You touch it, awkwardly.
"Tahnk fuK. Im kiDn of lokced— i canT loosn—" The arm flails. "Tihs a tunNel or som hsT? Shti?" A pause. "2 4 ye."
You tap it twice.
"Ok. OK, taHts ok." (Peace sign.) "Can uo ghe me uOut???"
Can Richard get her out, more like.
?Still have no idea what you're talking about.?
>[1] The answer is yes, Richard can get her out. And down here, right? With you? In the spooky dark tunnel? [Variable ID spend.]
>[2] Yes, Richard can get her out— but that's all. You'll free her arm, but this presents the perfect opportunity to ditch her aboveground. She'll be fine! [Variable ID spend.]
>[3] Haha, no. She called you a psychopath, remember? So you're going to leave her arm trapped in solid earth and let her dig herself out! Karma!
>[4] Write-in.
Richard may claim to not be involved, but you'd still really appreciate it if Madrigal got freed. You know, coincidentally.
?Doesn't work that way.?
Of course it works that way. He just won't help, because he wants you to leave Madrigal there. But you can't— maybe if you were walking along, and she tripped over a root and got stuck, maybe you'd leave her. But you can't do it now, not with all the swearing and carrying on.
Also, she'd be a better person than you if you left, and you can't have that.
?Still doesn't work that way.?
Fine! And you'll have her as a convenient distraction/bait for the inevitable underground horrors. Is that what he wants?
?I don't want anything, Charlie. You don't understand how this functions.?
?You are my instrument. My… violin.?
He doesn't have hands.
?I have a flexible tail.?
?Regardless. I can pick you up and play you, Charlie, and imbue you with meaning, and create beautiful music with you, if I practice.?
?What I can't do is make violin noises with my mouth.?
?You are asking me to make violin noises with my mouth.?
You're not following. (Madrigal's arm waves. "hhelo? hhelo?")
?The only thing I can affect directly, here, is you. And you're already underground.?
?So if you've got any bright ideas for how
>[Current ID: 6/11]
>[1] Give it your all. [-3 ID. Auto-success.]
>[2] Give it, uh, your some. [-2 ID. Easy roll.]
>[3] You're helping, okay? [-1 ID. Roll.]
>[4] Screw it. Dig her out manually with your machete, or whatever other tools are in your bag. [This'll work, but you'll be standing still in a dark tunnel, making a lot of noise.]
>[5] Write-in. [Good suggestions for how to go about this may reduce the ID cost and/or improve modifiers on the roll.]
You don't understand why you're the one who's supposed to have all the ideas, here. That doesn't seem fair. What does Richard think you are, some kind of… ideas… haver?
?Smooth.?
Thanks! You thought so too.
?Right. You don't have to have a brilliant idea here, Charlie. You could just leave her.?
?I just assumed your heart was bleeding for a reason. That you had some basis in reality. Seems not.?
"What if," you say, "what if— what if? What if you gave me earth powers?"
?What did I do to deserve this.?
"Earth powers. You wanted my idea, right? And I could, you know, move it. And make it into balls and so on."
?To drag out the metaphor a little further, Charlie, that's like asking me to play
In that there's nothing stopping him?
?In that you don't
Gosh.
?Well.?
?…?
?I mean, I still can't.?
But is the implied word, you think (a bit smugly). Inside your boot, Richard shifts.
?You're desperate.?
You wouldn't go as far as to say that—
?Well, you're always desperate, aren't you. Lungs are good. Blood pressure's good. Humors… too much yellow bile, per usual. Work on your gallbladder.?
Madrigal's arm is starting to get panicky— you grip it as loosely as you can so she doesn't whack you in the face. "Humors aren't real," you mumble. "You told me they weren't real."
?It's good to keep you on your toes.?
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
?In any case, it ought to be workable. Give me a verbal agreement.?
This is dangerous territory. Your memories of prior verbal agreements with Richard are dim but generally unpleasant. "About—"
?Doesn't matter. Nevermind. Charlie, you want to rescue this
"Y…es?"
?Excellent; all I needed. Don't fight. You'll only make it worse.?
>[-1 ID: 5/11]
The fire starts, as it always does, up your spine. Oh, okay, you think. This is fine. This is… well, it's kind of normal, at this point. Why did you hate this?
?Damnant quod non intellegunt.?
>[-1 ID: 4/11]
And then, bolstered by a stiff wind, it spreads, or… drifts, or catches, upon the tall grass of your heart and mind, and rips through it with a kind of loosed fury— (you don't know where the words come from, only that they're true)—
You cough yellow bile, and your vision crowds dark at the edges.
>[-1 ID: 3/11]
Something wriggles up through the ashes of the plain, and lies there, and coils; something scrapes out a home in the black soil; something has colonized.
You are frightened.
?Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes.?
?Calm down.?
Calm down, says the mugger. Stop screaming. I only have a gun to your chest. You're making a scene.
?You are making a scene, Charlie. This is like you going to the mugger and saying 'please rob me, sir.' And then he does and you scream.?
?It's silly.?
?You should be thanking me, really. This is the only feasible way to get what you want. And I'm leaving you conscious, even. So you know I'm not going off and stabbing anyone. >Conscious<.?
?Mostly.?
