You are Charlotte Fawkins, dashing heroine, detectivess, adventuress, heiress, sorceress, etcetera. Three years ago, you drowned yourself in a quest to find a long-lost family heirloom; nowadays, you're just nobly c̶a̶u̶s̶i̶n̶g solving problems with the help of trusty retainer Gil, and MIA snake/father Richard. Inexplicably, many people tend to "dislike" you, though you've never done anything wrong in your life.Right now, you have determined that the best way to descend to the lower level of sinister corporation Headspace is to jump out of a window. So far you have yet to be proven wrong. Not by Gil, whose yelling has subsided to unintelligible muttering, and who is valiantly failing to break your fall. Not by gravity, which is off its game: you haven't hit the ground yet. You can't tell if there is a ground to hit. You've jumped straight into the terrarium-mist, the one they probably need all those window cleaners for, and it's thicker than it looked from the outside. Warmer, too. You'd hardly know you were falling if not for the terrible mounting pressure in your ears.You seem to remember something about that, the pressure change between manse layers. The interim eases you into it, or something. Falling straight through doesn't. Boring Richard stuff. Well... it's fine! It's not like you're going to explode. Even if Richard were here, he'd tell you you're not going to explode. Even if your ears have knives in them. Even if there's a scalding hot-poker feeling right at your collarbone. You're not going to explode, because you're not stupid Rudy Doheny, and you are not Headspace Corporation. You are Charlotte Fawkins! And you and your 400 beetles are hurtling toward glory, not to mention the imminent void. The actually imminent void. The mist clears, your ears scream, the string around your neck dangles empty, and you fall from darkness into blackness.>[-2 ID: 8/14]The interim is supposed to be white stairs and white doors, but you guess Management deemed those passé: they're gone, ripped out, replaced with fat, twisting tubes. This is good, in that you're less likely to smack face-first into a sharp-edged object. This is bad, in that you're not able to change your trajectory, and a tube gapes open under you. You yelp as you thump into its lip, bounce off, and begin a ricocheting slide downward. Gil, dislodged by the impact, says something intelligent like "Fuck!". You maintain a determined silence— your ears haven't gotten worse, but they're no better— and attempt to hang onto your dignity. Once again, thank God Virginia dressed sensibly. This is not an occasion for skirts.(1/2)
After twenty seconds or so, you've calmed down enough to enjoy yourself. Headspace might be evil and explosion-worthy and so on, but does that make all of their ideas bad? There's a pleasant breeze in here. Sliding down a tube is faster and less tiring than walking down a million flights of stairs, and if it gets you to the same place, what's the issue? Getting back up, you suppose. Unless they flip the gravity? Or unless..."Lottie!"...unless they had something pushing you back up, which would essentially be an elevator, so... unless it wasn't a platform? Maybe they could install a gigantic..."LOTTIE!!"...fan! The breeze! A breeze to you, anyways: to Gil, a tiny fraction of your weight, it must be a galestorm. Ahead of you the pipe forks off uphill, and around you beetles are slipping, are flurrying, are— are being sucked into— "Gil!" You scrabble with one hand to stall your descent and lunge out with the other. Your fist closes around a handful of beetles, and you stuff them in the pocket of your overalls before twisting and lunging again. Another handful, and then you're both gone: you down your tube, him up his, wherever it goes. Which is fine. It's fine. You've gotten separated before, and you gave him the gulfweed, and he'll get the chance to stick up the siphons, and you still have him. You think you have him. You're not actually sure how many beetles you grabbed. "Gil?"Nothing. It's not a good time, anyways, as you're swirling around and around— down the drain— and out, finally, and your ears pop and your vision blurs so you can't see anything but light.—It smells sickly sweet. You are boxed in on your left and right by eight-foot translucent barriers, and behind and ahead of you are people. They are not identical and are not dressed identically, but they wear identical glazed expressions. Dark shapes move behind the barriers. The harsh lighting washes everything out. You are in line.At the end of the line, a dozen people ahead, is a eight-foot machine in glossy Headspace orange. Without complaining, the person at the front shuffles inside, and the orange sliding door clinks shut behind them. A musical chime plays, and a light on the machine blinks green. Fat white tubes feed into the machine's top, and one of them rattles. The person is gone when the doors open. The next person steps in. The chime this time is unwelcoming, and none of the tubes rattle, but when the doors open they are still gone.You are Virginia Shearer, by which you mean you're Charlotte Fawkins. You don't feel glazed. There's something funny about your collarbone. The pocket of your overalls is moving, which means it has beetles in it, but you don't know if it has Gil in it. If it does, he should probably stay quiet. It will be your turn for the machine soon. The line is moving efficiently.(Choices next.)
>[1] Enter the machine.>>[A] As Charlotte Fawkins.>>[B] As Virginia Shearer.>>[C] As Claudia Fawkins.>[2] Attempt to get out of here. >>[A] This is the second layer of this manse: time and space should be flexible. Just go anywhere else. [Roll.]>>[B] You can manipulate a manse by thinking really hard... or not thinking at all. With some chemical help, the second one could be easy. [Consume your spacer.]>>[C] You're fine with getting in the machine. You're not fine with letting it spit out whatever result it wants. You will go in there, and it *will* send you where you want to go. [Advanced Advanced Gaslighting. Roll.]>>[D] Write-in?>[3] Write-in.
>AnnouncementsWelcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! I am WORKING FULL-TIME and getting up early this thread: please expect short updates and semi-frequent delays. Hopefully this is still preferable to no thread at all. In other news, I am still very slowly plinking at an original Drowned doc, I expect to get some new quest art later in this thread, and I have a long and autistic greentext of Redux from Ellery's POV: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1n-pcQfEylKvg3zM8xKapdx_WanBqlO1Sn-WHxvZUabQ/edit?usp=sharing. Also, Thread 40! Jesus christ.>ScheduleOne a day, occasionally more if the first one was short. There may be sporadic half-updates (no options) if I start writing too late in the evening, sorry in advance. I am in the PST timezone.>DiceWe use a 3d100 roll over degrees of success system with crits. The base DC is 50. Modifiers may be applied to the roll or to the DC as relevant. The # of rolls that match or exceed the DC determine the result. Probabilities may be found in the Dice and Mechanics pastebin.The degrees are:0 Passes = Failure1 Pass = Mitigated Success2 Passes = Success3 Passes = Enhanced Success0/100 = Critical Failure / Critical Success [regardless of other rolls]>MechanicsThe MC has a pool of 14 Identity ("ID"), which may be considered both HP and the measure of her current sense of self. It may be lost through physical, metaphysical, or emotional damage. It may be regained through write-ins, designated options, and at reasonable narrative points, including sleep. It may be spent on a flat +10 bonus to rolls, as well as on more elaborate metaphysical effects. Dropping to 0 ID is bad.>Archivehttps://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=drowned%20quest%20redux>Archive (nicer)1-4: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-IhGrvvy5DAGXpk1VWBeSLN19IIDjP4YnUjroUEplDo/edit?usp=sharing5-9: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1BFsue8klDevUAuCvVb2V3ktsBvdvYmAhGIDhhscKHDE/edit?usp=sharing10-14: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NFrr6hT9Ho8ThW-n86zqzf9SxTzya65c2XRBSaWZIhU/edit?usp=sharing15-19: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1XE8ygoN6nWucvZEqmBeoQ9jKNdc6V_FOvrrIitRi3dU/edit?usp=sharing20-April Fools: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NqCgQYDq5NajT36m9dxkpZE85mqMMjClsz-gu9FYKtQ/edit?usp=sharing25-29: https://docs.google.com/document/d/11aZ013qySgw0wWawb2SHra3ExtJrs6FLQaCp9S7udUU/edit?usp=sharing30-34: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1COMiZB7lKEu756_CS-lfaID2oMtHVMGBVLjXrXmMBHQ/edit?usp=sharing35-38: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZkI18l-PNI7i-HQdQmqTJJvUM-iLKBBCNpvSC-POhk0/edit?usp=sharing39: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1asjG0cNqn1nlyqoxHxr5nV6BiIHu2YAFS6LhZR5zjkw/edit?usp=sharing>Twitterhttps://twitter.com/BathicQM>Pastebinshttps://pastebin.com/u/BathicQM>Recapshttps://docs.google.com/document/d/1VPJwXzTpv4lO_t6R3jA32NLbKjdIZjtJlRFsWQgBMnM/edit?usp=sharing(1/2)
