"…So," Madrigal says. "Do you need a stick to bite down on, or…"
You blink. "What?"
"So you don't scream when I take it out, Charlotte." She folds her arms.
"You're not taking it out, though?" You scratch your chin with your good arm. "Not unless you packed a tourniquet. I am not going to bleed to death— I absolutely refuse."
She sounds tired. "Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic; I just feel like it's not dignified. Would you like to die in a puddle of your own blood, Madrigal? Sitting on— cheap carpeting?" (It's rough under your fingers and pukey brown and you're at a loss as to why it exists?)
"Nobody would fucking like that, Charlotte. The point is that you're not gonna bleed—"
?Enough. This is childish.?
?You won't bleed out.?
Really! You won't bleed out when you shred your shoulder wide open. You won't bleed out without bandages or poultices or antiseptics. Interesting proposition.
?I see your positive thinking is out the window.?
?…?
?Nonetheless, you're correct. You won't. Stitching it back together is a simple matter.?
Oh.
Wait, you don't like this. It might be simple for Richard, but how about you? Where's the catch? There's never not a catch with him, it's always something like— like "oh yeah, you're never coming back." Is your arm going to fall off later?
?I have a vested interest in keeping you on your feet. Charlie, it's a bad look when you're cranky.?
?Just take the spear out.?
…Yourself?
?I could not care less.?
Now that you're considering the topic, taking the spear out yourself is sounding more and more appealing. The look on Madrigal's face would be priceless, and… actually, that's all the justification you need. You grip the haft.
"Um," Madrigal says. "What are you—"
You yank the spear from your shoulder, and it makes a noise you can feel in your teeth. It also hurts, until it doesn't: a statick-y jolt to your neck reduces the whole thing to pins and needles.
>[-1 ID: 2/11]
Your hand shakes as you offer the spear to Madrigal. "……Here you go."
She looks sidelong at it. "Yeah."
"I told you I had a strong constitution."
"Yeah." She wipes her nose. "Gonna get the gore off?"
The spearhead and three inches of the haft are dripping with your blood. You stare at it for a moment, then wipe it on the awful carpet. (It's hard to get it much worse, you figure.) "Happy?"
Madrigal hesitates, then takes it. "Yeah."
"You're welcome," you say.
"What the fuck's wrong with you?"
It's the tone that makes it a gut punch. You'd prepared for this question, but as a chastisement or accusation. It should be angry— it's supposed to be angry. It's not. It's a question as bone-dry statement of fact.
"Nothing," you say baldly.
"Have you looked at your shoulder?"
You've been avoiding looking at your shoulder. This is writ plain enough on your face for Madrigal to sigh. "Okay, then. Blood's gone."
Surely not. But there it is: a white coat, an intact shoulder. You furrow your brow.
?It's not real blood, Charlie, so cause and effect are a smidge loose. Cause gets fixed, effect sees no reason to linger, things in that vein.?
?Don't get into trouble, I'm still occupied.?
"That's not normal," Madrigal says helpfully. "Also a super dick move, seeing how you made me carry that thing the whole way, but whatever. Not the point."
You don't have the energy for anything clever. "What is?"
"Okay, yeah. Something's wrong with you. Not your— not your attitude, or whatever, that's a whole other bucket of worms. I mean really wrong. I mean screwy. I mean—"
"Weird." It's funny, you think, how you can hear the same speech in so many different contexts. "You mean weird."
"Yeah."
"Okay." You can see where this is going, and you're powerless to stop it, per usual. "How so?"
You gain some small measure of satisfaction from Madrigal's face: in all her grand planning for this moment, she evidently was not expecting you to play along. "Um," she says. "There's this, obviously. There's- you had a lighter."
"So what?"
"You were underwater." She places her hands on her hips. "And it somehow didn't come up the moment we, you know, lost our light. AND there's the eyes."
You rub your forehead.
"At the start. In the tunnel. I looked at you, and your eyes were all goddamn gold. Which is really weird, because you don't even have two eyes, Charlotte! Much less two gold ones! Much less— and you talk to yourself all the goddamn time. Do you know that? Half the time I'll look over and you'll just be mumbling complete nonsense."
You wait, but that appears to be the end of it. She's breathing like she's been running wind sprints.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay?" She takes a deep breath. "That's it?"
"Yes."
"I—" Madrigal's face seizes up. You have a good bead on her emotional state, you think, by virtue of often being in the same position. This is a reveal— a long-planned reveal— falling flat. "That can't be it."
You toy with your hair. "No?"
"N-no! Something's— something's objectively fucking wrong with you, Charlotte!"
"You've said that." Why is your hair in such a good state? You run your fingers through it. It should be in massive knots, you haven't conditioned it in— well, years— anyhow. "What do you want me to do about it?"
To her credit, Madrigal recovers quickly. She only gapes for a couple seconds. "I... fucking admit it?"
You close your eyes.
"I'm not going to discriminate, Charlotte! You think I care? There were many things wrong with Ellery, and I still fu— I dated the guy for two years! But, you know, I don't know if you're safe, I don't know if I need to take special precautions— it's about being practical, okay? That's it."
>[1] …Fine. Give her a very broad overview. Maybe she'll shut up about it after. (Write-in anything special you want to include/leave out, otherwise QM fiat.)
>[2] You've never told anybody. Three and a half years and you've never told anybody anything. It might be— it might be nice to lay it all out. And Madrigal's reliable. You don't like her, but she's reliable. (ID gain. You'd leave out anything too sensitive.)
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
>[3] Haha, no. You're not giving her squat. Continue your campaign of evasion. (Effective, but this'll just prolong the inevitable.)
>[4] Lie. (How?) [Roll based on quality.]
>[5] Write-in.
How long has it been? One, two, three years on the desolate seafloor. And before: six months of coaxing and prepping and saying goodbyes nobody understood. Almost three and a half years since you were stuck with Richard, and you haven't told a soul. So why is it now, with Madrigal staring you in the eye, that you can feel yourself start to waver?
"I," you say falteringly, "was nineteen. And I found a box. Um. In my attic."
"What were you doing there?"
You pause. It appears to be a serious question. "What does it— spring cleaning, probably? I don't remember. Um, it's not the point. The point is..."
?I thought you were going to stay out of trouble.?
?It seems my expectations were too high.?
"The point, is, um..." You wet your lips.
?Let's not do something you'll regret, Charlotte.?
?Think through your actions with me. You tell her. Fantastic. What next.?
?She won't believe you, firstly. She has no faith in you. She can't possibly understand the significance. She hasn't the brains.?
"Charlotte?" Madrigal prompts. You look past her.
?But suppose she did believe your big glib story about a snake in a box and a snake in your head.?
?She doesn't like you, Charlotte. She distrusts you. She hates you. There is no mercy in that cutthroat soul. She will sell you out as she sees fit, and then we will have to pack our bags. Again.?
?I presume that's unappealing.?
"Charlotte?" She sounds worried. "The box?"
"Yeah, um, the box." You rub your shoulder. "The box."
?You'll have to tell her something. Unfortunately, it'll have to approximate the truth.?
Madrigal hugs her arms to her chest. "Are you okay? You look kind of... distracted."
What do you say? What's in the box? You're drawing blanks. All you can figure is a key, but that's stupid; that doesn't even make sense; that'd just raise more questions—
?For instance, there's no reason to change what was in the box. It's a meaningless detail. I was.?
?Start with that, and we'll work it out. You worry too much, Charlie, it's not healthy.?
"There was a snake in the box," you say.
"Oh." Madrigal blinks. "What? Don't they live underwater? Why was it in your attic? How big was the box? Was it a washing machine box or something? Is that why you haven't complained about going along on this? I figured you'd be bitching my ear off—"
You're not actually sure about the first point. "Maybe it was a land snake?"
"Those don't exist. And even if they did, wouldn't it have died? I mean, being stuck in a box? How could it eat?"
"Um..." Madrigal is raising questions you hadn't considered. "Well, it's not real. The snake. It exists, but it's not real, so it doesn't have to eat— or breathe— or whatever. Okay?"
Madrigal tallies something on her fingers. "..."
"Okay, good." You fidget. "And I, uh— it— I took it as my familiar."
?Your what.?
"Your what?"
Madrigal has obviously never read Wyzards Munificent. You muster a smirk. "My familiar, Madrigal. A small animal that helps me perform— magycks."
?You are going to be the death of me.?
"Magics?" Her eyes flick to your belt. "With blood? Where's your syringe?"
You scrunch up your nose. "Ew! Do I look like a saltlicker? Not magic. Magycks."
"Magics?"
"No— sorcery, okay? Sorcery? Is that clear? Can you say that? Sorcery? I perform sorcery with, um, arcane mutterings. And herbs, and orbs, and dancing around a bonfire, and— so that explains everything, okay? I'm a wyzard. Wow."
Madrigal squints. "Where do you get the herbs? And the bonfire? I mean, I guess you have a lighter, but—"
"I gather them," you say munificently. "Under the moonlight."
"Life must be pretty fucking hard for you here."
"Er, yes." It's hard to know what to say when you're not sure if she's joking. There's a sort of glint in her eyes. "Quite."
"So all that talking to yourself, that's arcane mutterings?"
Is she joking? You scratch your ear. "Oh, um, not always. Sometimes I'm conversing with my familiar..."
"Who's invisible."
"Right." You nod decisively. "I mean, not invisible, usually, it's just that he's not... real. Um. I don't have to— I just talk to him so he doesn't get bored. He doesn't really do much. He's lazy, um, you know. I do all the heavy lifting."
?This is bad enough without you needing to be petty.?
"All the heavy sorcery lifting," Madrigal says.
