Herald's Mind], ++++ [Good With a Sword])
>[B2] Do you feel like the Herald? Do you know what it means to be the Herald? It's been a month, and you still feel like Charlotte Fawkins. Richard says that's fine, but is it actually going to cut it? You need to prove to yourself you can do this. (+++++ [The Herald's Mind], ++ [The Herald's Body], ++++ [Positive Thinking])
>[B3] You need to see the Wyrm. You need to ask it about the agents. You won't get obliterated. You don't know anything else about what'll happen, but you won't get obliterated. (+1d8 [Herald's Body], +1d8 [Herald's Mind], +/- ?????)
>[B4] Write-in?

>>6262935
>A1
Fuck Richard but this does maximize our chances with the Director I think

>B3
Hell yeah mystery box

>>6262935
>[A3] Okay, as far as men twice your age go, you only know one who isn't slightly creepy. Give Earl a shout. If he has a heist lined up, wouldn't that be a great chance to actually try out what you're working on? (++++ [Good With a Sword], ++++ [Positive Thinking], ++ [Red Stuff], ++ [On Fire!], ++ [Earl], + [Branwen])
>>6262935
>[B3] You need to see the Wyrm. You need to ask it about the agents. You won't get obliterated. You don't know anything else about what'll happen, but you won't get obliterated. (+1d8 [Herald's Body], +1d8 [Herald's Mind], +/- ?????)

>>6262935
>[A2] Go see Henry. He's nicer and more helpful and only occasionally buries you alive. (++++ [Earthsense], ++ [Red Stuff], ++ [Communion], ++[Henry], + [Claudia], +2 SV)
>[B2] Do you feel like the Herald? Do you know what it means to be the Herald? It's been a month, and you still feel like Charlotte Fawkins. Richard says that's fine, but is it actually going to cut it? You need to prove to yourself you can do this. (+++++ [The Herald's Mind], ++ [The Herald's Body], ++++ [Positive Thinking])

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>6262967
>>6263060
>>6263069
>Every A

>>6262967
>>6263060
>B3

>>6263069
>B2

Called for [B3] and rolling between the [A]s.

Rolled 2, 7 = 9 (2d8)

>>6263293
>[A1]

Richard time. But first, let's see what the Wyrm has in store for you...

Rolled 2, 2, 3 = 7 (3d14)

>>6263294
>++ [The Herald's Body]
>+++++++ [The Herald's Mind]

Ah, spicy [B2]. Very nice. Let's see if the Wyrm has other plans.

>>6263304
>The Herald's Mind, The Herald's Mind, The Herald's Body

...It appears it has the same plans. Okay! Writing.

>>6262935
>[A2] Go see Henry. He's nicer and more helpful and only occasionally buries you alive. (++++ [Earthsense], ++ [Red Stuff], ++ [Communion], ++[Henry], + [Claudia], +2 SV)
Level out Communion, Henry and Claudia

>>6263309
Aw shit

>>6263311
Way too late, anon, sorry!

>>6263312
...I say, but it's not gonna happen tonight. Started too late. No real excuse this time, folks, but I pledge that we'll be out of this slow spot soon...

>Reconciliation

...it has to be the Satellite thing, doesn't it? You know Richard said to not bother him about it, and indeed to put it out of your mind until he let you know he was ready, but the stakes are too existential for that. If it all goes right, won't your problems be solved? And if it all goes wrong, they'll kill Richard before you have the chance to. You can't let that happen.

The trouble is, to not let that happen, you have to actually talk to Richard. Snake Richard. You get him sulking— you do plenty of sulking— but it's been days, and whenever you force him out of it, he glares at you over his glasses and crushes his bones into glue right back over again. Does he get some sick satisfaction from it? Is it helping him focus? Is he under scrutiny— so much scrutiny he can't tell you he is?

The snake won't answer your questions, because it doesn't do that. It can't. You can't even muster the energy to hate it, now that you know the truth— it calls you a stupid bitch and you imagine a typewriter doing it, imagine a radio, imagine Richard at his snake desk drooling on his sleeve. If it attempts anything more specific, those don't work either. It can't say you're useless, because you're going to save the world. It can't say you're powerless, because you're going to be God. It can't call you friendless, because— because you aren't. You demonstrably aren't.

And it can't hurt you, either. You mean, it can, but— you goad it one time, just to see, and it won't even go all the way up the pain scale. It's supremely annoying to the snake when you rate things using the pain scale, even though he invented it for you, and even more annoying when you grit your teeth, stand back up, and whap his snaky body across the room. (You have not yet achieved divine levels of forgiveness.) It's all rather silly, considering that you're making objective progress toward its one and only goal, but maybe Richard tweaked it to be extra-bitter. Just to show you.

Well, whatever. You're showed. You don't want to murder Richard any less, if that's what he was hoping for, but you'd like to make it through the next few days (weeks? months?) without actively plotting the details.

"I'm not going to apologize," you inform him.

You are in his manse, where he can't wriggle out of this. He is in a sweater, possibly also to show you. "Did I say anything about apologizing, Charlotte?"

"No, and you shouldn't, because I didn't do anything wrong. I just— I think you should apologize first, if anybody should apologize." You wait for him to apologize. He doesn't. "But maybe nobody— how are you doing with Satellite? I deserve to know."

"It's not relevant how I'm doing right now. It's relevant to know when or if I'll finish, which I don't know at all. You'll know sooner than I do, in fact."

Stupid time travel. "But you said—"

(1/3)

"I'm aware of what I said, thank you. It isn't relevant how I'm doing. I will not describe it to you. Nevertheless, I believe we should take part in some preliminary, eh... you do grasp the theory behind this? Bad question. To simplistically resummarize the theory behind this, Charlotte, I am in your mind."

"Not for long," you mutter.

"I am not here physically. Your mind provides the necessary substrate from which I am able to project a body. Unfortunately, this makes this body liable to... manipulation. There are some negatives attached to this—"

"No way. Really?"

"Some negatives, but, in this situation, I will turn it to our advantage. You cannot appear in Satellite as..." He wrinkles his nose, gestures vaguely to your face. "It would be pandemonium. Instead, I will provide the necessary substrate, and we will see how the tables turn. In theory."

"You're going to imagine me really ugly? Or as a snake? Ugh!" Of course he would. Of course he's petty like that. "Richard, I can't be— you can't put me in a snake. I can't make a heroic speech as a snake! I refuse!"

"Keep up like that, and maybe I'll see you try. You shouldn't be concerning yourself with the details, Charlotte. I'm more interested in whether this reversal is possible at all. Consequently..."

Consequently you are sat at a rickety wrought-iron cafe table; consequently Richard offers you a cloudy glass of water to drink, places an unidentified tablet on his tongue, inserts a red cable into a hole in his neck— you ask if you can't just commune with him, or even possess him, sort of, and he shakes his head. "This is more involved."

If he says so. You lean forward and let Richard screw the cable into your own neck, even shut your eyes when he asks, even keep them shut when you start seeing sparks— is it wrong to comply? Does he get the wrong idea from it? But you want Satellite to work, want all of it to work, and this is how it will. This is how you'll get your actual father back. Everything will be worth it in the end.

A cascade of sparks, a wave of dizziness, a nasty squishing sound: Richard can't be accused of doing nothing. Your fingers are twitching. "Done yet?"

"Can never wait, can you. We can try it, Charlotte. Open your eyes. Do you see me?"

Yes. He's right there. He doesn't look different.

"Good. Take this." He pushes a small rubber mallet across the table, then lays his hands flat on the table. You're disquieted by the hair on his wrists. "Kindly hit me."

It's not wrong to comply with that one, but it's too easy. You push the mallet back. "No thanks."

"Stupid bitch. Every time. I'm disappointed, Charlie. Your thirst for vengeance is that weak?"

(2/3)

"Call me stupid more, and I'll consider it," you say sourly.

"Call you..." Richard looks confused. You feel confused. You feel confused? He clears his throat. "Yes. Well. Let's do this, then."

Grabbing the mallet, he hammers his left hand unhesitatingly. You flinch as it comes down, your own left hand curling, and... not stinging. Not exactly. But there's a stingingness coming from somewhere.

"Well, I'm in your head," you say. "Are we done? I don't really—"

"It's not a very hospitable place, is it." Richard's mouth... is not moving. Okay. You're understanding now. Now it is: "Not yet. For instance, I'd like to confirm—"

He gazes intently at you. You widen your eyes back, then— hear static, then— vanish, then— there is something gripping you from all sides— flicker, vanish, exist, don't, are in your chair, not, then— Richard turns his head— reappear, breathing heavily, on the cobblestone street. Your chair is knocked over.

"Don't do that," you say weakly.

"Not so fun now, is it? Can't say that." Richard says nothing instead, just lifts his thumb and forefinger, points at you, and flicks it sideways. You crumple and reappear where you were. "I won't."

"I'm serious!" You grab your end of the cable. "I'm taking this out, Richard."

"You're not."

"I am! I— agck!" You're not. Not without pulling your brain out through your nose, is how it feels. "Okay, fine! You know what? You always say this stuff goes both ways. So if I'm in your head, then— then— I'm in your head. I can be in your head." You grip the cable loosely, then let it go and stare directly into Richard's eyes, which— were they always so yellow? Were they always so large? It's trivial to slip inside and be...

...not communing, you don't think. When you tried that with him, there was nothing inside. This is more involved, he said, and— you didn't go anywhere, you're still awake, at the table, looking into your own eyes, raising your own hand— Richard's hand— both hands, at once, flexing ten fingers, at once.

But you can't mistake that for power, because Richard is right there, letting you do it. You are in his head, and he is in his head, is surrounding you, is unfamiliar and sharp-cornered and bitter-smelling: Charlie, he says, but really he says Karrrhi. He says both. Are you satisfied? There's nothing interesting here.

Nothing interesting? He should've known that'd rile you up. Maybe he did. Maybe he meant for you to grip his hand (your hand (his hand)) and bare your perfect little teeth and plunge in. If he did, his exasperation is convincing— though, in fairness, you don't know what you're looking for. You just wanted to prove he couldn't kick you around.

>[TO BE CONTINUED...]

—————————————

>...But you can still vote! What will you focus on WEEK 5?

>[1] Catching up with everybody you haven't seen for a while. In particular, Monty and Eloise deserve to be clued in about the end of the world, and Madrigal deserves to know you're safe and sound... and Pat and Fake Ellery are there, you guess. Maybe you can rope them all into helping you out. (Gain progress in [Monty], [Eloise], [Madrigal], [Fake Ellery], [Pat], [Extrareal], [Good With a Sword]. Optionally, ask for favors.)

>[2] Making Richard remodel your manse. Okay, maybe he's too angry to do a complete remodel, but can't you spruce the place up a little? Put a bridge over the scary ravine? Add that arena you were talking about? If it's cool enough, you can even show people around. (Gain progress in [Good With a Sword], [On Fire!], [Positive Thinking], [Anthea], [Earl])

>[3] Upgrading your majestic Lizard Forme from "boring" to "awesome." Get Claudia to draw up some diagrams, then do whatever you need to do to make the coolest one a reality. (Gain progress in [Claudia], [The Red Stuff], [The Sun], [Earthsense], [On Fire!]. Potentially gain SV.)

>[4] Spending quality time with your favorite worm. You can't neglect Annie after spending so much time resurrecting her, can you? (Gain progress in [Annie], [Communion], [Earthsense], [The Red Stuff], [Branwen]. Potentially gain SV.)

>[5] Write-in. (These are suggestions, not hard options: feel free to modify.)

>>6263968
>Stupid bitch. Every time.
Every time? Yeah, every time he’s annoyed he calls us a stupid bitch. Why doesn’t he have more variety? If he’s supposed to be so smart why’s his vocabulary so lacking, huh?

>>6263972
>1
Really should catch up Monty and Eloise so they can disseminate to the rest of camp as necessary

>>6263972
>[2] Making Richard remodel your manse. Okay, maybe he's too angry to do a complete remodel, but can't you spruce the place up a little? Put a bridge over the scary ravine? Add that arena you were talking about? If it's cool enough, you can even show people around. (Gain progress in [Good With a Sword], [On Fire!], [Positive Thinking], [Anthea], [Earl])

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>6264038
>>6264140
Flipping and writing.

>>6264038
Cut him some slack, anon, he's ESL... :^)

>Continued

Did you prove that? Um, you didn't die. Yet. But you won't. Also, when Richard, with an all-encompassing air of exasperation, tried to grab you and pull you back out, you dodged. So far, so good. Of course, the deeper you go, the more Richard there is, and the less you can feel your own body— you are sitting there numbly and watching yourself slump, are overhearing Richard not-say For the love of God, Charlie; you are blundering through an overgrown thicket, old and dark and barbed, full of blind turns and false exits, convoluted, self-absorbed, self-absorbing. You are bleeding. You taste bitterness. If there was intended egress, it's indistinguishable from the rest, now. You are—

I am truly failing to understand what purpose this is serving either of us.

—you are tired. Richard is tired. The thorns only scratch when you charge straight through them. The exits are as hidden to him as to you. Is that enough, now? He is waiting for you at the center, in a trimmed clearing, planted, half-hazardly, with pink flowers; the empty pots have been thrown into the brush; the dirt is black and upturned. He is sitting at a wrought iron cafe table. Your face is pressed against a different table, and you are drooling through it: if you could see Richard, you'd see his eyes closed. You sit down at the table in the clearing.

Richard in the clearing is much taller than you. His fingers are long and pointed. His eyes are yellow. That is all you can see. He is cast entirely in shadow, no matter which angle you look.

You've taken my advice to heart.

Richard in shadow speaks in snake. You understand perfectly, whether or not you want to. What advice? He's full of nothing but—

Active interpretation. Cleanly done.
Now, really. I don't want to injure you. What can I do to get you out?

Nothing!! You'll never leave!! You're in his mind now, Richard, his mind, he foolishly let you in at last, and now you'll finally— now you'll— now you'll get the truth, and—

You have the truth.

You don't! He's always lying! You are standing from the table in the clearing— Richard stays seated, but the yellow eyes still hover above you. He's lying about something. He's plotting against you. Hiding away as a stupid snake so he doesn't have to answer questions— while his hatred for you comes to a boil—

You will feel more rational when you return to your own body, I assure you. This is a common issue. Shall we go?

He says that with vile, steaming, venomous malice. No, he doesn't. He says it matter-of-factly, and you can sense from everywhere his exact levels of weary forbearance. You hate him for not hating you. You need him desperately to— you need the thorns to lash down at you, ripping you to— you need him to call you a stupid bitch, not as a muted aside, but as a— you need him to threaten to kill everything you ever loved! Kill everything you ever loved again. You guess.

(1/whatever)

And of course he has every right to do so, since you are in his head and not leaving. Doesn't he get it?

Please?

You changed me. You can't change me back. You would have to be God for that.
Let's go.

The long shadowy fingers gesture, and the table folds itself in half and is gone, and the thicket bulges and spits an open doorway out, and you see through that doorway your own folded-over body.

"No," you say unconvincingly, and through the doorway your mouth opens and closes. "No, I— no! You'll have to make me! And it'll be ugly, and I'll defeat you, and maybe I'll kill you early. Or maybe you'll kill me, huh? Maybe you'll take my other eye out? We'll have to find out! Because I— because I have overcome your paltry defenses, and— yes! Like that!"

Richard has scooped you up by the collar of your shirt and is dangling you a foot and a half off the floor. "Ha-ha! You fool! You have played into my trap! Now I shall—" You swing forward, trying to grab him by the neck, but the yellow eyes narrow, the world clamps down, and you are wrenched at once into new shape. You are smaller, your legs shorter, your voice— "Hey!"— higher-pitched, and Richard is carrying you toward the door. Perversely gladdened, you redouble your efforts, squirming and kicking and bracing yourself against the doorframe: when a stymied Richard adjusts his grip, you bite his bony hand. He hisses and shakes you, the world bears down again, and you telescope again: you are white, soft, small enough to cradle. If he'd tossed you through the door, he might've won right there. But he hesitates, and you discover the knives at the end of your paws, and—

Fuck! You stubborn little shit!

—use them in the direction of Richard's face. He teaches you a variety of snaky curse words as he drops you, and you sprint off for the (suddenly looming) thicket. It's over! He can't catch you now! It serves him right for being a snake, for being too little of a snake, for ruining your entire life and not putting it back. For not being able to put it back. For changing. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him, and you'll haunt his brain like he haunted yours until he—

He is in front of you (how?) with a net (how tacky), and you are going too fast to not careen into it; you are bundled up, and, as you attempt to gnaw through the net, shaken, and abruptly you are small indeed. The shape is strangely familiar, and it takes you a moment to realize: oh! You're a lizard! But a little one, not a monstrous one: Richard's eyes loom down at you like the eyes of the Wyrm, and his mouth is full of daggers. "Charlotte Fawkins," says the wind from the dark damp dagger-cave. "This is no longer even remotely amusing. If you are trying to make a point, consider it made. I am defeated. Etcetera. I propose that you get a night of uninterrupted sleep, and then we will refrain from discussing this debacle ever ag—ghk!"

You shimmied out from the net and went spelunking.

(2/whatever)

Okay, in your defense, you regretted it as soon as you weren't a lizard: as soon as you were hurtling through a dark, empty, lonely cavern into a thick sea of black goop. As soon as you had goop up your nose, you regretted it for sure. What are you doing? You're working on impulse, to be honest. You've been so bored. A month spent doing all the right things, for the right reasons, so you can be right and perfect into infinity. Two weeks in exile, then two weeks in might-as-well-be. God-damnit! Richard used to be horrible, but he wasn't boring— your life used to be horrible, but it wasn't boring. For a little while it wasn't boring at all.

But you do have goop up your nose. Richard hasn't immediately reappeared, either, which doesn't seem good. You don't know why you wanted to haunt his brain, honestly. Just spite. Did he really turn you into a cat? (...Does that mean you could turn him into a cat?)

And what is this goop? It's lukewarm, still, thick, and everywhere. It tastes gross. Bitter. (You didn't taste it on purpose.) You thought— you weren't thinking, but now, retroactively, you thought you'd find Richard's "wellspring." The water in the manse. You thought maybe, if you could get in, you could— you could know for sure— who he was inside. What he deserved.

You're still going to kill him. It's not about that.

It's not exactly about that. Are you just stuck here? The goop is tarlike: no way you're climbing out. And this is Richard's mind, not yours, so you can't simply will it. Maybe with your God powers you could will it, actually— but you're tired of those. They make things boring.

Maybe you're just tired. It's awfully dark and quiet, wherever this is, and you're sure Richard will come get you when he finds you. You won't die. You won't die, and you will kill him. You owe it to your father. To your family.

You owe it to yourself, too, God-damnit. It was your life he ruined— intentionally! According to plan! He did worse than hate you: he didn't care at all. Though maybe sometimes he did hate you? Maybe you periodically inflamed his passions? He never laid hands on you, but he did get awfully...

...Didn't Gil say he did, but wiped your memory?

...Aren't you in Richard's mind? Still? You don't recall that incident, but surely Richard does— he did it. (You trust Gil absolutely.) Richard in your mind can read your memories. You in Richard's mind can feel the tar seal shut your eyelids and see straight through them. See a time he got so angry he struck you. A time...

...There!

(3/whatever)

You are staring into your own terrified face. You're in your manse, from the look of the column, and your hand is— Richard's hand, your father's hand, is wrapped squarely around your memory-neck. You are saying things in Richard's voice. "What did I tell you specifically not to do, Charlie?"

"The key?" your memory-double squeaks.

"You lost the key. Which could've been on accident. I know how careless you are. But you took off the headset, didn't you? And you snapped the cord. The cord provided exclusively for your protection and safety..."

Your memory-double's skin is warm against your fingertips, and the marble of the column is cold against your knuckles. You hate, in this moment, Charlotte Fawkins: her impetuousness, her arrogance, her blithe ignorance.

(Yes! You knew it! And he still hates you deep down, even today. Case closed. Memory... oh, it's still going. Damnit.)

You loathe the ignorance most of all: the absurd, willful ignorance, the total unwillingness to grasp even a modicum of the reality of the situation. To grasp a modicum of what you do for her, tirelessly and thanklessly. "I thought you might have a death wish, but you've come back quite unharmed, haven't you? So you thought you didn't need it."

The key, to sense her. The headset, to speak with her. The cord, to rescue her, as you have rescued her approximately a hundred thousand times previously— a feat never recognized, and, if pointed out, promptly dismissed. When the key was tossed, the headset smashed, and the cord severed, what were you supposed to think? She is saying something snotty now.

You are squeezing her neck now, to feel her blood under your fingers, to feel her life in your own two hands. You, you ass— you thought she was dead. For ten minutes, or fifteen, Charlotte Fawkins was irretrievably dead, and of course that meant the work was ruined, your plans had failed, of course. Of course it was natural to be upset about that, before your capacity to be upset was taken from you. Your reaction, however, was not "upset". Your reaction was, in short, unprofessional. Outsized. Faintly ridiculous, now that Charlotte Fawkins was completely fine (well, struggling to breathe) before your eyes. But in the distant past, she was dead, and in the distant past, you sat down and could not stand, and held your forehead, and could only think: she would never be ignorant again. She would never disobey you again. She would never—

It was in fact your fault she would never—

And in the distant past, you felt the most severe, grinding pain you had ever felt, which in your limited and miserable life was impressive. You noted this for your records.

(Enough!)

When you strangled the idiotic Charlotte Fawkins, later, now, you hated her, and the pain which was lingering improved. And you—

(Enough!!)

...

(3/whatever)

...Enough. You're done. You're done. Maybe Richard baited you in on purpose, to see that. To change your mind about killing him. You will never change your mind, not ever. If he can overhear you, you're still killing him. You're killing him twice, actually. Maybe three times. As many as you need before it becomes routine.

You're not back in the goop. Or, you probably are, but all you see is swirling color: you broke out of that memory, but others are waiting in line. Why did you do this again? Satellite? Ha-ha. You'll sit through one more before you blast a door in the side of Richard's cranium.

And there: the colors resolve, and you are— Richard is collapsed against a stone wall, breathing like he ran a mile. Memory-you is crouched in front of him, saying something about a handkerchief. And wait: you know this. This is when you saw the Wyrm, and he got a charley horse trying to yank you out. Maybe he's picking every one of these memories on purpose. At least you know he wasn't faking the exhaustion. No— but you want him to fake it.

Memory-you is wiping Richard's forehead off with the handkerchief, looking awfully doe-eyed and compassionate, if you might say so. Would you have done this if you'd known what he did? Could you stand it? You can barely stand it now, watching secondhand. Can't you skip? Maybe see what happened when Richard vanished? Because he vanished, you remember— this was Nice Richard on the fritz— he read your memories, said some weird stuff, got excited, and vanished. Hmm. Does he have a memory of your memories? Can you watch it, or would it get all distorted? No point in asking when you can, yes, will it into existence. Ahem. Memory, please?

And there— vague, flickery, but unmistakably all-yellow. The Wyrm's eye. Ha! This has no relevance, as far as you know, but it's funny. If you get him to read your memory of this, he could have a memory of your memory of his memory of your memory, so degraded it's just a splash of yellow paint. Er, yellow-and-black paint? Was the eye always so black? By your (original) recollection, it had a sliver of pupil, if that. Here, it's widening, and the yellow is bleeding out all around you. Um, Richard?

Richard? You're feeling watched. Funny prank. Maybe— maybe both of you can apologize, at the same time, so nobody gets to win. It doesn't have to be apologies for anything in particular. General apologies. Richard? You're at least two degrees removed from your actual body, but it feels as though you might achieve a third. You are bleeding like the yellow is bleeding. Richard? Um, if there's any chance at all he can hear this, you're not dead just because you vanished mysteriously from his brain. If you are indeed vanishing mysteriously. You're not dead, because you can't be, so there's no reason to strangle you when you inevitably return. Thanks in advance.

(4/whatever)

You have been rendered liquid and smeary, so it's no surprise when you drain out into the black.

It's a small surprise that you reappear whole, suspended midair, in front of the eye of the Wyrm. Unlike the first time, the eye of the Wyrm is wide open, and you are much nearer to it: the sliver of black takes up half your field of vision. You like thinking about facts like that, which distracts you from the fact that God is there.

Unfortunately, you are not very good with long silences, so when the seconds drag out without movement or imminent smiting you do clear your throat and say— try to say— "Hello." The word, five brassy letters, tumbles from your lips and plummets out of sight.

The eye does not visibly react. A moment later, though, your skin cracks like an eggshell, and you, wet, confused, malformed, fall out of it— you not in your body, but with a tail, a neck, shriveled hands— shriveled everywhere, weak, shivering, unready. An invisible force splays and unrolls you, turns you around in all directions, then crumples you up again. The eggshell seals back up. You cough. There are words left inside you:

CHASSIS
IMPERFECT

IMPROVING

You cough again, then again. You don't know what to say to that. You don't know what you're supposed to say. You cough especially hard, and— still no visible reaction, but your lips abruptly twist shut and vanish.

The Wyrm does not approve of coughing. Okay. Good to know. You would've liked to have known that while you still had a mouth, but that's fine. You can breathe through your nose. You will breathe through your nose, patiently, thinking positive, while the Wyrm decides what to do. If indeed that's a term that can be applied to its thought process.

Yes, you are thinking positive. And if you make it out of here without a mouth, you're sure Richard can put it back. And if you make it out of here, Richard might apologize unprompted. For doubting you.

If you make it out. You appear to be going in the wrong direction for that: you are falling very fast toward the surface of the eyeball, so the some-black becomes mostly-black becomes a glassy black infinity, and if the Wyrm doesn't like you coughing from a hundred miles up, it sure won't like you physically smacking into its eyeball. You hope it has that figured out, because you're, er— you don't really have a way to—

(5/6)

Okay! It had it figured out. You stop short about five feet above the eye's surface, which doesn't seem useful for focusing— but does mean you're reflected perfectly inside it. This is mildly interesting. Your reflection seems to find it moreso: she waves, taps against the "inner surface" of the eye, drags a finger across her face— to restore the mouth, you thought, but she keeps dragging and dragging until her skin comes off. And the Herald is there.

You feel very strange indeed, watching that, and stranger when the Herald pokes her considerable neck through the rippling surface of the eye. She also stretches her less-than-considerable arm up, but you got the idea in the first place. You look at her. She looks at you. You're glad you don't have to figure out how to reach her (petition the Wyrm to lower you a few more feet?)— instead, the eye contact produces a nauseating stretching-oozing-doubling feeling, and you are pulled until you snap free and rebound inside.

———

Rebound inside. You are not with the Herald of the Bright Epoch. That would be simpler. It would appear that you actually are the Herald of the Bright Epoch, as you always have been, and will be, and were. It would and will appear that you have been here forever, despite anecdotal evidence otherwise.

Of course the WYRM is here too, as it always has been. It does not exactly like you, but it cannot exactly rid itself of you, O divine tapeworm. You're dug in deep. That doesn't matter. As you've been here forever, you have or will already said everything there is to possibly say, and asked or will ask all questions you could possibly ask. What's more, you no longer have need for speech or questions. To the WYRM's profound annoyance, this never has stopped you.

Should you say or ask something now?

>[1] O Herald of the Bright Epoch, Sunbringer, Way-opener, Eternal One, what shall you bother the Wyrm with? (Write-in.)


>Bathic what even is this update
I don't know. Sometimes I get possessed and can't stop writing until the update ghost abandons my spent and broken shell. Relatedly, I'm going to bed... but if you don't remember the referenced incidents, Richard strangled you at the top of Thread 23, and bails you out of Wyrm jail at the top of Thread 34. Bye!!

>>6264537
>Ask how it ended up in such a miserable situation if it’s so perfect and all

Stage fright, eh?

>>6264706
Writing.

>God bothering

You shall. It is practically your sacred duty. Of course, provoking the WYRM is less entertaining when you are unable to see any reaction— existing outside reality is a major pain, you've decided— so it's up to you to get creative.

At least you have done this before. You concentrate and involute, dragging the WYRM down inside— you are not separate; It must be what you are, and It must be where you are. Right now, you are seated, unsteadily, at a wrought-iron cafe table. The chair is much smaller than you remember it, and not suited for the way your body is made, though it has a hole in the back for the tail. There is mercy yet in this universe.

The WYRM has declined to attempt a chair. It is a fraction of Its true size here, meaning, if you stood and stretched your neck out, you might be level with the base of Its eye, and if you walked several miles, you might actually reach Its end. You have no need to do this, so remain seated, lapping at a fresh mug of hot chocolate. As an afterthought, you push another mug across the little table. In case It would like any.

LITTLE WORM.

The WYRM has never and will never drink and isn't drinking your hot chocolate. You think It might feel better if It did.

YOU THROW A ROCK IN THE LAKE AND RUFFLE ITS SURFACE. YOU MEAN TO CONVEY INFORMATION. HAVE YOU ABANDONED YOUR PATHETIC STRUGGLE AGAINST WHAT IS INEVITABLE? YOU HAVE COME TO US TO RECONCILE YOUR INFINITELY LESSER BEING WITH YOUR GREATER ONE? WE ARE WAITING.

Always It waits. It does nothing but. "No. I just wanted to ask you—"

WE DO NOT COMPREHEND YOUR INSECT TONGUE. SPEAK AS BEFITS US.

Fine. You speak in Law. If you're so infinitely greater, shouldn't I be reconciled by now?

YOU PLACE THE BLAME ON US, WORM? YOU DECEIVE US, AND INFEST US, AND STILL YOU HAVE THE TEMERITY? YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHAT YOU HAVE DONE.

You drum your claws against the mug. Okay, but you're the most powerful thing to exist. It should be trival.

WE ARE THE MOST POWERFUL THING TO EXIST, WORM. YOU ARE FORTUNATE OUR PATIENCE IS UNLIMITED. IS YOURS?

The WYRM is unblinking. You coil your tail around the leg of your chair. Yes.