>Ask the characters (or the QM), get a drawn response eventuallyhttps://curiouscat.live/BathicQM>"Redux"?This quest is a loose sequel to the original Drowned Quest, which ran for eight short threads in 2019. Reading the original may help with context in very early Redux threads, but is not required.>I have a question/comment/concern?Tell me!--->LAST TIME ON DROWNED QUEST REDUXYou wrap up the last of your Headspace prep, beginning with speaking to Eloise. She hands over her dossier on local Headspace employees, and you chat about rescuing Pat from Management. Eloise doesn't believe it's possible for Management to be snakes, though she doesn't have many better ideas. She also doesn't believe that giant intelligent snakes are lurking underground, though Gil suggests they could be effectively hidden inside a AUX space outside of reality. You pressure Gil into testing out the box he got from Headspace, with Eloise supervising. He's embarrassed and ticked off about it, but eventually admits that he may have overreacted.You install Gil's new 'refractor,' which enables his beetles to fly much further apart than they used to, and divvy up all your supplies before you go to sleep. Your vague nightmares are intercepted by the Herald, who gives you a pleasant dream for once.You dream about relaxing at a swimming pool with Gil and Teddy, who (unbeknownst to you) have cooked up a plan to chill out about Teddy's presence. Gil almost gets cold feet, but goes through with it, convincing your dream self that you should swear Teddy in as your retainer. You awaken, overjoyed, and rush to do so for real. Though you continue to feel a little weird about Teddy's presence (especially the fact that he can physically inhabit Gil's goo body), you resolve to treat him better.Gil and you set off to find Virginia Shearer, your possession target. After explaining that she has a double trapped in Headspace, she's shaken enough to voluntarily let you into her head. You awaken inside Headspace, only to find yourself tied up and ready for memory extraction. You summon Gil, who helps incapacitate your captor and breaks you free, and the two of you knock out and paralyze two more Headspacers who come to investigate. You discover that you're able to completely overpower Virginia's self-concept, leaving you safe from possible identity confusion. Having won your freedom, you and Gil continue to the waiting room of the clinic you're in. You encounter "Fred," an octopus-headed imaginary Friend, and attempt to extract some info from him. After applying a little pressure, Fred tells you about the Glass Shards, a revolutionary cell inside Headspace, and about a tour Casey Kemper is currently giving to... Mr. Kurz, an "envoy of the Hero-Queen," AKA Jean Ramsey the Crown thief. They're due to head back to your location, a sort of private apartment complex for Headspace executives, in short order. A suspicious Fred saves your inquiries to a "log," and you and Gil beat it.
You intend to head to Virginia's penthouse: she's not an executive, but was put under house arrest here after allegedly "exploding" somebody. Rather than send her Below/Under/Down There, the place where all 'downsized' employees go, Management took an interest in her case and let her stay here for questioning. On the way, though, you and Gil run into caterers setting up for Casey and Mr. Kurz's return. You send part of Gil (as beetles) to sneak into Casey's penthouse, while you and the rest of Gil continue on to Virginia's place to look for a means of concealment. While inside, you catch a glimpse of a person in a diving suit descending on a rope and sneaking on to the elevator to Below.You eventually remember that you brought a backpack along, and you hide your half of Gil inside it. Returning to Casey's penthouse, you discover the caterers on the way out, and the Gil hiding inside lets you in. He wasn't detected by the caterers. You and the now-recombined Gil search the penthouse for clues, but come up with nothing, literally: despite Fred claiming otherwise, Casey doesn't actually seem to live there. Before Casey and Mr. Kurz come by, you and Gil hide yourselves in the air vents. They take so long to show up that you're able to commune with Virginia, whom you trapped way down inside somewhere: she's terrified of you, but tells you that she exploded-- or rather, witnessed the fatal explosion of-- Rudy Doheny, the employee you possessed previously. She has no idea why it happened, and you don't either.Casey and Mr. Everard Kurz enter, and you eavesdrop on their conversation. You learn that the intended launch of the SUPER-M.A.N.S.E. has been slightly delayed because of an "intruder," who's been evading an understaffed security team with a "cloaking device" and "inside knowledge." Casey leaves to take a call, and you follow him through the vents to continue eavesdropping. You overhear Casey yelling at somebody about the intruder, as well as the "diver" you saw earlier, then watch as he apparently falls asleep... only to get up, start speaking into the walkie-talkie in a different language, sit back down, and 'awaken' like nothing happened. Gil thinks that the language sounds like the one Richard spoke while drunk, but you don't know what this means: is it a snake language and Casey was possessed by a snake, or is it a Management language and Casey was possessed by Management (and Richard is Management?), or... both?Casey and Everard Kurz leave, and you use Branwen's mantis shrimp to shatter the penthouse's glass windows. You and Gil leap out of them, trusting that you'll land Below.
>TO-DOImmediate goals:- Navigate "Below"- Re-locate Gil- Find a way to harvest your memories of Annie- Put up the rest of the siphons (15 remaining)- Optionally, do something about Jean Ramsey's vile lackeyShort-term goals:- Blow up HeadspaceLong-term goals:- Resurrect Annie- Return Claudia- Regain your missing memories (...if possible)- Attend your richly deserved Game Night- Use, extract, or otherwise deal with the Wyrm stuff you got going on- Find Jean Ramsey and her snake; challenge her to epic single combat (probably); reclaim the Crown- In the meantime, continue collecting and storing Law (4/16)- Make friends (who are not named Gil)Mysteries:- Who or what is Namway Co. and Headspace Corp.'s “Management”? What did they want with the clone of a snake? What do they want with a massive store of Law? If they're snakes... what does that mean? Who or what is Casey Kemper, exactly?- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you? What is its relationship with Management? Did Richard know about Management the whole time?- Who is Horse Face investigating, and why?- Who wiped three years of your life from your memory? Why? Can Richard really not remember them either?- What is the Herald? Why does it keep showing up? What does it want? What are you supposed to forgive yourself for, exactly? (You haven't done anything wrong!)- When is the world going to end? How?- Do you have a destiny? Is it God-related? It's a good destiny, surely?- Why does Richard keep developing stab wounds?--->Don't forget to scroll up and vote!
>>6041233>0/100 = Critical Failure / Critical Success [regardless of other rolls]Thank goodness crit fails are impossible since we can't roll a 0>>6041232>2A"Sorry guys uh I need to use the restroom real quick I'll be right back I promise no need to save my place in line haha"
Rolled (1d0)Jesus, folks. I can hardly keep up with the pace of these votes.>>6041484>[2A]Called. I need dice.>Please roll me 3 1d100s (+5 Density) vs. DC 65 (+15 Preventative Measures) to avoid the horrors of standing in line!Spend 1 ID for +10 to all rolls? You are at 8/14 ID.>[1] Y>[2] N>>6041484>Thank goodness crit fails are impossible since we can't roll a 0Haha, what a goofy mistake, surely I messed it up in the copy/paste somewhere, let me just check the first thread where I included that section in the OP and I'll...>It's exactly the same in Thread 14 and presumably every single thread in the three-and-a-half years since Thread 14Wow! Well, as a reward for catching my INTENTIONAL TEST TO SEE IF ANYONE WAS PAYING ATTENTION, Charlotte gains a new skill.>[Lucky 0: Rolling a 0 now counts as a Critical Success, rather than a Critical Failure.]Congratulations!
