"I mean," you say, "you've been calling us muties."

  "That's different, mutie. That's accurate."

  You find 'fish' plenty accurate, but you're eager to drop the subject. "Yeah? And what's— what's so accurate about it, huh? What's— well, first off, you never said what it meant, so—"

  Don and Mikey exchange glances. Mikey coughs. "Feels kinda self-explainy?"

  Madrigal's warning glance means nothing to the likes of you. "Well, it's not. It feels offensive. And you're both— dare I say— hypocrites for using it as casually as you do!"

  Another glance. "It's not like— it's not offensive."

  "It is." You put your hands on your hips. "If it's not, why am I offended right now?"

  "I dunno if…" Don tugs at his teeshirt and lapses into a mumble. "Can we tell—? I don't think we're s'posed to tell the muties?"

  "'S what I heard," Mikey confirms.

  Madrigal's been easing up on your foot, but she's placed a warning hand on your shoulder. You squint peevishly at it. She speaks, but not to you: "????????????????????counterculture."

  The fish-language, such as it is, is mostly odd clicks and pops: you were not expecting words. Madrigal, seeing your face, pokes you. "Didn't know that word," she signs. "I said— 'wouldn't telling us be more counterculture?'"

  You refuse to acknowledge this as a good idea. You take as coincidence Don and Mikey's response: they stare off at the walls and rub their fins back. Finally, Don begins. "Well… kay. Ya know what happens when ya get water in yer lungs?"

  "You die," you say. It's what Ellery had said.

  "Ya die— wait." Don turns a little oranger. "Er, yea. But yer not dead. Wondered why?"

  "I did. Then I stopped caring."

  "Typical! It's cuz yer a mutt. Yer a mutie. Nobody had problems with fookin' humans, cause they knew where they belonged. On land. It's the muties who decided that wasn't good enough—"

  "Uh-huh," you say. "What does it actually mean, though?"

  Don rolls his eyes. (You sniff.) "Myu…tay…shun. Dumb fookin' mutie."

  "I haven't got myutayshuns." You toss your head. "I don't even know what those are!"

  Madrigal pokes you again. "It's just a theory they've got. Don't worry about it."

  "Yea, you do," says Don, to you.

  "I have not."

  "Ya have."

  "Don," says Madrigal, breaking up your productive and adult conversation, "where's the snake? We kind of need it."

  Some ticker in your mind rolls over. "Where's Mikey?"

  It's just Don.

  "Sent him on lookout," Don says. He sounds, as best you can tell, uncomfortable. "We're making a lot of noise."

  "On lookout?" you demand. "By himself? In the dark? He's going to be kidnapped!"

  Your concern is unacknowledged. "'S not dark."

  Madrigal steps in front of you. "Don. Where's the fucking snake?"

  "Dunno."

  "But there is a snake."

  "Maybe."

  "If there were a snake, where'd it be?"

  "I can't tell you," Don says suddenly. His gills flex in time with his heartbeat, you notice— in, out, in, out, in-out-in-out-in-out. "Stop asking me, lady. Please."

  "Can't," Madrigal says, "physically? Or can't otherwise. Because if it's otherwise, you can."

  "Why'dju care?" he bursts out. "Whaddya want with a— with a snake?"

  >[1] You're going to trap it to bring back to Branwen. Duh.

  >[2] You're going to kill it. (Are you lying, or have you changed your mind?)

  >[3] Gee, you're just curious.

  >[4] Just to be clear— this thing is five feet long, right? And doesn't talk? What's there to be scared of?

  >[5] Seriously, why can't he tell you?

  >[6] Write-in.

  Revealing your motivations? To a stranger? Absurd. You scoff. "It hardly matters."

  "It kinda does." Don hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. "Going to see a snake, yer two things, mutie. Yer with 'em, or yer 'gainst 'em. Managers want sides. Can't be neither. So which?"

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Neither," Madrigal says firmly. "It's animal control. We're catching it. That's it."

  You cross your arms. "Yeah! So there!"

  "So there," Don repeats. His gums are bared. "Animal control. That's cool. Have fun."

  "Have more fun if you told us where it was," you say, at the same time as Madrigal's "Where's the goddamn snake, Don?"

  "Can't tell ya. Mutie."

  Is there some sort of epidemic going around? "Seriously, fi…riend, 'can't?' Or 'mustn't'? Those are very different—"

  "It'd fuck wit'— things." Don's fins are twitching. "I— you'd fuck with things. That's all you do. I've…"

  He glances towards the ceiling. "I gotta go."

  "We wouldn't fuck with things," Madrigal says. (You'd rather she didn't. You're not sure you can keep that promise.) "We're just helping a friend, Don. We'd appreciate it if maybe you could point us towards—"

  "Draw a map," you offer.

  "Or… draw a map, yes. Or that."

  Don's attention is gone. "Gotta go," he mumbles again. "I gotta check on Mikey—"

  >[1] Convince him to personally guide you to the snake. (Any particular arguments?) [Roll.]

  >[2] Wait a second, you have a machete. Threaten him into guiding you to the snake.