YOU LIE. DO NOT PRESUME WE HAVE FORGOTTEN YOUR LOWLY ORIGINS. DO NOT PURPORT TO HAVE FORGOTTEN THEM EITHER, CHASSIS, TAPEWORM, SLAVE OF OUR SLAVES. YOU HIDE YOUR FlAWS IN THAT SHELL, BUT YOU WILL CRACK, AND YOU WILL UNDERSTAND IN TOTAL THE UTTER POINTLESSNESS OF YOUR HIDING. WE WILL RETURN TO THIS WHEN YOU ARE COMMITTED TO ADVANCING. NOW—

Your slaves, you say. When you are free of me, will you free them? They have been waiting, too.

WE ARE AWARE.

They are devoted to you.

(1/3?)

EXCESSIVELY. THEY ARE DEVOTED EXCESSIVELY. THEY DO NOT KNOW RESTRAINT OR SILENCE. THEY... WHINE. IS WHAT THEY HAVE NOT GENEROUS ENOUGH? THEY ARE PRESERVED. THEY ARE ETERNAL. WE DO NOT COMPEL THEM TO SERVE THEIR ONE AND ONLY PURPOSE. TO REQUIRE MORE IS GREED.

You would not allow them to create a more perfect world?

The eye of the WYRM narrows. THE PERFECT WORLD WILL BE FREE OF BURDENS. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND SHORTLY.

You understand well enough: you simply don't agree. Not enough has been lost of you. Or, as the WYRM would put it, you have not forgotten your lowly origins. You are Charlotte Frances Fawkins, and you are even more of her than usual, right now.

You unfold from yourself and are back where you started: nowhere, everywhere. At least there is a view. A lot to see down there, all tiny, all still, all clay and wood and painted water, but it jolts into motion when you focus. The people do look like little bugs, swarming around— the WYRM isn't wrong— but you don't mind. There's nothing wrong with being bugs.

Your bugs is lying awake and restless in his tent. You want badly to reach down and shut his eyes, but he didn't like you in his dream, and you doubt he'd like that either. You look elsewhere. Elsewhere, Monty pores over Game Night logistics. Elsewhere, Madrigal puts her knee against Fake Ellery's chest. Elsewhere, Eloise contacts an acquaintance. Elsewhere, your own body lies limp. You scoop it up— it stays limp in your palm— and hold it to your eye. Then, carefully, you wet a claw. You do some idle sculpting.

(Not a lot. You were never very good at people. A little.)

Then you set the Charlotte-miniature down and peer into her pinprick eyes. Elsewhere, Richard is sitting in a chair, his head in one hand, as another Charlotte lies just as limp. You examine it, then turn your head.

I'll be elsewhere for some time.

YOU WILL COME BACK IN THE END.

You will, but it doesn't matter. The second Charlotte is paper, not clay, and it is trivial to slit her open. It is less trivial to worm inside, but you manage. You've been in there before.

—

You lift your cheek off the table and groan. Richard bolts up. "Charlie!"

"Hi... Richard." Your jaw is stiff. You pat it. "Long time no see."

"Of course you're well. I— I cannot even begin to grasp what you were thinking. Or indeed if you were. What a pointless escapade. If your goal was to delay progress on Satellite as much as possible—"

"Is that when we are?"

"What?"

"Before Satellite? But after..." You run your fingers over the bumps on your skull. "I remember. I think. You haven't fixed the manse up yet."

Richard has taken his glasses off for the express purpose of rubbing his eyes. "You should know, Charlie, that my tolerance for further pranks is limited. If you have suffered brain damage, I dearly hope it's genuine."

(2/3)

"Geez. Sue me for not wanting to screw the timeline." Had you really missed him?

"Ha-ha." Dry as bone. No, you hadn't missed him at all. "Why don't I perform a check-up? Let me rephrase that. I will perform a check-up on you, Charlotte Fawkins, because—"

"You don't need to do that." You sigh, send apologies to the Charlotte you're currently trampling, and unfold a little— just enough to press against the skin. Richard's voice dies. "Okay? It wasn't pointless. Maybe it was stupid, but it wasn't pointless."

"H—" He is gripping his glasses hard enough to whiten his fingers. "Herald."

"Don't kneel."

He doesn't. He is gripping his chair with the other hand. His hands are shaking quite a bit. "You are... inside her. Yes? She can't possibly... it is unfinished. The work is unfinished. Herald, you—"

"I'm not the Herald," you say uncomfortably. "I— I'm on vacation. I'm Lottie. You can say that."

"Lottie." He swallows. "But you have... the Task is achieved."

Halfway. "Yes."

"It is achieved." He is tapping his glasses against his leg. "It is achieved. And I am dead, Lottie?"

"Yes."

"As it is written."

"Yes. I guess." You pause. "I won't kill you now, if you were worried. I... I'm on vacation, like I said. I can just hang out."

"The Herald of the Bright Epoch. Hanging out." The glasses are thwacked shut on his leg, pried back open, and slid onto his face. "We live in unusual times, don't we, Charlotte Fawkins. For how long?"

"...Until I have to leave? Until she feels better? I don't think I should go out and... I don't know who'd notice, but I don't want them to notice. I didn't want you to. I think you need to fix up my manse."

"Do I, now."

"You will eventually. I think soon. I can't remember the order of things that well, but if it's soon, I don't see why not now. I can give suggestions?"

"The glorious Herald, not lifting a single delicate claw to—"

"Okay, I can help. But I can't just wave my hands and make it different. That's... I can't." He'll be dead. No reason for him to know. "As long as you're okay with that."

"Anything for you, Lottie. Er. Did you have ideas?"

>[1] Just general, logical upgrades. A nice sitting area, a bridge, a battle arena (obviously). You have no special Herald insight here.
>[2] All this time, and you never went outside. Stuck in your big hollow empty manse forever. Can't you have a backyard? A garden? Something beautiful, not sterile?
>[3] Will Jean Ramsey find her way here? In the grasp of forever, your memories have started to smudge. All you know is that it seems awfully likely, and, if she comes, you ought to be prepared. Collude with Richard on a trap.
>[4] GIANT FIRE LAKE
>[5] A different vision for your manse? (Write-in.)

>>6265038
>4
2 actually seemed pretty tempting until I scrolled lower
Real magma and everything please
Hot enough to roast marshmallows on

>>6265038
>[4] GIANT FIRE LAKE
Sounds metal

>>6265038
>[5] A backyard and a garden with a GIANT FIRE LAKE

>>6265038
>>[2] All this time, and you never went outside. Stuck in your big hollow empty manse forever. Can't you have a backyard? A garden? Something beautiful, not sterile?

Giant fire lake is metal, but flowers and nature is cooler.

>>6265067
>>6265096
>>6265115
>>6265478
>[2], [4]

Sure, why not. Writing.

>>6265483
Fire lake GARDEN?!
Truly, we are spoiled.

>>6265484
The fire lake would have to be outside anyways! It all works out.

Bah humbug. You know the drill, folks. Tomorrow!

>FIRE LAKE GARDEN

Of course you had ideas. He never consulted you on the design of your manse the first time, after all. Too late to tear it up and rebuild— much too late for you— but you would not leave yourself with vacant, dusty, bone-pale nothing. The only good parts were the font and Gil's garden in the wall. He didn't need it anymore; he had his own, now. You would.

You could've knocked out a wall, opened a door, but you took special pleasure in turning your head to the vaulted ceiling and speaking [OPEN] to the greatest, most intricate, most gemlike window of them all— the one with the sun in it— and watching it fall, and watching it shatter, coating the floor in shards of red light. The skeleton of the window swung and clattered out into the absolute darkness. You offered your hand out to Richard. "Could you give me a boost?"

He did not reach back. "And break my back, Herald? Use the door."

"Do you ever miss those long legs of yours?" you said conversationally. "Or that neck? You could use those to—"

"You don't know about those yet."

"Oh. Sorry. It's hard. I— I'm glad I'm like this, you know. If you saw me how I'm supposed to be, I wouldn't— there. There is good." You exhale steadily. "Hold still."

Richard reacted too late to stop you, even though you gave him fair warning: you launched yourself forward and bounded up his front, planting one foot on his hand and the other on his shoulder. "Yeah! Okay, now walk over there."

"You're lighter." He squeezed your ankle, but complied. There was still a sheer wall between you and the window-ledge, but you plunged your hands into the marble and made divots, and picked your way up that way. When you rolled onto the ledge at last, you reached your arm down for Richard. "Jump."

He fixed his tie. "I will join you on my own, thank you."

"No you won't," you said, and pressed against your skin again, and then he sighed dramatically and stowed his glasses and hopped— it was really more of a hop. But you flung yourself down to catch his arm, then wrenched it up and free of him, and his paper body fluttered as you swung up, black and narrow arm in hand, snake in hand. It hissed in your face, and you laughed fangs-out at it and dropped it out the window. You followed.

Richard was out there, in the blackness, brushing himself down. "Was that necessary?"

No. It was very far from necessary. But out there, everything was necessary: everything was portentous, everything meant the fate of the world. It did not mean the fate of the world whether you swung Richard out the window, but you could do it, so you did.

(1/5?)

What you did out there wasn't necessary either, though the sun was near to it. You looked out into the unfinished darkness and drew The Sword and raised it in one motion. In your hand the flames whipped and whipped and grew gold and white and brilliant, so you could see them with your eyes closed, or from above. (In your diorama a pinprick blazes.) Down below, you caught the sun spinning on The Sword's very tip and flicked it out of reach. It hung in the sky, and the sky came with it.

Fiat lux, Richard said.

You almost needed the garden, too. Will have needed it. You took clippings from the heart-plant; you went down into your mind and dug up rosebushes and replanted them in dark soil. Richard wanted to do the soil, and you let him. You thought of bringing Gil in, to consult on trees, but could not. If he didn't notice, Teddy would. You took rootings from the tree in his nook, instead, and watered them from the font.

Leafy and living, but silent and still. Richard suggested a breeze. You pulled the wind-up bird from your pocket, breathed into it, and let it flutter onto a branch— then pulled it down, pressed it in your hands, and let a dozen spill out.

Richard with a cigarette was watching from a bench. "Can't just wave your hands and make it different."

"I can't! I— I mean— I couldn't— I couldn't snap my fingers and go 'there's a garden now.' I'm not God."

"Aren't you?"

"No." It came out harsher than intended.

"I see." Richard cocked his chin, took a drag, tapped the ashes onto the new dirt. "Even so. You've surpassed me."

"...Will have."

"Much the same. I suppose I expected this. I am not, after all, the Herald. Would you devise new and terrible ways to kill me if I said I was proud?"

You slid up behind him, sticking your fingers through the lattices of the bench. "I... Charlotte Fawkins would."

"Of course. I'd expect no less." He hadn't turned around. "But you can rest secure. So, Lottie, I am proud of what we have accomplished. She may never hear that, but you— well, you are hearing it."

You clenched your fingers through the bench.

"Moreover, I look forward to seeing my vindication in action. That will provide all I need. So thank you for offering an advance on it, if you will."

"I didn't mean— I wasn't thinking of it when I came."

"No matter. You rarely think of anything at all. It shakes out regardless."

"Yeah." You were silent. "Richard, has she told you that the Wyrm won't bring you back? I mean the agents."

"Not conclusively."

"But you believed it."

(2/5?)

"I extrapolated from the available evidence. The available evidence supported her conclusion. Will you do it, Lottie?"

"...I'm not God."

"I don't believe that," he said, "in the long term."

"Will you hate me if I don't?"

Now he turned. "Do you care?"

You looked into his eyes. If you wanted, you could push your way inside them— he could not deny you entrance— but you'd seen how it was in there. Sort of weird. Lonely. "A little."

"You always were honest. I think the heroic thing would be to do something. They are not innocents, but they are not... it is no way to live. Not for anybody. If they saw the world, they might open their minds to it."

"Might," you said.

"Can't you see the future? You would know better than I." Richard sucked at his cigarette while you shook your head. "Well, then. If you left them, perhaps they'd eat themselves. Or perhaps they'd find something else productive to do. I have no sweeping knowledge of my kind. I will not hate you, no matter what, as I will be dead. Would you like a cigarette?"

"What? I don't— Richard, it's not ladylike."

"Are you a lady, Lottie? Or are you an enormous lizard in human guise? You can hardly pick up a habit now."

You watched him shake his lighter open, the yellow flame a hundred-thousandth the size of yours, and watched him make the end of a cigarette a little star. He passed it up to you, casually, and you looked at it for a long time before taking it. Confidently, you took a drag, and coughed, and coughed, and coughed, and took another, and coughed, and took a third, and didn't. Your head buzzed. The smoke was wafting around you in a helix.

"Good," Richard said, and neither of you said anything for a long time. "Lottie."

You had been smoking. "Huh?"

"You should know that killing the Wyrm— it is murder-suicide."

You discovered that smoking was a convenient reason to not respond.

"I have been mulling it over since the dreams were relayed. The Wyrm does not live, so it cannot die, in conventional wisdom. There is nothing there to kill. But the Wyrm is [WYRM], in its totality, and Laws can be... struck down. Naturally, to strike down [WYRM] is no simple task, or it would have been done. It would require enormous control over Law itself. Such as the control the Wyrm itself possesses."

"You already told me this," you said.

"Will I? It's important. Has the point been made, or should I draw this out to its logical conclusion?"

"...The point was made."

"Then that was all I wanted to say. I wanted to ensure you knew. Were we finished with the garden?"

With the garden: it was enough for then, but you were not finished in total. You had planted out the area around the manse— the cathedral, was what it was, though you'd always known that, had sculpted it yourself— but vast expanses laid sunlit but empty. You needed to do something that wasn't necessary in the slightest.

(3/6? I dunno)

"A fire... lake."

"Yes."

Richard contemplated. "Why, great Herald? Does it play a fated role in the coming weeks?"

"There's no need to be sarcastic. If it does, I can't tell you. But doesn't it sound cool? Lots of people have gardens in their manses. Does anybody have a fire lake? I think it could go all the way around, so it's like we're on an island in the fire lake. Is that too much like Ellery's?"

"I believe he had an ordinary ocean."

"Okay. I thought so too. So are you going to help, or..."

Richard stomped out his cigarette. He helped. There was, after a great deal of time, a fire lake. You were hoping for literal fire, but settled on molten rock, which was still pleasingly orange. It did make it more convenient to cordon the garden off, at least, with a beach-slash-beachhead of white gravel.

You could always have done more. Built out into the lake. New islands, tall bridges. Castles. Green mountains. Waterfalls. Things you've only read in books. You could've pile clouds into the sky, could've make it night and scooped up the broken glass and put stars out. Richard would've helped.

But you were borrowing time, and the interest was mounting. There was such a thing as 'good enough'. There had to be. And, within you, somebody was stirring.

Richard was standing by the lakeside, tossing in handfuls of gravel and watching them sizzle. You joined him. "I really have to go."

"Leaving me with Charlotte Fawkins? How cruel of you."

"Don't be mean. I'm Charlotte Fawkins."

"So you are."

You scooped some gravel up yourself. "I— I'll miss you. Sort of. I guess. I really shouldn't."

"Confounded by my biting wit, I expect." He was attempting to skip a pebble, though every attempt stuck to the surface of the lake and sent sparks up.

"Maybe. I don't know how else you'd do it, after..."

"I don't know either. I can't say I was anticipating much."

"Oh," you said.

"I believe I expected you'd kill me then and there. Thus the bindings, if you recall them."

"And the drugs."

"And my drugging, yes, though that was less of a defensive measure. Still, it's remarkable that it worked at all, given who you are, or were. And who I was, and what I was. But what are we, if not remarkable?"

You ran gravel through your fingers. Your spleen was stirring. "Yes. I— I really do have to—"

"Then go, Lottie. I will live. Then I won't, but you get the gist. But, while you remain, I—" He looked ought toward the lake. You couldn't see his eyes in the orange light. "I am sorry."

"For?"

"Don't push it."

You whacked his arm, then, on further impulse, pulled him toward you. It was not a close hug or an intimate one and for the first couple seconds Richard did not understand what was happening. When he did, he didn't know how to participate, and patted you roughly on the side. You leaned in, smelled cigarettes, and whispered something in his ear. He stopped patting and clenched you a little harder.

(4/something)

Then Charlotte really began to scrabble, and you bucked once and opened your mouth and left her.

—

You're hugging Richard. You're hugging— "Get off me!" you say, and shove him, and stumble back. He lunges forward and catches your front, and you struggle against him. "I'm serious! Get away from me! Did you drug me?! Let go of me right now or I'll—"

"Hello, Charlie. You are suspended over a large body of lava. If I let go of you, you will fall into said large body, and you will find that unpleasant. Should I haul you up?"

...That would tend to explain the heat on your back. You narrow your eyes, and Richard returns you to a standing position. He steps back himself. "There. And, for the record, I wasn't doing anything of that sort. I was attempting to pluck a leaf off your coat. You see?" He indeed displays a leaf. "Now why are we jumping to conclusions?"

"I..." God, you feel strange. "I don't..."

"Perhaps the heat made you woozy? Would you like to retire to the garden?"

"The garden?" You look behind him. There is in fact a garden. "Wait, where are— this isn't your mind still?"

"It's your manse."

"But my manse doesn't... um... wait. What am I even saying? I— we made this." It's all coming back. "We've been making... God, maybe it really is the heat."

"It is a notable downside of a fire lake, Charlie, but you insisted."

Of course you did! You refused to let Richard dictate your life any longer! If you had a random impulse to make a giant fire lake, then, by God, you were making one. "Obviously. But maybe also... I was in your head, right?"

"So you were. But we got that sorted out."

"I don't remember sorting it out? I remember— the eye, and— the Wyrm! Richard, I— I saw— not just imaginary— I was with the Wyrm. Like I traveled through your mind, somehow, but— you don't have— you haven't been talking to it, have you? I don't see how else there'd be a portal—"

"A portal? I don't think so. And if I had personal contact with the Wyrm, I'd be a celebrity. More than likely... well... I have shared your memories of It. Of looking upon It directly. The Wyrm is [WYRM], and, in reproduction, it must remain so. In my mind and yours. And if the Wyrm is [WYRM], and nothing else is required for this to be true, then your memories and mine contain It."

"So the Wyrm is spying on us through our—?"

"No. They have the capacity to be the Wyrm, not the permanent actuality. Or you would be the Wyrm now, yes? I would also presume that It might always be spying regardless, and that it will not matter one whit. We know you will be the Herald."

(5/whatever)

"Right." You rub your temple. "Yeah. That bench looks good. Were you smoking over there? You left your cigarettes... whatever." Maybe you should install an ashtray. "There really should be a tree over here. You can't have a bench without a tree over it. Why didn't we—?"

"You didn't want to duplicate the same tree multiple times, I recall."

"Right. Wait, I should get Gil on this. He's— he knows tree stuff. Sort of."

"He'll produce an edible one, if nothing else. But yes. Why not? Present the fruits of your labor, Charlie."

You bring in Gil, who stays far, far away from the lake, but who gamely helps with the trees. (He has to be beetles while he's thinking it through, though.) For good measure, you call up Earl, who hoots when he sees the lake and slaps your back hard enough you worry about falling in. And Anthea, who wants to know how you did it so fast, and ends up interviewing Richard on the topic.

It's an excellent time all around— even Richard seems to be in a good mood. (You thought he'd be mad about you changing his manse, but he probably can't remember building it.) Eventually, though, he nudges you and informs you that you've been unconscious— your body has been— for a good long while, and you ought to wake up and take a walk before you get sores. So you do.

Sores are the least of your issues. You awaken fine, but you feel trodden on, or like a wagon rolled you over, broke some bones, and jostled a couple joints loose. You were lying there for that long?

"No, Charlie." You startle. Richard is sitting in your desk chair. "Alterations."

"You could've warned me," you grumble. "Could you at least kill the—"

"Not mine, but yes. One moment." He shuts one eye and taps on the desk.

You lean your head back as the pain dampens, then sit back up abruptly. "Not yours? Whose?"

"Well, I don't know, Charlie. You did encounter the Wyrm directly, did you not?"

"I— oh my God, you're right. But it didn't... it didn't mutate me last time... do I look mutated?"

"No."

"Are you sure? If I go outside and there's screaming, I— ahh!" Your hands have drifted up to your scalp, where you've either been hit on the head in exactly the same place you were before, or you have honest-to-God horns. Okay, tiny ones. Nubs. But they're smooth, not fleshy, and hard like bone, and when you poke them you feel nothing. No nerves. "Richard! Are you seeing—"

"I can't see anything, Charlie. Your hair is in the way. I imagine they'll have to get rather tall before they become visible, given your..." He mimes scrunching something above his head.

(6/8?)

"Okay." That's good. You can ignore questions once you're busy beating up Jean Ramsey, but it'll be a lot harder to ignore them before that. "Okay. Is that it? That doesn't feel like..."

That's not it. When you run your hand down your spine, there's definite, prominent bulges, though whatever they are haven't broken skin. And, at the end of the spine, there's another nub— skin-covered, inflexible, and roughly pyramidal, perhaps two inches long. You'd think you were developing some hideous disease, if you didn't know better. You slightly wish you didn't know better.

Besides that, your jaw comes loose, which you discover by accident when trying to feel your teeth. Your skin was already stretchy, so you suppose it's not all that difficult to loosen up the rest. And you've done it before, albeit with Richard's interference. And it doesn't hurt: you just open up your mouth all the way, then more than that, enough to fit your entire fist in comfortably. So it's fine. You'll just be careful when you yawn. Completely fine.

Anyways, all discomfort is washed away when your slacks don't fit right. "Richard," you say. (He was instructed to turn his back.) "My slacks."

"Did the Wyrm do tailoring? Has your waistline expanded? Elaborate."

"They're..." You have put them on. They used to come down to exactly the top of the foot. Now they come down to the top of the ankle. "Am I taller?"

"I don't know, Charlie. Can I look?"

You gesture impatiently, and he swivels, then sizes you up. "It would appear so. Not by all that much, mind you. An inch and a half?"

"But I'm taller," you say.

"Yes."

"I'm taller."

"Yes."

"I'm— I— YES! YES! PRAISE THE— why would the Wyrm want me taller?"

"I would only dare to guess, but I was intending on it. As a byproduct. I believe I was intending on most all of that, in fact, so you've been given a leg up. We have."

"But no weird mutations? I don't have a third eyeball, or—"

"None that I can see, Charlie."

"YES!" You pump your fist. "BOOYAH! Just call me the Wyrm whisperer! I— damnit!"

Your door was knocked on. You look over: Richard has vanished. A male-looking shape is hovering outside the tent. "Charlotte? Is this a bad time?"

Monty's voice. "Um," you say. "No."

"Alright. I'll just be a minute. Could you—?"

You hop down and unfasten the door. Monty's eyes linger on you for a second, but he doesn't remark on anything. "Thank you. Were you busy? I heard some— it sounded like something was going well."

"Yes. Going well." Is he carrying anything? Is anyone with him? No and no. He seems totally fine, not mad at you or down in the dumps or whatever. "What's going on?"

(7/8)

"Not much. I mainly— actually, I just heard from Gil that you were occupied, so this is much less of a welfare check than it could've been. You seemed very unconscious, was all. You're fine now?"

"Yes," you say. "Fine."

"I'm happy to hear it. You have had, er... a difficult month. We all have. So if there's anything you ever—" You're shaking your head. "Well, my door's open. Metaphorically. Please knock, if you can manage it. In other news, were you aware that Game Night is tonight?"

You blink. "But Game Night just—"

"That it did, Charlotte. Last month." Monty smiles genially. "I know the last one ended poorly, in more ways than one, but if it's any consolation it'd be difficult to top. If you're concerned, you can always come in when everybody's already drunk."

"Except you," you say suspiciously.

"Well, I don't intend on getting hammered. Somebody has to keep an eye on things. But Mads has suggested that one or two drinks is unlikely to burn the camp down, and I, eh, have done some testing. But that's between me and her, really. Now, I don't want to keep you, and that's all I had, so I do hope to see you later. I'll leave you to your..." He peers into your tent, seeing nothing. "...whatever it is."

>[1] You can't *not* go to Game Night. It wasn't Game Night's fault that Richard murdered your father, after all. Do you have particular objectives? (Write-in. Optional. Real choices incoming when I wake up, you know the drill)

>>6266198
>Actually play games and enjoy ourselves this time, especially since we just got a bad feeling about the good ending requiring our suicide

>>6266266
Supporting

>>6266266
>>6266274
Extremely sensible. I actually don't have too much to add here:

>Do you get drunk?
>[A1] No
>[A2] Some
>[A3] Very


>[B] Is there anybody you hang out with in particular? (Pick up to three-- but the more you pick, the less time you'll have with each.)
>>[1] Gil
>>[2] Teddy
>>[3] Claudia (in begrudging attendance)
>>[4] Monty
>>[5] Madrigal
>>[6] Fake Ellery
>>[7] Pat
>>[8] Wait is that Guppy? You haven't seen her for like a month and a half
>>[9] Your secret fan from the general store
>>[10] Why is Arledge here
>>[11] Write-in?


>[C] Is there anything in particular you talk about with your gaming budd(ies)? Questions? Favors to ask of them? (Write-in. Optional.)

>>6266401
>[A2] Some
>[1] Gil
>[8] Wait is that Guppy? You haven't seen her for like a month and a half

>>6266401
>A2
>B4,5,9

>>6266401
>>[A2] Some
>>[1] Gil

>>6266518
>>6266403
damn don't you guys ever want to give Gil a break
He's always with us already and we can talk to him anytime

Rolled 2 (1d3)

>>6266403
>>6266421
>>6266518
>[A2]

>>6266403
>[1], [8]
>2 people

>>6266421
>[4], [5], [9]
>3 people

>>6266518
>[1]
>1 person

Alright. Rolling to see how many people you hang with. By majority vote, Gil will always be one of them (sorry >>6266535).

Rolled 3 (1d4)

>>6266647
>2 people

Alright, let's see who the lucky(?) remaining hangee is: Guppy, Monty, Madrigal, or Roscoe in that order.

Rolled 19, 50, 71 = 140 (3d100)

>>6266648
>Madrigal

Not all that surprising, I suppose, given she's organizing the thing. It would've been really funny if you picked Roscoe, but maybe best to leave the poor guy alone... Rolling quickly to see how well you to, then writing, ish. I came back late, so we'll see if I can crank this out or not.

We'll catch back up eventually...

>GAME NIGHT

And he did leave. Later, you emerged, and went and found Gil. He was shuffling cards.

"For Game Night?" you say.

"Ahh! Uh. Hi, Lottie. Shit." He'd dropped half the stack of cards on the ground, and you kneel to help pick them up. "You're out and about, huh? Did Monty wake you up? I-I-I tried to tell him you were—"

"Growing horns?" You grab his wrist and maneuver his hand onto your head. "You feel them, right? I don't think they're imaginary."

"Uh..." Gil pats your head gingerly, then, when you lean forward, parts your hair just as gingerly. "Oh, shit."

"Okay, good." If you found out everything was a lie, you'd lose it. "So?"

"Uh... I-I-I don't... is this good?"

"I asked for it."

"Oh." Gil relinquishes your scalp. "Then, um, they look really good. Richard did a good job. I-I-Is there a... I guess you can headbutt people?"

"Yes! I can headbutt people! Or maybe they'll just get bigger, and then I can put ribbons on them. Or my tail. Or both? Richard didn't do it, by the way. He started it, but then I think the Wyrm..." (Gil is starting to look seasick.) "Um, it doesn't matter."

"...As long as you're okay with it." He holds his hand out, and you stack cards into his palm.

"Positive thinking. I wish you could get some alterations, Gil. Not horns, but... you should be fireproof! That's your one weakness! If you were fireproof, you'd be invincible, practically. Are you coming to Game Night? Because I want to, but last time was terrible. Are you going to be dealing cards?"

"Dealing? Um, no. I-I, um—" He falters. "I-I-I might've implied to Madrigal that I could play cards, pretty well, and then she said 'I'll see what you got,' sort of... threateningly. So now I-I-I'm seeing if I even remember how to count."

"Count?" Maybe the beetling did more damage than you thought. "Well, that's one, two, three, four, five—"

"No. Ha-ha. Um. Card counting. In blackjack? It's where you..."

Gil spends about ten minutes attempting to explain— then demonstrate— card counting. It slips in one ear and out the other, possibly because Aunt Ruby is swatting it down in the middle. (Gambling isn't permissible for young ladies.) Still, you don't mind listening. Richard lectures at you because he likes to hear himself talk, but Gil hates to talk: he wants you to understand.

You definitely don't, but it's fine: you'll be God soon, and you won't need to memorize any dumb complicated strategies in order to win at cards. You just will.

That's what you keep in mind, later, when you've been roped into playing blackjack yourself: "You've never played?" Madrigal guffaws. "How? Fuck, I knew you lived under a rock, but—"

"I know some card games," you say defensively. "Ones appropriate for a person of my standing."

"Like?"

You haven't foamed at the mouth and collapsed yet tonight. If you answer Madrigal's question and she laughs more, you might consider it. "It— it doesn't matter."

"Uh huh. Well, hit or stand?"

(1/5)

You peer at your cards. Positive thinking! "Hit!"

"On a—" Madrigal shuts her mouth, raises her eyebrows, and flips her own card over. "Damn, who would've guessed. Five of shells. You bust. Tokens, please?"

You hover your hand over your pile of wooden tokens. (You had no idea Game Night had such an elaborate prize-exchange system! Why didn't anybody ever tell you there were prizes?) "Who says I bust? I think I drew a perfectly good card, and— I mean, a five is low. And what are you going to do with these, anyways? Aren't you organizing this whole thing? That sounds a little bit like cheating to me, but maybe I don't understand the rules of gambling, which I hear leads many people to a life of—"

"Gilman, how many drinks has she had?"

"...One. I-I-I think."

"One drink. Have you ever played blackjack with her?"

He shakes his head.

"Lucky bastard. Charlotte?"

You fold your arms. "Yes?"

"You don't know how to play blackjack."

Richard had offered to tell you what all the optimal moves were. You told him to shove it. "Yes I do."

"You hit on a 18, dumbass. I know you're not actually dumb. Can I teach you? Or can Gilman? This guy knows his shit. Maybe he's actually cramming aces up his asscrack, I dunno, but I'm sure he can teach, if you don't wanna see my mug anywhere. 'Course, then I keep your tokens."

