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7/1/2025, 1:08:13 PM
>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)
"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)
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