?I mean. ‘The point of no return' is melodramatic.?
?All that'll happen, nine times out of ten, is that the whore is going to trip straight through the interim and fall out into the manse. She's not going to
?At least, not initially. But your conscience would be clear if you were to leave her there.?
?Or at least let her drop. And go get her. If you really, really wanted to.?
>[ID: 2/11]
>[A] Nine times out of ten? What about the one time out of ten? You won't look good if you just let it happen!
>>[1] Try to stab Certainly Not Madrigal. Hope that 1) stabbing is effective and 2) it doesn't just let her go by accident. [Roll.]
>>[2] You have fragments of memories from earlier, with the whole… thing. When you were, uh, not yourself. Something about… opening portals— well, not portals, but you can't remember the name. Anyhow. A portal would be fantastic. [Spend 1 ID — Roll. Spend 2 ID — Autosucceed, but…]
>>[3] Another creative solution? [Write-in.]
>[B] Be… practical? Unthinkable. Let Madrigal go.
>>[1] And dive in right after, caution be damned.
>>[2] And stay here. You've got Certainly Not Madrigal to deal with first. (She'll be fine!)
>>[3] And… [Write-in.]
>[C] Write-in.
>Stab C.N.Madrigal: 38, 100, 86 vs. DC 75 – CRITICAL SUCCESS.
When the players critically succeed, they usually acquire a permanent bonus of some kind...
How does that adage go? 'When all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail'? All you have is a sword.
You draw the machete in one smooth motion and, in the next, begin the swing that'll ultimately land in C.N.Madrigal's half-turned back. Don't you?
Sure you do. Only, a curious feeling is stealing upon you. A sort of… been-here, done-this feeling. Not here, of course, and not this, just… like it. It could be your imagination. Richard's always said you have an active imagination, with "active" perhaps in scare quotes, though it's ever so difficult to tell. You could be making it up for— attention, or drama, or— but you're not.
You're not. This is an honest and true and genuine phenomenon. This is you having a revelation— or revolution— or reverberation— or rememberation— or—
Oh God, Charlotte, stop it. What's wrong with you? Where's the chip in your china? Or to put it more plainly: what rancid faultline transfixes the core of your being? (That wasn't plain at all. What are you saying? What's wrong—) Because there is one, must be one, though you don't like to so much as consider it, let alone acknowledge it… and, well, you're neither considering nor acknowledging it. No self-examination can hope to pierce stratum upon stratum of diamond-hard denial and delusion and only-God-knows what. No, all this wheel-spinning is occurring layers down, too fast to consciously process, which is why in actuality your thoughts are on—
Swinging the sword, and additionally how God-damn stupid you'd look if something went wrong. The second is not helping your accuracy. The first… is. Because you know how to do it. Because you've done it before, not just a handful of times, and not just in your parlor to an audience of dolls. You have been-here, done-this.
Ah.
Your sword crests past your ear.
So, then, that's the root of all this. The swing. It's not even a good one. You're rusty, clearly, but there's also the fact that this is a machete, actually, not a sword, and so it's kind of modified for that— pretending only goes so far. There's a method you're not adhering to, and that's the cause of all the issues here…
"There's a method you're not adhering to. That you refuse to adhere to. That's the cause of all your issues here."
You're sweating, for all the worth sweating has underwater. There's a wooden sword in your hand. You won't give XXXXX the satisfaction of turning to look. "I'm *occupied.*"
"Yes, in all the wrong ways. You want my handkerchief?"
"No!" you snap. And then, backpedaling, "…I have my own."
"Ah, Charlie, you've outwitted me!" XXXXX places one hand to his forehead in a mock-faint. "But yet—! A twist in this tale! For as it turns out…"
That's your handkerchief in his grubby paw. Your nice handkerchief. The handkerchief you brought from home. The wooden sword clatters to the cobblestone as you ball your fists. "You bastard!"
"Me bastard," he agrees jovially, and tosses the handkerchief to you. It flutters to the ground at his feet. "Curses! Ah well. Guess you'll have to come over here, Charlie…"
"Did you stop over *just* to tell me you stole my hankie?"