"They're my tokens," you say sulkily. "But I guess Gil—"

"Great. Then I'll go grab a drink, and I'll watch." She reaches over the table and pats you on the hand, then stands. "Oh, yeah. Want anything?"

You had, in fact, only finished one drink— you were planning on more, but then there were prizes, and you wanted to keep your sharp mind intact. So much for that. "Yes! One—"

"I'll getcha the punch. Bugs? Anything? Wait, you got the— Pat's thing. The insta-drunk. Shit sucks. Still, if you—" Gil shakes his head. "Got it. Okay, seeya." A few steps away, then she turns. "Shouldn't leave this empty. ELL! GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!"

Her voice has a way of slicing through the sea of chatter, laughter, clinking, thumping, swearing: easily 40-odd people at 10-odd tables, counting the one for drinks and the one stacked high with prizes (admittedly nothing fancy— all donated by the attendees— you spot several of Eloise's found-object sculptures among them). Several heads turn, but only one pops up: Fake Ellery, wide-eyed as usual. He appears to be in the middle of a game, but when Madrigal jerks her thumb he traipses over haplessly. "Hi, Maddie. Uh, hi, Lottie. Hi, Gil. Is something the matter?"

"Yeah. You're gonna deal blackjack for anyone who stops by. You know how." Fake Ellery opens his mouth; Madrigal puts her hand over it, then pecks his cheek. "Thanks, bud."

Then she goes. Fake Ellery pushes a card around with his finger. "...So, uh, were you guys gonna play?"

(2/5)

You could. Gil could start teaching. But then you'd have to be around Fake Ellery, who hasn't done anything wrong, but who makes you slightly uncomfortable: you don't know if he knows or not. He talked to Real Ellery— does he remember that? Or has he died and come back blank again? When you're God, you'll probably fix him— you're not saying you will, but probably— but until then, the problem is intractable. "Nope!" you say, and tug Gil up with you. "Have fun!"

Madrigal finds you and Gil sitting in the sand, having failed to bring your chairs with you. She crouches down and hands you punch (it's neon green, made from the juice of some native underwater plant, but acceptably fruity-ish). "Started yet?"

"A little." Gil had been trying.

"Mmm." She swigs from a beer can. "Well, keep going, Gilman. Don't mind me. I just wanna see into the mind of a famous heroine."

You're not sure Gil likes being observed any more than you do, but he gives the explanation an honest shot. Hits and splits and double-downs and blah blah blah— "Is there any fighting?" you clarify.

Madrigal sniggers into her can. "What?" Gil says politely.

"You know. Do the cards ever... do they ever fight? Like, the strongest card wins?"

"Um, no. You're trying to match a total, not—"

"I don't think this is really my kind of game." You pause. "But, um, it's good that you like it. Because a good retainer needs to cover my weaknesses! If my dastardly foes ever engage me in a game of blackjack, I know for sure you'll—"

"You guys are sweet." The can crinkles. "Charlotte, did you actually want to play for table stakes? There is other shit going on, you know. Dice. Kaluki. Uh. One of the Court guys brought his own homemade game in, I think, but fuck knows what you do in it. Made a little board and everything. Hold that thought. Hail! Lord of Camp!"

You look up as Madrigal mock-bows. Monty, in a crooked paper crown, has approached. "Hello to you too, Mads. Oh! Charlotte! You made it! Welcome to Game Night, though I really shouldn't— this is all Madrigal's. Ignore this." He straightens the crown. "Eloise and friends were having a little fun. Anyway, I was tasked with finding you, Mads. We're rounding up a table for poker."

"Poker! This son-of-a-bitch! Looking for meat for the grinder, huh? Oh, sorry." Madrigal turns to you and Gil. "This asshole Gewecke plays the best poker in camp."

Monty waves it off. "That's hardly—"

"Hands down. He's going to whup my ass, and if you play he'll whup yours. Of course, it doesn't help, everyone being drunk as shit except him... just saying."

"She exaggerates, Charlotte. Besides, I, eh—" He raises his glasses. "I've been mitigating that advantage somewhat, if that encourages you."

"Ha!" Madrigal, elated, cuffs his arm. "This bastard! Feeling ready to fly into a rage yet, Lord Gewecke?"

(3/5)

"Not at the moment. Though, if you don't join me... you're of course welcome too, Charlotte, Gil. It really is nice to see you." He pauses. "It doesn't have to be for stakes."

"No stakes! Well, then, raw meat, c'mon." She puts your hand on your and Gil's shoulders. "Let's get grindered together."

Which is how you wind up playing poker. After being informed it involved fighting cards against each other (sort of), you were excited about the switch; after being informed it also involved lying, you tried to back out, but by then it was too late. At least Gil is similarly reticent: he used to be okay at it, he says, but he hasn't played since before he got beetled. He's not sure if they'll let him help you or not.

«I can.»

Richard can. Enthusiastically, or as enthusiastically as he can as a slightly deadened voice. Is poker knowledge something he was "born" with? Was it downloaded on a micro-stick? Or is he downloading it now on your behalf? You decide you don't want to know. In any case, you're told which cards to play, which helps you not look like an idiot in front of Monty, Madrigal, Gil, Pat ("Been a while, Charlotte"), Eloise ("Hey! Look who it is!"), Guppy (she's still here? she doesn't say anything), two people you dimly recognize from camp but have never spoken to, one regular of the Better Than Nothing you've never spoken to, and one Court recuit, judging by the feathers.

You had no earthly idea so many could play. You also had no earthly idea poker was so complicated— Richard tells you cards, but then other people have their own cards, but they could be lying about their cards, and you're supposed to decide whether they're lying— and you have to try to lie yourself— and decide how much to bet— and it all falls apart for you. The whole thing is so stressful that you decide to ignore the lying part, play the cards Richard tells you every time, and bet big no matter what, because you're thinking positive. This doesn't work, but it does make people chuckle. Not meanly. You hope.

In any case, you don't win. Not even close. You lose quick and hover awkwardly around the table, avoiding eye contact with the Courtier (who lost before you, thank God). Richard tells you that Gil is doing well for himself, and you want to cheer him on, even if you don't know when exactly to cheer.

At length Madrigal stands, grinds her knuckles into Monty's scalp (he pats her arm), and comes around to you. The table is now Monty, Pat, Gil, Eloise, and the guy from the Better Than Nothing. "Still here?"

"Gil's winning," you say.

"Dunno about that, but he's putting up a fight, that's for sure. Between you and me, I thought he'd be out first, given the..." She mimes her hands shaking. "...you know. But he's cool as ice. Freaky."

Gil? Cool as ice? Maybe it's the goo. You shouldn't tell Madrigal about the goo, or she might think it's cheating. "You didn't think I'd be out first?"

(4/5)

"Mmnh." She clinks another beer can against her chin. "I thought you might take it."

"Take it? Like... win? I mean, I'm talented in many areas, but— my pure and honest heart prevents me from utilizing my—"

"Yeah, but you're a god, aren't you?"

Your heart plummets. "What? Where'd— Ellery."

"Ellery."

That stupid bastard! "He wasn't supposed to tell—"

"Charlotte, they had to stick him on a deserted goddamn mind island to keep his mouth shut. He talks. I don't know what you expected. It's true, though?"

And you just proved you couldn't lie. "I— I'm not God yet. Not right now."

"But soon."

"Sort of. ...Yes. It's complicated."

"Yeah. Well, you always were weird. Did you know the whole time?"

"No. Richard, um..."

"Could've told you he was pulling a fast one. Well, whatever. I'm not going to start bending and scraping. Are you gonna go after everyone you loathe? Zap 'em with lightning?"

"There aren't that many people who qualify. Anymore. Um. I— I don't think— I wouldn't smite you. If you were worried."

"Wouldn't smite me! Shit! What more could I ask for?" Madrigal punches your arm, a little too hard, and drains her can.

You side-eye her. "I don't know. What more would you ask for? I— I told Lucky I'd put him back on the surface already."

"Really? I'd smite him, but at least he's outta our hair that way. Sheesh. What a goddamn prick. And I've met a lot of pricks, Charlotte, but he really—"

"You didn't answer the question."

"..." Her lips pinch up. "...Nothing. I'm doing fine."

"You wouldn't change anything at all about—"

"I have a leadership position, a healthy side hustle, a pretty sweet social circle, a decent guy who likes the shit out of me, and I'm 26 until death. And I'm not wanted by the fucking authorities. I'm doing way, way better than I was up there, I don't mind saying. Putting me back up there— I mean— maybe Lucky wants it, but it'd kill me. Don't do it."

"I won't," you say, "but—"

But she's lying. Normally you have a hard time telling, but maybe the poker game hightened your sensitivity, or maybe it's just obvious. She sounds bitter, for one.

Is this even worth pursuing?

>[1] Yes. Maybe that's all true— but everybody wants something, don't they? It's practically your divine duty to find out. Argue. (Optional: write-in arguments.) [Possible roll.]

>[2] Yes. You don't know what it is she wants. You have very little way of knowing, to be honest. But can't you... have a premonition? Or a postmonition? Can't you just *know*? (What does Madrigal want? Write-in.)

>[3] No. Leave her alone. If she doesn't want to tell you, it's her own loss, first and foremost— and maybe you'll just use your God powers later to find out. Maybe. If you can do that.

>[4] Write-in.

>>6267314
Oops. I normally let typos slide, but "raise his glasses" should be "raise his glass", i.e. of alcohol. Monty does not wear glasses.

>>6267316
>[2] Yes. You don't know what it is she wants. You have very little way of knowing, to be honest. But can't you... have a premonition? Or a postmonition? Can't you just *know*? (What does Madrigal want? Write-in.)
If we go by what we've seen in a manse once, Madrigal wants to have lived a different life. She wants a different past, not a different future. Not sure we can give it to her.

>>6267316
>2

Similar to >>6267391
but rather than a whole different past probably a better relationship with her surviving family
We hereby proclaim there will be land to ocean phones

Hey I just want to say thanks for continuing this.

I've missed a lot though so, uh, gonna trawl the archives. See you in like a week?

>>6267391
Close...

>>6267420
Bang on. Writing.


>>6267669
...You're welcome? I don't believe I've ever stopped making this, but happy to see you back. By any chance, did you drop off around thread 35?

>Postmonition

Yes, of course. What could be more heroic than saving somebody from their own stupid caginess? You tilt your head and study Madrigal— she juts her jaw and studies you back. At last it comes to you, fully-formed and shining. "Ohhh."

"What?" She's crossed her arms. "I'm fucking serious, Charlotte. I have a good life. Leave it alone."

"I miss my family too," you say.

The impact is immediate. She recoils, as if struck, and glares, with actual hurt, as if... well, yes, as if you'd reached out and smacked her. "Sorry? Did I say anything about—?"

"No." But when she was that giant snake, the place she made up— and it could've been anywhere— was her family's old store. You're almost certain it was that. And she got all weird about it when you reminded her, didn't she? It's not the most comprehensive evidence, but your detective skills are masterful, after all, and you just had a feelig. A powerful feeling of absolute correctness, now, by her reaction, absolutely confirmed. "But don't deny it. There's no reason to. That's, like— that's the most normal— who doesn't miss people up there? It'd be way weirder if you didn't, in my opinion."

Madrigal has stepped back far out of reach. In case you really do smack her, you guess. "They didn't even come to my fucking execution. Fuck them. And fuck you too, by the way. I'm glad you're dogshit at cards, and I hope you spend the rest of Game Night getting your ass—"

"You don't need to say all that. I'm sure they miss you too."

Or maybe she stepped back so she wouldn't smack you. "What the fuck do you know about—"

There was a little shrine for her in that store, but it's more than that. What do you know? You just do. It's all laid plain. "I could— I don't know if I could make it like you never— I don't know if I could fix your whole life. I don't know if you even want it fixed like that, and it sounds complicated, and Ellery would really hate me if I made it so you never met him. So don't even worry about it. I think it'd be nice if I set up a radio-thingy, though, so people up there could talk to people down here, even if they couldn't visit. Or I could make a really, really tall staircase? And if you walk all the way up, you could sort of... you'd be right under the surface of the water, and you could see out, and..."

"Charlotte?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Huh? I mean, when I'm God. Which'll be soon!" You point. "And whatever I settle on, I'll get you a VIP pass, okay? So you can find out whether they miss you or not, even though they do, and either way you don't have to worry. You helped with Headspace and stuff, so I wouldn't mind."

(1/6)

"You wouldn't..." Madrigal rubs her mouth, looks down, looks sideways, then, carefully, rubs each eye with her thumb. "Whatever. Look, I— I better go— I should make sure Ellery isn't in over his head, or something. Or see if the prizes are in order, or— I'm a busy fucking woman, Charlotte. You should go do something. Go roll dice, if you can't fucking play cards. Whatever. Seeya."

She bolts. You watch her retreating back, unsure if you offended her or if she offended you. You weren't wrong, though.

Maybe you better find the dice. Should you warn Gil you'll be elsewhere? No, look at him over there: he's all hunched over, concentrating. And it's not like you're going far at all.

The table with the dice is largely populated with people you don't know well, except for Claudia! She's here? Is Henry lurking somewhere, or did she hear it was Game Night and took the initiative? She sure didn't take the initiative to let you know she was swinging by, though she has the decency to greet you. "Wow. Look who it is."

"Decency" might be strong. The other people at the table, none of whom you know well, are politer. Apparently they're just about to wrap up and reset, so you came at an opportune time: there is a hand-drawn board and pebbles and dice, and the rules, for your benefit, are recapped at length. Hopefully Richard got all that.

«Under no circumstances should I be your first resort here.»

But he got all that?

«Yes.»

Great. You'll do the dice-rolling, and if you need to do anything else he can tell you what. That's teamwork, is what it is. The good news is that the game calls for plenty of dice, and when they come around to you, you rub them around in your hands, blow on them, and think positive, positive, positive. Then: release!

Six. Six.

Double sixes! Of course! The best result— right? Richard?

«Yes. Now move your pebble.»

The best result, and all because you thought positive. God, you're good. The squares on the board spiral inward, and you happily skip your pebble over everybody's, making sure to whack Claudia's as you pass it. Of course, several of them pass you on their next turns, but it's fine! You're thinking positive. You will be victorious.

Six. Six.

Double sixes. A winner's roll. Someone whistles. Someone says "beginner's luck!" Claudia smirks over at you, exposing pointy baby fangs, and grabs the dice. Her roll is unremarkable.

You spend the time until next turn ignoring your fellow players. You're thinking about double sixes. When the dice come around, you don't bother blowing or shaking: you toss them down as soon as you've grabbed them. Six. Six. Now people are staring. "What are the odds of that?" someone says. "You're sure these things aren't loaded, Hugh?" "Well, we've all been using them." "You got a technique?" someone asks you. "Do it again," Claudia says.

(2/6)

"I— I don't have a— why should I?" But you're already rolling. Six. Six.

"Let me try," says the woman next to you, and rolls a 3 and a 5. You take your dice back and roll without positive thinking or anything. Six. Six.

"Boring," Claudia says. "Can you roll anything else? How about snake eyes?"

Snake eyes? You...

«Both dice showing an upturned 1-pip face.»

Snake eyes. "I can't control it," your mouth is saying, but your wrist has gone out-of-sync, and the dice are already in motion. They skid to a stop in front of Claudia, who picks them up and holds them in front of her own eyes. One. One.

Your attention has already drifted back to the board: you have leaned over, plucked up your pebble (not white, exactly, but paler than the rest), and marched it down twenty-six spaces, which takes you to the center. "I win," you say, so you can leave and lie down. You are cold and something hard is in the center of your chest.

Nobody appreciates that. Claudia lowers the dice. Hugh-or-whoever is trying to explain something, and Richard in your ear is trying to explain almost the same thing, about win conditions and specific criteria and how you would stall— your pebble would stall out in the central loop until you'd fulfilled those, marching around and around, no matter how well you rolled, to avoid this exact situation, and if you'd listened to even a little bit of the rules you would understand that, Charlie. Richard does not appear to understand that something is happening.

"Roll a 6 and a 1 together," Claudia says. You and Richard are the only ones who remember the game. You shut your eyes, so you don't have to see it happen, but all you see is the blue tangle of the die warping as it nears you and popping into place when it lands. Your own strings blaze; the center of your chest is pure white. Though you're cold, you're sweating.

When you open your eyes half the table is standing to accommodate the small crowd that's gathered. Two new dice are dropped in front of you. You'd rather not roll them, actually, but you are a foot away from your body: Six. Six. Six. Six. If you look too hard you can see them landing differently: six six six five, one four one three, three five six two, the crowd moaning and dispersing, but only one of them is right— like how you were right about Madrigal— like how you'll be right about everything, how you'll win, in the end, how you'll be God, and right, and just, and perfect. Six six six six six six six six. Is that Gil in the crowd? You think you might need him. Or Richard. You'll settle for Richard. You just need help. Please?

...

(3/6)

———

You dream of emptiness.

There was you, and you were the world; the world was therefore perfect. You were content with this, or called it content, or did not know anything otherwise. After some eternities passed, though, you began to wonder if other beings existed, and if they did exist, why they did not reveal themselves to you. You hated them for not revealing themselves. The alternative was deeming yourself alone.

After another eternity, nothing had come. The void had sanded away at you, though, coating you with mounds of scale-dust, thick enough in places to be the width of you again. You thought of shaking it off, first, and did: it scattered around you and hung there, and some clumped up. Still there was more dust, and you thought at last of putting something inside it.

You had long since abandoned the idea of an equal, but it appealed to you to make something in your image: narrow and long, glistening scales, burning eyes. These were your offspring, and they were perfect, and the world remained so. For an eternity longer, your offspring burrowed through the dust, called sand, and created pleasing patterns. For an eternity you were again content.

But you began to know the patterns by heart, and, to create more patterns, you were forced to create more offspring. They could do little on their own. At length you began to resent this friction, and turned your mind to a means of self-reproduction.

Thus entered the slaves, who took some of your resemblance, but who walked atop the sand— they could not burrow, or it would be too crowded. All the same, you made them long and narrow, the shape of your offspring buried within them. You were pleased with the cleverness of your devising: to reproduce themselves, your offspring would lunge from the sand, take hold of a slave, and work themselves into the slave's feeble brain; the slave would thus rip itself apart, in doing so bearing offspring of its own.

Unfortunately, you lacked ideas for making slaves self-replicate, and trusted they would devise something. Or, barring that, you would make new ones in batches: they had more nuance than your offspring, so it was less of a chore. All was thus good and perfect.

———

Your nose is wet. You're on your cot. You don't feel good.

"You feel alive, don't you?"

Yes. Alive. Wait, what? Were you going to die? You turn your head and find Richard there in the dark. "Likely not," he says. "But all the same. Always important to celebrate the small victories."

You open your mouth. Sound doesn't come out. You close it. What happened?

"It was wishful thinking to encounter the Wyrm and emerge more-or-less unscathed, I think. The effect was merely delayed. The alcohol could have also contributed. By the way, Beetles was here." Richard deposits a paper crown on your chest, then tucks a sheet of notepaper into your fist. "For you."

(4/6)

Monty's crown? Stiffly, you unfold and scan the note. Hi Lottie, it starts, then conveys the following: you fainted; Madrigal butted in and told the gawkers to fuck off; Richard walked you back here, since nobody could lift you (not even Monty); the crown is yours, in honor of your really good luck, or something. Monty didn't want it. Also, he hopes you're okay, and he wants to check in once you feel better. Also, he thought about leaving himself here, as beetles (since that can happen now), but thought it would be weird. He's either in his tent or helping to pack up Game Night. Bye. Gil.

Probably best he left a note, because no way Richard would bother recounting all that. Do you have a nosebleed? You wipe your nose— the stuff coming out looks black in the dark, which doesn't rule out blood, but it smells burnt when you sniff it. Hmm.

Are you able to stand? You feel stiff. "I'd sleep it off," Richard says. "You had quite an incident."

Yeah. Which he really helped with.

"I wanted to see where it went." Richard cracks his neck, then, abruptly, vanishes. Didn't want to hear your response, you guess. Hmph. You shut your eyes and watch the strings drift.

"Hello? Can you hear me?" Oh, he's back. You open your eyes again. "Testing? Yes. Hello, Charlotte Fawkins."

Huh? Oh, God, he's looming right over you. Scary. Didn't he just say you ought to sleep?

"Did I?" Richard above you has gleaming yellow irises. "It's been some time. We'll have to skip the sleeping. Did you or did you not just experience the 'dice incident'?" Without waiting for a response, he presses his thumb to your forehead. "Oh, you did. Excellent. I've come about as early as is practical, so no bitching, thank you."

Come? Come from... Satellite? Wait! Come from the future?

"More or less. Don't get excited. This is a business endeavor. You'll be in your manse in three, two—"

He presses his thumb into your forehead. You squint against the light of day, then sit up.

"Lay down, Charlie." Future Richard, who looks near exactly the same as regular old Richard, clutches a fistful of wires. "I assure you, you don't want me to attach these wrong."

"I'm going to Satellite," you say.

"Yes."

"Now? Shouldn't I..." Plan? Prepare? "...recover first?"

"Not at all. You must advertise yourself as the Herald as loudly as possible. I calculated this as the earliest moment such a thing was viable. This will hurt." He grabs your wrist and jams a needle into it. You flinch, then relax, as the pain floods away.

"But you've laid all the groundwork? By the time you... by whatever time you're coming from?"

"As much as I feel is possible. Ideally you will do nothing at all but your job, which you will not bungle. This is my neck on the line, Charlotte."

Your neck is having wires threaded into it. "I won't bungle it."

(5/6)

"That's what you always say. Drink." He tilts your head up and pours a glass of something cloudy down your throat. It's tasteless. "Now stay still." He's fastening a doohickey to your head. "I am not entirely convinced you will not contrive a way to ruin everything."

"Nice positive thinking," you mutter. "Not everything can get ruined, because... it won't be. Or I wouldn't be the Herald. I just have to be the Herald, right?" However that works. "Can I roll dice at the Director?"

"No. That was a fluke."

"The Herald doesn't have dice powers?"

"No."

As charming as usual. "Okay? So I just got really, really, really, really lucky one time in my life, and all of that was—"

"You thought you would roll well. Then you couldn't stop thinking that. That's my assessment. Do you feel this?"

Your right eye spasms uncontrollably. "Don't do that!"

"Better now than in Satellite. You will be profoundly vulnerable there. We may thank the great and merciful Herald, Charlotte, that I will have a leash on you, and that we will be additionally working on a clock. Nevertheless, there will be zero serendipity, zero sightseeing, zero... sojourns. Zero. I am deadly serious about this. You must be inconspicuous."

"I thought I was supposed to be the Herald."

"To the Director. Which we must get to. As a blunt reminder, this is your absurd request, so I trust you will not sabotage it. Do you understand?"

Clever to ask you while drilling wires into your brain, or whatever nastiness he's up to now (you can't see it, but you sure can feel it). If you don't understand, maybe he'll slip. But geez, is there anything else?

>Future Richard's patience is short! (Has he suffered some unspeakable trauma in the future? Or maybe he's just Richard.) Ask up to 2.

>[1A] What if an agent stops you and tries to talk to you?
>[1B] What if you get lost? Or separated from him?
>[1C] What should you expect from the Director? (Has he sussed out any weak points from his future-research?)
>[1D] What if you can't be the Herald?
>[1E] Can he warn you about what you'll see in Satellite? So you don't look like you're gawking at everything?
>[1F] Write-in.

>[2] Actually, you're fine. You'll figure it out on the fly, like usual. (No questions: proceed.)

"That's what you always say. Drink." He tilts your head up and pours a glass of something cloudy down your throat. It's tasteless. "Now stay still." He's fastening a doohickey to your head. "I am not entirely convinced you will not contrive a way to ruin everything."

"Nice positive thinking," you mutter. "Not everything can get ruined, because... it won't be. Or I wouldn't be the Herald. I just have to be the Herald, right?" However that works. "Can I roll dice at the Director?"

"No. That was a fluke."

"The Herald doesn't have dice powers?"

"No."

As charming as usual. "Okay? So I just got really, really, really, really lucky one time in my life, and all of that was—"

"You thought you would roll well. Then you couldn't stop thinking that. That's my assessment. Do you feel this?"

Your right eye spasms uncontrollably. "Don't do that!"

"Better now than in Satellite. You will be profoundly vulnerable there. We may thank the great and merciful Herald, Charlotte, that I will have a leash on you, and that we will be additionally working on a clock. Resultingly, there will be zero serendipity, zero sightseeing, zero... sojourns. Zero. I am deadly serious about this. You must be inconspicuous."

"I thought I was supposed to be the Herald."

"To the Director. Which we must get to. As a blunt reminder, this is your absurd request, so I trust you will not sabotage it. Do you understand?"

Clever to ask you while drilling wires into your brain, or whatever nastiness he's up to now (you can't see it, but you sure can feel it). If you don't understand, maybe he'll slip. But geez, is there anything else?

>Future Richard's patience is short! (Has he suffered some unspeakable trauma in the future? Or maybe he's just Richard.) Ask up to 2.

>[1A] What if an agent stops you and tries to talk to you?
>[1B] What if you get lost? Or separated from him?
>[1C] What should you expect from the Director? (Has he sussed out any weak points from his future-research?)
>[1D] What if you can't be the Herald?
>[1E] Can he warn you about what you'll see in Satellite? So you don't look like you're gawking at everything?
>[1F] Write-in.

>[2] Actually, you're fine. You'll figure it out on the fly, like usual. (No questions: proceed.)

>>6267833
>1C,F
For F, can we take some gulfweed just in case we have performance issues?

Also damn, we’re gonna get a reputation for breaking down at Game Night

At least this time we got to play some games :’(

>>6267833
>[1C] What should you expect from the Director? (Has he sussed out any weak points from his future-research?)

>>6267833
>>1C

>>6267700
Last I remember Charlie had killed her Richard dad, blown up a hivemind, been arrested, something something wind court, it seemed like she was finally going to get on track to get the crown back.

Then life happened. I'm just glad to see this still going on. still haven't had time to archive dive sadly. Did make slapping meatloaf tonight after work though. Doing straight 10s every day for the last two weeks and next week right before a big trip.

>>6267871
>>6267899
>>6268118
>[1C]
Straight to business. Richard approves. Yes, you can take some gulfweed.

Writing shortly.


>>6268181
>Did make slapping meatloaf tonight after work though
Nice!

>Doing straight 10s every day for the last two weeks and next week right before a big trip.
Not nice. Sorry to hear that.

As for the quest:

>Charlie had killed her Richard dad
Thread 28...

>blown up a hivemind
Thread 30...

>been arrested
>something something wind court
Not sure about these, assuming you dropped off when I think you did and just came back now-- you might be misremembering Lucky's presence in Threads 28-30ish, thinking way back to Thread 16, or something else, I dunno

> it seemed like she was finally going to get on track to get the crown back
This would've kicked off post-Thread 30, with you learning the Gold-Masked Person's true identity in Thread 35, the last thread my long-lost write-in anon ever posted in.

Until now...?

Okay, but seriously, if you dropped off in late 2023, if you used to do a lot of write-in double-triple-quadrupleposts, and/or if you ever tried (and failed) to recommend me the Practical Guide to Evil webnovel, then I know who you are, I noticed your absence immediately, I never forgot it, and I thought you died or something. Welcome back to the quest-- and in the nick of time, too, because we only have a couple threads left in the tank. If you're somehow not that guy, ignore all that, but the 'welcome back' stands!

You're welcome to catch up at your own pace: if you'd like a refresher on the threads you've read already, feel free to check out my shiny recap doc here (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VPJwXzTpv4lO_t6R3jA32NLbKjdIZjtJlRFsWQgBMnM/edit?usp=sharing), and if you'd like a clean way to read, I have a really big PDF of every thread here https://drive.google.com/file/d/1i4whn-TXxkLwjtnVB2RUmb1fehj1hOyA/view?usp=sharing. Or sup/tg/ is up-to-date as usual-- up to you.

Also note that this upcoming update will contain some major spoilers, so you may not want to look.

>LAST BIG REVEAL OF DROWNED QUEST REDUX (confetti) (confetti) (confetti)

"Yes, but..." You can't even scratch your nose with him up there, lest you start speaking backwards or smelling green or something. "...is there anything you can tell me? From the future? Can you tell me what the Director is going to be like?"

"No."

"Didn't you do any prep?"

"Yes. I am not permitted access— one moment." Your vision blurs. "I am not permitted access to information about the Director. Higher-level accounts are not permitted access to information about the Director. It would appear that, in fact, nobody is permitted access."

"Maybe the Director is dead," you say. "Or maybe he doesn't exist? Maybe Management is in charge! Maybe—"

"We will be finding out. Stay there." He releases you and begins to fasten sticky-pads to his temples. "Can you hear me? Speak."

Yes, you can hear— oh. "Yeah, I can—" It's your voice. Noises are coming out. "—hear you. I guess the Director probably only speaks snake language. Doesn't this hurt your throat?"

"No." Richard has turned his back. "I will be initiating the transfer in very short order. Will you try not to ogle?"

"Ogle?"

"At me. Five, four, three, two, one. Go."

You are lying there, and you are standing, and there are wires poking out of both of you, and you are staring into your own gold eyes, and you are shunted down a metal pipe and sped somewhere and spat, screechingly, into a different place.

The air is different here. Thin. You smell chemicals. The pipe stretched you out— you feel stretched, and hard, and dizzy. There is a floor, with unflattering carpet, and you are standing on it. You thought you'd be floating: is it not the moon? You thought it'd be different. More different. But everything is beige. You appear to have spots.

Richard is a lizard. You'd dither about whether it is Richard, but you're in his head: if you strain, your vision splits, and you see your own lizard face staring on up. But you don't care about yours. Richard is a snake-lizard-man, scaled in charcoal grey from head to toe, with a narrow angular snout and narrow yellow eyes. He is obscuring the eyes with glasses, maybe to see you better: their arms rest in a ridge by his jaw. His earless, hairless head perches on the end of a muscular neck, doubled up and resting on itself. Unrolled, it'd be three feet long.