  >[3] Convince him to draw a route onto your map. Hopefully you can follow it. (Any particular arguments?) [Slightly easier roll.]

  >[4] Threaten him into drawing a route onto your map.

  >[5] He doesn't like snakes, clearly. How convenient you have one on hand! Pull him aside and inform him of your little... <>

  >[6] Just let the fish leave. You'll manage, surely.

  >[7] Write-in.

  Madrigal moves as if to stop him, but you're the one who's doing the foot-stomping this time— and you're the one who has the inch-and-a-half heels. Her words die under a pained exhalation.

  You smirk. "Nice to meet you, Don."

  "Whatever, bigot." Three shrill slide-whistle notes sound from the darkness. Don starts. "Fookin'— I gotta go. I gotta—"

  "Then go! Stop beating around the— oh."

  He's already gone.

  ?Filth. Good riddance.?

  "Well, good," Madrigal says. "Good, then. Very productive. Sure learned a lot. Thanks, Charlotte."

  "You're welcome."

  "Could've found out where the fuck the snake is, but no, you had to have all the tact of a—"

  "A cultured woman," you provide. "Who doesn't deal with— fishes."

  "They're just people, Charlotte!"

  ?No.?

  You're newly assured of your complete correctness. "People don't feed other people to lampreys."

  "And you've seen them do that?"

  "I don't need to have seen them do that." You fold your arms. "And I won't, ever, because I don't associate with fishes. Like I said."

  Madrigal furiously rubs her eye. "Every time I think you might be okay, you go ahead and prove me wrong. It's real fucking impressive."

  You frown tightly.

  ?Oh, Charlie. Charlie.?

  ?Nobody understands you, do they.?

  Richard winds himself up your arm. He's right.

  ?It's not their fault. They're not to.?

  ?At least you have me.?

  God— he's still right. Whatever there is to say about Richard, he understands you.

  "Just gonna smirk, huh?" Madrigal demands, not understanding you at all. "Well, fuck you. What're stalactites called when they're on the walls?"

  "Stalawites," you say.

  "Okay, because there's an awful lot of them, and I don't remember there being so many…"

  "Er, that was a joke… there's no such thing as a wall stalagmite. I mean, obviously." You find Madrigal to have a critical lack of common sense. "Do trees grow sideways?"

  "Fuck me if I know. Never seen one sideways, but I dunno. Maybe they all grow sideways and the Fen ones are screwy ocean trees. Why ask me this? You're the fancy—"

  "They don't," you say. "And neither do stalactites."

  "Oh." Madrigal ponders this. "Then what the fuck are these?"

  For the first time, you look. The wall where she's pointing is peppered with little pointy protrusions. They look very much like stalactites.

  "Are they rock's memory of fingernails, or some shit? I— ow!" Madrigal had brushed one with a finger. "That's sharp!"

  "Maybe the thing had teeth all around its mouth," you rationalize. "Instead of just the top and bottom."

  "Shit, that's blood." Madrigal jams her forefinger in her mouth. "Dun tuch— mph— dat. Shahp."

  "But they're small. Are they newer than the rest? Are they—" You hit upon something. "Are they a trap?"

  "Thehs nho uckin tahp, Harhott—"

  "Or maybe they're just small teeth! Or maybe they're not teeth. Or not stalactites. I—"

  "Uck. Old on." Madrigal removes her finger (stained bright crimson) from her mouth. "They went."

  "What?"

  She points. The protrusions are gone.

  "Um," you say. "Uh, okay. Uh…"

  ?Are there holes in the wall.?

  "Any holes in the wall?"

  Madrigal shakes her head. "No."

  "Maybe it was a hallucination?"

  "I'm bleeding. And fine, thanks for asking."

  "Uh." You scratch your chin. "I don't have any other ideas."

  "Way I see it…" Madrigal undoes her bandana. "Some things are just weird. They happen, then they stop happening, and everyone goes 'that was weird,' and they're done. It's over. Might as well've not happened at all."

  "That's not how it works."

  "It is."

  "It's not." You put your hands on your hips. "It's a portent."

  "Portent that someone's gonna get stabbed with something pointy? Hope it's not me." Madrigal isn't treating this with the appropriate amount of gravity, you think. "It's a weird one-off, Charlotte. My finger's gonna close up in a sec— oh shit."

  The protrusions have reappeared. There are significantly more of them.

  "Weird two-off," she amends, but you're pleased to hear an element of doubt. "Eh..."

  Maybe you do smirk this time.

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

  >[2] Divining the signs of the natural world is not within the realm of man. Slash woman. And anyways, they're short— unless you're brushing up against the walls, you're not going to get punctured, probably. Just head out. (Back to the sewer tunnel or down the worm(?) tunnel?)

  >[3] Write-in.

  THE CHARACTERS OF DROWNED QUEST AS DRAWN BY OTHER PEOPLE #9

  

  wiki for a look at the dozens of extremely detailed character designs he pumps out for his own quest. Truly this guy is BUILT DIFFERENT.