You exchange glances with Madrigal. You don't especially want to deal with this. "I mean," you sign, "what if that's a goo, too? Is that something we want to risk?"

  Madrigal bites her lip. "Well, I don't—"

  "It's not something I want to risk." You toss your head. "I'm going in here."

  "The wall?"

  "Yes." You've been reassured it's probably safe, right? "If you want to stay out here and get murdered, that's your prerogative. I'm going."

  Without waiting for a response, you turn, take a deep breath, and step into the wall.

  It's dark inside. It's also humid, and you find yourself fretting about the state of your hair. Madrigal isn't there (still outside?). Richard is. He is reflected, hall-of-mirrors style, infinitely into the distance. More importantly, he's smoking.

  "Really?" you say. "Really? Of all the rotten habits— you had to keep that one?"

  "Yes, Charlie." The tuxedo's gone, and he's back to his regular black suit. "I appear to have a physical dependency on it. You only have yourself to blame, you know."

  You've long given up making sense of his assertions that you "make" him do things. "Whatever. Where is this?"

  "The interim." He smokes. "…The boundary, the buffer, the threshold… I don't believe there's a standardized term. Little space between somewhere and somewhere else, uh, quite full of nothing."

  "Didn't you—" You tap your foot in an effort to recall. "—Didn't you say this one's a few inches thick? This isn't a few inches, this is… I mean, I don't see an end to it. Hundreds of feet."

  "Oh, no, Charlie, it is a few inches." Richard smiles and you remember he's a snake. "You're just horizontally compressed. And not dying from it or anything, thank goodness. Shall we move on?"

  "What about Ma—"

  "Oh, I'm sure she's on her way. Can't for the life of me think of why you'd want her, though."

  "I—" Don't rise to the bait, Charlotte, don't rise to the bait, don't rise to the bait… "Whatever. Sure. Let's just— oh."

  You're already out. Madrigal was right: it's a well-lit corridor. Linoleum flooring, yellow paint on the sole visible wall (the other is, naturally, missing). No visible ceiling, just a tangle of pipes. Richard leans against a sign you can't read. Or he does, anyhow, until he vanishes. Simultaneously, Madrigal stumbles out next to you and coughs up a lung of saltwater.

  "Don't give me that look," she demands. You've scooted away. "I assume you did the— aw, fuck." She coughs up the other lung. "I assume you did the same thing."

  "No, not really," you say primly. "My constitution's just stronger."

  "Har har. Oh, geez." Madrigal wipes her mouth with her hand. "Why's there no water?"

  This is not a question you'd ever really sat down and considered before. "I guess… it's not real, so it doesn't need water?"

  "It's not…" She scuffs at the tile with her foot. "Feels pretty fucking real, Charlotte."

  You're pleased to be the one who gets to explain things. "Well, it's not."

  ?I suppose I'm forced to give you points for succinctness.?

  "Oh." Madrigal stares dubiously at the floor. "Alright, um, that's fine. Why are we here, Charlotte? Since you had the grand master plan and all."

  "We're going to find where the goo came from," you say. "Also the—"

  "No."

  "—Also the snake. Because it's in here."

  Madrigal sighs. "It's not, but okay, whatever. Have you looked around at all, Miss Strong Constitution? Where are we going?"

  "Er—"

  You had glanced around, briefly, but didn't get much more than the overall picture. The sign Richard was leaning against reads "EMERGENCY < EXIT ." There is a bucket on the floor set out to catch a persistent leak of… something. There is mildew at the edges of the linoleum. There is a white door set into the wall a little ways to the right, with a plaque next to it: "MAINTENANCE ROOM." Out of curiosity, you jimmy the handle— it's locked.

  ?I could unlock it, but we've got some unwelcome company.?

  ?Otherwise, I'm sure there's a key around here somewhere.?

  On the far side of the door: familiar graffiti. Undecipherable. You call Madrigal over, and she squints and interlocks her fingers. "Uh… I don't know the written language very well. I think it's just… a marker. You know, 'I went this way,' something like that. To the right, I mean."

  What's to the right? It's hard to say— the corridor makes a sharp turn a ways down, meaning you can't see much. To the left? The emergency exit, apparently, but it's also the way the pipes above seem to be headed.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "Hey!" Madrigal calls. "Found a ladder! It goes into all the pipes, I guess."

  You have some options.

  >[A1] Send Madrigal on a wild goose chase so Richard can work the lock. It risks her coming back a little too soon, but it'll work.

  >[A2] Attempt to jimmy the lock yourself. What could possibly go wrong? [Roll.]

  >[A3] Just leave the door for now. You're sure you'll stumble upon the key.

  (A3 only)

  >[B1] Head right, in the direction of the fishes' graffiti.

  >[B2] Head left, in the direction the pipes are headed (and towards the emergency exit).

  >[B3] Head up, into the pipes themselves.

  >[C] Write-in.

  Jimmy the lock: 16, 62, 39 vs. DC 50 - Mitigated Success

  It's too late. "Madrigal," you say, "do you have a bobby pin?"

  Madrigal gestures to her pixie cut.

  You fold your arms. "That's hardly an excuse. You can use them for fishhooks, you know. Fixing hems, clothespins, cleaning under nails—"

  "You don't have any," she points out.

  "Yes, well, I ran out, Madrigal; thank you for that astute observation. I don't suppose you have a master key, then? Or perhaps a battering ram?"

  "Oh, the door!" Madrigal reaches into her shoe. "Shoulda just said so, cause I have a lockpick. Never know when the Court's coming knocking, right?"

  "Yes, Madrigal, the da—" Positive thinking, Charlotte! Deep breaths! "…Yes, the door. May I have the lockpick?"

  "Oh, I can just do it," Madrigal says cheerily. (You preferred her in the dark.) "No problem. Not the best or anything, but I've gotten into some secure places in my—"

  "Give me the pick!"

  You're happy to see the cheeriness recede. "Fucking bi— fine," she says. "Whatever. Better be good at it."

  You pluck the lockpick from her open hand, dodge her incredulous glower, and retreat to the locked door. You don't care what she thinks. Why should you care what she thinks? Of course she knows how to pick locks; she's probably a thief and a smuggler… All you want to do is pick the lock, and she tries to take that from you…

  ?It's a Rikker W-560, half-mortised in there. Standard tumbler setup, looks like, wouldn't be too difficult except it's practically rusted through. Can't just bang it off, since it's set in there. Just go slowly.?

  It takes you a second to process that Richard's speaking of the door's lock.

  ?Also, I believe it's hooked up to some kind of silent alarm system. Be careful.?

  ?I take that back. You're not careful. Let me do it, Charlie.?

  Let him do it? You seethe in the general direction of the door. (Richard, who has vanished completely, is not an available target.) He doesn't even have hands. Why does he want to pick a lock? Why does he even care about locks? Why is everyone obsessed with not letting you have fun? Nothing makes sense.

  ?It will go faster. And I will not drop this place's security on our heads.?

  ?You objectively will do so. All you've picked are basic pin tumbler locks. Not a whisper of anything higher-technology.?

  Watch, then! Watch you pick this lock unassisted! And he can't even think about doing anything to you, not with Madrigal right there. Watch, it'll go like lightning!

  It's been ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Richard has been keeping a pointed silence. Madrigal is pacing.

  Finally, you get a click. "Ah!" you say. "See! See!"

  ?Indeed, there it goes.?

  Madrigal draws up short. "There's a red light up here," she says. "That mean anything to you?"

  ?I meant the alarm. Also the door, I suppose.?

  ?I'll refrain from 'I told you so.'?

  "Er…" you say. "It's, uh, probably nothing. Shall we—"

  "Doesn't seem like nothing. Seems like, I dunno, a warning signal. Some kind of 'get out now' type thing."

  "I-it's probably not that—"

  "Or an alarm, I guess. You think the sound's broken? Does anyone live in not-real land, Charlotte? To hear it? Since you're the fucking expert."

  "Um…" You lick your lips. "I— maybe? I don't… I don't know how that would work, exactly, but it doesn't— I'm going in here."

  Relieved to have successfully dodged Madrigal's line of questioning, you take stock of your new surroundings. The maintenance room is cramped and shakily-lit and smells like something dead. It's also crowded with… stuff, and is clearly being used on the regular.

  On the left wall: a large bulletin board. There's a layer of new white notes and memos and flyers, and underneath them yellow, flaking versions of the same.

  On the right wall: pipes and valves and a breaker box. There is a gaping hole in one of the pipes, oozing… something. Next to all that lies a half-filing cabinet half-storage closet. The filing drawers are labeled alphabetically. The cabinet has a sheet of typewriter paper cellu-taped to its front: "WORKERS ONLY." There is a visible lock on the front.

  In the middle: a little wooden table, across which is draped a five-foot-long shed snakeskin. Also, half-full mugs (the liquid inside is cold).

  In the back: the white tiles crack and give way to a dark little dugout in the wall. You can't see in from here, but above is a piece of typewriter paper: "HAPPY 237th BIRTHDAY HAROLD P. STENNIKER ! !" There's a card of some sort pinned to the paper— a license? An ID? You can't tell. It's heavily yellowed.

  You glance back over your shoulder. Madrigal is still staring up at the red light.

  >[1] What do you want to investigate? (Consider your time limit.)

  >[2] Write-in.

  BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #17

  Sunspot, given it has 30xish the numbers of followers I have (as of time of writing)... but if you haven't, it has body horror blood magic (relevant!), slow-burn character interaction and development (relevant!), and girls with FAT TAILS (it would be illegal for me to tell you whether this is relevant to Drowned Quest, but never say never). Plus, an awesome tagline and a wicked wordmark... what can I say? I'm a slut for good graphic design. Check it out!