"No, I also came to say your form's shit." XXXXX scratches his nose. "Pardon the expression, but yeah, it's shit, and you won't listen to anyone who's telling you otherwise. Shit form's gonna kill you one day. Just look at Stella—"
"Stella's alive."
"Yeah, and her shit form's gonna kill her, too!" Look at him, all pleased with himself. He usually is, and you really should find it irritating… but the earnestness, somehow, makes it okay. "Now, are you gonna pick your handkerchief up?"
"I— no."
"You gonna let me teach you how to do this right?"
"Um…" You glance down to the sword. "Let me guess, you're not going to leave until you try."
"Oh, I was, but that's a pretty good idea!" You hope he's joking. You give it 50/50. "Is there another sword around here?"
"In the bin."
"In the bin— aha!" XXXXX locates an identical wooden sword. "Let's see. You're going to watch me before anything else. Got it? Now, look, it goes one, step, flick, thrust, five…"
You one-step-flick-thrust-five almost— but not precisely— how you were taught. You hit something vital, almost how you were taught. C.N.Madrigal crumples at the threshold.
>[You are VERY GOOD (if somewhat rusty) at swordsmanship and will receive bonuses to relevant rolls.]
Madrigal stares down at her motionless assailant. She whistles. "Holy shit."
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>[1] Write-in.
>[+1 ID: 3/11]
"Ha!" you crow. "Ha! Lookit that! I just came in there and went— wham! And boom, there it went! Like a sack of—"
?We were there.?
Was he, though? Was he? Because, as far as you can tell, that was all you. And he says you can't do anything without help—
?I have never said that.?
?And even if I had, it would've been a joke, Charlie. Your sense of humor is atrocious.?
Well, it's hardly your fault he won't inflect.
"Yeah," Madrigal says after a long pause. "When'd you learn to do that?"
You were hoping this wouldn't come up. 'I don't know exactly, because I forgot that I learned it, and coincidentally only just remembered' doesn't seem appropriate. "Oh, uh, before— before I moved here."
"I figured." Madrigal rubs her forearms. "It was… pretty good. Um." She has to work her lips to summon up the next word, which she expectorates like it's choking her. "Thanks."
"Oh, Madrigal." You nearly curtsy, but decide at the last moment that'd be a smidge too much salt in the wound (and it doesn't really work without a skirt). "It was my pleasure to rescue you from your foul doppelg?nger. Wereith not for me, surely, you twould'st beith, uh, spirited away thineever…"
Madrigal stoops to examine the body (and avoid your onslaught, presumably). "Foul doppelganger? What?"
"Er… yes. Doppelg?nger, but yes. It looked like you?"
"It did?" C.N.Madrigal lies face-down. "It was dark. You took the lantern, remember? All I knew was someone grabbed me— I mean, it felt human-ish, but that's all I— where the fuck did you get a lighter?"
Your left thumb's been holding the flintwheel so long they may as well have fused together. You'd forgotten all about it. "Uh…"
"Is that a flame? Charlotte? Is that a flame?"
"There's rather more important matters," you say hastily, "than whether this is or is not a flame, so if we could keep this until later—"
"Oh, we will." But Madrigal drops the subject. "Now, look, will you bring it over here? I wanna look at this."
You do. She squints, then stands and squints again. "Am I really that short?"
"Er…"
"Why are my shoulderblades asymmetrical?"
You sneak a look at Madrigal's back. They are, in fact, asymmetrical. "I don't know… have you ever dislocated a shoulder? Maybe it healed funny."
"I don't think so? But maybe I did and it just didn't register."
"Or it healed too fast."
"Or that, yeah."
?I understand you find it difficult to stay on task. This is a persistent personality flaw of yours.?
?But please make an effort. You can make inane chitchat anywhere. You are supposed to be hunting a snake, should you deign to recall.?
?If you can't manage that much, Charlie, you may have to be managed. This is your warning.?
Gee, talk about getting on your back. It's not as if you can't stay on task; you just choose to vary your priorities. Is variety not the spice of life?
?Look at the body. Look at it. That's all you have to do.?
Fine. Madrigal is attempting to feel her own shoulderblades, so you'll have to take point here. You touch the body.
"Oh, eugh!" You withdraw just as quickly. "It's gooey!"
"It's what?" (Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Madrigal patting her own skin. Just in case, you suppose.) "Gooey? Like…"
Certainly Not Madrigal's "skin" appears to be deteriorating after death. While it retains its color, its texture has gone way off— when you withdraw, a gluey flesh-colored string follows your finger. "Like gooey. This is not… I mean, I guess the arm makes it obvious, but this isn't a person."
"Yeah," Madrigal says matter-of-factly. "Duh. It's a goo."
"A…"
"A goo. Do you not have them? I don't think they're… I think they're called "false friends," sometimes. Something like that. Walking jelly-looking stuff, kills people, turns into people… no?"
"You're not dead, though."
"N…o, but this is barely me, anyhow. Look at it." Madrigal's turned the body over. "Did a shitty job on the face, on the clothes… I don't think I need to mention the spear. Moron confused it for an arm."
"What about the pipes?"
"The what?"
You've been digging into the body with your sword out of morbid curiosity. There's no blood or muscle, just undefined flesh… and underneath, as you've uncovered, a bizarre skeleton of copper piping. There's practically a whole sink under here.
"Um," Madrigal says. "I dunno. I don't think that's standard."
"Huh… oh, wait." There's something nestled at the dead center of the skeleton. You grimace as you stick two fingers into what looks very much like Madrigal's chest cavity. "Whoa. What?"
You retrieve a shard of crystal. As you do, C.N.Madrigal emits a soft gurgle and loses its shape, becoming even less Madrigal and even more gelatinous puddle.
"Must be where the 'me' is." Madrigal bends over your shoulder to look. "Dare you to swallow it."
"I—"
"Kidding, kidding. But really, I wonder what'd happen. You feel anything?"
Other than the customary glow of security, you assume. "No."
"Huh. Can I hold it?"
You eye Madrigal with suspicion, but hand her the shard. She turns it over a couple times in her hand. "…Yeah, me neither. Must be real weak— no wonder the thing had issues. Where'd it come from, though? Did I spill… oh."
"Oh?"
"Pricked my finger. You did too. You still have the thing you broke off?"
You gesture behind you. "In the backpack."
"Needle. Probably a needle. Probably a…" Madrigal stops short, looking pissed. It's too late. You grin.
"Probably a trap."
"Fuck you, Charlotte. Yeah. Took my fucking blood sample, piped it somewhere, made a shitty copy, sent it out to… I dunno, replace me? I guess? God knows why. I tell you, caves are full of the worst fucking stuff. Totally malevolent for no good reason."
This reminds you of something. "The snake."
"What?"
"Totally malevolent for no good reason. The snake."
"Charlotte, it's an escaped animal. How would it— why would it be related? Your lighter's got a snake on it; does that mean the snake made it?"
Uhhh. "No, it... no."
"Okay, then."
"I just feel like…"
"No." Madrigal rubs her forehead. "It's— it's something else. Maybe it's… I dunno. We need to keep moving."
"Okay." You pause. "Where?"
"You find anything farther down?"
"No."
"Okay. Because I tried going back up, back to the sewer, and… I don't know. It was weird. I thought I kept seeing the door. The— the one behind the grate. I think it's gotten fucky up there. Oh, and…" Madrigal brushes her hair back. "I saw back there, just a little, I think. It was pretty blurry. But it looked like a… I don't know, a maintenance corridor or something. Lots of pipes. Well-lit."
"That's interesting," you say absently. You're staring past her. "What's that?"
"Wh—"
Something is moving on the ceiling of the tunnel ahead. Vwoop, it goes, weakly. There is no response.
>[A] Oh, it's one of the fish! Good thing you don't care. You're headed…
>>[1] Back up towards the sewers. Or maybe just towards the door.
>>[2] Into the… maintenance corridor? You need to find out where the goo came from.
>>[3] Write-in.
>[B] Oh, it's one of the fish! Madrigal will think you're racist if you don't help. Do… something. [Write-in.]
>[C] Write-in.