"...Ye-es?"
"Neat." She glances away from you, her face unreadable. "Yep. That's that, I guess. Do you want to check out the office while we're here? Since you got the shoulder all magic'd and everything."
You're not entirely sure why she's offering an escape, but you're not about to let it drop through your fingers. "Yes! Yes, I'd like to— yes, uh, please. Yes."
"Cool." She meanders away. You hastily get up and follow her into the blue-tinged light of the office.
It's a bizarre office, but you could frankly expect no less. Three square walls are papered intermittently with intimidating posters. "LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS." "OBJECTIVE THINKING ENSURES RESULTS." "SMILE! YOU'RE ON CAMERA." There's several important-looking notices. A white banner drapes across the back of the room: "CONGRATS ON CLEARANCE, GUPPY !!!" And now that you're looking for it, you spot more decorations: deflated balloons in the corner, paper spirals dangling from the ceiling. A party?
On the fourth wall lies pictures. It's what Madrigal called it, and you're hard-pressed to find a better descriptor. It's a four-by-four grid of gently glowing... pictures, though you're not sure why anyone would display gritty flickering pictures of... hallways.
"Hey," Madrigal says. "There's us."
"What?" You stare up to where she's pointing. You were exaggerating: they're not all hallways. One is of the very room you're in. And a tiny Madrigal. And a tiny... you.
You scoff. "That's not what I look like. I'm not that short."
Madrigal doesn't dignify you with a response. You scoff again when she slowly raises her arm. "Something on the ceiling?"
She points again, with her other arm. The tiny Madrigal is pointing. The tiny Madrigal is raising her arm. You jump; the you in the picture jumps. "Geez! What the hell!"
?It's video.?
"I think..." Madrigal says slowly. "I think it's watching... places, and it's sending the watching here. Like a remote mirror."
?Yes. It's called video.?
"Like a remote... can you do that?"
?Yes. This is a security room. These are monitors showing footage from security cameras. The guard appears to be dead. I sincerely hope you don't have questions.?
The guard? And then you spot the swivel chair near the pictures. "Monitors." A gloved hand dangles limply off the side. "Madrigal," you say. "Hey, Madrigal. I think there's a corpse?"
"Sorcery it," she says distantly. She's still staring at the wall.
You grimace. "Um, okay." It's just a matter of touching the chair, not touching the dead body, not touching the dead body— there you are. You turned the chair around. There's a corpse in it.
Well... how do you put this. There's a body in it. The body has no face: it's just bone. No eyes, either. Everything else— the neck and wrists, mostly, since they're the only things exposed under a full-body yellow jumpsuit— is intact. And there's no stench of death.
"Huh," you say, just as Madrigal bolts from her slouch: "A-ha!" And then returns to it: "Oh, damn."
You look up. "What are you..."
"There's a ghost," she hisses. "In this room."
You jerk around to discover... nothing. You return miffed. "No there isn't."
"No, I swear to god— I swear on my mother there is. It just keeps— it keeps showing up, then it's gone. Like that." She snaps her fingers. "If you'd just keep watching— or, wait. You should catch it with your sorcery."
She has to be joking, right? She's yanking your chain. You try to smile. "Er, yes, I could certainly do that... there's a body here?"
"Who gives a shit."
"There's people with harpoons outside, Madrigal."
"Nah." She picks at her teeth with her fingernail. "Look, they're all the way up there, see?"
On the monitor, two jumpsuits are having a silent and violent conversation in a corridor with no doors in it.
"Where are we?"
"Great question." Madrigal strokes her chin. "Where's the ghost?"
>Some of these may be opportunities to regain ID. You can pick multiple (though they may be spread out through multiple updates). Determine how much time you want to spend here.
>[1] Oh, what the hell. Stand there and wait until the ghost ("ghost"?) reappears on the monitor.
>[2] Make a good show of attempting to catch the ghost. You know, with sorcery.
>[3] Examine the Important Notices on the wall.
>[4] Seriously, though, the body is really weird. Give it a good once-over to make sure you didn't miss anything.
>[5] Poke the body.
>[6] Talk to the body.
>[7] Look really hard at the "security monitors." Maybe the snake's in one of them? Maybe you'll find out what this place is for?
>[8] Listen. Listen. There's balloons here. There's paper spirals. There's streamers. The jumpsuits are elsewhere. You've had a hard day. A damn hard day. Throw yourself a party.
>[9] Write-in.
Wyzards Munificent is, as we all know, the book Charlotte has in her tent in .
BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #18
Mewgenics, the cat-breeding tactics roguelite by the creator of The Binding of Isaac. I was not an TBoI person and only semi-like tactics games, so I was not expecting to get sucked in as hard as I did here, but it's insanely wide AND deep AND polished in a way that I guess you only get from 10 years of unfettered dev time. Even if you're entirely uninterested in the premise, though, you have GOT to listen to the soundtrack.