>[1] Attempt to figure out the protrusions. [What do you do?]

  "Move over, move over. I'll look." You wave Madrigal aside with one hand and, with the other, attempt to corral your hair into a ponytail. Too late you remember your lack of tie or ribbon.

  Could you tuck your hair into your collar? Of course, but nothing's achieved there but an itchy neck. It's about the effect. Surely Richard understands, doesn't he? He said he did.

  ?Charlotte, I refuse to—?

  He said he did.

  ?Very well.?

  Richard begrudgingly holds your hair up. Thus prepared, you squint at the protrusions.

  There's sixteen of them, all told, arranged in two concentric, imperfect circles. They're of uniform size and shape— strangely uniform, given how stalactites usually end up. Bending closer, you note the material. While the base of each protrusion is dolomite, as'd be expected for a spelothem (the whole wall here's dolomite), the point is something else entirely— metal? Something tarnished. You're not a metal expert.

  (…Neither are you a rock expert. What on earth is a spelothem?)

  ?Er, the broader category for stalactites, stalagmites… coralloids, moonmilk… so on.?

  ?Obviously, Charlie.?

  ?I mean, really.?

  Well, whatever. These is no natural formation, if that wasn't obvious enough from the reappearance. This is a trap.

  …Or, er, something else artificial. But it's a dungeon, isn't it? So it has to be a trap.

  "Ine nyhing?" Madrigal says, finger back in mouth.

  "Not really… hmm." You step back. The protrusions don't move. "Hmm." You step to the right. After a second, the rightmost protrusions sink back into the stone and reappear closer to you. The pattern now resembles two concentric ovals.

  You have no time to ponder this. "Madrigal, walk in front of it. Wave your finger around."

  "Better know what you're doing," she grumbles, but accedes. No matter how slowly she walks or how vigorously she waves the finger, the protrusions stay firmly where they are.

  "Huh," you say.

  "That was interesting. Are you done?"

  "Uh… no." You scratch your chin. "I've still got more— there's a way to figure this out, I'm positive."

  "You tried breaking one? Pulling it off the wall— you know."

  That'd struck you as a bit too wantonly destructive, but you're approaching the end of your rope. "I'll... consider that proposition."

  "Okay."

  You don't say anything.

  "You considered it?"

  "Um, yes." You brush a lock of hair from your forehead. (Richard is disagreeable at catching flyaways.) "Yes, I'll go break one off. Ahem."

  "Great!"

  "Yes. Indeed," You pad over to the protrusions and select one that looks reasonably weak. "I'll just go ahead and—"

  You wrap one hand around the base, one around the— ow! That's a puncture on your palm. You really had underestimated the sharpness. Oh well. You make to tug—

  The protrusions retract into the wall. Or anyhow, they attempt to: you brace your foot against the wall and hold on tight, forcing your protrusion to stay where it is. Madrigal lends her muscle, and together the two of you wrench it from the wall.

  The protrusion is light and hollow, with a half-inch hole at the tip you're certain wasn't there before. The wall also has a ragged hole, rapidly closing. "Madrigal!" you say, but she's already on it: she rips the hole in two, creating a top-to-bottom tear in a flimsy stage curtain.

  What? A what? You need to back up. The protrusions, except for the one in your hand, are gone. Yanking yours off made a hole in the wall— but not in the stone of the wall. No, the area around the hole is paper. Meaning: something something, Richard lecture, reality bad/wrong/broken. Something like that.

  ?Not broken, Charlie; simply not there. You need to take care of your hair more.?

  Broken is the same thing and he knows it. And it just sounds better to say you broke reality. You broke the thing off and it broke reality. Anyhow, the hole tried to close, Madrigal wrenched it open, there's now a six-foot tear in solid dolomite. (Which, to be fair, is a very weak mineral. But it doesn't tear.) Or… the material formerly known as solid dolomite. Whatever it is now.

  ?Paper.?

  ?More or less.?

  ?Probably less.?

  You feel overall vindicated.

  "Fuck," Madrigal says mildly. "Alright."

  "Alright," you confirm. "Neat."

  "Yeah."

  "So… do you want to stick your head in, or should—"

  Madrigal takes the hint and looks through the tear. "It's dark."

  "Well, go get the—!"

  She goes to get the lantern. "Sprung a leak," she reports. "It's real dim."

  "So? Just use it."

  Madrigal looks through the tear, with the lantern. "It's dark."

  "Still?"

  "Yeah. Real fucking thick darkness. It'd take more than algae to pierce this, I'm thinking." She withdraws, looking greenish. "Don't wanna think about what's in there."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  >[1] Yes, go into the mystery hole (Just you / convince Madrigal to go alone [difficult roll] / convince Madrigal to come with you [roll])

  >[2] Experiment with the mystery hole (How?)

  >[3] GO AWAY from the mystery hole (Which way, back to the sewers or down the tunnel?)

  >[4] Write-in.

  "Well, I do," you say. "I want very much to find out what's in there, thank you."

  "Of course you do."

  "Right." You bob your head. "Of course I do."

  Madrigal throws her hands up. You suspect this was not the answer she wanted, though it may have been the one she was expecting. "Okay then."

  "Okay. So, um…" You had been on the cusp of a plan just then, but it's escaping you. "Uh, we should…"

  "What?"

  "...throw rocks in it?"

  ?Rarely a solution to any problem, but occasionally entertaining.?

  You begin to wonder if another tear's opened up on the ceiling, for all the staring Madrigal does at it. "Sure," she signs finally. "Sure. Whatever. Throw rocks in it. I don't give a shit."

  "Splendid." You glance up at the ceiling, just in case, and find it quite enshrouded in shadow. (It's considerably taller than the sewer ceiling.) Nothing, then. "I do think, uh, we should perhaps tie ropes to the rocks."

  "Great."

  "So we can retrieve them," you explain. "And see what happens."

  "Good plan." Madrigal traipses over to a earthen mound (dormant stalagmite?) and plops down on top of it. "Go for it."

  "It'd go faster if you were assisting—"

  Her jaw tightens. "Go for it."

  Well, she can be that way. "I'll do it," you announce to the tear, "because I'm not chicken."

  Silence. You glance backwards. Madrigal stares balefully but says nothing.

  Damn! You'd thought that'd work. But it doesn't matter much, in any case— you're the one with the rope, and there's rocks and things everywhere. You have no use for Madrigal whatsoever. (So there.)

  >[+1 ID: 4/11]

  A flinty machete stays in your belt loop when you're not looking, unlike certain other weapons. It also cuts rope very well. Before long, you have a fistful of rope segments and another fistful of rubble. Tying the knots takes even less time.

  You weigh one of the bolas in your hand and briefly contemplate how easy it'd be to smash Madrigal's skull in with it. But that'd just be impractical, not to mention pointless, so you dismiss that notion in favor of the intended use: testing the contents of the void behind it.

  ?Be precise. 'Void' is a colloquial term. That black, it's interim or it's antireality.?

  ?You should be hoping for the former.?

  God, you don't care. You just don't. You're trying to line up your throw.

  ?You used to listen better than this.?

  Maybe you listened better before Richard made your life a living hell? Sorry! You're lining it up because you'd like it to be impressive, what with Madrigal judging you and everything. It wouldn't do to hit the wall.

  ?I'd say to just feed it in, but I agree your reputation is rather in tatters. Do what you must.?

  ?There is a surefire way to…?

  No, you're not desperate. Not that desperate. You're just throwing a rock on a rope, for God's sake; it's not difficult. Not that the whole idea lacks appeal, you mean, because it does— somewhat, you mean— it does appeal. Not that you'd admit it. (Though you are admitting it.) Not that you'd say it aloud…

  You should probably throw the rope, shouldn't you. Your arm is getting tired holding it aloft, isn't it. You take a deep breath— if you focus, really focus, you can feel the salt rub your nostrils raw— cock your wrist back, and throw.

  It is a throw. Not impressive, exactly, but it went where it was supposed to.

  It clangs.

  ?Hm.?

  "What was that?" says Madrigal. "Did it hit something? Can you pull it out?"

  "Um…" You hesitate. "Uh, yeah, let me—" You give the rope a tug, to no effect. "I think it's stuck."

  "On what?"

  "Well, I don't— it's dark, I mean."

  "You're probably not pulling hard enough." Madrigal stands. "Give me it. I'll pull."

  "I don't know if that's a good…"

  The rope is wrenched from your hands, then wrenched, with much straining and a final nasty metallic-sounding crash, from the tear. "There we go," Madrigal says, sounding quite pleased. "Problem solved."

  The rock is intact, if moderately scratched, on the end of the rope. The rope is fraying. Neither crumble to dust and/or come to life and/or start oozing black goop. (You were hedging your bets.)

  "Huh," you say, by which you mean, "that's disappointing."

  "Huh," says Madrigal, by which she means "thank god."

  You scratch your chin. "Maybe it's just really dark in there?"

  ?Unlikely.?

  "Maybe it doesn't do anything to rocks," Madrigal offers. "We should put something organic in."

  You can't help it. "'We'?"

  "…You. You should. Put something organic in."

  ?No, I think that's just a thin interim straight into a manse. Ought to be harmless.?

  ?You got it when it was weakest, that's what happened. Broke it off when it was closing. Rock can't really move like that.?

  You never would've guessed, you muse, as you rub some of the spilt algae onto a second rock.

  ?So what happens is it's real, all of it, except for the seconds when the things are extending and retracting. It's not real, then. So you rip it, and you happen to rip a hole straight into whatever's not really behind it.?

  ?The manse.?

  ?Is the theory.?

  Organic rock is a go. You don't even bother to throw it, just sort of kick the rock in and hope for the best. (No clang.) You wait a minute, in case the disintegration/etc. takes a while to set in, then reel the rope back in.

  It is sliced neatly off where the rock ought to be.

  "Oh!" you say. "Oh." Madrigal says, arms tight to chest. "See. I said there'd be things."

  "I knew there'd be things," you say defensively. "That's half the point. Oh!"

  A string is pulling the edges of the tear taut. As you watch, another shoots across, and another, until it looks like the cobweb of some neuroticism-ridden spider. They are stitching the tear back together, you realize, or the tear is stitching itself back together, and if you don't move now there won't be any tear at all.

  ?Don't worry too much, Charlie. You'll forget about it soon.?

  You'll— no! Not while you have a machete. Or, er, short sword. You spring upon the tear, sword in hand, and slash furiously. Madrigal, with the same idea, saws at it with her toothed spearhead. The string comes thick and fast and fine, though, and it soon becomes clear this is a battle you're going to lose.

  You get a really bad idea.

  "Madrigal," you grunt. "Widen—"

  "Widen?" But she understands, and instead of fighting the string starts to carve away at the edges of the tear. And you hack, and hack, and it's all rather blurry even as it happens, to say nothing of after, but the end result is— the cave wall crumples to the ground like so much wet parchment.

  >[-1 ID: 3/11]

  You are panting. Madrigal is panting. There is nothing on your machete. Sword. On your sword. In front of you is a solid wall of blackness, save a few ragged bits on the edge. The speleothems in front make the whole thing look rather like a mouth, you think. Yes. Uncreative, but yes.

  The whole matter has not quite sunk in.

  >[1] Write-in.