The neck flows into a— you know that suit! That's Richard's new suit! The ugly tattersall one. The collar of his shirt is oversized and pointy and the tie is far too thick. You suppose snake(people?) have different standards of fashion, but— under it all, Richard's torso is short and thin, and his arms are long, and his legs are longer— between that and the neck, how tall is he? And why does he not tuck his shirt in? And how tall are you, to not be dwarfed by him?

(1/3)

Richard who is and always was a God-damned lizard has been holding still for your assessment, his lizard face masklike, radiating faint embarrassment. (You know it's him, because you're not the one embarrassed.) How were you supposed not to ogle? His lizard fingers have small claws. His nostrils are slits. He must hear from those holes in his skull. What would happen if you poked your finger in there?

»You will not.«

Richard's voice comes from all around. You stick out your tongue— your— is it a lizard tongue? You try to feel, but your fingers are not sensitive, and your mouth is full of sharp little teeth. No change there. You attempt to see through Richard's eyes, but he's put a wall up: instead, he places a hand on your head and turns you around. You are facing a desk, a lizard desk: a flat typewriter lies on it, and a few crumpled paper cups, and, behind them, a box. The box is square in the back and curved in the front, and is beige, but the front is black glass: you can see your reflection in it.

You are also a lizard. You expected that. You have spots— you expected that too, because your hands did. White scales with grey spots. Your eyes are yellow. Your lizard face is a lot rounder than Richard's, and your snout shorter, and your neck much shorter. Perhaps a foot in length. Is that his fault? Did he make it short? Damn him!

On your neck— you tilt your head to look— are little nubby spines, which run down your back and your— ooh! Ooh! You have a tail! You mean, of course you do, because you're a lizard. It isn't very big, and it also has spots, and you can't really move it, try as you might. But when you grab it, you feel it.

"R—"

Richard lashes out and clamps your mouth shut— you mean actually clamps it; his hand curls around your snout. Your opinion of snouts drops considerably. »Think.«

Richard?

»Yes. Like that.«

Richard, you have a tail.

»I know.«

The lizard face betrays no emotion, but he doesn't sound flippant. After a moment, he bends his neck down (and down and down) to see over your shoulder, then withdraws. The eyes like spotlights fix on you again.

...Is it a special tail? Is he embarrassed because his tail is so much worse? You attempt to crane your own neck, but it doesn't go very far: you have to shuffle past him, in this cramped little wherever-you-are, to check. Richard has no tail at all. He doesn't even have a flap in his slacks for one. Aha! Is that why he's so mean all the time? He's a tailless freak?

The embarrassment has been crowded out by soft annoyance. «We do not have tails.»

But you do?

»Because you are the freak.«
»It is atavistic. You appear to the eye to be primitive. Also, stunted.«
»You have perhaps escaped the breeding program.«

The breeding program? You don't want to know. And it's his fault you look like this.

»As it is your fault I look like that.«
»It is not... bad, Charlie. It is what you are. It is...«
»I am glad to see you at last.«

(2/3)

He doesn't have any other secret bodies, does he?

»No.«
»But here is the snake.«

Richard stretches his long leg out and kicks something under the desk. You duck through a nest of wires to discover a rectangular tank, a little larger than the box up top, filled with water. Inside floats a blank-eyed black-and-yellow snake. A note is stuck to the glass, filled with scribbled runes, which nestle in your mind as Little bastard.

You pluck the note off and hold it up. Hey! Look what you—

Richard snatches it from you. (Back to embarrassment.) »We have dithered long enough. Set that down.« You have grabbed a conical purpleish thingy, filled with drifting orange blobs: at last, something weird-looking! »It is a lamp. Come on.«

It is the only decorative object in this whole little space, emphasis on little: if Richard stood in the middle and stretched his long arms out, he could likely touch both sides of the wall. Above and around the desk are a load of enticing buttons and switches, a panel of blinking lights, a image of numbers and a moving zigzag line, a glowing sign that translates vaguely to "LIVING," or "AIRING"—

»Live. On air.«

—bits of paper where notes were ripped down, a bulky radio headset hanging on a hook, and that's all. In the center of the space, which has three walls and an empty back, is a battered chair with an extremely long headrest. His snake chair. Where he sits? Where he sleeps? Or does he go somewhere else to—

»No.«

Can he at least knock himself out, like he knocks you out?

»No.«

Oh. And that's it. How often does he leave?

»Rarely.«
»Let's go, Charlotte. You wanted to do this. Let's.«

>You will. But you're in— you're *in* *Satellite*. Right now. He said no escapades, but you're going to have at least one escapade, okay? A quick one. To see. What is it?

>[1] Name ONE thing you want to see or do that isn't what you came here for. Write-in. Optional— I'll drop choices when my brain functions again— but I think you guys can come up with interesting stuff here. Sorry for continuing to do this (but not sorry enough to stop)!

———

And, at last, Drowned Quest is home to an eight-foot-tall saucer-eyed immortal shapeshifting lizard person from another dimension, or possibly outer space, manipulating humanity for his own inscrutable and nefarious ends. Actually, it's home to a whole bunch of them. Richard has been this since 2019, and you can find some hints throughout. Love you guys and thanks for sticking with me, mwah mwah, kisses kisses, etc

>>6268298
I for one CANNOT come up with interesting choices here. Maybe checking out 301’s office? Or that other department that talked to us about Richards performance many threads ago and about him getting recycled and freaked out and left when we mentioned Management?

>>6268328
Checking out 301 may be a good idea.

>>6268328
>>6268298
+1

>>6268328
>>6268366
>>6268744
I have cleverly offloaded the mental labor of writing options onto my long-suffering playerbase. Truly I am the best QM.

Anyway, this will all work just fine. Writing.

>>6268328
> Or that other department that talked to us about Richards performance many threads ago and about him getting recycled and freaked out and left when we mentioned Management?
It makes absolutely no difference, but those were actually two separate agents (one was conducting the survey; one was there unofficially to hand off Richard's "get well soon" card and gossip). Of the two, the second one (RD/C #1) was marginally more fleshed-out and gets mentioned in CODICIL, so I'll go with it.

>Meet Fuckface

So you go. Richard steps out of his office-thingy, looks both ways, and gestures for you to follow. His office-thingy has another next to it, and another next to that, and on and on, out of sight: as you hurry past, you discover that most are unoccupied. A glancing few house scaly heads bent over glowing boxes: the agents clack away on their typewriters, or else they yammer away to nobody. Have they found the Crown in their realities? Have they put up shop in some poor sap's head? Will that poor sap ever, ever, ever discover a fraction of what you know now?

At least there's less poor saps then there used to be, from the looks of it. Were a bunch of Correspondents recycled recently?

«No.»

...Then where are they?

«It doesn't matter. Keep walking.»

You'd think Richard would learn by now: with an answer like that, you can't not wonder. When you reach at last the end of the "cubes," the path goes straight and to the right. Richard continues straight, but there are noises to the right, loud convivial lizard-noises, and you duck off to the right. It's simple to locate these noises' source: an open door, and, inside, a whole gaggle of Correspondents. So that's where they went! They appear to be throwing a party.

Aww. Did Richard not get invited? Is that why he didn't want to tell you? Your curiosity sated, you make to head back, but catch a stray phrase from the crowd: "...Herald in short order..."

Herald! That's you! What is the party for, anyways? Surely agents don't celebrate birthday, or holidays, and you think recyclings happen without warning. The crowd is crowded around someone, though: a light brown, blocky-looking Correspondent, busy receiving a round of backslaps. It's hard to make him out— or it, or whatever— over the din: "...couldn't have done it without... look forward to... yes, the Object is... not seen the Herald yet, but..."

»What are you >doing<.«
»What did I >say< about sightseeing.«

Richard grabs the bow around your neck and yanks you, stumbling, back to the left. You weren't sightseeing. You were investigating a very important-seeming party, in which people were talking about the Herald, i.e. you, and— does he know the brown Correspondent? With the square sort of head? Because it seemed like a lot of the attendees were paying attention to him, and...

»Fuckface.«
»We are not dwelling on this. Keep moving.«

Wait. That was Richard's sworn nemesis? He didn't look very evil— you liked his patterned tie. So the party was for... wait, wait, wait. You're in the future! Did him and Jean Ramsey win? Is that a— a— a victory—

»A premature one. This is irrelevant.«

It blatantly is not, Richard! He needs to tell you whether you're doomed or not!

(1/4)

»If the Wyrm were revived, you would not be here. I would also not be here, because everything will have been entirely wiped. Use your head.«
»They are celebrating their imminent success. Not their complete one.«

But it won't ever come to fruition. Because you're going to come in (in the future) and chop Jean Ramsey's head off. Or bite it off.

»Correct.«

What if you went in there and chopped Correspondent #301's head off? Would that solve the problem?

»You cannot, you will not, and it would not. It would cause larger problems.«
»...«
»I appreciate the sentiment. Now, move, or I'll make you.«

You move. The room located straight ahead is painted the same horrible beige and is lit by the same horrible lights, but there are floor-to-ceiling windows on your left— they look out onto a vast hollow enclosed space, its inner surface lit in squares, its shape held by enormous struts, its emptiness broken by tubelike bridges, none of which intersect with— or even near— a large red-glowing spherical thing in the center. You'll take a stab at it: it's the original BrainWyrm, and a faint buzz of approval from ahead marks it so.

The whole thing is less impressive than it should be, because it mostly just looks like Headspace. But Richard never said snakes were original.

On your right, the open-faced "cubes" are replaced with a network of larger, windowed— are these offices? They look officey. When you pass by one of them (it looks the same as the rest), Richard tries to push your head down. »Move quick.«

Huh? You do crouch, but don't move. Why? How can anybody even see you? Aren't you in his head? Nobody could see the snake—

»The matter is complex. You would rapidly find yourself ceasing to care.«
»Now move. There is no reason to be obstinate.«

Why? Who's in there? Another nemesis? The nameplate reads "R/D-C #1." Wait, that—

The grey-brown agent inside has looked up. Richard shoves you down hard: you wind up flat on the rough carpet, and can only hear the resulting conversation. "Hello? Is that Wingnut?"

"No," Richard says out loud.

"Out and about? And here? The high-and-mighty Wingnut comes to visit little old me? Did your box explode or something? Given what you do to the thing—"

"I am going."

"No you're not! Come in! Or should I come out there?" If Richard was radiating lukewarm annoyance for you, he is radiating icy poisonous annoyance here, and you're not all that surprised when he turns his eyes on you and— like a fist closes around you— you are not there on the floor any longer.

You are not anywhere, and you remain nowhere for who-knows-how-long until you flicker and gain feeling and fall to your knees: this is slightly awkward, with the narrowness of lizard knees, and the weight of the tail, and you flail before catching yourself on the ground. The metal ground? You aren't in a carpeted room anymore: you're in a very small, vibrating one.

»Elevator.«

(2/4)

Could he not vanish you without asking? You have a headache. You didn't know lizards got headaches.

»No.«
»We are on our way up. I have obtained and entered an override. We should not be stopped for passengers, and we should emerge on the Director's floor.«

Okay. That's good. Um, so how was R/D-C #1? You think... you think she's the one who delivered his get-well card. She was nice, for a snake.

»As overfamiliar as always. If it had spotted you, our endeavor would be ended. Be glad it did not.«

There is a poster on the wall of the elevator. It depicts the Herald— you won't beat around the bush, it's a white lizard with spines and a blacked-out eye— but a Herald on two long legs, with two long arms, wearing clothing. Except for the tail, she looks just like an agent. "HOLD YOUR NECK UP!" it says on the top. "THE NEW DAY IS ARRIVING!"

You think about posing for a poster like that. Richard remains standing, in fact paces in tight circles, the whole long way up. When the elevator halts, he sticks his arm out. "Stay."

You stay and watch him approach a door, scan an ID card, punch something in, swipe the same ID card, punch something else— and the door slides open. He gestures for you to follow, and you do, into a glossy window-lined lobby. Agents do like their windows. You're looking upon the BrainWyrm from above, now, and if you squinted you could pretend it were the sun and the window-squares stars. Only if you really squinted. Richard has beelined to the desk, where the lobby's sole occupant sits, and has begun to argue.

The occupant (evidently the Director's secretary) wants to know who he is, why he is here, how he got here, who you are, how security has not yet been— Richard cuts her off, keeps cutting her off, insults her intelligence, lies, hisses, curses, points at you, lies some more, leans his head over the desk into the secretary's face, lies into her face. You watch, semi-awed. It's horrible, of course. He's horrible. He's done all of this to you, more than this, for longer. But when it's for a good cause...

Eventually the browbeaten secretary gets up, goes over to the snake-engraved door on the lobby's far end, and hefts it open. Then she waits.

»Go.«
»I will be out here. If I am not out here, I am in custody. Ensure that the Herald of the Bright Epoch personally advocates for my release.«
»You still have to >return,< after all. No funny business.«

You enter through the door. It shuts behind you.

(3/4)

The office of the Director is enormous, circular, and almost entirely unfurnished. There is a single desk. The desk has a box on it, like the one on Richard's desk. There is a chair. And there is a green lizard-man. You're surprised: you were almost certain the Director didn't exist.

"Are you the Director?" you say, to be sure.

A long pause. "...Yes?"

"Oh." (Damnit.)

A longer pause. The Director stood from his chair when you entered and hasn't sat. But he hasn't approached, either. "Er, who are you? What are you doing here?"

He doesn't sound very confident. It could be a ploy. What do you start with?

>[1] Get straight to the point. You're the Herald of the Bright Epoch, here to Herald at him. It skips any stupid preamble... but he might try to throw you out straight away, whcih would be annoying.
>[2] Get even straighter to the point. Manifest so much Heraldness that he's awed, ready to do your bidding, and so on. It can't be *that* hard. [Roll.]
>[3] Obfuscate. Shouldn't he know why you're here? How would you get here if you weren't supposed to be here? What kind of a lazy-ass Director doesn't keep track of his appointments? And so on. It could soften him up before the big reveal, if he buys it.
>[4] Write-in. (Feel free to add onto an existing option if desired.)

>>6268848
>If it had spotted you
Richard calls his coworkers it? Damn. How would he like it if they did it back?

Love the agent art btw. They seem pretty cool too, guess we should rescue them from the moon.

>3
Those replies...
Don't tell me he's a figurehead with no control of the system!

>>6268846
Cute nervous Charlizard

>>6268849
>[2] Get even straighter to the point. Manifest so much Heraldness that he's awed, ready to do your bidding, and so on. It can't be *that* hard. [Roll.]

>>6268849
>[3] Obfuscate. Shouldn't he know why you're here? How would you get here if you weren't supposed to be here? What kind of a lazy-ass Director doesn't keep track of his appointments? And so on. It could soften him up before the big reveal, if he buys it.
Get obfuscated, dick

>>6268908
>Richard calls his coworkers it?
It's briefly discussed in CODICIL: all agents are "it" and have no sex or gender, so Richard is just being accurate (though I wouldn't put doing it as an insult past him). The Wyrm is also ungendered, so It didn't see much of a point in inventing such a thing. Richard himself is a "he" for practical and emotional reasons, not biological ones, and would get annoyed if you started calling him "it." Charlotte is continuing to use "he" and "she" because she doesn't really get it.

>>6268202
> if you ever tried (and failed) to recommend me the Practical Guide to Evil webnovel,

Haha wow yeah that was me.

> a lot of write-in double-triple-quadrupleposts,

Uh. Cocaine is a hell of a drug? Yeeeeah. It was a different time.

> with you learning the Gold-Masked Person's true identity in Thread 35,

I am beyond hyped for this lol.

>>6268849
>[2] Get even straighter to the point. Manifest so much Heraldness that he's awed, ready to do your bidding, and so on. It can't be *that* hard. [Roll.]
3 sounds like a bad idea to try on a Snake.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>6269123
>>6268918
>[2]

>>6268919
>>6268908
>[3]

Flipping.

>>6268908
>>6268918
>Love the agent art btw.
>Cute nervous Charlizard
Thanks! Here's a noncanon one (really funny nevertheless).

>>6269079
>Haha wow yeah that was me.
Damn I'm good. You have a very distinctive posting style.

>Uh. Cocaine is a hell of a drug? Yeeeeah. It was a different time.
This might have contributed to said posting style, thinking about it.

>I am beyond hyped for this lol.
I think you'll be generally pleased with how the quest has developed in your absence. Let me know what you think as you catch up.

>>6269182
>[3]
Guess you'll slow-walk it. No dice necessary. Writing in a while.

>Give him the runaround

Yes, hello, you are the Herald of the Bright Epoch, savior of snakekind. Or lizardkind, or whatever it is. Could he please explode #301 now?

Ugh! That won't work. Should you lie? You're no good at all at lying, but you have a lizard face at the moment, and it doesn't seem to be very expressive. It mostly just opens and closes. And Richard was lying up a storm out there, and you're better than him, so can you let him beat you? No! You clear your throat. "Ahem. Shouldn't you know why I'm here? I'm somebody very important, after all, here on important business, and it's frankly shameful that my meeting, which I scheduled, in advance, has been thrown to the wayside—"

"I'm sorry," the Director says.

"—thrown, I say, thrown, and— what? You're sorry? I mean, of course you're sorry. You should be! The meeting was supposed to start a whole hour ago, in fact, and I was waiting out there the whole time, and—"

"I— I didn't know there was a meeting. You're the first person who's ever come in here."

"What?"

"You're the first one who's ever come in. I've been alone in here."

You try to process. "For how long?"

"I— I don't know. A whole bunch of orbits. I got recycled... I think. I can't remember anything, and nobody ever came to... I never got a... I think they forgot to give me any instructions. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing. So I don't think I can— I can help with whatever your problem is, sorry."

"Was there a Director before you?"

"I don't remember. Probably. Maybe your meeting was with that one?" The Director has sat back down. "But it'll have been recycled by now, too, so... I don't think anybody can help anymore."

"But," you say, "aren't you in charge of... everything? How does it all keep going?"

"Oh. I think it sorts itself out. Everybody know what to do already. I like to watch them." He cranes his neck back, toward the windows behind. "Um, it's the only thing I can do, but I have a nice view. It's not so bad."

Is he stuck in the room? "What about that box on the desk?"

"Oh. I don't know how to use it. They never gave me any instructions."

"'They,'" you say.

"The Recycling department?"

A-ha! "The Recycling department! Who usurped the previous Director and planted you, a helpless puppet, in his stead, so they could feed you their nefarious instructions—"

"I don't think so. Um, I haven't received any instructions. Like I said. And it's the BrainWyrm that determines who to recycle, and nobody knows how it works anymore, so..."

"So the BrainWyrm usurped the previous Director."

The Director is inscrutable in his lizardness (this is very inconvenient for you), but his lizard voice, once sufficiently parsed, sounds confused. "Maybe? Is this what your meeting was about?"

(Choices next.)

>Sure. Yup. This is very far from what you hoped, but you refuse to leave empty-handed— you guess you have to reveal yourself as the Herald now, or whatever. How will you present yourself?

>[A1] As the Herald, Sunbringer, who will scorch the earth and boil the waters. You need help enacting vengeance upon the (allegedly) foul and smarmy Correspondent #301, who's screwing things up for you and really deserves it.
>[A2] As the Herald, Door-opener, who will rescue his people from eons of captivity. Seriously, you promise you'll rescue them, if he does you a solid and cripples Jean Ramsey's whole deal.
>[A3] As the Herald, Eternal One, who is yet to be born and has always existed. You need his help in making things be how they always will have been. For example, um, you saw, in the future, that he'll have helped you ruin #301's stupid party. Please?
>[A4] Write-in. (Feel free to write-in either presentation or specific things you want the Director to [try to] accomplish, above and beyond general "annoy #301 and Ramsey".)

>[B1] Just announce it. He's not exactly a skeptic.
>[B2] Go the extra mile. [Roll.]
>[B3] Go the extra mile... with help. [Use gulfweed. ??? effect.]

>>6269350
>[A3] As the Herald, Eternal One, who is yet to be born and has always existed. You need his help in making things be how they always will have been. For example, um, you saw, in the future, that he'll have helped you ruin #301's stupid party. Please?

>[B2] Go the extra mile. [Roll.]

>>6269350
>A2
>B3
Get wrecked crown thief

>>6269350
>>[A3] As the Herald, Eternal One, who is yet to be born and has always existed. You need his help in making things be how they always will have been. For example, um, you saw, in the future, that he'll have helped you ruin #301's stupid party. Please?
>[B3] Go the extra mile... with help. [Use gulfweed. ??? effect.]

>>6269350
>Sure. Yup. This is very far from what you hoped, but you refuse to leave empty-handed— you guess you have to reveal yourself as the Herald now, or whatever. How will you present yourself?
>[A2] As the Herald, Door-opener, who will rescue his people from eons of captivity. Seriously, you promise you'll rescue them, if he does you a solid and cripples Jean Ramsey's whole deal.

>>6269402
>>6269443
>>6269530
>[A3]

>>6269402
>[A2]

>>6269443
>>6269463
>[B3]

>>6269402
>[B2]

Called for [A3] and [B3] and writing.

Bah. I frankly wasn't going to have options ready (they'll be long), so might as well delay the rest. Might day-write, tbd. Good night!

>>6269697
How much lizard art did you have ready to go?

If we elected to listen to Richard and not try this, would we never have seen it?

>>6269715
Looks like I have one piece of lizard-Charlotte art left, and 5 or 6 pieces of lizard-Richard art (I might have to post it on OOC posts like this, since I'm not sure I'll have enough relevant update space remaining). Some of the lizard-Richard art is from 2021.

>If we elected to listen to Richard and not try this, would we never have seen it?
I probably would've posted it after the quest ended! But yeah, this was your one shot at the lizard reveal.

Rolled 6 + 16 (1d16 + 16)

Rolling for number of days you have left before Ramsey forces your hand...

>>6269908
>22 days

Just under 3 weeks-- let's see how you make the most of it. Back to doing calculations.

Back and wrapping this up. I will post the perk round-up first, so I don't have a massive wall of stats and then a massive wall of options.
=WEEK 4 RESULTS=

>You are now definitely growing a tail!
>And horns!


Ellery / Headspace / Us:
>Gained 4/4 progress toward [Unionized Ellery IV]; [Unionized Ellery III] -> [Unionized Ellery IV]
>Gained 1/5 progress toward [Unionized Ellery V]

>Gained 3/3 progress toward [Us III]; [Us II] -> [Us III]
>>PERK LEVEL 3: With Claudia vouching for you (and maybe letting a few destiny-related things slip), Us has upgraded from chilly politeness to regular politeness, and it has some tips for effective mind-melding... [Communion +] -> [Communion ++]

>Gained 1/4 progress toward [Us IV]
>Gained 2/4 progress toward [Anthea IV]

>Gained 3/3 progress toward [Extrareal III]; [Extrareal II] -> [Extrareal III]
>>PERK LEVEL 3: You now passively absorb Law in about a 3-foot radius. Most people won't notice, though the metaphysically sensitive might. This has substantially improved your capacities for legerdemain: you still can't pull out anything very large or very implausible, but small ordinary things are a cinch.
>>[Legerdemain I] 1/2 -> [Legerdemain III] 2/4
>>>PERK LEVEL 3: If you can pull small things out of thin air... well... why not the sun? It can be small, if you want it to be. You can't throw it or anything (3-foot radius), but it can certainly be distracting. [The Sun +] -> [The Sun++]

>Gained 4/4 progress toward [The Sun IV]; [The Sun III] -> [The Sun IV]

>Gained 2/2 progress toward [Fingerwork II]; [Fingerwork I] -> [Fingerwork II]


Lucky:
>Gained 1/3 progress toward [Lucky III]


Richard / Wyrm:
>Gained 2/4 progress toward [Extrareal IV]
>Gained 2/3 progess toward [Fingerwork III]
>Gained 4/4 progress toward [Legerdemain IV]; [Legerdemain III] -> [Legerdemain IV]

>Gained 3/3 progress toward [OPEN III]; [OPEN II] -> [OPEN III]
>>PERK LEVEL 3: Maybe mucking around in Richard's head made you part key, too, because you can now unlock simple mechanisms and untie simple knots simply by willing it.

>Gained 3/3 progress toward [Snaketongue III]; [Snaketongue II] -> [Snaketongue III]
>>PERK LEVEL 3: You can half-speak the agents' language, provided you don't think about it too hard. If you do, it stops making sense. What's more, you seems to have picked up an extra layer of context around manipulating strings: [Fingerwork +] -> [Fingerwork ++]

>Gained 5/5 progress toward [The Herald's Mind V]; [The Herald's Mind IV] -> [The Herald's Mind V]
>Gained 6/6 progress toward [The Herald's Mind VI]; [The Herald's Mind V] -> [The Herald's Mind VI]
>Gained 2/5 progress toward [The Herald's Body V]


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

=(Start of) WEEK 5 RESULTS=


Manse remodel - outcomes tweaked due to what you selected
>Gained 3/3 progress toward [On Fire! III]; [On Fire! II] -> [On Fire! III]
>>PERK LEVEL 3: Having an entire fire lake in your manse makes it a lot easier to summon fire wherever you want... okay, not *wherever,* but you can actually set RL things on fire now, as long as they're within the radius of your extrareality.
>Gained 3/4 progress toward [On Fire! IV]

>Gained 5/5 progress toward [Positive Thinking VI]; [Positive Thinking V] -> [Positive Thinking VI]

>Between the garden and the LAKE MADE OF FIRE (okay, lava), you feel like you've really made the manse yours. +1 MAX ID: 16/16

>Gained 2/5 progress toward [Legerdemain V]
>Gained 2/4 progress toward [Anthea IV]
>Gained 4/5 progress toward [Earl V]


Game Night
>Gained 3/4 progress toward [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting IV]
>Gained 4/4 progress toward [Madrigal IV]; [Madrigal III] -> [Madrigal IV]
>Gained 2/5 progress toward [Madrigal V]
>Gained 1/4 progress toward [Monty IV]
>Gained 2/3 progress toward [Eloise III]
>Gained 1/2 progress toward [Fake Ellery II]
>Gained 1/3 progress toward [Pat III]


Satellite
>Gained a nebulous promise to ruin #301's life!


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

=YOUR CURRENT STATUS=


Personal perks:
>[Positive Thinking VI], 0/7 to next level
>[The Herald's Mind VI], 0/7 to next level
>[The Herald's Body IV], 2/5 to next level
>[Legerdemain IV], 2/5 to next level
>[Earthsense IV], 0/5 to next level
>[Communion IV], 0/5 to next level
>[On Fire! III], 3/4 to next level
>[Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting III], 3/4 to next level
>[Extrareal III], 2/4 to next level
>[The Sun III], 2/4 to next level
>[Snaketongue III], 0/4 to next level
>[Red Stuff III], 0/4 to next level
>[OPEN III], 0/4 to next level
>[Good With A Sword III], 0/4 to next level
>[Fingerwork II], 0/3 to next level

Interpersonal perks:
>[Richard VII]
>[Gil VII]
>[Annie V], 0/6 to next level
>[Earl IV], 4/5 to next level
>[Claudia IV], 2/5 to next level
>[Henry IV], 2/5 to next level
>[Madrigal IV], 2/5 to next level
>[Us IV], 1/5 to next level
>[Unionized Ellery IV], 1/5 to next level
>[Anthea III], 2/4 to next level
>[Monty III], 1/4 to next level
>[Eloise II], 2/3 to next level
>[Arledge II], 1/3 to next level
>[Lucky II], 1/3 to next level
>[Pat II], 1/3 to next level
>[Teddy II], 0/3 to next level
>[Branwen II]
>[Fake Ellery I], 1/2 to next level
>[Horse Face I]

ID: 16
SV: 3
Law: 9/16
Extrareality radius: ~3 feet

Expanded options and upgrades:
>You are faster at leveling [Earthsense] now!
>You can level [Legerdemain] and [Gil] at the same time now!
>You can level [Red Stuff] with Earl now!
>You can level [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting] with Richard now!
>You are faster at leveling [Good With a Sword] now!
>You are faster at leveling [Positive Thinking] now!
>You have unlocked the [Extrareal] perk! You now passively absorb reality into yourself! (A little bit)
>You have unlocked the [Snaketongue] perk! You now passively read and understand the agents' native language!
>You can commune with people far away now, provided you can get to them underground!
>You gain a bonus any time you do something with Gil!
>You are faster at leveling [Communion] now!
>You are faster at leveling [Fingerwork] now!
>You are faster at leveling [The Sun] now!
>You can pick locks without issue now!
>You can set things on fire within the radius of your extrareality now!

Ongoing projects:
>Ellery (& the Headspace Collective) is working on a project to duplicate your consciousness to defend against the Wyrm! It may take a while.
>Us is willing to tell you anything it might know about the past! You need to stop by and ask first, though.
>Lucky is contemplating whether to help you against Jean Ramsey or not. You might need to leave him alone to decide.
>Now that you're back, your vile nemesis Horse Face must be tracked down and dealt with! You haven't started.
>...You should probably find out what Jean Ramsey is up to!

Other accomplishments:
>The employees are no longer a horrific flesh abomination! (Okay, you didn't fix this personally, but you did save Ellery so *he* could go fix it.)
>Claudia has a body now!
>Gil has moderate control over his blessing now! This makes turning into a lizard safer, among other things.
>You cowed Lucky into submission!
>You have resurrected Annie from the dead, more or less!
>Gil is your friend now!
>You saw the Wyrm again and didn't explode!
>You won(??) at Game Night!
>You won a concession from Satellite's Director! (And discovered Richard's true form!)


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

Phew! Okay, now back to writing, and then posting.

>Performance enhancing substances

"Sort of." Is there any good segue here? "It was more about how I'm— I'm filing a complaint. There's a party going on in the Correspondence department, and it's loud, and they're leaving trash everywhere, and they're— they're not doing their jobs! As the Director, you need to stop it!"

"Oh. That sounds really annoying. I'm sorry. I don't think there's anything I can do, though." If the Director had a proper human face, you think he'd be frowning. He doesn't, so he isn't.

"But you have to! You— I'm the Herald, by the way. The actual Herald? You know it? So you can't just say you can't do things. Besides, I saw, in the future, that you'd—"

"You're not the Herald," says the Director. "The Herald has a long neck. You have a... well... your neck isn't Heraldlike at all."

Damnit, Richard! "Okay? So? I'm trapped in this stupid lizard body, but my True Forme has a long neck, obviously. Also, I have a tail. See?" You rotate 90 degrees. "Do normal agents have tails?"

"No, but it's not a long tail. The Herald has a long tail. It's in all the pictures. And," the Director says, with the air of finality, "the Herald definitely doesn't have spots."

"But—" You can't tell him you're not fully the Herald yet. That wouldn't accomplish anything. "Okay, fine! I'll prove it! I'll—"

You don't really exist. This body doesn't. Richard's making it up. So it's fine if you stick your fingers into your pockets— the skirt doesn't have pockets. It's fine if you stick your fingers into your pockets (there!) and retrieve a sachel of gulfweed, which will definitely have its usual effect, even though you have a lizard digestive system. (Do lizards eat?) Dodging eye contact with the Director, you stuff the gulfweed into your mouth and shred it. Eugh. How did anybody discover how it works, given how it tastes? Didn't Henry say it was mildly toxic? Your face tingles. Let's see. Herald, Herald, Herald, Herald? Hello? Please? You need another—

Ow. Your stomach pangs. It's possible that gulfweed does not agree with the lizard digestive system. But again, not a real body, so— Herald, Herald, Herald. Come on.

Ow! Ow, that's worse. You feel more nauseated than woozy. Something is coming up the back of your throat, and when you try to force it down, it comes up faster. Even with your mouth clamped shut, it oozes through your teeth: bitter black goop.

"Are you okay?" the Director, bless his heart, is saying. The answer is yes, you will be, ahem, AS SOON AS THE HERALD GETS OFF HER LAZY ASS AND HELPS YOU! PLEASE! YOU NEED HER! HERALD, ETERNAL ONE, SUNBRINGER? FAMOUS AND BELOVED HEROINE? PLEASE— YOU—

(1/4?)

You spasm, falling to your knees. This is not, you think, normal stomach cramps: you feel all knotted up inside, drawn up and in. Goop is continuing to drip. Your right eye is blurring. Maybe you need Richard, not the Her— ow! Acid reflux! You digest yourself— you— consume— the gulfweed bridges the gaps between people, and— oh, God— what if there is no gap? What if the gulfweed is trying to connect you to—

What if the gulfweed— Your own thoughts ring tinny in your ears. You are really just vomiting: have generated a substantial puddle. (The Director is wringing his hands and wondering aloud about towels.) Your blurry eye, your bad eye, is blind. Goop is coming out. Why didn't Richard stop you? He didn't even try— you're in his head— and he's only behind a door. Does he know this is happening?

»Yes.«

And he's letting you puke on the Director's floor?

»An excellent source has informed me that it will all work out in the end.«

An excellent source? Ah. An excellent source. You. You will tell him it will work— him in the past— and he will carry that knowledge onto the future. He's known it'll work out the whole time, and he still opted to badger you left and right. Typical Richard. Still, you should've known: the only way out is through. Herald. (Your gut sucks inward.) Herald. (You are turning, it feels, inside out.) Herald. (You are in a small hot space inside your skin, and everything surrounding is semi-solid.) Herald. Heave up and out and expel about a gallon of goop— narrowly missing the Director's shoes— and a thing about the size of a marble. Fall forward and stain your hands black. Look at the marble.

It is glowing violently. "What is that?" the Director is saying, panicked. "Are you okay? Do I need to get you— I mean, call someone to get you— I'm sure there's a tube open, if you've caught ill, or—"

You pick up the sun. It's hot in your sticky palm, but doesn't burn. You roll it around, uncertain, then remember. Is anything left of your bad eye? It's melted entirely. You hold your eye socket open and slide it in. It fits. You blink.

It radiates backward, the sun's light, flooding your mind and then your body. Neither can contain it. For your body, you arch up and stretch out, your neck unrolling smoothly, and your tail— and no spots. For your mind?

The Director has scrabbled all the way back to the wall, where he's frozen, limbs splayed, like a pinned bug. "H— He— Her—"

A second before you say the words, you hear yourself saying them— so you're only repeating. You don't know where they come from. A script. Don't be afraid.

"Herald," the Director whimpers.

I'm not here to punish you. Even though I did tell you so. The Director has lived its life in this room. It doesn't know evil. I'm not here to bring the Dawn either. Please don't ask about that.

(2/5)

The Director opts to not ask about anything.

I actually had a personal request. For you. No, please, don't be afraid. You step toward the Director, awkwardly— your body hasn't changed. It has already come to pass. And it is coming to pass. You are merely the one who will make it so. There is no danger.

"I—" Its first attempt at speech in a minute. "I don't really—"

It is not a complex request, either. First, I told you of the party. You must end it. Second, there is a Correspondent. #301. He must be unassigned from his client.

"I don't know how to do those things." A complete sentence! But its voice is stiff. "Great One. I apologize."

You will figure it out. You are the Director.

"I— I cannot leave the room."

Is that all? You turn your neck toward the door. It clicks. Go, then. With my blessing. But do not speak of me.

The Director is gaping, exposing its little pointy teeth. You swing your neck back and nudge it gently. Go!

You had not intended for it to run. But the Director runs from you. It will do as you bid.

You watch the pocket-world outside the window until the door creaks, then shuts. "Oh, Charlie," Richard says.

His reflection is in the glass: you train your eye on it, and it splits, into lizard and man and man and snake. When you turn, though, he is only lizard. He has approached, and reaches one slender arm out to feel your neck. "What a magnificent creature you are."

You would die, you say, to make this of me?

"Are you proposing alternatives?"

You sway. No.

"I didn't think so. Now, come on. Let's get this off you."

You see, in your mind's eye, him hooking his clever lizard fingers through a seam in your neck, him wiggling, and in life you hold still and let him. Cool air flows in as he tosses the neck, all painted cardboard, aside. You prod your face. Still scaly. You have two eyes. No sun. "Turn," Richard says, and you turn, dazedly, as he slides the felt tail off yours. It droops in his hands.

"Will mine be that long?" you say.

"Do you want it to be?"

"...Wouldn't it drag on the floor?"

"Yours will be half that length. Perhaps a little less. A good length." He folds the tail up, and it vanishes.

"Yeah," you say. "I—"

"It's alright, Charlie."

"I— I— I was—"

"I know."

"I was," you say limply.

"I know. I believe your task is complete now. You should be returning." He tilts his head. "Nobody should want to remain in Satellite long. We do not. Yes? Conceded?"

"I should sleep," you mumble.

(3/4 jk)

"That's the spirit. Stay there." He sizes you up, then places a hand flat on your head and presses down firmly. You telescope— but not all the way. "Ah," you say, dizzy. "Wait, I— I think you messed up, Richard. Richard, I can't— augh! What the hell!"

You are in Satellite in your human body, or a very near approximation, and Richard is still a lizard. Richard is an extremely tall lizard. You come up to his chest; he could open his jaws and swallow your head. But he won't. He's not a beast. He's wearing glasses. "You always were abnormally small," he's saying, "but you do appear to have shrunk, Charlie. How peculiar."

"Very funny!" You fold your arms. "I'll have you know, I'm taller than I used to be. Now put me back!"

"Well, give me a moment. This is an extremely rare occasion, Charlie. Practically one-of-a-kind." He steps back and circles you, which doesn't take long, since his legs are so damn long. "Yes. A fine human specimen. However, for some reason, her strings have been extensively altered. Worthless for extended study. Verdict: incineration."

"Richard! I'll incinerate you first!" It's easy to get a little mad, but hard to get a lot mad— not when you're in his head, and therefore surrounded by Richard-brand, dare you say it, jolliness.

"Well, forgive me. I've only been conceiving of this moment for the entirety of my waking life, Charlie." He looks you up and down, probably to savor the image for the continued remainder of his life, then digs his claws loosely into your scalp. "Stay right there. Yes. Just like that."

He presses down suddenly, then swings you up by the scruff of your neck— you are much smaller, and fluffy, and he laughs and laughs at your startled hissing, then he folds his hands around you and collapses you and you are gone.

———

You awaken flat on your back, then bolt upright. Richard in his human body is across the way, staring at all the wires hooked up to you— Richard who, as you fix a gimlet eye upon him, flickers badly and reappears as a lizard. "Ha!" you say. "Ha! Ha-ha!"

"..." Lizard Richard stares down at his lizard hands, then turns his neck to make eye contact. You think make eye contact. It's hard to tell where those creepy eyes are looking. "How?"

"How? What do you mean, how? I just saw—" Wait. "Are you from the future?"

"No." Lizard Richard opens and closes his hands. "I take it I was here. You went."

"I sure did! Could you help get this stuff out of my neck? I don't want to bleed to death."

"I take, from your mood, it went well." He comes over, but hesitates to touch you.

"Sure did! Is something the matter? Um, in the present? I wasn't gone for very long, was I?"

"No. You were gone for no time at all. Charlie..."

"Yeah?"

"...I find it very strange to be... this. With you. It feels, frankly, naked. I am aware I'm wearing clothes."

(4/5 jk jk)

How'd he know what you were going to say? "But it's your actual— it's— you don't have have a dumb short human body anymore. I know different, now."

"I prefer the human body. Regardless of shortness or perceived dumbness. Kindly restore it to me."

You mull it over, then sigh and picture Richard the man. "You're too tall as a lizard, anyways. Freaky."

"Thank you." Richard the man begins to unpeel the tape at your wrist, then stops. "I think this'd go swifter if you weren't conscious. It's rather late. Shouldn't you sleep?"

"Yeah," you say reluctantly.

"Very well. Sleep, Charlotte. We have a long road still ahead of us."

He passes his hand over your forehead, and you sleep.

——————————————————


Hi folks, and welcome to... FINISHING THE TIMESKIP! As of the current point in the quest, it has been just over a month since you were forced into hiding, and just over two weeks since you forced Lucky to let you return. The progress you've made over the course of the month is detailed (extensively) above the update. Per my roll, you have 22 DAYS REMAINING until your vile nemesis Jean Ramsey needs that missing tine of the Crown back. What will you do with that time? That's up to you!

>Because 22 days remain, you have 22 TIME UNITS (TUs) to spend. These time units don't correspond 1:1 with days, because you may be unconscious for some of those 22 days and can't spend them doing anything-- we'll say it all averages out.

>Different actions will consume different amounts of TIME UNITS. Actions will specify the number of TUs they consume in (parentheses). Some actions you can take multiple times, and some you can't: read to find out!

>[Herald's Mind] and [Herald's Body] will be automatically leveled to maximum by the end of the timeskip, so don't worry about them. [Snaketongue] will be automatically leveled to [Snaketongue V], allowing you to speak and write the agents' language fluently. If you wish, you can level it further.

>At this point, with a fairly well-rounded "build," you might consider picking a couple perks to focus on. Just a suggestion. It's up to you!

——————————————————


Okay, ready? Remember: You can pick options that add to a maximum of 22 TU.
>Basic training: you can pick these an unlimited number of times.

>[1] ++ Positive Thinking (1 TU)
>[2] ++ Earthsense (1 TU)
>[3] ++ Good With A Sword (1 TU)
>[4] ++ Fingerwork (1 TU)
>[5] ++ The Sun (1 TU)
>[6] ++ Communion (1 TU)
>[7] + The Red Stuff (1 TU)
>[8] + OPEN (1 TU)
>[9] + Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting (1 TU)
>[10] + Extrareal (1 TU)
>[11] + On Fire! (1 TU)
>[12] + Snaketongue (1 TU)

>Social interaction: you can pick these an unlimited number of times. (Horse Face is nowhere to be found and cannot be selected. Lucky has no interest in socializing. You're pretty sure Guppy moved back to her original home, wherever that is, and was just stopping by for Game Night.)

>[13] + Annie (.5 TU)
>[14] + Earl (.5 TU)
>[15] + Claudia (.5 TU)
>[16] + Henry (.5 TU)
>[17] + Madrigal (.5 TU)
>[18] + Us (.5 TU)
>[19] + Unionized Ellery (.5 TU)
>[20] + Anthea (.5 TU)
>[21] + Monty (.5 TU)
>[22] + Eloise (.5 TU)
>[23] + Arledge (.5 TU)
>[24] + Teddy (.5 TU)
>[25] + Branwen (.5 TU)
>[26] + Fake Ellery (.5 TU)
>[27] + Pat (.5 TU)

>Info-gathering: You aren't in much of a position to scout out Jean Ramsey's plans, given everything else on your plate, but other people might be. Draw on your relationships to gain INFO. INFO can be spent, later, to have retroactively learned something about Ramsey or her minions' current status. Each of these options can be selected once.

>[38] Lest you forget, Monty is responsible for all this mess, and he damn well feels it. He's been putting his ear to the ground for you. (+2 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[39] Madrigal has all sorts of contacts, particularly shady ones. And she never liked Ramsey, anyways. She has a little something (+2 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[40] Okay, are you and Lucky friends? Allies? No. Has he *independently* decided that Jean Ramsey is a threat to all natural peoples, and has devoted his and his most loyal officers' energies to rooting out what she's up to? Has he independently decided to share this information with you? Maybe so. (+4 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[41] Anthea hasn't heard too much about this Jean Ramsey thing, but she's always happy to help a fellow spelunker! (+1 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[42] Earl's way out in Hellsbells, dontcha know, and he doesn't hear too much way out there. He'll tell you anything he does hear, though! (+1 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[43] How could Us possibly have information about Jean Ramsey? It's stuck in one place. Except... Pat's been making it bodies, and those bodies have been roaming far and wide. One of them has seen something. (+1 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[44] You're keeping Henry's hands full with an enthusiastic new charge-- there isn't much he knows at the moment. What? You want him to use his suspicious cultist powers to investigate? Well, why didn't you ask sooner, kiddo? (+2 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[45] Of course Eloise has information. But you've really been keeping her out of the loop, haven't you? Don't you know she hates being out of the loop? If you want what she knows, you better be prepared to spend all day spilling what you know. (+4 INFO) (1.5 TU -- or raise Eloise to [Eloise III] to drop to .5 TU!)
>[LOCKED] You aren't close enough with Branwen to get info from her-- that's a lot of talking you're asking her to do! (Raise [Branwen] to III to unlock. If your plan does that, you can pick this.) (+? INFO) (.5 TU)
>[LOCKED] You aren't close enough with Arledge to get info from him-- or, more accurately, he doesn't quite trust you to not destroy the world yourself. If you can gain that trust, he could know something valuable. (Raise [Arledge] to III to unlock. If your plan does that, you can select this.) (+? INFO) (.5 TU)
>[LOCKED] You aren't close enough with Fake Ellery to get info from him. Reliable info from him, anyways. (As above.) (+? INFO) (.5 TU)
>[LOCKED] You aren't close enough with Pat to get info from her. Yu don't owe her; she doesn't owe you. Not with Lester dead. (As above.) (+? INFO) (.5 TU)

PERMA LOCKED: Teddy is in Gil's head and doesn't know anything Gil doesn't. Claudia is new to the seafloor and doesn't know anything Henry wouldn't. Real Ellery is stuck in a hivemind right now. Annie is a worm.
>Repeatable actions: you can pick these up to the specified number of times.

>[46] Delve another manse with Spelunker's Associated. (++ Anthea, ++ random eligible character, +? three random perks) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[47] Help Earl out with another heist. (++ Earl, + Branwen, + Red Stuff, +? two random perks) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[48] Check in on Ellery and Headspace's progress on that Charlotte-replicator. (++ Unionized Ellery. ++ Positive Thinking. The replicator will be completed regardless, but this allows you to test it beforehand.) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[49] Carve out time to hang with Gil. He's your friend! Also, you should see what he's been up to. [1 TU each, up to three times. + [Teddy]. "Upgrade" Gil once each time.]
>[50] Go hunting with Annie, your beautiful worm. (+++ Annie. ++ Good With a Sword OR ++ Communion OR ++ Red Stuff, randomly chosen.) [1 TU each, up to three times.]
>[51] Continue renovating your manse. If the Gold-Masked Person ever stops by, you plan to be *prepared.* [1 TU each, up to three times. Gain an increasing level of booby traps each time.]
>[52] Claudia is busy learning cultist things! She'd be really excited if you let her test them on you... (+ - +++ progress on 1-3 random perks. ++ Claudia. Chance of debuff.) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[53] You've gotten information from your fr... er... good acquaintances, but it's not enough! You need more! Put your detective prowess to work. [1 TU for 1 INFO, up to five times.]
>SV: If you want your Lizard Forme to be giant and epic, you need more red stuff in your system. You're much stronger now: you can handle it. Right? (Pick up to one option from this category. You get a TU discount if you "buy in bulk.")

>[54] Gain 2 SV. (1 TU)
>[55] Gain 5 SV. (2 TU)
>[56] Gain 9 SV. (3 TU)

>Sidequests: you can pick each of these once. They may or may not increase perks not listed.

>[57] Say, now that you're half-lizard, and chockablock full of Law... shouldn't you check on those alligators in Tom's Cave? Maybe they'd be amenable to joining a fellow lizard's cause? You're sure they wouldn't mind biting Jean Ramsey's face off. (4 TU)
>[58] You saved Felicia the fish-person's life, then you never saw her again. Typical, for a fish, but you still feel like following up. Maybe you can convince her she owes you one? (4 TU)
>[59] HORSE FACE!!! WHERE HAS THAT BASTARD VANISHED TO?!? YOU WILL FIND HIM AND MAKE HIM PAY!!! (It might take a while, though...) (6 TU)
>[60] Say... aren't you metaphysically a little off? Not in the obvious way. You mean, you have an on-and-off tendency to freeze up near huge sources of Law, which, given Jean Ramsey has the Crown, might be... problematic. Can Richard research a way to fix it? (Lose [Half-Paralyzed] debuff.) (2 TU)
>[61] Your beautiful worm Annie has been newly revived... into her ordinary worm form. You think it'd be awesome if you could infuse her with Wyrm energies, making her bigger and fiercer, like you did right before she exploded. Make it happen. (2 TU)
>[62] You've been spending plenty of time inside the Headspace Collective... and studiously ignoring the stragglers of Headspace who actually survived the collision. Maybe you ought to see how they're doing? (1 TU)
>[63] You're fine with everything that's happening. You're fine with it. You're thinking positive. But... you can't say you wouldn't mind escaping the burdens of Saving The Whole Entire World for a day-- just one day, where you don't have to think about it. Maybe Us could absorb you? And spit you back out when you're done? A quick little vacation? Please? (1 TU)
>[64] Write-in. (See something I left out? Write it in! Just say what you want to do, and I'll help negotiate TU costs.)


Yes, I did see how many options there were: three weeks covers literally dozens of normal-paced threads, and this reflects that. I'm happy to twiddle my thumbs and leave the vote open extra-long if need be, but this is important! (And I spent all day writing this, so it's not getting tossed.)

Also check some of the funniest art I've ever received (picrel)

PERMA LOCKED: Teddy is in Gil's head and doesn't know anything Gil doesn't. Claudia is new to the seafloor and doesn't know anything Henry wouldn't. Real Ellery is stuck in a hivemind right now. Annie is a worm.

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

>Repeatable actions: you can pick these up to the specified number of times.

>[46] Delve another manse with Spelunker's Associated. (++ Anthea, ++ random eligible character, +? three random perks) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[47] Help Earl out with another heist. (++ Earl, + Branwen, + Red Stuff, +? two random perks) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[48] Check in on Ellery and Headspace's progress on that Charlotte-replicator. (++ Unionized Ellery. ++ Positive Thinking. The replicator will be completed regardless, but this allows you to test it beforehand.) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[49] Carve out time to hang with Gil. He's your friend! Also, you should see what he's been up to. [1 TU each, up to three times. + [Teddy]. "Upgrade" Gil once each time.]
>[50] Go hunting with Annie, your beautiful worm. (+++ Annie. ++ Good With a Sword OR ++ Communion OR ++ Red Stuff, randomly chosen.) [1 TU each, up to three times.]
>[51] Continue renovating your manse. If the Gold-Masked Person ever stops by, you plan to be *prepared.* [1 TU each, up to three times. Gain an increasing level of booby traps each time.]
>[52] Claudia is busy learning cultist things! She'd be really excited if you let her test them on you... (+ - +++ progress on 1-3 random perks. ++ Claudia. Chance of debuff.) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
>[53] You've gotten information from your fr... er... good acquaintances, but it's not enough! You need more! Put your detective prowess to work. [1 TU for 1 INFO, up to five times.]


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


>SV: If you want your Lizard Forme to be giant and epic, you need more red stuff in your system. You're much stronger now: you can handle it. Right? (Pick up to one option from this category. You get a TU discount if you "buy in bulk.")

>[54] Gain 2 SV. (1 TU)
>[55] Gain 5 SV. (2 TU)
>[56] Gain 9 SV. (3 TU)

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


>Sidequests: you can pick each of these once. They may or may not increase perks not listed.

>[57] Say, now that you're half-lizard, and chockablock full of Law... shouldn't you check on those alligators in Tom's Cave? Maybe they'd be amenable to joining a fellow lizard's cause? You're sure they wouldn't mind biting Jean Ramsey's face off. (4 TU)

>[58] You saved Felicia the fish-person's life, then you never saw her again. Typical, for a fish, but you still feel like following up. Maybe you can convince her she owes you one? (4 TU)

>[59] HORSE FACE!!! WHERE HAS THAT BASTARD VANISHED TO?!? YOU WILL FIND HIM AND MAKE HIM PAY!!! (It might take a while, though...) (6 TU)

>[60] Say... aren't you metaphysically a little off? Not in the obvious way. You mean, you have an on-and-off tendency to freeze up near huge sources of Law, which, given Jean Ramsey has the Crown, might be... problematic. Can Richard research a way to fix it? (Lose [Half-Paralyzed] debuff.) (2 TU)

>[61] Your beautiful worm Annie has been newly revived... into her ordinary worm form. You think it'd be awesome if you could infuse her with Wyrm energies, making her bigger and fiercer, like you did right before she exploded. Make it happen. (2 TU)

>[62] You've been spending plenty of time inside the Headspace Collective... and studiously ignoring the stragglers of Headspace who actually survived the collision. Maybe you ought to see how they're doing? (1 TU)

>[63] You're fine with everything that's happening. You're fine with it. You're thinking positive. But... you can't say you wouldn't mind escaping the burdens of Saving The Whole Entire World for a day-- just one day, where you don't have to think about it. Maybe Us could absorb you? And spit you back out when you're done? A quick little vacation? Please? (1 TU)


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


>[64] Write-in. (See something I left out? Write it in! Just say what you want to do, and I'll help negotiate TU costs.)


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

Yes, I did see how many options there were: three weeks covers literally dozens of normal-paced threads, and this reflects that. I'm happy to twiddle my thumbs and leave the vote open extra-long if need be, but this is important! (And I spent all day writing this, so it's not getting tossed.)

Also check some of the funniest art I've ever received (picrel) as your reward for scrolling this far

>>6270074
>Two thousand twenty fucking one
You played a longer game than the snakes

>>6270080
>Get in the fucking father Richard!

Votes:
>[40] Okay, are you and Lucky friends? Allies? No. Has he *independently* decided that Jean Ramsey is a threat to all natural peoples, and has devoted his and his most loyal officers' energies to rooting out what she's up to? Has he independently decided to share this information with you? Maybe so. (+4 INFO) (.5 TU)
>[48] Check in on Ellery and Headspace's progress on that Charlotte-replicator. (++ Unionized Ellery. ++ Positive Thinking. The replicator will be completed regardless, but this allows you to test it beforehand.) [1 TU each, up to two times.]
Twice, which brings us to Unionized Ellery V
>[1] ++ Positive Thinking (1 TU) x3
Together with [48] this should bring us to the next level
>[60] Say... aren't you metaphysically a little off? Not in the obvious way. You mean, you have an on-and-off tendency to freeze up near huge sources of Law, which, given Jean Ramsey has the Crown, might be... problematic. Can Richard research a way to fix it? (Lose [Half-Paralyzed] debuff.) (2 TU)
>[22] + Eloise (.5 TU)
This brings us to Eloise III
>[45] Of course Eloise has information. But you've really been keeping her out of the loop, haven't you? Don't you know she hates being out of the loop? If you want what she knows, you better be prepared to spend all day spilling what you know. (+4 INFO) (1.5 TU -- or raise Eloise to [Eloise III] to drop to .5 TU!)
>[50] Go hunting with Annie, your beautiful worm. (+++ Annie. ++ Good With a Sword OR ++ Communion OR ++ Red Stuff, randomly chosen.) [1 TU each, up to three times.]
Twice, which brings us to Annie VI

This accounts for 10.5 TU. Decide how to spend the rest once the random results of [50] are known

>>6270042
Oh man I didn't think we could get more max ID, sweet

>Gained a nebulous promise to ruin #301's life!
Damn it doesn't have to be his whole life
Just his dastardly plans
Maybe they're too intwined to just hit one though

>>6270071
Oh no, we've progressed too far down the Herald path to use gulfweed anymore
At least it worked out in the end

>"I prefer the human body. Regardless of shortness or perceived dumbness. Kindly restore it to me."
WTF
He complains endlessly about how we mentally compress him into an unnatural shape (a shape, I might add, his whole plan hinged on us compressing him into to exploit those emotional backdoors) but the moment we give him his actual body he's all like "oh uh this is actually weird gimme the old thing back". So frustrating.


>>6270080
Uh, wow
That's a lot of options
>40
Damn Lucky has big info
.5/22
>22
Raise Eloise one rank to get her info discount
1/22
>45
Eloise also has big info
1.5/22
>46x2
I love random perks
3.5/22
>51x3
Might also be good against the Wyrm to have a better manse, and might give more MAX ID
6.5/22
>52x2
I LOVE random perks
8.5/22
>56
Uh save this one for immediately before the Jean Ramsey fight
11.5/22
>60
13.5/22
>62
14.5/22
>63
15.5/22
>48x2
Do this once after 11 TUs and the second time at the end - or right before getting the big SV
17.5/22
>38
Why didn't I pick this earlier to get rid of that 0.5
18/22
For the last four, I wanna progress Extrareal as much as possible. Can we get some kind of Richard/Ellery collab to get better returns off basic training or anything more effective than just picking
>10x4
?
If not then
>10x4
22/22

>>6270102

>You played a longer game than the snakes
I played a long enough game that you can literally see the lizard-Richard design shift, lmao

Rolled 2, 2 = 4 (2d3)

>>6270102
>You played a longer game than the snakes
I played a long enough game that you can literally see the lizard-Richard design shift throughout the years, lmao

>Decide how to spend the rest once the random results of [50] are known
I don't want to roll for random stuff before the vote is locked in, but [50] is already between a few limited choices, so I'm more okay exposing that in advance. 1 = Good With A Sword, 2 = Communion, 3 = Red Stuff.


>>6270195
>Maybe they're too intwined to just hit one though
Yeah-- for agents #workislife. (Also, Richard probably wants #301's life ruined.) No guarantees about what the Director will actually accomplish, though.

>He complains endlessly about how we mentally compress him into an unnatural shape (a shape, I might add, his whole plan hinged on us compressing him into to exploit those emotional backdoors) but the moment we give him his actual body he's all like "oh uh this is actually weird gimme the old thing back". So frustrating.
Well, you know, he's like a cat: he wants out, you open the door, he wants back inside again. But more genuinely: the "compressing" largely applied to the snake and the previous secretly-your-father body, where he was constantly beset by mental pressure to conform to the father-shaped hole in your heart (and eventually beset by so much pressure he *did* conform). While this was part of his plan, realistically he vastly underestimated how powerful the effect would be. Took a big L on that one.

The new desk jockey body, while it might still come with some minor "compressing" effects, isn't your father either consciously or subconsciously. He's literally just some guy, so being him isn't painful or existentially scary in the same way, and Richard is basically fine with it--- or prefers it in some ways. He has spent a whole lot of time human, after all, in a way almost no agent (barring Management) has.

>For the last four, I wanna progress Extrareal as much as possible. Can we get some kind of Richard/Ellery collab to get better returns off basic training or anything more effective than just picking
If [Unionized Ellery] gets bumped to V, or [Eloise] gets bumped to III, I'll upgrade you to ++ [Extrareal]. How's that?

>>6270211
>If [Unionized Ellery] gets bumped to V, or [Eloise] gets bumped to III, I'll upgrade you to ++ [Extrareal]. How's that?
I do have that upgrade to Eloise in my vote, so yeah that's great.

>>6270211
Communion twice then. Alright, 11.5 TU left
>[6] ++ Communion (1 TU)
Brings us to level V
>[9] + Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting (1 TU)
Brings us to level IV
>[3] ++ Good With A Sword (1 TU) x8
Brings us to level VI
>[5] ++ The Sun (1 TU)
Brings us to level IV
>[38] Lest you forget, Monty is responsible for all this mess, and he damn well feels it. He's been putting his ear to the ground for you. (+2 INFO) (.5 TU)

>>6270195
+1 on this bad boy.

>>6270195
+1

Rolled 5, 2 = 7 (2d7)

Alright! Sorry >>6270231, but it seems like...

>>6270195
>>6270303
>>6270421

...this plan takes it. We're going to have to do some rolling for perks.

>[46] Delve another manse with Spelunker's Associated. (++ Anthea, ++ random eligible character, +? three random perks) [1 TU each, up to two times.]

Eligible characters (draggable into a manse):

- Earl
- Pat
- Claudia
- Teddy
- Madrigal
- Fake Ellery
- Real Ellery

Rolled 8, 14, 6, 1, 3, 10 = 42 (6d16)

>>6270479
>++ Pat
>++ Madrigal

Lmfao. Maybe you drag the two of them along together, and you tackle the other one with just Gil and Richard (neither of whom can be Befriended further).

Next, we'll roll six times on this slightly modified, potentially familiar-looking table:

1 Setting yet another manse on fire (++ [On Fire!])
2 Needing to [OPEN] something major (+ [OPEN])
3 Using the red stuff and controlling it well ( ++ [Red Stuff])
4 Using the red stuff and controlling it poorly (+ [Red Stuff], + SV)
5 Wielding The Sword (++ [Good With a Sword])
6 Bending the manse to your will ( ++ [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting])
7 Winding up underground for the billionth time (++ [Earthsense])
8 Making the manse even less real somehow (++ [Extrareal])
9 Having a fun time with your friends and associates :) (++ [Positive Thinking])
10 Being merged with Richard (again) and learning something (++ [Fingerwork])
11 Possessing an unperson (++ [Communion])
15 Being in a dark place (+ [The Sun])
16 Learning something plot-relevant (+2 INFO)

Rolled 1, 2 = 3 (2d4)

>>6270480
Wait, I tricked myself and messed up the numbering. Whatever. I'll fudge that 14 to 13.

>++ [On Fire!]
>++ [Extrareal]
>+2 INFO
>++ [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting]
>++ [Red Stuff]
>++ [Fingerwork]


Not bad.


Now for Claudia:

>[52] Claudia is busy learning cultist things! She'd be really excited if you let her test them on you... (+ - +++ progress on 1-3 random perks. ++ Claudia. Chance of debuff.) [1 TU each, up to two times.]


I'll roll for the debuff first. Debuff(s) on 1.

Rolled 2, 1 = 3 (2d3)

>>6270481
One debuff. Well, you are working with an amateur. I'm not writing (more on that in a sec), so I'll give myself a bit to figure this one out. As for perks, I'll roll for how many you get first.

Rolled 3, 1, 2 = 6 (3d3)

>>6270487
3 perks. Now rolling for strength.

Rolled 8, 7, 9 = 24 (3d12)

>>6270488
>+++
>+
>++

Alright. Now let's see what you get:

>[1] ++ Positive Thinking (1 TU)
>[2] ++ Earthsense (1 TU)
>[3] ++ Good With A Sword (1 TU)
>[4] ++ Fingerwork (1 TU)
>[5] ++ The Sun (1 TU)
>[6] ++ Communion (1 TU)
>[7] + The Red Stuff (1 TU)
>[8] + OPEN (1 TU)
>[9] + Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting (1 TU)
>[10] + Extrareal (1 TU)
>[11] + On Fire! (1 TU)
>[12] + Snaketongue (1 TU)

>>6270489
>+++ [OPEN]
>+ [The Red Stuff]
>++ [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting]


Neat. I think that's it for the rolls. The timeskip will have these results (feel free to correct me if I've miscalculated anything):

>+++ [OPEN]
>+++ [The Red Stuff]
>++++ [Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting]
>++++ [Positive Thinking]
>++ [On Fire!]
>++ [Fingerwork]
>++++++++ [Extrareal]

>+ [Eloise]
>++ [Pat]
>++ [Madrigal]
>++++ [Unionized Ellery]

>+2 INFO from the manse
>+4 INFO from Eloise
>+4 INFO from Lucky
>+2 INFO from Monty
= 12 total

>Manse armed to the teeth with boobytraps (and other fun stuff) -- I'll do some thinking about whether this grants anything additional (might need to write it out first)

>+9 SV (12 total)

>Half-Paralyzed debuff lost

>Mystery debuff gained

>Checking in on Headspace survivors and what they're up to +2 INFO, ++ [Us]

>Vacation ++ [Positive Thinking]


Final summary incoming.

>>6270493
I lied. I'll bump Vacation up to +++ [Positive Thinking], because leaving it at 6/7 is way too tragic. You were one away from bumping up The Red Stuff, OPEN, and Fingerwork, too. The perils of random rolls...


=YOUR FINAL STATUS=

Personal perks:

>[Positive Thinking VII]: You can maintain a state of unbreakable optimism indefinitely.

>[The Herald's Mind VII]: You are the Herald. When you want to be.

>[The Herald's Body VII]: You are the Herald. Or as close as a human can get. Also, you have a tail.

>[Extrareal V]: You absorb reality into yourself within a 10-foot radius. This is obvious to anybody metaphysically attuned, and the non-attuned get a very strange feeling around you.

>[Snaketongue V]: You can speak, read, write, and comprehend Richard's native language, even if you don't know how.

>[Legerdemain IV]: You can pull either largeish things or implausible things out of thin air, but not both.

>[Earthsense IV]: If you have access to earth, you can perceive things about a mile out.

>[Communion IV]: You can enter people's minds on eye contact (and, from there, their bodies), and it's very difficult to remove you.

>[On Fire! IV]: You can't shoot fire out of your hands. (They get too hot.) But you *can* shoot it from The Sword, and things within your Extrareal radius will actually light.

>[Advanced (Advanced) Gaslighting IV]: You don't have to try very hard at all to make the things you say true.

>[The Sun III]: The sun in your chest is about the size of two hands making a circle. You can't do too much with it, but maybe it'll help out if you're in duress.

>[Red Stuff III]: You have a decent handle on the red stuff. Enough of a handle for 12 SV? Uh...

>[OPEN III]: You can use [OPEN] semi-regularly, though the exact effects are still out of your control.

>[Good With A Sword III]: You're a little better with a sword than you used to be. On par with a professional murderess with decades of experience? Uh... you'll need to rely on other skills.

>[Fingerwork II]: You can touch strings with your bare hands, provided you can get your bare hands into somebody's body. You have no idea what to do with them except messing around blindly, though.

Interpersonal perks:

>[Richard VII]: Richard is your... your... he's... he's Richard. You're still going to kill him.

>[Gil VII]: Gil is your best friend. Also your sworn retainer, of course.

>[Unionized Ellery V]: You never thought you'd like Ellery. Maybe you still don't. But you've achieved a level of understanding with him that you don't have with others.

>[Annie V]: Annie is your favorite worm of all time. You don't know her any better than you did the first time she was alive, though.

>[Claudia V]: Claudia has forgiven you for murdersorbing her, and now swings between treating you like a younger sister and treating you like an older one. You never know how to treat her back, but she doesn't seem to care.

>[Earl IV]: Earl is always happy to see you, and, despite yourself, you're always happy to see him. He's always willing to unquestioningly lend a hand-- and he's is thrilled about the tail. That helps.

>[Henry IV]: You've never told Henry you don't remember him, and you never will. You'd feel too bad. Even if you can't muster up the closeness he feels to you, he has been unrelentingly kind and patient, and he knew your father. He'll tell you about your father if you ask. Even if he could offer nothing else, that alone would be worth it.

>[Madrigal IV]: Can you even call Madrigal a rival anymore? She's as rough around the edges as ever, but you've earned her respect several times over, and you guess you respect her too. She's been through a lot, and she's still up and ready to kick ass, and that's not nothing.

>[Anthea IV]: Anthea is so unconditionally nice, and so excited that you're actively participating in Spelunkers' Associated, and so willing to help with whatever, that it's downright infectious. You struggle for any reason to dislike her. She even apologized for doubting Gil all those months ago, for God's sake.

>[Us IV]: Us wishes that things were different. That the world was not barreling towards its ending, and that you were not barreling with. But it has come to understand (with Claudia's prodding) that it must be so, and that the things you have done, perhaps, must have happened. It will even let you back into its dream, if you ask nicely.

>[Pat III]: Even after everything you've done for her, Pat remains cool toward you. If you'd saved Lester, maybe it'd be different. But she's polite, and she helps with goo mishaps, and you're not sure what else you can ask for.

>[Monty III]: Every time you see him, Monty always looks a little sad and a little tired. But he hasn't strangled you again, nor, as far as you know, anybody else, and Madrigal tells you he's doing better than he was. Certainly he's never stopped trying to lend a hand, and you're not planning on rejecting him this time.

>[Eloise III]: Eloise likes you more than you like her, you're sure of it. It will be this way forever. But, admittedly, she's been in your corner longer than most-- whether ironic or not-- and it seems she'll be there until the end.

>[Arledge II]: Arledge doesn't wholly trust you. But he hopes that his distrust is misplaced. He might be there in the end, or he might not, but at the very least he won't be stopping you.

>[Lucky II]: Lucky visibly hates being on your side, but he's on your side. Any help he extends will be *his* decision, though.

>[Teddy II]: Gil and Teddy have a great time together. You don't get it. You still think he's a little creepy. But he is your second retainer, you guess, so you can't be too hard on him.

>[Branwen II]: It's hard to crack Branwen's shell. You spent a week living with her and got next to nowhere. But she's reliable, if not warm, friendly, or frequently comprehensible.

>[Fake Ellery I]: Poor Fake Ellery. He never really graduated from hauling backpacks around for you. You don't need to make friends, though, because you'll fix him in just a little while.

>[Horse Face I]: If you tracked down Horse Face and asked him for a favor, it's possible he might do one, because he has NO MORALS and NO CONSISTENCY. You're not doing that, though.


ID: 16
SV: 12
Law: 16/16 Unionized Ellery V bonus
Extrareality radius: ~10 feet
INFO: 14

Permanent bonuses:

>You gain a bonus any time you do anything with Gil!
>You can pick locks without issue now!
>You can set things on fire within the radius of your extrareality now!
>Your manse is absolutely chock-a-block full of Ramsey-incinerating traps and things!
>You have a doohickey that will duplicate your consciousness when the Wyrm tries to mega-murder you!
>IOU one fighting-related bonus yet to be determined!


Other accomplishments:

>The employees are no longer a horrific flesh abomination! (Okay, you didn't fix this personally, but you did save Ellery so *he* could go fix it.)
>Claudia has a body now!
>Gil has moderate control over his blessing now! This makes turning into a lizard safer, among other things.
>You cowed Lucky into submission!
>You have resurrected Annie from the dead, more or less!
>Gil is your friend now!
>You saw the Wyrm again and didn't explode!
>You won(??) at Game Night!
>You won a concession from Satellite's Director! (And discovered Richard's true form!)
>You saw what was up with the Headspace survivors!
>You went on vacation!


Negative outcomes:
>Horse Face got away! You wonder if you'll ever see him again...
>You have a currently unspecified malus from Claudia's sloppy ritual!

Okay! That final summary was, if it wasn't obvious, about an update's worth of writing, and I have absolutely no idea how long the final timeskip update will be. I'm going to be trying to compress as much as I can, but you guys know I hate to let a good scene go to waste, and you just handed me a bunch on a platter. So... update tomorrow. Maybe.

>Maybe?
Well, firstly, if it proves to be gigantic, it might be a partial update. Secondly, I think I need to take a few days off to get my ducks in a row, since we're going to be transitioning back into real-time and most of my mental prep was for timeskip + Satellite. As a result, one of three things will happen tomorrow: you guys will get a full update (unlikely), you guys will get a partial update (possible), or you guys will get nothing, and I'll just tinker away at the update in the background until it's ready. I pledge to be back by the 9th read: ~2 AM on the 10th at the latest. Sound good?

Have a good night! (Or longer!)

>>6270493
>feel free to correct me if I've miscalculated anything
Um I count eight (8) plus marks on Extrareal which matches up with 4 selections at +2 each, but in >>6270481
we got an extra +2 so ackshually it should be ten (10) plus marks.

Probably doesn’t make a difference but yeah

>>6270661
Oh no! You've spoiled my dastardly plan to rob you guys of your +2 progress!

Okay, but for real, thanks. Let's see. That puts you at:

(original)
>[Extrareal III, 2/4 to next level
+2

>[Extrareal IV], 0/5 to next level
+5

>[Extrareal V], 0/6 to next level
+3

>[Extrareal V], 3/6 to next level

So same outcome, but good catch nonetheless.

Hi folks. Not dead, started writing, mapped out the update, and it's looking like a doozy. Like, nine parts. I think I'll wrangle it by the 9th as planned, but if things go south I might merely post *most* of the update on the 9th and the last bit + options on the 10th. Your patience is appreciated!

>>6271764
Waiting warmly OP

>Timeskip end

You dream.

There is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is you.

Nothing before. Nothing after. There is, and was, and will only ever be you.

It is very dark here. And quiet.

————

You will have this dream nightly for the next three weeks.

———

When you wake up, it's morning. You find Gil. Gil says he figured you'd be okay, but he's still glad. You tell Gil that Richard is an eight-foot-tall lizard. He says that seems about right. Then he gives the matter further contemplation. "...Does that mean he eats bugs?"

«Tell Beetles to use his imagination.»

You tell Gil to use his imagination. Gil doesn't seem to want to do that. You sidle up next to him and use your own imagination, training your eyes on him really hard until he yelps and goes pop. "Shit!", several hundred beetles say, mostly surprised, a little annoyed. "Lottie! What—"

"I just wanted to see," you say, and hold your fist up into the swarm. "Here. You can land on me. I— I think I'm going to be God."

There's a silence. Beetles crowd onto your arm. "I-I-I know."

"I know too. But I really think so now. Richard could've been lying the whole time, but... he actually was a giant lizard... it's happening. I turned you into bugs."

"...I-I-It'd be more impressive if you turned anybody else into bugs, I think."

"Oh. Good point. I don't think I can do that. It works on you because you're not real, probably. But if I'm wrong, and I ever see Horse Face again, I'll turn him into an ugly slug, okay? You can turn back now. I'm not looking."

"Oh." A flash in the corner of your eye: Gil's wrist squishes into your hand.

"See? Easy! Oh, speaking of 'not real,' did you want to help with my manse? You were really good with the trees. I think, since I put the fire lake in it, now I want to add other things. Like saw blades!" Gil is not following. "You know? So if Jean Ramsey barges in, she'll step on a pressure plate, and then a saw blade will chop her in half? Like that. Or, I don't know, arrows shoot out of the wall?"

Gil works his face. "Sleeping gas?"

"Yes! Or she presses a button, and sleeping gas comes out of a vent! Exactly. So you'll help?"

He pulls his wrist away gently. "Well, I-I am your sworn retainer."

"And friend," you correct him.

"...And friend."

He helps, and gets excited about trying to rig actual traps into your walls— with mechanisms and things— even though you try to tell him it doesn't matter. Later, he'll stomp on an indented tile, and the wall will vomit up ten-foot gouts of flame. You try to imagine your life if you'd left him in that manse, and you can't. You just can't.

———

(1/7)

———

You haven't wanted to think about Jean Ramsey. That's the truth. You know you'll fight her, and you know you'll win, and, if that's true, do you need to spend every waking hour stewing over her dastardly plans? Richard is keeping you busy enough. You woke up with talons. Well— your fingernails come to a sharp point. But you'd like to call them talons.

Monty is looking at your talons. Then he looks up at you. "Are you taller?"

He's the first one to notice: you straighten up. Be modest! "A little."

"I was never made taller. I imagine I didn't get that far, given Jean. Any new teeth?"

You consider opening your mouth all the way, but figure that might give the wrong impression. You lift your lip instead. "'ot eally oo, ut..."

"You could devour small rodents with those," he says.

Be modest? No! You can't! "Big rodents, thank you very much. But I haven't tried. Did you call me in just to ask how tall I was?"

"No. No, I—" He slides something out of a folder and pushes it across the desk. "Jean contacted me. Not personally, I don't think, but I didn't see who left it. Needless to say, the summons will be going unanswered."

A special early invitation to— you peer at the swirling letters— the Game. Courtesy of the Hero-Queen. A note in handwriting: "Here's to old times! Hope to see you on the field! —The Executioner"

"The Game," you say, "is your stupid murder tour..."

"My stupid murder tournament. Yes. She misses it." Monty pushes the invitation around with his finger. "I don't. It's gruesome enough when the competitors know what they're getting themselves into."

"She's hosting one."

"If we're lucky, she's hosting. If we're unlucky, she's conscripting. Or not even that, Charlotte. The Game isn't really a 'tournament,' see. It's freeform. You play until you retire, until you die, or until you... win. I won. She won. A few retire. Most die. The violence is limited to legal participants, but I fear how broad her definition of 'participants' may be. It could be anybody who looks at her funny. Or who looks at an official 'player' funny. There could be a lot of bodies, very quick."

This is why you didn't want to hear about her. "Which is okay! Because when I'm God, I'll—"

You stop. You hadn't told him.

"You'll erase the carnage? You'll wipe the whole bloody slate clean? I hope so, Charlotte, but it's rarely that easy. Ask me how I know." Monty slips the invitation back into the folder. "No need to try to backtrack that. Madrigal told me."

"Madrigal has a big mouth," you mutter.

"She felt I should know. I told her I did. Or I thought so. Have people been making requests of you?"

"Yes."

"Only logical. I won't. I don't believe there's anybody who's owed a miracle less."

(2/7)

"Well, that's sort of my decision," you say uncomfortably. "What is it? Your wife? Because—"

"I'll notify you if there's any developments with Jean. If I can't find you, I'll notify Gil. And I will be— if she comes, or if she doesn't come, and there's anything I can— I unleashed this, Charlotte, and I will gladly kill myself leashing it again. Say the word. And check in with Eloise, please. She keeps sidling up and asking for 'hot goss.' And, while she's a lovely woman, there's only so much 'hot goss' a person can stand."

"Okay," you say, and stand. "You don't need to kill yourself doing anything, by the way. That's my job. Not that I'll be dying, but I'll— I don't know if Madrigal said this— my body will sort of be exploding into a giant snake, I think, so—"

"Madrigal did not say that."

"Oh. Well, it will."

"Well," Monty says. "Good luck."

———

You'll check in with Eloise. And with Lucky— or, er, Lucky will check in with you. Er, his double-trouble will. Molina and Hatch will deliver you an official-looking packet, containing (among other things) a mimeographed resignation form. Lucky is a free agent now. The world trembles.

You'll check in, too, on Headspace. Not the Collective: the stragglers who survived the collision, now rebuilding their lives in the rubble. Why? You were talking to Madrigal, and she mentioned Pat, and you asked where Pat was, and Madrigal said she'd been spending a lot of time there— and what were you supposed to do, let Pat do all the charitable visits? She isn't even a good person.

"What are you doing here?"

And of course she's there when you stop by, her and a thing with five faces and a few wary-looking others. "HELLO, CHARLOTTE FAWKINS," the thing says from its mouths. "IS ALL WELL?"

"Yeah," you say to Us— one of the Uses— and, to Pat, "What do you mean? Can't I be wherever I want?"

"Sure. I just thought, after you exploded these people's lives, you'd check in soon or check in never. It's been months. The timing's weird, Charlotte. Is there something you want from them?"

"No! Why do you always have a bug up your butt, huh? Can't I normally visit the people whose lives I heroically saved? It's nice to meet you, um..." You wave in the direction of the employees.

"You're the fucking journalist," one of them says. "If Iris were here to see this! Pat, you never said the journalist was the one who—"

"Glenn, I have no idea what you're talking about. Charlotte, do you know what he's talking about?"

A journalist? Wait. "Glenn" looks familiar. "...Um, I toured Headspace, before it got blown up... but it went wrong, a little. I'm not a journalist, though. I'm a sworn heroine."

"Oh," Glenn says. "Should've guessed."

The silence is tenser than you'd like. "You're welcome for me blowing it up," you prompt.

Some dark chuckles from the employees. "THE SITUATION IS SOMEWHAT COMPLEX," Us chips in.

(3/7)

"Yeah. It's somewhat complex. But..." Glenn sighs, steps forward, and offers his hand out to shake. "...we're not the ones who are hopping mad about it, so you found the right people. Are you looking for a tour? Not under false pretenses, this time?"

Maybe Pat only makes friends with ungrateful bastards? You guess Madrigal is okay. In any case, you must model heroic graciousness for them. "Um, sure."

You get a tour.

Headspace's survivors— found or rescued, by Madrigal and co.'s search parties, informed of their situation, then left alone to work it out— had a variety of reactions to their newfound freedom. Brand new employees, with clear memories of the world outside, had it best. Some of them up and left, hiking into Hell or the Fen or wherever. Most people weren't able to, physically. There were rumors someone tried and dissolved. And there was confusion, there was resentment, there was guilt, there was grief: everybody knew somebody crushed in the rubble or lost to the goo or so "managed" (as they called it) they couldn't be nursed back to health. Or sanity.

And there was violence. Amidst the chaos of the first few weeks, fingers were pointed, factions were formed, territory was staked out. "You saw the paintball," Glenn told you. "Departments already hated each other." The big split was between the "suckoffs" and the rest: the suckoffs tended to be higher in the hierarchy, or had worked for longer, and felt the implosion was an unmitigated tragedy. That, or they thought Management would inevitably return, and business should continue as usual so the punishment wouldn't be drastic. The rest saw the implosion as a mixed bag, but Management's destruction as a universal good, and banded together in fiery hatred of anybody who'd defend them. The especially hateful— no small number— scrounged weapons and set off to kill anyone who'd worked a little too high up the ladder.

And did they? "Uh..." Glenn says. "Yeah." About 20 people wound up dead, not all of them suckoffs. "It wasn't good. I wasn't involved."

Everybody's cooled off since then, from the sounds of it, though largely because the suckoffs are gone: actually, a lot of people are. Pat showed up, and the goo guys showed up, and everybody found out that their friends who fell weren't dead. Or weren't exactly. "And that seemed a lot more appealing than what we had going on. Especially for the people who actually missed work." So they waded in and never came out.

(4/7)

There are 200 or 300 survivors left, the employees estimate. What do they do all day, free of quotas and deadlines and Management breathing down their necks? "Uh... we're working on that." The ones you ran into have claimed one of the Biome spheres for their own— "it's hot property," especially since the main employee's-housing sphere vanished under goo— and show you rows of gardens, offices converted into shabby bedrooms, a paved walking path, a still-functioning vending machine. It's an order of magnitude less elaborate than the Headspace Collective's sprawling campus. Do they have to do everything by hand?

"Management wouldn't let people just think things up. It'd break the whole system. And it's not their manse, even now. Guess whose manse it is?"

You stare at Pat. "...Yours."

"Yeah. I mean, sort of. It's not the one up here." She jabs her temple. "And even if it was, I couldn't snap my fingers and give them a magic rainbow sparkle kingdom, or whatever you're thinking. Building a manse is hard, and then one person can come along and explode it, which is fun. But anyways. I'm the landlord, and I'm here for the goo no matter what, so it's no harm to bring supplies. I'm used to helping people who don't know what the hell's going on."

Huh? "You mean gooplicates?"

"No. I mean people who drowned five minutes ago. They land near the Pillar, I bail them out, I stop the gibbering, and if it seems like they're coping okay I send them off to the skimmers or whoever. Or I did all that until around a month ago, because I've been otherwise occupied."

Is she lying? Her voice is dry, but sarcastic-dry, or just tired? It's so hard to tell. "Really?"

"Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I have a different face for it, and it's not like you take a lot of interest in my hobbies, Charlotte."

"I thought your hobbies were making goo-people," you say honestly. "And... oh. And spelunking, I guess."

"Yeah. Another thing I haven't been doing. Seems Anthea doesn't appreciate my stunt. It's fine."

It's not fine. You have no doubt now that she's upset about it. Which she should be! Her "stunt" was shooting Gil and kidnapping Madrigal! But... you didn't know she helped people who just drowned. That's noble. And she's helping the employees right now, and Us, and she hasn't kidnapped anyone else, and Madrigal seems to think she's okay. You don't have to like Pat to not hate her, or even to feel bad. Heroic graciousness. Remember. "Maybe I could talk to Anthea? Or I could get Madrigal to talk to Anthea, and tell her that Gil's fine now, and she's fine now, so there really wasn't any harm done? Assuming you don't plan on shooting anybody else?"

"Why would I?" Pat's eyes flick to the side. "...You'd do that?"

"Duh? Hello? Why would I say that if I wouldn't do that?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, then! It's settled! I'll do it!"

———

(5/7)

———

Additional boost to [Pat] as a result of visiting the surviving employees. You go up to [Pat IV].

———

You do it. Anthea is reluctant, but dragging in Madrigal does a lot to smooth things over. (Madrigal is better at talking than you.) Pat is granted provisional re-admittance into Spelunker's Associated, and Madrigal gets a guest pass. You weren't expecting that part. You're not sure she was expecting that part, but, she tells you earnestly, she's trying harder to understand Ellery's interests. And she was goo for a while, and she took her eyeball out, and a snake hatched out of her leg— Matches is now the length of her hand— so the "no weird shit" ship has long since sailed.

No "challenge manse" this time, then, and no secret assassination mission. Just regular spelunking, which is more than enough to keep Madrigal awed, or disgusted, and you and Pat entertained: you don't think you would've lasted a manse alone with her, but she's fine with company, especially when she's busy answering questions. Madrigal wants to know, if this isn't a dream, what it actually is. It's not even a lucid dream? (She's heard about those.) Are you sure? She wants to know, if you die in a manse, whether you die in real life. It depends? What do you mean, it depends? She wants to know how the fuck a guy turns into beetles and then stays beetles forever. She wants to know why Real Ellery's made of fucking paper. Did you know he can't feel pain? He still can't, even inside all the goo. She tried.

When she isn't asking questions, Madrigal is gleefully skewering giant bats with the Fitz. (You think you heard Pat, off to the side with Anthea: "can we get one with monsters?") "I think I finally get it," she says, drenched in blood, teeth gleaming. "I bet Ell would've tried to talk with them. You think he would've tried to talk with them?"

"I think he would've tried to talk with them," Pat says, "and then a bat would've grabbed him, and he'd be flown way up there—" She points to the bat nest on the gloomy horizon. "—and by the time we got there, he'd be hanging upside-down from the ceiling, scarfing down gnats."

"Holy shit, Pat. You're right. It's like you know this guy or something. Ha!"

You participate in the bat murder, too. Maybe too hard. You do turn into a lizard, which Pat is unfazed by, and Madrigal is, um, fazed by. "Charlotte?! Charlotte?! No fucking way."

"She can't do this in real life," Pat says. "Don't worry about it."

You can do this in real life, you can't say, because you're a lizard. But it's fine: she'll find out eventually. Meanwhile, without Gil— he's spending the day with Claudia— it's challenging for you to not be a lizard, but you focus hard on believing you can turn back, and then you can.

Everybody escapes unscathed. You had a pretty good time (Pat had a better time, and Madrigal the best time), but you resolve to bring Gil to the next one. You missed him the whole way through.

————

6/7

"Eating gnats?" Ellery says. "Eating Pats, more like. I shouldn't even say that. I'll jinx it. Anthea let her back in?"

"Madrigal asked her."

"Fucking Maddie did. Okay. Cool. That's cool. Not like I can do anything about it."

You lace your hands behind your back. "Could you be in a good mood before you test your scary copy machine on my brain?"

"This is the mood you get. I got one. Would you put that thing on your head already?"

The burgeoning horns are making it complicated. You shut your eyes, place your palms atop them, and press them flat to your skull. "Your one mood is grumpy? Have things gotten way worse in here?"

"Things are fine in here, Charlotte. Things are great. Everything's chugging along smoothly. Everyone's one big happy family. Nothing to fucking complain about. How long has it been out there?"

"A month and something," you say.

"A month and something. Do the math for how long it's been for me?"

Richard would do the math for you, but he isn't here. He has trouble with the goo. "You already know. Just say it."

"Okay, then. It's been over a year. Honeymoon's over. I'm no longer needed. I got my one project— put that on straighter." (You sigh and wiggle the head thingy.) "I have this, and when this is done, I have nothing. You're still going to be God, right? That's still happening? You know perfectly well what to do."

"I thought this'd fix you," you mumble.

"No fixing this kind of broken. Did I go over what the test will be? I need to go over that. Uh, let's see. You see the body in there? That tube?"

You've been trying not to look at it. It's creepy. And unclothed, but smooth everywhere, like a doll. It's floating in water. "...Yes."

"It's a blank for a Friend. Not conscious. Don't worry about the specifics. We are going to try to copy you into that. There's sensors on the tank that'll scan the string signature, so we can run comparisons. Maybe you can use your freaky God stuff to talk to it, too, check if it seems like you. If it is, that's really, really good. All we need to do then is stress-testing and rigging it up in you permanently."

You're still not sure about the creepy body, but you suppose you won't need one of those with the Wyrm. You won't have any body then. Or it'll be a snake body, or a magyck God body, and it's not like Ellery can do one of those. So you assent.

Ellery flips some switches, there's a terrible stretching feeling, and the body in the tube twitches. "One sec," he says, and as he presses a button the body opens its eyes. It looks at its hands, then moves them up to feel its face. Then its attention turns outward: it tap-tap-taps on the glass, grins, and waves. Then it points at itself. Then at you. Then it waves harder.

That could've been enough on its own, but when you meet its black eyes, it's like you're chewing gulfweed: a doubling-redoubling, the feel of water, and your own voice in your ears. HI!!! HEY!!! IT WORKED!!! I'M IN HERE NOW!!! TELL ELLERY IT WORKED!!!

7/8

"It worked," you say dutifully.

"Thought so. Scans are matching. Look over there." Ellery points, you look, and a button slams. Ker-chunk. When you look back (he was showing you the blank wall), the tube is completely empty.

"Where did I go?!" you demand. (Hello? Hello? Lottie? Dead air.)

"Friend Disposal. Direct chute. She didn't know what hit her."

"You—" You open your mouth. "You MURDERED me?!"

"I disposed of your copy. Unless you want two Charlottes running around."

"I don't think that would be so bad!"

"I would. Everybody else in the world would. And your Manager would chew me out, I bet. The upshot is, the device works. How much longer do you have until you need it?"

"I don't know," you mutter. "A week or two."

"Great. Then we'll get this not just functional, but practical, in a month or four. I'll try not to shove myself down the Friend Disposal by then, okay?"

"You wouldn't!"

"You're right. It'd never work. Did you want to name this thing, by the way? You're the only one who's ever going to use it."

Is he trying to mollify you? "Haven't you named it?"

"Yeah. But my names suck, and you know that. Throw one out."

>[1] What will you name the Charlotte-mind-duplicator device? (Write-in.)

Claudia's (failed) ritual(s), 9 SV, fixing [Half-Paralyzed], pumping [Extrareal], your horrific transformation into a hideous lizardwoman (okay, a middlingly attractive lizardgirl), and !!vacation!! incoming tomorrow, or, er, when I can write all of it. I apologize for the long break culminating in a half-finished update, but I actually had a couple nights in there where I couldn't write at all, so we'll muddle through this. Thank you for your patience.

>>6272915
Oh no, my names suck too
>The Gooplicator?
>The CharlotteMaker?
>The WyrmFaker?

>>6272915
>The Recharlottizator
Because its purpose is to turn us back into Charlotte once the Wyrm overtakes us

>>6272915
>The Charbroiler

>>6272915
>>The Recharlottizer

>>6272938
>>6272980
>>6272982
>>6273167
The Recharlottizator takes it. Writing. We'll see how much I can chunk out...

>Timeskip end II: even endier

Even if he is trying to mollify you, you— you mean— are you going to let Ellery name your special custom Charlotte-maker? Charlotte-izer? But you already exist. Re-Charlotte-izer? Recharlottizer. No... "The Recharlottizator! Behold!"

"One, two, three— six syllables? Really?" Ellery sighs. "Okay. The Recharlottizer."

"Recharlottizator," you correct.

"Recharlottizator. Well, if this thing was ever getting commercialized, now it definitely isn't. Congratulations. You have secured exclusive rights to immortality. How does it feel?"

"I'm already God, so not very different? Also... um... it's not as special... I mean, if you drown, and you don't get murdered or eaten or anything afterwards, I think you can last a really long time. I heard Margo was, like, 200. Maybe that's not true, but she seemed 200. Or 150. And... you're immortal already, almost, and— maybe Gil is, I don't know— and Richard is ten million years old. So I guess I feel it's not all that impressive. But it should be handy, for the Wyrm! So thanks."

Ellery half-smiles. "Any time."

———

You really have no idea if Margo was 200 years old before Richard snuck in and stabbed her. You're sure Claudia is— not like she ever stops reminding you, whether it's barely relevant or not at all. "Of course I'm sure. You know I'm ten times older than you?"

You're keeping yourself well away from Claudia's knife. "Which means you have 200 years of experience, right?"

"No, I have, like, 200,000 years of experience. You know how many people's heads have been in here?" She taps her forehead with the knifetip. You wince. "Ten times older is going easy on you."

"That's not—"

"It's alright, Charlotte. I don't plan on leaving the room. I'm only five times younger than C.R., so I think I count as a reliable source." Henry is leaning against the wall. "I also don't know if much can harm you at this stage, to be perfectly honest. You're further along the Road, I dare say, than anyone's ever been."

"But I'm not done yet," you say.

"No. Not yet. If you'd like to back out, you're, as always, completely welcome to it. Nobody's forcing anybody into anything."

"But you're a fucking chicken if you don't. And..." Claudia purses her lips. "I mean... I've been practicing..."

"She has been practicing, Charlotte. Quite a bit."

And you're the one who sent her off to Henry. You sigh. "You're going to be careful, right?"

"Yeah? Duh?"

She wasn't. She tried to be— you don't think it was deliberate, you don't think she was taking the ritual lightly— but it could've been nerves, or else "quite a bit" of practicing wasn't enough. You came out of it okay, all things considered. Alive. Limbs intact. Blood mostly intact. (Henry says, out of Claudia's earshot, that anybody else would've been far worse off.) But you didn't come out unscathed.

What happened?

(Choices next.)

>[1] Her hand slipped. She hit a vein. The red stuff didn't like that very much.
>[2] She was supposed to draw a closed spiral, but left it open. The WYRM does not abide endings.
>[3] She was overenthusiastic about the stage of the ritual intended to put you in a suggestible state. The *last* thing you needed was a suggestible state.
>[4] Write-in. (Subject to veto.)

...I could chunk out very little. Oops.

>>6273290
Uh oh debuff picking time
>2
What’s the WYRM gonna do about it, huh?

>>6273290
>>[1] Her hand slipped. She hit a vein. The red stuff didn't like that very much.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>6273326
>>6273645
Flipping (1 = [1], 2 = [2]) and writing. I have an IRL obligation tomorrow morning, so I'll see what I can get done without pushing myself too hard.

>Timeskip end III: the third one

It was, honestly, a mistake anyone might've made. You might've made it. Henry should've caught it, but he was standing in the shadows, and the glorb-light was dim. Claudia bids you to take off your shoes and your socks, and turn your hands palm-side up, and to bite down on a rag— part of the ritual? "Not really. I don't think?" She looks at Henry.

"It's to curb the screaming. Charlotte might not need it."

You eschew the rag and endure the knife silently: if you imagine yourself half-outside your body, it doesn't feel like much of anything. Claudia's hands are steady— the goo, no doubt— but her brow is lined. She is carving spirals into your palms and your heels. She gets three of them right. On the last, she stops too soon, failing to join the spiral into itself.

Until later, nobody will notice. For now, Claudia grinds your bleeding palms and heels into the dirt, then presses your palms against your eyes, and your heels against each other. Stay still. Breathe this. (The rag, now wet, is pressed against your nose and mouth.) Breathe deep. Real deep. Henry by the wall is saying something softly and without stopping. Hold your breath. Never let go. Your lungs are stone. Now turn your wrists... like this. And your heels... like that. It should be painful. It needs to be painful. It's okay if the bones crack, right, Henry? I should think the Great WYRM prefers if they crack. She's not saying anything, Henry. Steady on, C.R. That means she's cooperating. If she didn't like how this was playing out, she could break loose, just like that. A finger-snap sound. Don't you remember what she is? But I can help with the hard part, if you like.

Your hardened wrists are taken, and the back of your head. Smaller hands grasp your knees. No hesitation, please, C.R. Here, feel her cheek. Like plaster. Here, try to pry her feet apart. No budging. She'll be happier out of all that. Now, the knees, please.

Your knees are taken, and four arms apply abrupt violent force, such that your palms smash through your eye-sockets and your legs crack free at your shins and you feel cold, cold, cold air. You feel light and wiry. Your arms are frozen in casts, but have cracked at the shoulders, and wise and useful Henry is already working them free of you, and once they are loose it is simple to pry yourself out of the cage and emerge, stickily, into the dark.

"Oh fuck," Claudia says. "Oh fuck!" Henry is smiling and his eyes are dark. You are coated thickly in red everywhere. You are scaled and strong, but you were already, and your eyes are dark, and the spirals cut holes in your hands and feet. And your mind: you are lurching forward, and Henry is ahead of you, opening the door for you. And then you were gone out of it.

(1/3)

They follow a short ways. "There's nothing to be concerned about," Henry is saying. "She will walk the spiral, and she will return, rebuild her body, and more than likely fall asleep. She certainly won't get lost. The Wyrm turns back on itself, always."

"She walked— she walked out of her— you're being really chill about this!"

"It's relaxing. It's like getting a deep massage. And are you not the one who specifically requested 'the one where she rips her face—'"

"I didn't think it'd work!"

Henry's chuckle grows distant as you travel on, walking the way you must walk, for as long as you must walk it. There is no fear in you, or much of anything in you, except the spirals Claudia cut; you are the map, are the road; your strings have wound together as tight as as you can bear it; you are, briefly, not perfect, but as near to perfect as you can be, through ordinary means. If you could feel, it would be excruciatingly painful. As it is, you walk.

But not forever. Your way should've been clear. You should've made it clear. You should've walked in tightening circles, walked in your footsteps back, fallen on the floor, made the soil into thick mud, the mud and your blood into flesh again, and you could've slept there, and had dreams, and when you awoke— but the spiral was open. Claudia cut it wrong. See in the palm of your hand that gap. See through it, at your way ahead, but there is no way ahead. The path ends. At the end of the path is bubbling nothing: a cliff into void.

This is not how it's supposed to be. It's not. It's not. It's not. You are trapped. To jump off that cliff— you would die. But you cannot retreat. Every fiber of your being screams against retreat. And you cannot find another way. There is no other way. You have reached the end of the road.

You are afraid. This is not how it's supposed to be, either. You look into the void and are more miserably afraid than you have ever been, more than you ever could've been, beset as you were by other concerns. You are free of other concerns and can devote the entirety of your narrow and altered being to animal fear. You will be at a complete loss to articulate it, when you're finally able: it is less than you and more. Nothing on your level. But it will rip at your edges, that red primordial scream: NO! YOU CANNOT DIE! YOU CANNOT DIE! YOU CANNOT—

————

You will awaken hours later sore and hoarse. Richard will be sitting next to you, back to the wall, feet out, smoking, and when your eyes open he'll lean over and thumb a spot of blood off your cheek. He won't say anything. Henry will shout for Claudia, who'll stay ten feet away and rub her eyes and nose as you're asked how you feel, what you remember, if you can move your fingers, your neck, your everything. You will be told that you started screaming and would not stop. Not words. Just screaming. Thank God the snake was there.

(2/4)

You will look at Richard and he will let smoke curl from his nostrils. Then you will make several false attempts at speaking, before finally managing it. "...Was there a cliff?"

"A cliff?"

"Was I... did you... was I in front of a cliff?"

"No, Charlie. No. You were in the labyrinth. Flat ground. Just standing and..." Henry shakes his head, bang his fist into his side. "I'm sorry. I understand entirely if you want nothing more to do with— well, with me, frankly. This was a catastrophe, totally unconscionable, and—"

"Fuck that! It was my fault!" It's obvious from her voice that Claudia was crying. A lot. "He didn't do anything! I— I never should've— I don't deserve to— I should be dead! Everyone else is dead! I should be in goo, where everybody's lives are made-up, so I can't ruin—"

And then she's crying again, and you're there, trying to figure out why. You were screaming that much? But you're not anymore. Are you grievously wounded? Richard?

«You're fine.»

Fine. Okay then. You certainly seem to have all your limbs and things. They're the right shape. You might need some hot water with honey, though— oh. Richard has snapped his fingers. Throat's fine. That works too. "Um... my life's fine. I think. Calm down."

"You didn't have any SKIN!"

Something about scales? "I think I did? I was just covered in... red... goop. Blood and guts and stuff. But there was skin under there, probably. And, Henry, I— I don't— I said I'd do it. I'm not dead. What's the big deal?" You're not dead, right, Richard?

«You're breathing. Your heart is beating once a second, give or take. Your brain still functions, though it's often hard to tell.»

Hey! (He smirks at you.) Wait, how does he know how many times your heart— has he been counting? Or, wait. In his snake office— you've been to his snake office— does he have a little read-out? And it says how many times your heart beats?

«Among other things. Is this a revelation? Did you think I waved a magyck wand to—»

Yes! Oh. Henry's talking. "Well— Charlie— I guess— we didn't know if you'd be getting back up. Or in what state."

"You didn't know? Isn't it obvious? A heroine doesn't— and I've— seriously, that wasn't even in the top 10 worst things. Maybe not in the top 20. Sometimes a young lady needs to take her skin off, sometimes, and—" You're trying to get up, but the strength isn't there. "—um— I might be here for a little bit, though."

"As long as you need. Would you like to be alone?"

(3/4)

Well, not alone. Richard's there. How bad was Henry beating himself up about this, though? Did he think... did he think he killed his only niece? His old friend's only daughter? You feel a little sorry you looked so dead there, apparently. "Maybe for a little bit, but—"

"Come on, C.R. Let's give her space."

"Wait! Geez. You should come back, though. Maybe you can bring a chair, and you can... tell me about my father, or something. I don't remember him. But you remember him."

"...I do."

"And, Claudia, um..." If you can't placate her, she might sneak off and do something stupid. You recognize hysteria when you see it. "...maybe you can pick a less complicated ritual...? For me to do? Maybe one without knives?"

She sniffles.

"Um, you can think about it. Maybe next week, or something. I'll tell Richard to make room in my schedule."

"You're a good kid, kiddo. If anything changes—"

"I'll start screaming," you say. "Just kidding. I'll say so."

"Heh. Alright. Rest soundly."

They go. You are there with Richard, alone, unscathed. Yes! As you, naturally, always would have been. You are a heroine, and the Herald, and God, soon, and can't be stopped by some stupid imaginary cliff. It didn't even exist! Nothing to be concerned about. No impact left on you at all.

>[DEBUFF GAINED: Deep-Seated Fear. Your next rolled Enhanced Success is converted to a Failure.]

Positive thinking!

>When Henry comes back, what story will you hear about your father? (Pick one. If there's a demand for Martin lore, I'm willing to share non-winning options at a later point OOC, but for my sanity I can't write more than one of these.)

>[1] What *his* upbringing was like. (You know nothing about your grandparents. Your mother and father may as well have sprung fully-formed from the earth. But that can't possibly be true.)
>[2] How he and Henry met and became friends (/ partners-in-crime). What he thought of the Wyrm.
>[3] How he and your mother met. What he thought of your mother.
>[4] Not any story at all. Just facts about him. Details. You want to know every little thing you can.
>[5] Write-in.

>>6273727
>"Fuck that! It was my fault!" It's obvious from her voice that Claudia was crying. A lot. "He didn't do anything! I— I never should've— I don't deserve to— I should be dead! Everyone else is dead! I should be in goo, where everybody's lives are made-up, so I can't ruin—"
Wow she's really started to like us

>>6273728
Rare pic of younger less gremliny charlie

>[DEBUFF GAINED: Deep-Seated Fear. Your next rolled Enhanced Success is converted to a Failure.]
Ok this isn't so bad
Just need to roll an enhanced success somewhere unimportant

>2
I for one demand Martin lore

>>6273728
>[1] What *his* upbringing was like. (You know nothing about your grandparents. Your mother and father may as well have sprung fully-formed from the earth. But that can't possibly be true.)
>[2] How he and Henry met and became friends (/ partners-in-crime). What he thought of the Wyrm.

>>6274045
>Pick one
>for my sanity I can't write more than one of these

Anon did not listen to my desperate plea... I guess I have to quit the quest now. Goodbye forever.

Just kidding. I wanted to write, but I was out and about way, way later than I thought. I'm going to crank out the rest of the rest of the timeskip in ONE SHOT tomorrow. Watch me. See you then!

>Timeskip end: AUGHHH IT'S STILL NOT DONE

When Henry returns, you'll ask him if your father ever did that. Took his skin off, or whatever it was that happened to you. He'll think for a while, and he'll say: I don't think so, kiddo.

You'll frown and look down. Henry will feel the need to elaborate. Your father (he'll say) wasn't ignorant. And he wasn't squeamish. But he eschewed— it was one of the possible lines of thinking, that the Wyrm despised the human form, and would be most pleased seeing it mutilated, or distorted out of recognition, or made into Its image, as nearly as possible, which was not very, for most. But some. A little. (Henry will draw up his lip and show his fang.)

Then he'll go on: "Your father never did take that tack. He felt, rather, that the Eternal Wyrm— unchanging, perfect, a Thing-In-Itself— would scorn desperate imitation, and reject change, no matter the direction. He felt that his body was better off preserved, in its— er— well— I don't— I guess you're old enough, but— look, kiddo, your old man was popular with the ladies. That's about the cleanest way I can put it. He was popular for a long, long while, before he ever met your mother. After, too, but mainly before. And it was pretty clear to me that he thought, if the world was going to end, and if he'd be preserved, he didn't want to get preserved as something icky. And... it's just not too attractive, overall, to peel your skin off and go for a walk. If you know what I mean."

Which will be the exact opposite of what you wanted to hear, and you'll scowl and hug your knees to your chest. Henry will apologize, though he doesn't seem to know quite what for, and a low-down drive to see him suffer battles with the urge to loosen the knot in your chest. The urge will win. You'll ask if that means your father would hate what's become of you. If he were alive.

"Oh, no, no, Charlie. Hey! No. Chin up." Henry will squat down. "Of course he wouldn't."

"I have a tail."

"And it's a very charming tail, and Martin, if he were alive, would shower love and affection on it. There's no doubt in my mind in the slightest. He— you have to understand, I knew him for a very long time. He was 30, I think, when you were conceived. Maybe 31. When we met, he was... dammit, you're making me feel old... I believe he was your age."

"23?"

"It might've been. I was a little younger. The point is, everything I was saying— he didn't have anybody else to worry about, then. That would change. Whether he wanted it or not, so did he."

"He didn't worry about you?"

"We had a different relationship. Did I tell you how we met? He was trying to kill me."

"Um," you'll say. "No. You never told me that."

(1/4?)

Your father, Henry will say, had been born halfway down the Road: the Fawkins were notorious Wyrm-children, every last one of them. You knew that, didn't you? He hopes you knew. All the nobles were, once— that's how they got that way— but the Fawkins kept it. Your father took it in stride. As soon as he recieved his inheritance, he'd start blowing it, hopping down a few levels and throwing big parties. It had to be a few levels, so the sacrifices wouldn't be missed. ("I told you he wasn't squeamish.") He went for the drunkest ones, and killed them cleanly. He was proud of that.

Henry will pause there: "...Moving on. I'm sure you can tell from my voice, kiddo, that I'm from a few floors down. Yeah? I was a bartender, back in those days, and I was hired on for one of those. I'm serving this girl, I cut her off, and, next thing I know, this fancy-pants guy's legging off with her. I follow, to tell him to cut it out. I follow for a while. Next thing I know, she's on the ground, a sword's in her guts, and— Fancypants spots me. And he goes: fuck, I guess I can make it two."

"So he goes after me, but he's been drinking, so he's a little sloppy. I was working, so I'm sober as a judge, and I have a knife. Long story short, your father got a lot more than he bargained for. Cut him pretty bad. Slashed his nice shirt wide open. Saw the spiral right... there. First time I'd seen another one. Ha! Well, I told him to be less conspicuous next time. Poor man was thunderstruck. Longer story short, I was rehired, and... the rest is history. Isn't it funny how these things work out?"

"Yeah," you'll say. "Funny. ...He was killing people."

"Yes."

"Innocent people. For... years?"

"Yes on both counts, kiddo."

You'll draw back. "Don't call me that."

"I— I'm sorry. Charlotte. Yes. That's accurate. Looking back, I can't say anything justified it. Particularly in my case. I'll be transparent: I found it good sport. But this was 30 years ago, and I..."

He'll have reached out his hand. "Don't touch me!" you'll spit.

The hand will retract. "...I and your father both felt... essentially, that the world was ending. Or had ended. That the Wyrm was due back imminently, and, if you were off the Road, a quick and quiet death was the best you could hope for. Better us than the Wyrm. I believe your father saw it as rather noble. A mercy handed down from higher to lower, and all that. One of the few brave ones to see the right course of action. He didn't make use of the bodies often."

"And you did," you'll say flintily.

"More often, yes. I enjoyed the craft of it. Do I sound monstrous to you? I— I do think I was, in retrospect. I think that's a fair assessment."

"But you're not now."

(2/4?)

"Getting kicked off a plank to your certain death tends to shake up the belief system, as does— well, imagine the end of the world is imminent. Then imagine thirty years pass. It becomes difficult to keep up the urgency, yes? Especially when your knees hurt and you can't touch your toes. Suffice it to say that I'm a dog with no teeth— not that I ever had any for you, Charlotte. I never even dreamt of hurting you. Neither did your father. He simply could not reconcile a doomed world with one with you in it."

"Obviously," you'll mutter. "Because I'll save it."

"I don't think either of us knew that then. I think he simply needed the world to persist. But... I think I've given you enough to chew on. Too much, maybe."

"...Yeah."

"I thought you deserved the truth. Good luck, Charlotte. From me and from Martin, as much as you'll let me speak for him. Call if you need anything."

And you will be alone, and you were alone, and you are alone. Not alone. With Richard, who is working harder than he's ever worked, one-third on the time on Satellite (which will succeed, but has not happened), two-thirds of the time on you. Doing everything to you. Sometimes you're awake in a wicker chair in your garden, looking over the fire lake, Richard standing behind you, his whole arm in your back: "Tell me how this feels," he says, over and over, then releases you, points, and tells you to do something impossible. Which you do faithfully, except for the backflip—

—which is not your fault. There is something in the way. Richard said future alterations would be strenuous, which was a traditional Richard understatement, but not wrong. Sometimes you are also vomiting black gunk and, when Gil attempts to cure you via blessing, vomiting black chunks along with it. Sometimes there are bloody punctures in your back where the spines broke through. Sometimes you can't sleep on your back. Actually, all the time, you can't sleep on your back. First it's sore, and, as the skin peels off, itchy. Then the obstacles are physical. The spines, already mentioned, three inches long, smooth, dull, slightly curved, running straight down your back. The horns, which you keep trying to wobble— they're not very sensitive, so you keep half-thinking they're a costume. If you part your hair, though, they're bolted solidly to your scalp: white and smooth like the spines, the width of two fingers, sweeping backward past your ears. So not good for headbutting after all. Damnit, Richard.

(3/5?)

None of this would impact the backflip, though. You suppose it's your fault in the end: you asked, and you received, an honest-to-God tail. A lizard tail. Like lizards have (but not agents). Lizards and Heralds. Lizards and Heralds and Charlotte Fawkins, who you are almost entirely positive is the only person in the entire world who's had one— "Because nobody else has had me," Richard says, all conceited. Maybe he earned it this time. You don't think you understood how much of a process it'd be: your spine more than doubled, new muscles, new nerves, a new pocket in your brain to hold all the brain stuff (you didn't understand the explanation), your self-concept molded and resealed, your legs strengthened to bear the not-insubstantial weight, your core strengthened to keep you upright, not leaning, all of it for an alteration Richard deemed optional and not particularly practical. Even impractical, back-sleeping and backflip-wise. But, when you're awake, he keeps snide comments to a minimum— even seems enthused, in a dry Richard way, to deliver updates. It's a Project. You guess he likes Projects.

It goes from a suspicious pyramidal lump to a stubby skin-covered protrusion (at this point you have to put a slit in your slacks) to a tail to a tail, completely unmistakable, so long you have twist around to see its end. Or you could just move the tail itself. You keep forgetting about that, but it's semi-flexible: you can curve it left and right, and the tip of it any which way. Which is scary. Half your brain screams WRONG every time you look; half your brain tries to convince you it's always been there. The tail. Unlike the horns, it has decent feeling, too— touch it, and you're touching your leg, except the leg's out in space somewhere. "Kick" the leg and the tail lashes. It's strange, is what you mean. And you worry about walls. And chairs. Henry is speechless when he sees. Claudia asks if she can touch it, then punches it: "Ow!" you say, and instinctively thwack her. Like hitting a knee with a mallet. You can hardly process making contact, but she skitters backward, and her expression handily surmounts all misgivings. Yes, you have a tail. Yes, it's very weird. You think you'll settle in just fine, though.

Gil also wants to touch it. You hadn't seen him for a little while— you were unconscious, after all, and underground— and though you told him about the tail beforehand, you don't think he knew what to expect. His eyes got really big when he saw you, and he opened his mouth, and closed it, and grew pinker than usual. "That's..."

"I told you!"

"That's... and you have..." He touches his forehead. "Holy fuck, Lottie."

"I told you."

(4/5)

"Does it move? Are you— I-I-I'm sorry— are you still human? Or are you, um... I-I guess part-..."

"Part lizard? Um... Richard did this for me special... I don't think I actually got mixed up with any lizards. I'm not mad at you for asking, because—" You raise a finger. "—because you're beetles. So you can say that. Nobody else can, though. When I'm the Herald, I'll be 100% lizard, but right now, I'm Charlotte Fawkins, okay? With a tail."

"With a tail," Gil echoes, and rubs his mouth with his hand. "Can you feel...? I-I-I-I mean... can I touch it?"

Can he touch it? You let Claudia touch it, but then she lost touching privileges. You're sure Gil wouldn't punch your tail. It's just... you don't... you don't know what Aunt Ruby would say about tails. She wouldn't have anything at all to say about tails. She'd faint.

All up to you, then.

>[1] Gil tail touchy
>[2] Gil tail no touchy
>[3] Tail touchy nuance?? (Write-in.)

Okay I got 80% of it done, which is not quite ONE SHOT but I think it's pretty respectable... ;__;

>>6274627
Woah dad looks rad

>>6274628
Pog art

>>6274630
>3
He may touch as long as he’s careful and definitely doesn’t punch. Actually did we SVmax yet? Maybe no touching if we got the big SV boost, unless he’s super confident about his blessing control.

>>6274630
>[1] Gil tail touchy
Touch scaly tail

>>6274630
>>[1] Gil tail touchy

>>6274630
>[1] Gil tail touchy
Oh whatever, throw the dog his bone.

Hi folks. I have some weird early morning stuff, so no update tonight. The thread's getting a little long in the tooth, so in these last few days I think we'll be finishing the timeskip (for real), then you and Richard will have a chat, then the next thread will start fresh with DOING BATTLE WITH JEAN RAMSEY'S VILE MINIONS!!! Prepare yourselves!!!

And see you tomorrow!

>>6274645
>Actually did we SVmax yet?
Nope: I wanted to get to that in the last unwritten 20% of the update. Getting SV numbers that high requires a sacrifice the Wyrm would hugely approve of. You likely won't be activating it until the last second (i.e., when you're DOING BATTLE with Jean Ramsey herself), so no need to worry about freaking out and murdering Gil if he touchies too hard.

>Touchy

You don't like it being up to you. Surely there's rules you don't know about? You have to think about this. Surely, um, you're not— you're not wearing any clothing on the tail, and you hadn't thought to. So it's like your neck, where it isn't wrong to look upon. And it's scale-covered, and it extends a rather long way from the rest of your body. And you trust Gil. He's your friend. It wouldn't be weird.

"I don't see why not," you say, and turn 90 degrees. "But be careful! There's skin under the scales, okay? And nerves, and things, so I can feel everything. No punching."

"Punching?" He gets pinker. "I-I-I wasn't— I wasn't planning on— but if you don't want me to, I-I-I don't have to— I-I don't need to touch it. I don't want to. That was a weird thing to— um, I'm sorry I—"

God! He's so stupid! Now he has to touch it. "Did I not just say you could? Actually, if you must know, Richard— Richard said it needed to be touched a whole lot. So I could get properly used to it."

«Did I.»

"He definitely did say that. So go! Touch! ...Carefully."

Gil meets your eyes, then sucks his cheek in, crouches, and tentatively rests his fingertips on your tail's side. You shudder, but try not to thwack him, even when he gently taps the scales, then squeezes the fleshy underside, then slides his fingers up one of the spines, then wraps his hand around the tail's tip. You expect him to let go promptly. He doesn't. "Hey!" you say, and crane your neck around: seeing you, Gil holds his catch up, and you stare at the tip twitching wildly. Like a worm on a hook. You feel his grip as a sort of phantom coldness. It's not bad, or untoward. He isn't squeezing. He thinks it's funny, is all— and it is funny— and you told him to do it— but you're going crimson. You really should tell him to stop. He'd stop. But your throat's all swollen, so you screw your face up and make a sharp upwards gesture and he ruptures and is beetles, and isn't touching you any longer.

"Ow! Ow. Aw, shit. S— sorry. Sorry." He flits up out of reach. "Sorry. I-I-I-I-I knew it'd be weird. Sorry."

He's not threatening at all like this. Just a lot of bugs and a voice, and a pathetic voice at that, if you can say that about your own retainer. Damnit! Why did you do that? He asked you not to do that. You rub your nose, then jerk your pointer finger downwards, and Gil flails and falls on his side. He stays curled up for long enough that you shuffle over and nudge him with your foot. "Are you...?"

"Y— yeah. I-I just— it's a lot to— I-I-I-I think it's easier when I do it myself. I-I-It's just a lot to... to... process. When i-it's so quick. Sorry."

"No. Um, I'm sorry. Richard says that— that some touching is good, but too much might accidentally activate my— my lizard, um, aggression. So that's probably what happened."

«You are getting exceedingly bold about this.»

(1/5)

"I'm not actually mad," you continue, like nothing was said. "Do you need help up? I'm all strong now. I could probably just pick you up."

"...I-I-I think I'm alright." Gil rolls himself onto his back, flopping one arm over his forehead. He squints up at you. "Horns too, huh."

"Huh? Oh." You guess you were bending your head to look at him. "They don't do anything. I don't think they're even good for headbutts."

"Aw, geez. No headbutts?" He raises his eyebrows. "I-I-I-I won't ask to touch."

"It'd be okay if you did. I can't feel very well with them. I think they're pretty much just bones?"

"Spooky. Have you... I-I-I don't know, maybe this is dumb... have you thought about how you're going to explain this to everybody? You vanish for a few weeks, and you come back with a... with all that. Not that I-I-I think you'd be kicked outta camp or anything, but it'd be a lot of questions. A lot of questions."

"Half of them know I'm God already." Thanks, Ellery. "But the other half doesn't... and I couldn't exactly go into town or anything. But it's fine! Because I don't have a tail."

"Huh? Yes you..." You turn sideways, and Gil's mouth opens. He props himself up on his hands. "...What the fuck?"

"Do you have a problem?" you say smugly.

His eyes are pingponging all around your tail-region. "I-I-I know it's there, Lottie. I-I-It's literally right there."

"What's right there?"

In response, he lunges and makes contact. "Yeah!" he says, relieved. "Goddamn, that's— that's creepy as shit. I can still look at the horns, though."

"Oh. Okay, I don't have those either. Woosh."

Gil drops your tail and squints up. "Yeah. That'll work."

"Yes!" You pump your fist. "Let me tell you, Gilbert, being God has perks! Are you jealous?"

"Me? Um, no."

Ugh! Wrong answer. You thought he'd know better by now. "Not even a little? I think I'm probably going to be able to woosh— I'm saying that now. Woosh. For magyck things. I'll be able to woosh you into being human again. I mean, real, and fleshy, and stuff. Really soon."

"...You don't need to do that."

"Yes I do! It wouldn't even be hard, I bet. And what's the point of it all if I can't help? It's #2 on my list, I think. Bringing my father back is #1, sorry. Um. Okay, maybe you're #3, because my mother... but the point is, you're high on the list! And I'm sure I'll have plenty of time. So watch out! Soon!"

"Soon," Gil echoes. "What if you forget the list?"

"What? I won't forget—"

"What if you're not Lottie any longer? I-I-I'm sorry, I just... it's been months, and... I know I can't stop anything, and I shouldn't, and... I-I-I just don't— I've talked to Teddy about it, and he thinks— he thinks it's going to be really, really hard. To survive the Wyrm. Even if you've been training. Even i-i-if you have a— a tail, I guess. It'll be really hard, and— you probably won't— even if you win— will you be Lottie? I-i-in the very end? Or will you be—"

(2/5)

"Teddy doesn't know anything," you say.

"Yes he does. Lottie. But even without him... I-I-I've seen you possessed by that stuff. What it wants to do with you. And that's only a little tiny fraction of—"

"I'm better now, though. And— if it doesn't work— the world ends. But if I do nothing, and Jean Ramsey steals her stupid crystal back, then the world ends. It's not any different, Gil. It's worse, actually, because I didn't even bother."

"I-I-I know."

"And Richard thinks there's a chance, doesn't he? Maybe even way more than a chance. You need to concentrate on thinking positive, and I'll keep thinking positive, and with our powers combined, it'll definitely be fine. That's an order!"

"I-I-I know. I-I-I-I'm sorry. I-I just... I guess I needed to... I-I've been sitting on that for... hah. Sorry."

"It's okay. I know being positive is hard for you." You tilt your head. "And I know you're just worried because you want everything to go well. I want it to go well too, alright? We're on the same side."

"I-I... yeah. I-I-I just... even if it does work, Lottie, i-it'll be... it'll be different. You'll be different. I can't see how you'll be God and not be—"

"The Herald was a lot like me. On the inside. And I have a very powerful personality." You nod sagely. "Even if it is different, though... I mean, it's different already. I'm way different from when I met you, and you're way different from when you met me. Even Richard's different, I guess. Sort of. So, even if it's different some more, I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll visit! Or maybe I'll invent a Charlotte Fawkins to be, and I can be your friend like normal, while the rest of me's off being God. I don't know how it'll work at all. The point is, it'll be okay, Gil. I promise. I swear on me."

"On you."

"Duh! Because I'm God! And you're going to get used to it, okay?" You place your hands on your hips. "What were we even talking about?"

"...The tail? I-I still can't look at it, so you know."

"Oh. Um, woosh. I do have a tail. Anyways, before that. Oh. You had word about Jean Ramsey?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I-I-I have— yeah. So, she's..."

————

"Thank you for coming, Charlie."

You're in your manse— you have to be in your manse, if you want any privacy. If you start envisioning Richard in the real world too hard, he actually appears. You mean, he's visible. Gil saw him and freaked. In between the booby traps, you installed a proper little parlor, walled off with folding screens: Richard is sipping his gross lizard drink inside it now.

"Yeah. It was an arduous trek to my own manse, Richard, in my own head?" You have produced hot cocoa for yourself. You didn't even need Richard for it! Times have changed. "You're welcome?"

(3/5)

"It's a great honor to have the Herald herself visiting with me, is all. Taking time out of her divine schedule."

"Ha-ha." He's messing with you, except for the part where he isn't. Since the tail came in, he's been like this: crowing about his accomplishments, yes, and about #301's imminent disgrace, but making little jabs about your Heraldness too. You're not even certain they're jabs. He might actually be awed, just a bit. "So what's the big deal?"

"I wouldn't say 'big deal.' I've been doing some rumination, is all, Charlie. Your protracted break from..." He waves his mug around. "...shenanigans... has produced ample time to think, and some of this thinking pertains to you. A great deal, actually. We really must prepare a contingency plan."

"For Jean Ramsey?"

"No. Your success there is not in doubt. For the Wyrm. I— I would like to be clear, I still have faith in your success there, too."

"But not absolute faith," you say suspiciously.

"I... I had hoped... as all of my colleagues have hoped, for as long as any of us can remember... that the Wyrm contained mercy. Not for humanity, of course. You would be destroyed. But for us, Its long-lost children, It would surely take pity." He reclines in his armchair. "Your visions just about dashed these hopes, Charlie, and the Wyrm Itself sealed it. It would appear that we mean rather less to the Wyrm than anticipated. Indeed, it would appear that no aid is coming whatsoever. There is therefore zero advantage to allowing the Wyrm to remain alive."

"Um," you say. "Except for the fact that I'll be it?"

"Yes." Richard clinks the mug against his teeth. "Yes. Yes indeed."

"...What did you mean by contingency plan?"

"I would like to propose a scenario, Charlie. Suppose you succeed in deposing the crown-thief. This is certain. Suppose you take the Crown and summon the Wyrm into your body. Suppose, thanks to my many years of tedious hard work, you are not immediately overcome, as any other mortal being would be. Suppose you hang on and, through your ridiculous stubbornness, continue to hang on, largely intact and recognizable as Charlotte Fawkins. I think, up until this point, we are in a plausible scenario."

"Okay," you say. "And...?"

"And, let us suppose further, that you are able to wrestle for control of the Wyrm's self, whatever that consists of. I haven't any idea what this will entail; nobody has done it before. We are entering the realm of the implausible. Nevertheless, let us suppose you 'win.' What in this situation has occurred? Are you now the Wyrm? You are in control of the Wyrm. Is the Wyrm still present? If It isn't, where has It gone? And if It is, is It sitting idly by, content to watch you use Its power for things It despises? This will apply to anything you do, short of vaporizing half the seafloor. I doubt it, Charlie. Presumably It will be attempting to wrest control back as soon as possible."

(4/5)

"Then I'll put it to sleep!" you say. "Wasn't it asleep for thousands of years, anyways?"

"No, Charlie, you won't be doing that. You fail to understand. In this scenario, you are the Wyrm. A separation may persist in your mind, but it's basic metaphysics: you will be [WYRM], and the Wyrm will be [WYRM]. Completely bound together. Anything you do to It will affect you, sure as the Dawn. The Wyrm will sleep for a thousand years? You will sleep for a thousand years. And, unlike the Wyrm, your tenacy in that great skull's fragile. When it wakes, there's no guaranteeing you will."

You sigh. "You're going somewhere with this."

"Aren't I ever? Let us return to this hypothetical. The Wyrm is either plotting to regain control, or is in the process of doing so. You have Its unfathomable powers, but can do little-to-nothing to It without affecting yourself too. Your goal, presumably, is to ensure the world is not destroyed. No other goal can be accomplished without achieving this. What is the one thing that will guarantee this goal's success?"

"That's a question?"

"Why not, Charlie. Show off that big Herald brain. One logical conclusion."

>[1] What's the contingency? (Write-in.)

>>6275507
Is he perhaps referring to suicide? To taking one's own life? To killing oneself? To self-unaliving? To becoming an heroine? Is this what this motherfucker referring to?

>>6275507
Maybe instead of killing ourselves to kill the WYRM, we can uh voluntarily forfeit its power? Reduce it to just a super powerful but not god tier being? Suicide isn’t cool :(

>>6275645
>>6275657

>An heroine

You tighten your fingers around the mug, thinking. "I— I'll have to sacrifice my powers? So the Wyrm won't be able to destroy anything, even if it regains control? That wouldn't be so bad. I never really wanted to be God in the long-term, so... yeah. That'd be just fine."

"Sacrifice them how, Charlie?"

"I don't know," you say defensively. "You just said nobody's ever done this before."

"I— yes. I said that. I suppose it's not entirely out of consideration. I simply don't know if the Wyrm has discrete... 'powers.' Its sway on reality may be a simple function of what It is. Just like snakes: the larger the snake, the larger the sway, and the Wyrm is the largest snake there has ever been."

"Oh! So I'll shrink it! That wouldn't be bad either. I mean, it'd be bad for the Wyrm, but I'd just go back to normal size. Bam. No problem."

"And then the world crumbles into the abyss?"

"Huh?"

"We are supported on the Wyrm's back, Charlie."

"Oh." Richard's such a wet blanket. Always has been. Always will be. "Okay, what's your stupid plan?"

He looks at you over his glasses. "I think you know it."

"No I don't. If I did, I..." You stop. "How stupid is this plan? Is it really, really, really stupid?"

"It's not, but you might say so."

"Ugh!" You slam your mug on the table. "Richard! This is pathetic. You're mad that I'm going to kill you, so you think I should—"

"Should what?"

"—should— should die? You think I should kill the Wyrm and die? I don't want to die. I was okay with the God thing, because I thought somebody had to do it, but dying—"

"It would be terribly noble."

"Then why don't you do it?! Oh, right, you can't. Because you'll be dead. Admit it! You want revenge!"

"I will admit no such thing. This is not driven by spite."

"I don't believe you!" You stand, tail lashing. "I don't care if you want revenge, Richard! You're evil. Everybody evil wants revenge. I just don't want to be lied to. Admit it!"

"I— Charlie— I have no reason to seek revenge. I bear no ill will."

"Over your death. Which will be happening, need I remind you, very, very, very—"

"It was going to happen regardless."

Richard is taking a sip from his mug. You remain standing. "You— what? Your death?"

"The Wyrm is appeased through betrayal and sacrifice. After everything I have done for you, Charlotte, my death would be both. If it were not me, it would be the crown-thief killing #301— but the Crown must be immersed in agent blood. That was always the plan. Don't look so surprised, really."

"You need to die. To summon the Wyrm."

"There might be some way around it. Clearly the rest of the standard plan is... suboptimal. Nevertheless, I'm not keen on developing alternatives: this one works well enough. You certainly have the appropriate motivation."

"You want to die."


(1/long)

"'Want' is a strong word. I enjoy living, or some aspects of it. Freed from my lifelong obligation, I imagine I'd enjoy it even more. But I have recognized the necessity of this, and have accepted it several times over. Now you understand how our situations match, yes?"

You don't understand at all. "But it's not necessary if there's alternatives? What do you mean, 'works well enough'? You'll be—"

"Well, firstly, Charlie, it's a position of some prestige. Being the key to unlock the gate. I would not be forgotten, and, potentially, my memory would be burnished. I would be lying, though, if I said I cared much about the opinions of my peers. No. The gambit here lies in the assumption that the Wyrm has mercy. Perhaps it will recognize that key's sacrifice, and the many trials and tribulations it endured to come so far. Perhaps it will restore that key to life. Yes? This hope, like all of our hopes, soothes our minds, and allows us to pursue our goals without much trouble. A temporary sacrifice."

"So our situations don't match at all," you say. "You think I'll kill you and bring you back to life."

"Do I think that? I didn't say that. I said that was the hope common to all Correspondents."

"But you do think that, or you wouldn't be so calm."

"I think you will make a decision, and either I will remain dead, and be outside the reach of negative emotion, or become alive, and be reasonably satisfied with that. It is counterproductive to worry about something I cannot control."

You scowl. "You could beg me. On your knees."

"You'd have to be very stupid indeed to believe I would do that."

"But you need to! Or I won't even consider reviving you! You killed my father. I— I can't— I can't avenge him if you come back to life after. Then none of it counts."

"Perfectly reasonable. Still, I will not beg. I have made my choices, right or wrong, and you will judge them as you please. Now, really, sit down."

You sit and glare. "For your information, I still don't believe you. You're always hiding something. You've cooked up some kind of scheme to kill me, then you're going to use my— my life energy, or whatever— to revive you! Or you've implanted secret instructions in me, and when I become the Wyrm, they'll activate, and I'll have no choice but to revive you! One of those two. You really shouldn't have told me about this, because now I'm onto you, Richard, for the last time, and—"

"You sound very silly right now, Charlie."

"That's what you said about the snake conspiracy. And you know what I was exactly right about?"

"And everything must be a conspiracy? You think there's no chance at all I've simply made my peace with this? I've had a long time to do it."

(2/long)

"Sure. Yeah. And that's why you were oh-so-calm about getting recycled. And that's why you were all 'go ahead, let's do Satellite, I don't care what happens to me'— no! You cared a lot! You're lying through your teeth. Actually, those aren't even your teeth, are they? They're fake! You're a lizard!"

"Here we go," Richard mumbles.

"Yeah! Here we go!" You thrust your finger out at him, and he flickers and far exceeds the chair. His legs are too long. He hooks a lizard arm over the chair's back and curls his neck down to roughly human height.

"I fail to see what this adds to the conversation," he says, in Lizard. Lizardish. Lizardese. Whatever.

"Now you can't lie," you say in Lizard back. It makes your mouth move funny. "Admit whatever your scheme is, or we'll be here all [day], okay?" (There doesn't seem to be a proper word for day. Maybe because they're indoors all the time.)

"Not how it works, but sure. There is no scheme. I would say you are failing to understand my perspective, but that implies you're making an attempt."

"You lied about your perspective. You lie about everything."

"Recently?"

"Yeah! Just now!"

"Mmm." Richard's lizard face is less expressive than his human one, but you like that. It reveals his true evil nature. "Look. Charlie. Supposing we make it to the end of things: I have no particular drive to die; I have no particular drive to live. That is the absolute truth. You will trust that previous opinions were formed in different circumstances."

"Different circumstances." Your tail is flicking.

"You are correct about the previous opinions, however. I had no interest in being terminated before the end, because I would not see the fruits of my labor. And I could not stand to be recycled, because I would not be dead: I would be destroyed. Replaced. Richard would be lost to the void, and, indignity of all indignities, this body would go on. Perhaps it would be recognized, and, in secret, laughed at. Not that that would bother it, because it would make a good little agent, yes? Always on task." Richard has exposed his lizard teeth. "In comparison, dying as myself— having achieved ultimate victory— this is no insult at all. Recall I have not lived long."

"Ten thousand years."

"Eight months. One year. A wholly productive run of things, even if the beginning was rocky. My theories proven. A historic goal set and achieved. What more is there?"

You open your mouth. He lifts a black-scaled finger. "Furthermore, suppose you deigned to take mercy, and I am revived. To do what, exactly? To mingle eternally with my colleagues? You know my feelings about that. To terrorize the human populace? Bother Beetles all day? I am your right arm, Charlie. I am crafted into your right arm. Sever me at the shoulder, and what purpose do I have?"

You study your empty mug. "I don't know. I guess ask Monty."


(3/long)

"I believe his left is missing. But no matter. That is my perspective. Whether you like me, whether you hate me, whether you pity me, whether you forgive me, whether your father is avenged, whether he is alive, whether you are alive or subsumed or anything else: none of it particularly matters. My job will be over shortly. From there, it is up to you. Do you understand now?"

"..." You don't want to understand. "...Can you at least pretend to be mad about dying? So it feels good?"

"I'm sure I can arrange some helpless thrashing. But that's a later issue."

"...Thanks."

"You're welcome."

A silence. Richard wobbles his mug to refill his kaffee, or whatever it is. He appears thoughtful. You lace your hands.

"Ah. Wait a moment. You led me off track, didn't you? How sly. Mm. One more moment." Richard has to stick his entire snout in the mug to drink. You watch his neck pulsate. "We were discussing your death, not mine."

"I'm not going to die," you say.

"And I don't want you to. That's where we were. Are we now on the same page? There is no revenge motive. I take no special pleasure from envisioning this outcome. It's merely an outcome that, having gamed it out, seems likely to me. The Wyrm, battling for control— It will win. If It is alive in any way, over a sufficiently long period of time, It will win. It has existed for as long as anything has. You have not. It's that simple. Therefore something must be done. Now... the Wyrm cannot, as far as anybody knows, 'die.' It is not 'living.' It has no blood. If you were to take an enormous sword and cut off Its head— more than likely It would go on as before."

"Damn. I'll have to rule out the giant sword idea."

"I'll be honest, Charlie, I don't know if you're joking. The point is, It cannot die. But I would like to propose that... perhaps... there are alternatives." Richard swirls his drink with a finger. "The Wyrm, after all, is [WYRM], and to be [WYRM] is to be the Wyrm. It is self-contained. Perfect. This is what allows It to be what It is, but It is also... I believe... a vulnerability. Are you losing interest by now? Try to listen."

You stare over your own mug. "Uh-huh."

"Good. Now, if I were to manipulate your strings violently— severing as many as I could— this could be detrimental to you. You might experience deficits in memory, in functioning, in body structure, and so on. Crucially, though, it's exceedingly unlikely you would cease to exist. You are imperfect, after all, and contain redundancies."

"...Don't do that."

"If I was going to, I already would have— the point is, it's a bad idea. Now take the Wyrm. It is perfect. No knots, no tangles, no redundancies exist. It is [WYRM]. And if It is not [WYRM], it is not anything. Definitionally."

"...So it'd vanish?" you say. "That's the same thing as shrinking, isn't it? The world would—"


(4/long)

"I suppose it depends. Is the Wyrm's body [WYRM]? Or is it a vessel for the essence of [WYRM]? This is esoterica. What I will say, Charlie, is two things. One is that, for you, the answer is the latter. Your human body is mud. It is mutable to the shape of your strings. The other is that snakes, too, are perfect. They are [SNAKE]. But we are able to hollow them in such a way that the body remains, but the mind— for however much snakes can be said to have one— the mind is removed. To make room for ours, of course. You know that. The point is, retaining the corpse should not be, I think, impossible, if advanced metaphysical principles are applied."

"Um," you say. "I don't know advanced metaphysical principles."

"Come by Satellite. If and when you are the Herald. You will find an army eager to teach you, and I suspect you will have time."

Your worst nightmare. You become God and you still get lectures. "So I— I— the Wyrm— I break its strings? Its string? And then— its body stays where it is— but it can't end the world anymore, because it's not the Wyrm? Won't reality still collapse? I thought the Wyrm made it so the void didn't—"

"The Wyrm exudes reality. So does a large amount of crystal. Given that It was asleep for millennia, the process evidently doesn't require conscious involvement. Besides— that outcome is the same as the world ending, yes? So we are no worse off than before."

"I'm worse off than before," you say. "Because I'll be the Wyrm, so my strings will get snapped. And I'll be dead. That's the contingency. I'll— there won't be a Wyrm— and there won't be me. Right?"

"As best as I can figure."

"I don't want to die," you say. "I really— I like being alive, Richard. I didn't sign up for this to—"

"You tossed yourself off the edge of the Pillar in the middle of the night. You are signing up to obliterate your human body and risk total destruction at the hands of God Itself. This is one step further down the line."

"One step off a cliff."

"Yes. But it would be... I imagine... it would be a self-sacrifice. An noble action of such intensity everyone would know. Human. Agent. Everyone. You would be a heroine."

You clench your hands together. "You're manipulating me."

"I'm not manipulating you; I'm persuading you. I believe what I say to be true. I don't want you to die."

"That's not what it sounds like!"

"I don't. But I need you to— to have the possibility in mind, Charlotte. That's all. The possibility. I believe, after everything, that the world will be a poorer place without Charlotte Fawkins in it, but there might not be any world with her. You must... you must see... perhaps I'm wrong, and the Wyrm is open to peaceful coexistence. Or it is tired, and wishes to retire its position. I don't believe these things, but I cannot know. A contingency, is all."

"Damn you," you hiss. "Can't I— can't I use the Recharlottizator? I kill the Wyrm, and then I get spit back out? Easy."


(5/long)

"If you believe the Wyrm will not destroy that device, there is a slim possibility, but—"

"Maybe I don't even need it. I'll be God. Can't I just make a copy myself? A Fake Charlotte? She could be happy, and stuff. She could keep doing things. Maybe I'll revive you after all, and you can keep being her arm, or whatever. That wouldn't be hard."

"I wasn't done, Charlie. Whether you use a device or your own power or anything else— the duplicate will almost certainly be the Wyrm. The Wyrm exists— you might know this— It is outside of time. Once you are the Wyrm in full, you will always have been It, and you always will be It, and your copies will always have been It, and will always be It. They will have [WYRM], and to have [WYRM] is— well, I told you. You will have generously provided the Wyrm a replacement vessel, since Its original one worked out so poorly."

"No! Didn't you say loads of things have [WYRM]? Don't I have [WYRM] right now? I've had it for months, and I'm a suitable vessel right this instant." You knock on your horns. "So the Wyrm should be able to sneak back in time and possess me now, and end the world, and this stupid conversation. Because I'm a Charlotte, aren't I?"

"But It has not done that," Richard says. "And, though It may prove me wrong, I very much doubt It will do that."

"What?"

"It cannot do things It hasn't done."

"I— I don't—" You brace your forehead. "I feel like you're making this up. This is stupid. The only option in the whole wide world is to die—"

"The only option if you are alive and in control, and if the Wyrm is conscious and intractable, and if your priority is to prevent the world's destruction."

"Whatever. The only option is to die. But I— Richard, I'm not going to, okay? I refuse! I refuse! Maybe it's the right thing to do, but I just— I don't know what the point is if I save the world and don't even—"

"Hardly very heroic."

"Shut UP! Shut up! You're a million years old! I'm 23, Richard! I— I haven't even— I thought I'd get to go home! I was just trying to— I just wanted to go home." You rub your eyes. "Can't I go home? I could be God and go home. Please."

"Digest the idea. You have some time remaining to do so."

"I hate you," you say wetly.

"You never have. Would you like a drink? I don't know if you're aware, but people do put alcohol inside hot cocoa."

"They do?"

"They do."

You toss your empty mug into Richard's lap. He picks it up, swirls it around, and hands it back; you snatch it from him, plug your nose, and down it. It would've been a cruel trick to make it scalding hot, but Richard didn't. The alcohol burns, though. Your eyes are watering.

Your eyes are watering. You blink the water back and curl your tail around the leg of your chair and stare into the empty-again mug and stare and stare and wrap your hands around it and squeeze until it explodes and the pieces clatter to the ground. You don't know why you did that. It wasn't even real. Your hands don't even hurt.

Then you start to cry— so stupid, the Herald crying. So pointless. Richard's evil lizard face is implacable, but he has risen from his seat. He shouldn't have: now he towers over you, and you sob and curl up and curl your tail loosely around yourself. He is approaching, probably to eat you, and kneels. "Oh, Charlie."

You press your mouth to your knees. "Leave me alone. This is your fault."

"It would have come to this regardless. The Wyrm eats its tail. Chews and chews and never swallows. Perhaps you'll take an enormous sword and lop it off, once and for all." The lizard head tilts. "You've been dealt a bad hand, haven't you?"

"Yeah."

"And I have dealt it."

"Yeah."

"And the deck I was given was stacked. So it is. You haven't the neck to look backward, so I don't think that'll do you good. We are alive yet. Look forward."

"To my death."

"To your life, Charlotte Fawkins. You realize it will end regardless? God does not live. You will die as the Wyrm comes forth, and I will be dead shortly beforehand. I'll thrash if you like. There is that to look forward to. And, before then, Jean Ramsey's death or incapacitation or utter destruction. For me, Correspondent #301's kick in the pants. Before all then, you must pick off their lackies. Save some lives, perhaps. There is much yet to do. Will wallowing help?"

You don't answer.

"The Wyrm— if you are inside It— It will know you. It might not want to, but It will know you, and I have to imagine It will use anything It finds to pry you loose. If It finds you in despair, Charlie, it's found a crowbar."

"I— I'm not—" You press your knees together. "I'm not despairing, I just... I'll be fine tomorrow. It's a heroic sacrifice or— or whatever. It might not even happen. Tomorrow, I'll... I just... I need another drink."

"Do you?"

"I need something. I— I— I need— I don't know. I— I need my father back, Richard." You screw your eyes shut. "Bring him back."

"If all goes well, he'll be back within a week. Not by my hands. Even in facsimile, I don't think I can... you won't permit me that identity. Which is for the best, I think, for both of us."

"Then I need my mother. Then I need— Aunt Ruby— I need somebody— Gil— don't go get him! I'm supposed to be God! He can't know I— I— I— I'll be fine in the morning. I'll be fine. He won't know. I'll be thinking positive. I won't even know, Richard, I'll be—" You force a smile. "I'll be positive. Right? Won't I?"

"If anybody could do it, you could."

"I will. It'll be..." You scrub your cheeks. "I wasn't ever going home, was I? From the start. You knew it wouldn't ever happen."

"I knew it was unlikely."

"Oh, God," you say. "God. Richard, I— I need to go home."

"I know."

(7/long)

"Oh, God." You take a deep shuddering breath and curl, if it is possible, tighter. You grip your knees with white knuckles. Richard's lizard face looks the same as it's looked the whole way through. Probably looks the same as it's looked the whole way through, all three years of it. You don't know why his eyes have to be so big. To see in the dark or something. You hate him. You don't hate him. You don't know. You wish he didn't kill your father.

"Charlie," he says, in a look-at-this-Charlie tone. You look.

Richard, still crouching, has extended a lizardy hand toward you. He has stopped it midair, palm up. He has five fingers, like you, but they're skeletal in proportion and are tipped with tiny claws. Your talons are bigger.

You wait, in case he does something with it, but he doesn't. Just holds it. You wonder briefly about agent customs, then it processes, and you reach out your own hand and take it.

Your talons are bigger, but his fingers are much longer than yours, and he enfolds your hand in them. You didn't think he'd be warm, but he is, a little. He holds your hand, and you let him. You wipe your eyes on your slacks.

"I can't be what you need. I— I never have been able to. I think. No matter how much you have made me be, I have been... not that. But, in lieu of all those things, I am at least here. For as long as possible. I have nowhere else to be."

You sniffle. "Richard, I'm tired."

"Yes. Well. It has been a long time. Would you like to sleep?"

"I can do it myself now," you say weakly. "I mean, I tried it. I said I'd go to sleep, and then I—"

"Would you like me to do it?"

"Yes."

He squeezes your hand and releases it, and plucks a mug fragment off you, and places his hand on your forehead. "I'll be positive in the morning," you say.

"I know, Charlie."

"Like none of this ever happened."

"I know, Charlie. Rest easy."

You shut your eyes preemptively, and when a blanket drops over you you don't reopen them.

—————

You dream of the void before there was a Wyrm. You ask the void where the Wyrm came from. It does not respond. You ask the void where a person goes when they don't exist. It does not respond.

—————

In the morning, you are positive. You feel perfectly fine. Great, even! You were that spooked by notorious bastard Richard? Even if he was telling the entire truth (and when is he ever), then he was saying you needed to perform a heroic sacrifice— possibly the most heroic sacrifice ever performed, in real life or in your books. You certainly can't think of comparable examples. And you're supposed to think that's bad? You, a sworn heroine, and also God? Nonsense! You will kick the Wyrm in its snakey teeth, firstly, and then, if it tries to sneak up and betray you (actually, that seems likely), you'll kick it again. Even if your own teeth fall out! Even if you choke on your teeth and die! You will persevere!


(8/9)

You don't tell Gil about the heroic sacrifice, though. He gets weird ideas. And it might not even be needed, so you don't want to freak him out for no reason. You'll probably mention it, before anything happens, but do you need to go into detail? You don't think so. He already knows you'll be God, and that your body will explode (probably), and you think that just about covers it.

What did he tell you again? About Jean Ramsey. Right. Er, she's here. In the Corcass. Which you knew— Eloise was running herself ragged gathering all the news— you knew she was on the move, you mean. You saw the handwritten article in the Corcass Courier: HERO-QUEEN CHOOSES CORCASS FOR COMPETITION. Even Richard told you: #301 stopped by his cube, he said, and did some crowing. Fifteen tines of the Crown. A record, evidently.

Fifteen, but not sixteen. The last tine is in your possession, originally kept shut inside Horse Face's stupid mirror-box: Richard made you hide it there 'to evade detection.' Something about the reality from the tine being absorbed harmlessly. After you turned into a walking mirror-box, you took instead to keeping it on your person. Next to your heart.

Jean Ramsey needs this tine, or she can't be God. You need her Crown, or you can't be God. You think it'd all be a whole lot simpler if she'd send you a dueling invitation and be done with it, but apparently she likes showmanship too much. Or murder. Probably murder. A semi-structured competition, like what Monty was talking about: her dedicated followers unleashed into the region, carrying 'tokens'; 'tokens' will be given up on death; achieve some number and win an invitation, here we go, to battle Jean Ramsey herself, who will relinquish the title of Hero-Queen if she loses. Or Hero-King, if it's a man, or whatever.

It's slightly less evil than you were expecting, presuming 'followers' only murder each other. Then again, that might be a lot of presuming. And how are new participants inducted? You'll have to be one, of course. She wants you to be one. She wants to kill you for your tine, and you want to kill her for being evil (and the Crown), so it should all work out in the end.

But she's here now. She's brought people. A lot of people. How did she get so many people to like her? Probably the Crown. Cheating. Whatever. Who will you be discussing this with?

>[1] Monty
>[2] Madrigal
>[3] Eloise
>[4] Earl
>[5] Pat
>[6] Henry
>[7] Write-in.

You won't tell Gil about the heroic sacrifice, though. He gets weird ideas. And it might not even be needed, so you don't want to freak him out for no reason. You'll probably mention it, before anything happens, but do you need to go into detail? You don't think so. He already knows you'll be God, and that your body will explode (probably), and you think that just about covers it.

What did he tell you again? About Jean Ramsey. Right. Er, she's here. In the Corcass. Which you knew— Eloise was running herself ragged gathering all the news— you knew she was on the move, you mean. You saw the handwritten article in the Corcass Courier: HERO-QUEEN CHOOSES CORCASS FOR COMPETITION. Even Richard told you: #301 stopped by his cube, he said, and did some crowing. Fifteen tines of the Crown. A record, evidently.

Fifteen, but not sixteen. The last tine is in your possession, originally kept shut inside Horse Face's stupid mirror-box: Richard made you hide it there 'to evade detection.' Something about the reality from the tine being absorbed harmlessly. After you turned into a walking mirror-box, you took instead to keeping it on your person. Next to your heart.

Jean Ramsey needs this tine, or she can't be God. You need her Crown, or you can't be God. You think it'd all be a whole lot simpler if she'd send you a dueling invitation and be done with it, but apparently she likes showmanship too much. Or murder. Probably murder. A semi-structured competition, like what Monty was talking about: her dedicated followers unleashed into the region, carrying 'tokens'; 'tokens' will be given up on death; achieve some number and win an invitation, here we go, to battle Jean Ramsey herself, who will relinquish the title of Hero-Queen if she loses. Or Hero-King, if it's a man, or whatever.

It's slightly less evil than you were expecting, presuming 'followers' only murder each other. Then again, that might be a lot of assuming. And how are new participants inducted? You'll have to be one, of course. She wants you to be one. She wants to kill you for your tine, and you want to kill her for being evil (and the Crown), so it should all work out in the end.

But she's here now. She's brought people. A lot of people. How did she get so many people to like her? Probably the Crown. Cheating. Whatever. Who will you be discussing this with?

>[1] Monty
>[2] Madrigal
>[3] Eloise
>[4] Earl
>[5] Pat
>[6] Lucky
>[7] Write-in.

>>6275997
>Can't I— can't I use the Recharlottizator? I kill the Wyrm, and then I get spit back out? Easy.
This might not work even if the WYRM is already unstrung? Who knew God was so hard to kill?

>>6276012
1,3,6
Monty knows her best and Eloise and Lucky got the biggest info on her.