?You're being sedated a little. I can't work, Charlie, when your subconscious is blaring 'PLEASE DON'T EAT ME' in my face. I mean, >really<. That's utter primal twaddle.?
?You're really not very evolved. I hope you know that, Charlie.?
?Charlie.?
?Charlie, I'm being very funny.?
?Did I overdo—?
You've been trying to answer with your mouth, and have been irritated to find that it's staging some kind of nonviolent protest. (Irritated. No more. The sedative was efficient.)
?Ah. Yes, Charlie, that's how this typically works.?
"I do the heavy lifting," you say, "and you—" You pat your own shoulder. "—you get to take respite from the vagaries of everyday existence. And what vagaries. I pity you, Charlie. I really do."
Distantly, you're confused, because you didn't say that. But you did. So you must've.
"Not worth thinking about," you say smugly. "Hold a tic, Charlie, I've got to work out the kinks."
You've never referred to yourself in third person, surely. Not even back then. But you suppose there's nothing stopping you from it.
"Right," you say. You're stretching your shoulder in ways your shoulder isn't supposed to go, judging by the popping and snapping. It hurts. You're stretching your other shoulder in ways your other shoulder isn't supposed to go. It hurts. You're stretching your wrist in ways your wrist isn't—
It's been a long time. No, it hasn't been a long time. You're being shouted down. It's been a short time. It's been no time. No time has passed, and it's possible all the bones in your body are broken, but you're very flexible. And it doesn't hurt, not for you.
"Strictly," you say to nothing, "that wasn't nec— ness— nis— necessary. Necessary. That's hard with lips. I'm not going to be here very long. It's more ritual than anything, I suppose—"
You touch the ceiling of the tunnel. You are deep underground, tens or hundreds of feet. It'd be possible to dig the whore Madrigal out, if you didn't know this, but you know this. Other than making manual digging difficult, though, you're pleased at being this deep. It makes you happy, which ordinarily is difficult or impossible (you generally approximate it through self-satisfaction), but you have such a capacity right now.
You're not happy about being tens or hundreds of feet underground. Are you kidding? What the hell? You like the sun. You like the open water. You like your body easily found so it can be appropriately wept over and buried—
...
—Then you're not not happy about it. You're open to suggestions.
You touch the ceiling of the tunnel. Yes, you can work with this. Even like this. It's more impressive that way, you think. Could get recognized. Won't get recognized, though. They wouldn't know impressive if it bit them.
You don't know who "they" are.
"You don't need to know who they are," you say. "Pipe down."
Others might try and brute-force this, you think. Get in there with a blunt needle and a lot of doctored paperwork. You've never approved of that. It ought to be about finding the loopholes— they're always there, in every woven thing— and imperceptibly widening them. Then the whole thing unravels.
You do that, in uncharacteristically sloppy fashion (craftsman, tools), and the whole thing unravels.
Madrigal plummets through an average of 90 feet of mud and compacted mud and rocks and burrows and roots and solid rock and so on, and lands at your feet.
"Ow!" she says, which means she's alive. Good! That wasn't a certainty. "Ow! Oh, fucking heavens to— ow." She rolls over and props herself on her elbow. "Ow. It's— goddamn. Hi, Charlotte."
"Hi," you say.
"Ow. I thought you'd left, honestly— no offense."
"None taken," you say.
"Hah. I'm fine, by the way, I just— ow. Landed on this funny, I think. I'll be fine."
"Excellent," you say.
Madrigal blinks. "Why're your eyes gol—"
Your (right your) bones unbreak, your field unburns. Neurotoxin hurriedly unfloods itself from your system. The minor contradiction Madrigal just fell from resolves itself as semantics. You (wrong you) beat an undignified retreat.
Richard is around your ankle. You blink in turn. "What?"
"I don't…" Madrigal waves her hand. "You know what? Whatever. You could've left me, you didn't leave me. Probably hit my head a little, too."
You don't care if Madrigal is okay, of course. But it does raise the question. "...Are you going to be fine?"
"I'm tough," she says. "I'll be fine. Have you looked around at all, or—?"
This is difficult. "Not really," you say. "I was kind of preoccupied."
"Oh." Madrigal sounds embarrassed. She clambers to her feet. "I can look. Well, I don't really— I mean, there's light somewhere to the right."
"What?" you say. It's very dark.
"You can see me, right? There's light, and it's a little stronger to our right. And there's noise from the left."
"What?" you say. It's very quiet.
"You're not very observant," Madrigal says mildly.
"I am! About things that matter."
"Cool. Okay, there's— I don't know, vwooping sounds. Vwooop vwoop. Runes, maybe, or— I don't know, ancient stuff? Or some kind of underground… I'm just spitballing. Probably more leftish."
"And," you say authoritatively, "there's a secret passage."
"So you did look around! Now we're getting somewhere."
"No, uh…" You fiddle with your collar. "There always is. It's like a rule."
"Hmm."
>[1] Head right, to the light. Ha! That rhymes! You might be a tad sedated still.
>[2] Left, towards the vwooping.
>[3] …Forwards, towards the secret— come on, of course there's a passage. You've just got to stumble on it by accident. That's how it works, *Madrigal*. [Roll.]
>[4] Hold on, can't you get some proper light in here? Madrigal lost her rucksack, you think, but you've got things in your bag.
>[5] Write-in.
BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #16