Your name is Madrigal Fitzpatrick, and you're not a fucking idiot, okay? You're not. You're good at connecting the dots, especially when the dots are this fucking massive.

  Dot One: Charlotte went dead. Cut-the-wires dead. Clockwork-stopped dead. This was a little fascinating, a little scary, and mostly made you wish Ellery were here, and then hate yourself for wishing that. Because he'd be fascinated.

  Dot Two: And then she started up again, and you went oh, okay. That's not Charlotte. It's "Charlotte"— looks like her and everything— but Charlotte walks like she has a stick up her ass. She doesn't swagger.

  …Is the explanation you came up with after the fact. What you actually noticed was the gold eyes— it'd be hard not to. They're clearly why "Charlotte"'s heading over to steal the sunglasses off Guppy Villalovez's face.

  You follow casually. "Hi," you say. "You gonna introduce yourself?"

  "You know my name." The sound of the voice is the same, but if you're listening for it— boy, you're listening for it— there's something fucky about the undertone.

  "Nope," you say. "Nope, I don't. And don't give me gullshit about, like, your name is also Charlotte, woo, spooky— you can't have the same name." You try to remember why and immediately give up. "The universe won't let you."

  "Charlotte" turns, sunglasses on, her lip curled. "I suppose you'd know about the universe, then."

  "Never said that!" There's some genuine heat, there, and you'd prefer not to immediately piss off Charlotte's spirit… thing. "Never said that. I'd just like a name, because I'm not calling you Charlotte. That's weird."

  "Charlotte's" lip curl intensifies.

  "Like, shit, it's okay, you don't have to keep up the pretense? I'm not gonna go 'oh wait' and start thinking you're actually Charlotte. I don't know how the hell anybody'd— but whatever. So if you'd just give me a…"

  "I don't strictly have a name. I'm called—" Not-Charlotte takes a good long pause to emphasize that— "'Richard.'"

  You squint. "You're called Richard."

  "Yes."

  "Charlotte calls you—"

  "Yes."

  "Holy shit, that sucks." You fold your arms. "I mean, of course she does. She calls the magic fucking thingy fuckin'— Richard. God, that's stupid. I'm sorry."

  "It's not so bad as all that," Richard says evenly. "It's rather novel."

  Charl— he's— they're holding a sword. A good sword, not the fuzzy abomination from earlier. The blade is steel. Steel! You cast a jealous look back towards the wood-and-fanged Fitz: you'd kill a man for a steel spearhead.

  But that's not the point. "What's with the sword?" you say.

  "Oh, I'd prefer a knife. But you know…" Richard waves their hand in the air. "…Bodies."

  You really, really don't know, but you don't say that. "Er, I meant more 'what are you gonna do with a sword?'"

  "Ah. Kill her." Richard points the tip down at Guppy.

  "Oh." All you can think to say is "you shouldn't do that." But you're thinking about dot 3.

  Dot 3: Charlotte was going to tell you something. Was going to tell you this, probably, until she convinced herself otherwise. Or… was convinced otherwise, forcibly. You're beginning to see both the how and the who.

  "Oh, I shouldn't." Richard experimentally skewers Guppy's party hat. "Are you going to stop me?"

  And that makes you think… are you?

  >[1] Write-in.

  "What the fuck?" you say, after you're able to form complete sentences. "You can't just— why?"

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  There's a smile on Charl— Richard's face that doesn't belong on anyone's face, ever. "Because—"

  "Can we not just leave her? What would be the harm— is this for fun? Is that it? You've been cooped up too long, you're getting your fresh air and exercise? That's crass. That's fucking— that's fucking nasty. Can you not wait until we meet a, a live target? Or claw the wall, if you have to? Scream into a fuckin'… pillow?"

  "Are you quite done?" The smile has dipped into a (more palatable) sneer. Richard shoves their sunglasses further up the bridge of their nose. "That was a lot of baseless and hurtful assumptions you made there, Madrigal. Wouldn't you say?"

  (Why didn't you like Charlotte? She was snotty, sure, and childish, and she did punch you in the face— but she could be tolerable, briefly, before she remembered she was supposed to be a bitch. And, more importantly, she wasn't this guy.)

  "I dunno," you say. "Are they?"

  "Murder is a means to an end, Madrigal, not a source of pleasure. You think I have time to faff about serial killing?"

  You throw your hands up. "How the fuck should I know?"

  "I do not. Here, I'll lay out the present issue." Richard traces the top of the swivel chair with the sword. "We have here a liability."

  Seriously? "Um, yeah. I agree. That's what I said ten minutes ago. I didn't jump straight to murder."

  "You're more irritating in person, aren't you- oh, drat." Richard pauses to hack up a goddamn lung. Not into their elbow like the peasants, though, oh no— it's into the daintiest, frilliest little handkerchief you've ever seen. The thing might be monogrammed.

  You squinch your nose in disgust. "Complications?"

  "Hardly, just—" Another bout. Richard's lips, teeth, and hankie are stained black when they pull away. "-just some minor rejection. It'll pass. As I was saying—"

  "You're not fucking up her lungs, are you?"

  "Oh, no, it's metaphysical. In any case, I'd certainly be amenable to leaving the woman here."

  "Huh?" You drop your arms to your side. "Uh, that's great. Let's d—"

  "I would be amenable. Sadly, Charlotte saw fit to contribute sensitive information to the discussion." Richard doesn't look very sad at all. "And we can't have that out and about, can we? 'Loose lips sink ships.'"

  "You just stole that from that poster," you say irritably. "And she can't speak."

  "Nevertheless. I suppose I could just cut off the hands— would that satisfy you?"

  "No!"

  Richard shakes their head. "Picky, picky. I'll just go ahead and—"

  "Wait! Wait." You grasp for straws. "What about the… the mess? Isn't it going to be gory as shit? People will come in here, they'll see the—"

  "Oh, no, not in the slightest. The body's not real, Madrigal, there's no blood or tissues."

  You hold your forehead. "Oh, don't say that."

  "Why not? It's accurate. Her body's not real, your body's not real. You're glued together by delusion, essentially."

  You despise every word of this. "Delusion."

  "Oh, yes, acres of it. If you got a paper cut, for instance, you'd bleed for no reason at all. Whereas if I cut myself…" Richard slices calmly into the base of their thumb. You grimace. "…I get the rational result."

  It's a wide cut, and with the way they're bending the thumb back you can clearly see there's nothing at all under the skin. You shut your eyes.

  >[-1 Grit: 8/15]

  When you open them again, Richard is leering. (You have to give him credit— you had no idea Charlotte was capable of making these expressions.) The thumb is intact. "Having trouble, there?"

  You fold your arms defensively. "No, I'm just tired of your fucking showboating. Remind me, what was the point of that?"

  "It won't make a mess."

  Right.

  >Madrigal's [Grit] is like Charlotte's [Identity], except it measures Madrigal's tenacity and stoicism instead of her ego. It can be spent on rolls in a similar, but more limited, manner.

  >[1] God damn, just kill the broad already— she's practically a corpse anyways. Just have them let you know when to turn around. You're sick of this business.

  >[2] At least cutting the hands off doesn't kill her. She probably won't even feel it.

  >[3] You hold no special affection for Guppy Villalovez, but you wouldn't mind spiting Richard, who's rapidly climbed to the top of your "Dicks I Can't Stand" list. Appeal to Charlotte, whom you're certain is in there somewhere. [Roll.]

  >[4] You don't buy the "pragmatism" angle a fucking whit, and if this bastard starts killing people you're not sure he'll stop. You have a spear and you know how to use it. Defend Guppy by force. [Roll.]

  >[5] Write-in.