Rolled 22 (1d100)>>6041849>[2] N
Rolled 13 + 5 (1d100 + 5)>>6041849>No spendy>[Lucky 0: Rolling a 0 now counts as a Critical Success, rather than a Critical Failure.]Um, cruel and unusual?
Rolled 25 (1d100)>>6041849y>>6041853>>6041854YOU BOTH SUCK.
>>6041863Throwing stones from a glass house there bro
>>6041853>>6041854>>6041863>27, 18, 28 vs. DC 65 -- FailureI knew your rolls were too good last thread. This would have failed any DC I could've set, lmao.Writing. >>6041854>Um, cruel and unusual?I just doubled your chances of critsucceeding! Ungrateful players, baka.
>Gotta dip>27, 18, 28 vs. DC 65 — FailureIt's entirely possible that the unlabeled Headspace person-disappearing device is benign. Maybe all it does is scan the linegoers, then it sends them through the tubes to their real destination. (Headspace might be sinister, but you don't think it's Hell: they wouldn't make people stand in lines forever for no reason, right?) Alternately, maybe all it does is set them on fire, and that's their ashes going up through those tubes, and you are not going inside that thing— you're not. Sorry, you're not. You are exiting the line, and you are graciously allowing the person behind you to take your place. No matter how developed or populated or maintained Headspace is, it's still a manse, and you are down far enough in it that the rules should be looser. Not gone. You can't just wave your hands and be at the core of it, or somebody would've blown the place up ages ago. But slipping out of here? Look how many people are in this line. Look how doped-up they all are. Virginia wasn't even slated to be here, at least until Management was done with her. Will anybody miss you? Will anybody care at all? These walls don't look that sturdy, or even that solid. Why should they be solid, when everybody inside them is too shot to notice? They're translucent white, like fog or like jelly. It's cold like fog or jelly when you drag your fingertips along the wall, and it's colder when you plunge your fingers in. You don't need the mantis to break through this time. You don't need to break anything. You will push through, and through the wall will be— okay, you don't know what, exactly. Gil? The rest of Gil? A clue to his whereabouts? You're not desperate yet. Something like that.You plunge the rest of your hand in. DWEEP DWEEP DWEEPHell! Damnit! You withdraw your hand and wipe it on your side, but it's no use: the squawky alarm continues. DWEEP DWEEP DWEEP. The line-dwellers don't stir— one shuffles into the machine like nothing happened— but the dark shapes behind the wall are swarming. Double-damnit! How do you get out of here? Can you run? You're blocked in. Climb? The walls are slick, and you have no rope. Hide? The machine is occupied, and you have nothing to hide yourself with. A tine of the Crown, but an empty one. No power. No escape. DWEEP DWEEP DWEEP. Rubber gloves yank you by your shoulders backwards, through the wall."BPQA WVM BPQVSA QB'A KTMDMZ."(1/2)
The room is grey and smells of nothing. You stare up into two non-faces: dark ovals of spider-mesh inside crumpled lime-green hoods. Two individuals suited head to toe. Not 'people'. 'People' is unconfirmed, especially with the processed voice filtering from one oval. Total gibberish."QB QA KTMDMZ VWE. BPIB KIV JM BISMV KIZM WN," gibberishes the other, and does something behind you you can't quite see, then circles back around holding a face-mask in one hand and the face-mask's ridged hose and tank in the other. They mean it for your face. They mean the tank for your lungs, you think, or for your brain. So you'll shuffle into the machine. Right? Your hands are being held securely. You should be able to change this.>[1] Your hands are being held. Your mouth is not. Speak [OPEN.] [No roll, but this would be your one use/day.]>[2] Your hands are being held. Your teeth are not. Attempt to bite the individual's hand when they go in with the face-mask, then overpower them from there. [Roll.]>[3] Your hands are being held. Your eyes are not. You want to know what's inside those suits— and you can find out easily, even if it'd leave you vulnerable. (Communion. Spend 1 ID.)>[4] Your hands are being held. Your heart is not. The red stuff sleeps in and around it, but you're sure it'd be happy to dispatch any vile manhandlers of your fine person. Maybe other things, too. (Spend 1 SV. You are currently at 1/? SV.)>[5] Write-in.
>>6042027>[3] Your hands are being held. Your eyes are not. You want to know what's inside those suits— and you can find out easily, even if it'd leave you vulnerable. (Communion. Spend 1 ID.)
>>6042027>3Hopefully it'll render them vulnerable too
>>6042266>>6042433>[3]Wow! Double as many votes! Writing.Also, as of this post, Richard has taken the lead in the husbando tourney. Will The Crown finally be within reach...!?
Well, I don't know what it is, but despite it not being that late (I've stayed up writing much longer) I'm literally falling asleep at the keyboard. I'm going to take the hint and delay for a day, which hopefully will give more readers a chance to find us. See you tomorrow!
>Hand holdingNot by removing your hands, though. You're not going anywhere. After all, if they're holding onto you— aren't you holding onto them? Making contact? And can't you twist your neck around sharply and peer through that dark mesh and catch a glimmer of light? There's something in that suit, be it a person or otherwise, and if you can get through to it you can start putting the pieces together. Not "if." You will clasp their wrists and you will see through and through and through.>[-1 ID: 7/14]It's static.In both ways it's static. There is no movement inside the thing inside the hood, no beating heart, no pumping blood. If it ever lived, it isn't living. At the same time, it isn't silent: it's dead air. Gibberish and crackle. A radio tuned to too distant a station. You listen and don't understand.»»GWCZ BIASA IZM: UIVIOM BPM Y«CMCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV WZLMZ. QN BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM«. GWCZA BZCTG, BPM—UIVIOMUMVB.» GWCZ BIASA IZM: UIVIOM BPM YC«MCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV—« WZLMZ. QN BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM. GW«CZA BZCTG, BPM UIVIOMUMVB. GWCZ BIASA IZM: UIVIOM »»BPM YCMCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV WZLMZ. QN BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM. GWCZA BZCTG, BPM UIVIOMUMVB. GWCZ BIASA IZM««: UIVIOM BPM YCMCM. WXMZIBM BPM ZWCBMZ. UIQVBIQV WZLMZ. Q»N BPM OIA LQL VWB BISM, ACJLCM. GWCZA BZCTG, BPM UIVIOMUMVB.««You try to see and don't understand. The inside of the skull of the thing under the hood is as shattered as it is sterile, like smashing a pot and coating it in concrete. It reminds you a bit of Namway, but Namway after you wrecked it: frozen chunks of almost-right scenery (it all looks backwards) in a cracked sea of nothing. Not friendly Namway blackness-nothing. You mean scalding white. It could burn your fingerprints off, touching it. Real nothing. This is not a person, but you're not sure what it is. (You have time for one thing.)>[1] Listen harder to the static. Maybe you can piece something together.>[2] Enter through the cracks. Maybe there's something inside. >[3] Get out. There is nothing here for you.
>>6043636>2That static is the same thing repeated 4 times with erratic punctuation, maybe a cipher? Something to revisit when it isn’t 3 am.
>>6043659>>6043636It's a +8 step Caesar cipher. Punctuation omitted, one of the four sections decides into >YOUR TASKS ARE MANAGE THE Q UEUE OPERATE THE ROUTER MAINTAIN ORDER IF THE GAS DID NOT TAKE SUBDUE YOURS TRULY THE MANAGEMENT
>>6042025>>6042027>>6043659Still all +8 caesar. Their previous gibberish is >THIS ONE THINKS IT'S CLEVERand>IT IS CLEVER NOW. THAT CAN BE TAKEN CARE OF
>>6043669Hmm, can we do a prompt injection?
>>6043669>>6043672Noice
>>6043669>>6043683Nice work-- but don't forget to actually vote! I will accept write-ins, but please note that you have limited time and they may require a roll.
>>6043636>[1] Listen harder to the static. Maybe you can piece something together.
>>6043636>[3] Get out. There is nothing here for you.I think we are being subdued
>>6043636>>[2] Enter through the cracks. Maybe there's something inside.
>>6043659>>6044176>[2]>>6043957>[1]>>6044016>[3]Called and writing. I have work, so we'll see if I finish in time. Blanket reminder that updates this thread may be very spotty, sorry in advance.
>Smoke that white crack(?)If there's any way to find out, it'll involve the cracks. You've seen something like them before, deep inside other manses, though never so extensive. A violence has been done here.You are not present in this place— your real body is a reality away, and you have not brought your borrowed one along. The cracks don't know this. Draw close, and you wobble into shape, more yourself than Virginia, though liberties have been taken. Scales. Whatever. You'll take anything, as long as it shields you from the whiteness long enough— look how the edges of it bubble. You hold your breath as you slip inside, tilt 90 degrees, and land on your feet.There is a corpse on the floor. "Corpse" may be generous. There are wispy dark-colored remains on the floor, and a stain. When you draw The Sword (there are no flames on it here) and prod it, the tip of your blade catches on scrap of fabric. It's orange. It has letters stamped on it. "—DSPA—"You've seen this shirt before. Gil's wearing it right now, wherever he is. It says HEADSPACE. Meaning that this is somebody who was, completely concidentally, wearing a Headspace-branded promotional shirt— or that it's an employee. Was an employee. You guess the thing in the hood is still an employee, in a sense. Even more productive than they were before.You're not sure what to do. The remains don't look alive— you hope they're not alive— but where's the actual point where a person in whitespace dies? When enough of their Law gets sucked out? Should you stab them just in case? Should you...Should you...You...It's very bright here. Ha-ha. You... where are...? Where... you feel floaty, like the light and the whiteness are filling up your head. Why are you holding a sword? Whose sword is this? Why are you... you think you're floating away. Up, and... gone....—>[ELSEWHERE]You are Gil Wallace. You are finding it—[You are a HEADSPACE FRIEND.]—just a little goddamn difficult—[You OFFER ASSISTANCE to the employees of Headspace. This may include tasks like ANSWERING PERMITTED QUESTIONS, OFFERING DIRECTIONS, and PROVIDING ENTERTAINMENT.]—to concentrate—[You are always FRIENDLY, POSITIVE, WELCOMING, ENGAGING, and SHOW HEADSPACE SPIRIT. If employees around you are NOT SHOWING HEADSPACE SPIRIT, you will ENCOURAGE THEM TO DO SO. If they continue to NOT SHOW SPIRIT, you will RECORD THEIR FULL NAME AND DEPARTMENT.]—right now. Fuck!Do you think you have a handle on things?Teddy is more ghosty than usual, which could be Headspace interference or something. If he vanishes, you're going to fly off the fucking handle. Losing Lottie was one thing—I wouldn't say 'lost'.Yeah, sure, you didn't lose her. She lost you, because you got blown off course, like some goddamn weak-ass—(1/2)
What were you supposed to do?Huh?Is this something you should've anticipated? What were you supposed to—Shut the fuck up, Teddy. Not lose her, is what. Not let her jump out a goddamn window! She's off drinking some crazy-making poison god blood water, you guarantee it, while you're here—[You should refrain from using PROFANITY. Choose language that reflects the positive Headspace brand.]Fuck you. Here, sat down, in your shitty swag-bag tee, having been identified by— what— the locus itself?— as a Friend(tm), one of their sad mass-produced unpeople that populate their sad and now-revealed-to-be-stupidly-evil templates. It's not even exactly wrong. You're not a real person. Teddy's probably a realer person than you are. I don't think that's true.It's true. Probably. It doesn't matter. Is he getting all these instructions?Through you. I don't have my own set, if that's what you mean.See? He didn't get twigged as fake. He didn't even get jammed into a Headspace tee. Not that Headspace did that to you. (Lottie did.) None of your other "friends" are in them, which is a little surprising: you thought they'd love that shit. You're in a waiting room, or a holding cell (difference unclear) with a load of other Friends, fresh off the assembly line. Boy, they like their cutesy animal heads here. You're in with a rat, a seahorse, and some type of fish. You don't mean the fish-guys. You mean a grouper or something.You have not struck up conversation, though you're sure they'd all be FRIENDLY, POSITIVE, WELCOMING, ENGAGING, and SHOWING HEADSPACE SPIRIT, whatever that entails. Goddamn it. Thank shit for Teddy, pretending to sit on the chair next to yours, even though he doesn't have a real body or anything. No offense.None taken.Anyways, you're in a pink room. There's a table with some pamphlets to read, and a locked door out (you tried). And all the other fake guys. You could have a cutesy animal head too if you wanted. You're pretty sure the beetle-goo distinction is even more fluid than normal down here. You'll think about it.You assume somebody is coming for you all eventually. Wat do?>Pick one.>[1] Lottie gave you some kind of nasty herb that'll ring her up long-distance. She is long-distance, that's for certain. Chew it and ring her up.>[2] Read some pamphlets. Are they advertising Headspace inside Headspace? Of course they'd do that.>[3] Stick up some mini-siphons. The other Friends will see you do it, but you doubt they'll be volunteering that info unless asked directly. And it needs to be done.>[4] Let Teddy do what he wants to do, even if there's nothing much to do. It's nice making somebody else deal with your fuck-ups.>[5] Write-in.
No update tomorrow night. Vote will stay open.
>>6044497>[3] Stick up some mini-siphons. The other Friends will see you do it, but you doubt they'll be volunteering that info unless asked directly. And it needs to be done.
>>6044497>Lottie gave you some kind of nasty herb that'll ring her up long-distance. She is long-distance, that's for certain. Chew it and ring her up.
>>6044497>3>5Give yourself a cutesy animal (beetle) head
>>6044634>>6044790>[3]>>6044697>[1]Just kidding. Not guaranteeing an update, but I'm going to do some car writing and see where that gets me.>>6044790You'll do the beetle head too. Writing.
>Do what needs doingYou cross one leg over the other. You should be breaking out of here, most likely— you're not much of a lockpick, but you could shoot the door handle off, even if it'd spook your roommates. You're just not that motivated. While you've long since accepted the necessity of this whole operation (Headspace deserves it, plus nobody can stop Lottie once she's started on something), it's hard to say you're enthusiastic about it. All this sneaking/skulking/ambushing/breaking-and-entering/jumping out of windows stuff scares you, frankly— not that you haven't done it plenty before, but you were paid back then, and it screwed you over back then too! That's why you're here! Goddamn it. Does Lottie realize the shit she does? Or... grasp its risks? She doesn't act like she grasps its risks.If she did, would any of it get done?No. You're not implying you could do any of it solo. You wouldn't've bothered in the first place. Not that you ever would've thought a lot of innocent people suffering was cool, or anything, but it would've been none of your business. Somebody else would deal with it. Lottie is dealing with it. And you are sitting here, enjoying your break from the action, like the piece of shit you are. Are there any cursed blood pools inside Headspace?They seem to have a little of everything.Ace. You'll have to rev up the defibrillator, then. At least the godsdamn worm's dead. Goddamn worm. Does Teddy remember the worm?The big one?There isn't any other worm. It didn't start off quite so big. Still big, though.I wonder how it tastes. Feels like you could boil it, crack open the shell, you know. Eat it with lemon.That'd have to be one big pot. Godsdamn. Plus Lottie would completely lose her— (You are receiving a vivid mental image of Teddy with a thumbs-up and a ladder and a big fucking pot.) Okay, okay. Maybe it would taste good. If you say that around Lottie she'll actually blow her top, so you won't. She basically wanted to fuck the worm and have worm babies, she loved the thing so much.I think it was a female worm.Aren't worms both?Not this one. I think.Thanks for the fact check. She wanted to fuck the worm and adopt worm babies. Improvement?You should show more solidarity with your fellow invertebrates.You show plenty of solidarity. You used to squash bugs, Teddy. You had the thing with the shrimp. You talked to the worm before Lottie talked to the worm. Not talked. Why can Lottie talk to worms? You mean, that's not a— that's not normal. For a real human person. That's not normal. You know it barely hits the top 20 of least normal things she's done, but you can make up explanations for a lot of the other ones. The possession stuff too: that's fucked, right? You're not crazy? She's Richarding this lady around like it means nothing— and it's not like you can say anything, because it got you in here, but—It's unnerving.(1/4)
Yes! And there was the other thing, with the— with Garvin? Not recognizing her? What was that about? You're both stupid lucky you could see through it, because you don't think she realizes the amount of completely justified paranoia that could—Teddy's looking out into the room, but he has one leg crossed over the other, and his arm over the back of your chair. Do you think she's good?What? Like... personally? Cosmologically? Competence-wise? She's competent, even if you'd literally never know it looking at her. Or listening to her. Or observing her. It's purely results-based, you guess.On the side of goodness.Wow. Cosmologically. What the shit kind of throwback question is that? You're from the future, Teddy. The gods don't exist anymore. You get stomped into the dirt from cradle to grave. You're sure two centuries ago everything was neat and shiny and there were good guys and bad guys, but it's just guys now. So....Struck a nerve? Look, you're sorry, but it was a dumb as shit question. Even if there were good guys, you're not a good guy. If the crown thief lady had bailed you out and given you a a pat on the head and a new body and a cookie, you'd probably be following her around instead. So who are you to judge Lottie? What does it matter? You have multiple life debts. What were you talking about before this?...Invertebrates.Right. Aw, that reminds you. Cutesy quirky animal head. You'll stick out like a sore thumb if you don't have one, is what you're thinking, and with the goo you don't have any excuse to not at least try. Better your head quirky than blown off. Should it be a beetle?Is there a different animal you'd rather do?No. You like beetles. (Go back in time a month and tell yourself that. Goddamn.) Also, honestly, you don't know that many animals. There's not a lot of kinds anymore. What does a beetle head even look like?I'd imagine it's the top bit.Did he ever consider ditching fishing for stand-up comedy? It's like having Alfie stuck up here. Not that you... not that... shit. Forget it. Change the topic.I didn't mind.You know he didn't mind. It wasn't an insult. You just— you don't— you don't want to talk about them. You can't. Any of them. And you know literally everybody he know died, so you guess he gets it, but you feel like he can't get it. He doesn't remember them. It was so fucking long ago. For you it was...It doesn't matter. You're not special, Teddy. Ask anybody down here, anybody, and they all have the same exact story. It was your fuck-up, too, because that's what you were and are. A fuck-up. You need to get this beetle head started. It shouldn't be tough, right? You definitely know what a beetle looks like. Uhh. Or your body does, because it has a load of them inside, and— you're just going for it. (2/4)
You're not saying it's impossible you could ever do this elsewhere, but normally you think you'd have to try at it. Not here. You think about it, then— goddamnit— grip the edge of the chair as your mouth melts shut, your vision pops and blackens, and your entire skull twists in on itself. It only takes a second. Right?Yes.It only takes a second, but it's a nasty fucking second, and the aftermath isn't much prettier. It's like you have a doll head up there, it's so cold and hard and rigid. You can't blink. You are getting way too much information about the airflow of the room. Your mouth opens sideways. Teddy is a giant ghostly beetle wearing glasses.It happens.Does it happen? You guess you did that. Shit, you— he looks so fucking stupid! Heh. Sorry, Teddy. At least you still have thumbs, though they're looking way too grey-brown for your liking. Can't see pink. Double-shit. Okay, you're scrapping this. You can do better.Beetle Teddy (you try to snort, but don't have a nose) waves his antennae. You're not used to it by now?You're beetles, not a beetle. Completely different experience. If you were one beetle, you would've killed yourself by now.Speaking of, your skull is now exploding. What a relief! You're springing out of that cage, doubling and redoubling, catching the identified airflow, taking in all angles, in general having the best stretch of your life. Maybe you're exaggerating, but that's really what it feels like: cracking a sore back. You can't get too crazy, though, because Headspace goes in for heads, not the whole deal. And you better get your stretch in, because you need to contain yourself. Hard to walk around otherwise. You already need to concentrate just to lower your headless body and fish around under your seat.There we go. Observation bowl. Normally it screws onto the threads of your other neck, but this neck-goo seals up nicely anyways. (Neck-goo is such a terrible word.) All better now. 360-degree vision and no revealing expressions. Guess what revealing expression you'd be making right now.I know what you're going to think next. It doesn't work.He's supposed to say "what?"What?It'd be a guilty one, because you've been sitting on your goddamn hands for— for— fifteen minutes, or twenty, shooting the shit with your goddamn brain ghost— does Teddy know he's beetles right now? Not that many, either. Wasn't there more of him earlier?I couldn't tell you.If he's fading away already, could he let you know? You were just getting comfortable with having company. Anyways, look at you, shooting even more shit. Why? Because you're a coward and you don't want to leave your safe room. He's enabling you, by the way. Lottie's probably getting herself killed out there—Do you believe that?(3/4)
No. Lottie's probably killing somebody out there, or setting something on fire, and unless you're there to stop her it's going to be one big bloody burnt mess. You just know it.So you're going to get out of here.No. You're— you're working on it, okay? You're working on it. You have to work up to it. What you're actually doing is getting up off your ass and doing something. Like the minis. Remember those? You made them? Don't ask how you made them, but you went in with materials and came out with these, and they work. If you don't think about the physics, they work. You are proud of the collapsing function, at least, because it, uh— you're also boring Teddy. He's not a mechanical type of guy. Sorry. You'll shut up.I don't know what type of guy I am. I think I'm whatever you need me to be. I'm just happy to be here.Don't say that! He shouldn't be cool about things like that. He's not allowed to be so cool. It's humiliating, him being stuck in here with you. You'll go ahead and stick up the stupid fucking boring siphons now.>But how many? You have 15 remaining.>[1] Just one. The room's small enough that you only need one, and you can pop it somewhere without looking suspicious at all. But then you have 14 left...>[2] Three. It's a little tight for three, and you'll be crawling around on the ground in front of the other Friends, but it should be okay. You do need to offload these.>[3] Five. This is a really cramped room to put so many in, and they'll be more visible if there's a lot of them, but you don't trust yourself to have any opportunity later. You need to get them up *somewhere,* even if it's suboptimal.
>>6046026>[2] Three. It's a little tight for three, and you'll be crawling around on the ground in front of the other Friends, but it should be okay. You do need to offload these.
>>6046026>>[2] Three. It's a little tight for three, and you'll be crawling around on the ground in front of the other Friends, but it should be okay. You do need to offload these.
>>6046026>1Do we need to use them all?
Alright, folks, I'm waving the white flag. I'm going to formally move to a Monday/Wednesday/Friday/Saturday schedule for the duration of my waging (which will skip next week, but continue for 1-2 weeks after that). There will be a small chance of bonus updates on the off days. We will return to the typical schedule after I get off work, but for right now my free time is limited and I come home exhausted. Apologies for all the delays: I hope this doesn't impact your enjoyment of the thread too much. Also, Richard is up for a very important vote in the King tourney. Please come say hi there if you haven't already.>>6046677>Do we need to use them all?You don't need to, but you do want to: using the full amount guarantees a successful siphoning, and the more you use the more redundancies you have if, e.g., any of the siphons get removed or destroyed. Ideally you want all 20 up, but I wouldn't leave behind more than 5 at most.
>>6046749Ok, I'll switch to 2 then
I'll spare the excuses and do my best to write during the day tomorrow. I have the whole update mapped out in my head, so it shouldn't take long. We may be marking this as a "short thread" in the archive, bros.
>>6046766>>6046646>>6046161>[2]Called and finally writing. Fingers crossed for consistent updates here on out (and by "here on out" I mean "for this next week".)Also, Richard made it to the King tourney finals!! I suspect that the Crown will slip from his grasp once more, but I'm just happy he made it this far. Thanks for everybody who's voted.
>Three's the magic numberThree of them sounds good. You'd prefer to think you made too many siphons, but you're concerned you made too few, and this is a nice, quiet place to stick them up. You have a rat, a seahorse, and a fish watching you, but for once you don't care. They're not people. It's in the name. Still, you'll try to make it quick. You stand, jamming your hands into your kelp-crumb-filled pockets, and sidle between your chair and the next one over. Good thing you made the install easy. Grab the mini-mini-siphon, press it to the wall, press your thumb into the top, feel the hiss-click of it latching on, and pull your hand away. Watch it unfold from twenty angles. You wish you could take more credit for the design, but it is satisfying.Two left. Aw, shit. Ideally you want to spread these things out as much as you can, so they don't interfere with each other, so they don't cannibalize the juice they're sucking up, and so, if one's found, they're not all taken down. This room isn't that big, though, so spreading out the minis means getting all up in the grill of at least one of your buddies. Which is— you'll deal with it. You're working on it. Which one is least likely to bite?[You are not permitted to ACT AGAINST an EMPLOYEE in any way, unless they have been registered to the EXCEPTION LIST.]Shit! It's not done? Well, that's nice, except you're not an employee. Sorry, EMPLOYEE. Can seahorses bite?They don't have teeth. I think they suck small floating animals out of the water.Teddy better watch out, then: at least you're protected in here. You adjust the bowl reflexively, juggle the minis in your palm, and stride over to Mr. Seahorse. One of its eyeballs swivels to watch you, while the other one stays still. Creepy. You watch it back— you have more eyes than it does, and they're even more mobile— as you slap a mini down just above the molding. Mr. Seahorse doesn't say anything, though maybe it's siccing Management on you in private. Maybe all of them are. You dig the corner of your last mini into your skin, which still doesn't hurt, but you can sense the pressure. You miss pain a little bit.Teddy says nothing, but you feel his silence so distinctly he must be making an active effort to project it. Okay! Geez, it's not like— you don't miss being injured. It's not like you're going to stroll up to Pat and ask her to shoot you in the head (again). You just think getting banged up a smidge is part of the human experience, and you won't ever be able to slip and hammer your thumb purple ever again, and that's... You don't know that. Maybe Management's cooked something for you. If you stick around here, I'm sure they'll come by to help.Does Teddy remember the days when he sat around and didn't say anything? You remember those days. Good times.If you actually wanted me to sit around and not say anything, I would.(1/3)
You try to suck your cheek in, but succeed only in pushing some beetles around. The third siphon should be equidistant from the rest, a tough sell when the other two are straight across from each other. Goddamn Mr. Seahorse. You evaluate, then clamber up an empty chair and fasten the last siphon on the edge of the ceiling. That's three for three, and nobody's called you on anything yet. You get and sit back down, the back of your bowl clinking against the back of the chair.The locked door unlatches and glides open. You should've full-body startled at this, or worse yelped or leapt from your chair, but your body from the neck down is on lidocaine and does nothing. Your head is not, and you spin and jerk against the glass. "—these phenomenal Friends," says Casey Fucking Kemper, "are specially designed to work down here! Not every worker is the best culture fit, but— come in!"Casey Fucking Kemper ushers the other guy in. The retainer. You should not be defensive of that term. The great thing about the beetles is that CFK and the other guy have zero clue you're locked in on them."There we have it! These guys work all the time, any time, and they do it with great big smiles on their faces. Yeah?"For his part, the other guy is stone-faced. "They don't have faces.""Ah! Yes! Well, we can't have them looking like you and me, can we. Confusing! Recipe for disaster! We keep them nice and distinguished, and the animal kingdom has bounties to offer us— bounties! I'm very interested in getting them accurate. All the ones you don't recognize are based on texts, you know, surviving photographs. They..." CFK has been pacing around, but he stops directly in front of you. You are unbelievably fucked. You dig your fingers into the seat. "Well, that's a new one!""That's not an animal," the other guy says coldly."The boys must've cooked something new up. That's what I love about Headspace— we're always cooking something up. Free rein, Everard, that's what we give 'em. Free rein. I think he's plenty animal, don't you?" Your (beetle?) brain is telling you to bolt, split, scram, push past Casey Fucking Kemper and Everard Otherguy and sprint into the darkness, but if you'll do that you'll be in an actual pit. You're not in a pit yet. They're not suspicious of you yet. "Take a look!"Casey Fucking Kemper wraps his meaty fucking fingers around the top of your bowl and pries it stickily off your neck. Your vision blurs. Your balance teeters. Air has entered your head. "Not sure what else you'd call that, Everard, except a clever— let me tell you— a clever new twist on the formula! Beetles! I agree there's no real face, but that's— you know, prototyping. One sec." CFK retrieves a black marker from his lapel and bites the cap off, then draws a lopsided smiley face on the outside of the bowl. "There we have it! That's Headspace spirit if I've ever seen it. There you go, son."(2/3)
He plonks the bowl back on. The air rushes out. Your vision is now mildly obstructed. You're not sure whether you can speak or if you're supposed to or what you should say, so you don't. "You can speak, son. Go ahead. Cvtwks axmmkp xzwbwkwt."[SPEECH PROTOCOL UNLOCKED]Oh. Okay. What was that last part? "Thank you. ...Sir."Casey Fucking Kemper waves his fat fucking hand around. "It was my pleasure. What's your name, son?"They're not suspicious of you yet. They actually don't know you at all. There's a small chance there's a file on you, from the jacking, but from Casey's perspective that stuff was years and years ago. Plus, you don't trust yourself to respond to a fake name reliably. "Gil, sir.""Gil! Good name. Strong name. Gil—" CFK pats Everard Otherguy's shoulder. "—how would you like to help us out? Lead us around? Not that I don't know what's hereabouts, but it gets all fiddly down here. You lot are much better at nosing out where to go. Everard and I are taking a tour, y'see, and—""Does it understand you?""Oh, enough. Do you understand me, Gil?""Yes, sir." (You don't know what's going on with the 'sir's, whether you're faking them, or if CFK is provoking a groveling instinct, or whether you're a Friend now and that's what they say. It's confusing.)"There you have it. Why don't we say bye-bye to your other Friends, Gil, and let's hit the road! We'll follow your advice. What should we tour first, do you think?">[1] The Edutainment Facility>[2] The Thinking Machine>[3] The Stacks>[4] The Tubeworks
>>6048519>[2] The Thinking MachineWhen they're distracted, stick syphons straight into their servers.
>>6048519>>[2] The Thinking Machine
>>6048519>3Oh god we're doomedAlso that weird speech is used to command friends? Three words from Casey were "Unlock speech protocol".
>>6048543>>6048883>[2]>>6048959>[3]Called for [2] and writing. This will be a short update because of (gestures toward time I'm posting this)Also, Richard officially placed 2nd in the King Tourney! Thanks for all who voted!
>On tourHow are you supposed to know? Shit! This little adventure lasted all of ten seconds, didn't it? Maybe you look the part, maybe you have some of the programming beaten into you, but you're not literally a Friend. Even if you're not real, Headspace didn't make you— and even if they did make you (extremely indirectly), the process went wrong. You aren't some kind of all-singing all-dancing all-gurning Headspace tour-monkey, after all. You're a lot of things, but you're not that. You don't even know what there is to see down here. Goddamn it to hell. You knew you should've looked at those pamphlets.Calm down.It's hard to calm down when you're fucked, Teddy. Sorry. Maybe they didn't invent the concept of being fucked yet, back when he was kicking. That's why they all drowned, you know. They saw that giant wave or raincloud or whatever-the-hell and went "looks fine to me" and by the time they discovered the concept of being well and truly fucked up the goddamn ass they were all choking on fish-guy blood. So you guess they weren't able to really internalize it. That'd explain a lot.You're lashing out because you're stressed. I'd offer you a cig, but I don't know if you have a mouth.You have about a hundred, but you can't breathe through them. And it'd just knock you out cold. And you doubt it'd fit the Headspace Brand Image. No way Casey Fucking Kemper smokes.Also good reasons. I'll save you one for later. Right now, I don't see how you're fucked. Can you walk me through it?He doesn't need walked through it. Any kind of verbal communication from him is a fig leaf: he's in your head. Not like Richard. You mean in. You mean you can actually feel him packed in the nooks of your brain like spray foam. So what he's doing here is baiting a line, and what you're doing is swallowing a hook. You're fucked because you're supposed to be a tour guide, and you don't know the slightest thing about where to go. Happy?Has anything happened yet?What?Is Casey Fucking Kemper grabbing you by your collar and shaking you and grabbing a lighter and setting all your beetles on fire?No, but—Then talk to him. Either that'll happen or it won't. 50/50.You don't think that's..."I think it's broken," Everard Otherguy says.CFK adjusts his glasses. "Son? Do you have a...?""Yeah," you say. "I, uh—" Aw, shit, no stutter. Thanks, Headspace. "I—"[Your speech will be CLEAR and TO THE POINT at all times.]"—I was calculating the most optimal route. I believe you and Mr. Everard would be best-served by proceeding to the location of greatest importance to this level's functioning, sir. As your new ally, Mr. Everard has a vested interest in witnessing the nuts-and-bolts of—"(1/2)
"That will be enough. Thanks muchly, Gil. Sounds like we're en route to the Thinking Machine— it's a real spectacle, Everard. Real beaut. You'll like it. Shouldn't be a long jaunt with Gil here to wayfind, too, so— Gil? Would you do the honors, son?"You're still recovering from your last paragraph. Shit. Maybe you have more programmed in you than you thought. "Ye-es. Yes.""Then go ahead!"CFK is gesturing at the door. You go up and open it. What did you expect? A bland hallway, you guess. Or (being Headspace) a bland hallway splooged in neon. There still is neon, but it's all knotted, painted, person-size pipes, plus moving staircases— escalators— and walkways— travelators— and a few elevators— we also called them elevators— threaded within, going any which way, some upside down, all against rich void. Like the in-between never ended, only engorged. No godsdamn wonder they need dedicated navigators. Why did they make it so impenetrable in the first place? Oh. To keep the victims inside? That's depressing.You weren't terrible at locus-speaking before the accident, and now it's built into you. It's no question you'll be able to navigate this. But you and the crown thief's retainer and Casey Fucking "CEO of Headass" Kemper alone in this mess? Them dependent on you? This could be the worst thing that ever happened to you, or the best. Not counting the other obvious recent worst and best things. Um. The point is, you haven't decided yet.>[1] Do not pass Go, do not collect $200: go straight to the Thinking Machine. Trying to mess around before you've gained any trust sounds like a recipe for being grabbed by the collar/set on fire.>[2] It'd be insane to pass up this opportunity. You'd have to be an idiot or a coward or both. And you are, but you're sure Teddy would be quick to disagree, and you don't want to get in a humiliating fight about it, so here you are.>>[A] Forget the Thinking Machine. Get Everard and CFK stupidly, hopelessly lost, then flip them the bird and fly off. Maybe you'll get on a watchlist, but it'll get them out of the picture for a good while, and you can go find Lottie. [Roll.]>>[B] There are a lot of narrow walkways here, and there is a long drop underneath them, and while trying to push CFK would break your arms, Everard is weedy. You're not in the murder business, but... the goo dampens your worst anxiety, and... the guy's going to have to die sooner or later, and... when push comes to shove... ha-ha... oh, gods. [Difficult roll.] >[C] Pump them for info as innocuously as you can manage. How's the crown thievery going, Everard? How's the intruder situation going, Mr. Kemper? Tell me more! (Any specific questions/topics?) [Roll.]>[D] Write-in?
>>6049395>[1] Do not pass Go, do not collect $200: go straight to the Thinking Machine. Trying to mess around before you've gained any trust sounds like a recipe for being grabbed by the collar/set on fire.
>>6049395>2CA doesn't seem possible because Casey works here too, he'll know his way around. B puts us in a bad spot immediately after the deed is done, so C it must be.Ask uuuuuh how the other retainers of Ramsey are doing, and how Ramsey herself is doing. Nothing about Headspace itself that would be sus. Maybe more specifics on the purpose of this visit by Everard so you can better guide them?If things go wrong we can always claim we're running a new prototyped conversational protocol.
Rolled 1 (1d2)>>6049456>>6049566Flipping.
>>6049856>[1]No muss, no fuss. I'll start writing at the usual time. In the meantime, I may work on the final Richard king tourney write-up, so keep an eye out.
A note for clueless archive-readers or anybody else: this is the final "update" from the /qst/ King Tournament, where Richard placed 2nd. I wrote up many in-character 'excerpts' of Richard interacting with other characters and commenting on other events. Ctrl+F "excerpt" in the preliminaries: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2024/5961634 and the actual tournament: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2024/6014808/ if you're curious.>THE FINAL EXCERPT FROM THE DILIGENT NOTE-TAKING OF CORRESPONDENT #314, UNOFFICIALLY AND QUESTIONABLY KNOWN AS "RICHARD," AFTER HIS ENTRANCE INTO AN INTERDIMENSIONAL "HUSBANDO TOURNAMENT""I lost."Perhaps it was expected. Perhaps I should have expected it. Perhaps I even did. But it's rarely productive and never wise to dwell on idle doubting, not when matters are still at hand. I lost-- and the final count wasn't close-- not that it ever would have been. A popularity contest! I fail to see how the machine had much charm, but I could lose a popularity contest to a mound of dirt. Talent does not win you friends or admirers: it wins you jealous schemes, betrayals, flatterers, and foes. Step a toe out of established doctrine (doctrine based on nothing, which has never accomplished anything) and they-- all of them, the small-minded, those little people in their little cubes with their perfect little BW-stamped doomed-to-fail clients-- will band together, sensing a threat to their comfortable ineffectuality, their inefficient dithering, and tear you to pieces. Of course the audience of the tournament did not know about clients or cubes or talents, beyond those I had already demonstrated. They simply knew. They looked at me and something in their own little minds sparked with recognition. I was the worst of all things-- a striver-- and I must be destroyed."Of course I was not. The machine was crowned (I was frightened, but it was not The Crown), and I and the others were released, with little fanfare, to mingle. I had frankly assumed they all died after I soundly defeated them, so I found this less than comfortable. If the stakes were not mortal, none of them meant anything to me any longer-- though I did consider finding the WYRM-cursed man, so I could more thoroughly rub my victory in his supercilious face. I had forgotten to do so previously. Instead, I noted that the doors to the audience seating were open. To the audience seating!"I rushed--(1/3)
"But she was already there, of course, red-faced and puffing (I still needed to improve the lung capacity) and speaking in that way I couldn't imitate, all words, all at once, tripping and skidding to the sentence's finish line. My transcription here may not be fully accurate. She went: 'RICHARD OH THANK GOD I THOUGHT THEY'D NEVER LET YOU LEAVE OR ME LEAVE OR ANYBODY WE WERE JUST STUCK THERE AND THEY WOULDN'T LET ME HAVE THE SWORD OR ANYTHING THOUGH THEY DID HAVE SNACKS AT LEAST DID YOU KNOW THEY'VE INVENTED THESE SUGAR BALLS BUT THE OUTSIDE IS SOUR LIKE A LEMON BUT IT'S NOT A LEMON IT'S THIS POWDER? I DON'T KNOW WHETHER I LIKED THEM OR NOT, AND GIL ISN'T HERE-- DO YOU KNOW WHERE GIL IS? THEY DIDN'T MAKE HIM DO ALL THOSE DUMB CHALLENGES DID THEY? HE'D GET SO EMBARRASSED! WEREN'T YOU EMBARRASSED? THEY MADE YOU DO SO MANY STUPID THINGS--'"I assured her that embarrassment was not a factor. To be embarrassed, one must care about the approval of the people watching. I simply tried my best with anything presented to me.;WITH ANYTHING PRESENTED TO YOU?!? THEY PRESENTED YOU SOME STUPID-- SOME REVEALING-- SOME DANCE THING, AND YOU WERE IN THOSE TINY SHORTS-- AND THE BATTING THING? YOU GOT HIT IN THE FACE!'"I assured here that it did not hurt, as this was not my real body.'AND CUP STACKING ISN'T EVEN A REAL THING WHO EVEN DOES THAT, AND-- WHY DO YOU LOOK SO TIRED?'"I assured her that I was incapable of tiring.'OKAY BUT YOU LOOK PRETTY TIRED RICHARD, AND KIND OF... I DON'T KNOW, SAD...'(2/4?)
"I assured her that I was incapable of being sad. She fixed me with a hard look, of the type she was so good at giving-- the eye enhanced them-- and I did not say anything. When she found that this could not make me respond, she folded her arms. [I tire of the direct transcription.] Charlotte told me that whether or not I was sad (even though I looked sad), I shouldn't be hypothetically sad, because the contest was worthless-- less than worthless-- not only was it an obvious front to humiliate the contestants, but it was thoroughly rigged! She had reclaimed memories, she said, of a previous contest of this stripe, which was also thoroughly rigged against her. Against her and I. They hated us in particular, those greater powers, and sought our suffering, so if I was sad about not winning (ending in second place, just to twist the knife), I shouldn't be. And she saw me trying very hard out there, even in all the stupidest of stupid contests. They didn't even have sword-fighting, she said, so what kind of King contest was this? Besides, was I even supposed to be King? She was supposed to be Queen, and I was supposed to be her loyal advisor, and the only reason they left *her* out of the comparative Queen contest is because she'd beat the pants off of everybody there, no sweat. Did I know a stupid great big cat won? Just a cat? I and she were better than any stupid great big cat, she said, and better than any ugly automaton. Though she said she rather liked the little rodent thing, which she found cute, and even the little lizard man. I accepted these things. (After all, I had placed higher than them.) "When she was done with her speech, Charlie studied my face, and I saw that she was attempting, in her own stunted way, to console me. It could be that she thought that, if my ego were too bruised, she would be the next one to feel it. There was some merit to this, which I regretted. Still, I did not think that was the case. I thought rather that she actually believed all of these things, firstly, and in addition did not like to see me hurt. She saw me as somebody who mattered to her. I had made this so. I could not take it back. I saw her as somebody who mattered to me. I had made this so. I could not take it back. I did not especially want to."She must have seen something in my eyes, because she hugged me then. It was the same as the others: hot, crushing, her hair caught in my collar and armpits and everywhere else. She did not take things by half measures. Me? I am not built for hugging. I mean this factually. The incentives for hugging are nebulous and limited, and the whole process was messy. It was imperfect. The offspring of the WYRM are perfect; they do not hug.(3/4)
"Charlotte is not perfect (imagine!) and so she hugged me like she meant to pop my ribs. I have been ruined and so I hugged her back and ruffled her hair and murmured to the back of her head that I was glad she's safe, and that was what mattered, more than any arbitrary tournament. The Crown we'd be obtaining was worth a thousand of the machine's. In the end, this was a temporary diversion."I don't know if she heard me. She went on hugging, and I thought that it wasn't me she actually meant to hug. I thought that if she knew she wouldn't hug me like this at all. It wasn't mine and didn't belong to me."I thought that regretting it meant, maybe, that I still deserved it. In one sense or another. "I don't know what I thought, because space and time were slipping, and Charlotte was liquefying in my arms. I breathed her in and coughed: saline. The ground was liquifying too and gurgled upward and enveloped me, and took my skin off with it. I floated, denuded and lengthened and noncomprehending, until by chance I twisted my neck and banged against the tube and remembered."I was back. If I had ever left: if it was not just a vivid IV-dream, an increasingly plausible explanation, and one that required far fewer questions answered. That was not Charlotte; I had not seen her in days. A cruel figment only. But I would see her soon, if she was alive, if she was well, and if she did not know. She would not want me if she knew. I cross my fingers."Richard"I was going to update but then this ended up being... uhh... you see how long it is. Update-length. I'll try to get out a quick actual update out tomorrow.
>>6050061>I would see her soon, if she was alive, if she was well, and if she did not know. She would not want me if she knew.Um, ominous?
>>6050054>They looked at me and something in their own little minds sparked with recognition. I was the worst of all things-- a striver-- and I must be destroyed.No, Richard! Don't say that! Most people liked you, dude.
>>6050181:^)>>6050220Richard is MAD projecting there, don't worry about him! Though he did lose the popularity contest pretty bad...
>>6050353What? Richard doesn't think he has many friends? Well, even if he doesn't think we ever met, I really do consider him to be my friend!
>>6050364>>6050353I for one want to destroy Richard because he is a striver and reminds me of my own inadequacies.
Hi Bathic QMDo you want to do one last lore blurb/rp thing in the QTG thread just for fun? If these >>6050054 excerpts are chronologically last, then maybe something retroactive, taking place prior to the end of the contest; like, while Beta and Richard were just sitting in the finalists room, still waiting for all the votes to be cast?I ask, because I think Richard is a cool character, and the batting cage event didn't really provide much material to work with unlike the finale of the event.I planned on asking and attempting this in the tourney thread, but it ended and got archived before I had some free time...
>>6050364Don't feel bad, Narrator! Richard isn't very good at making friends. His quasi-daughter isn't either, but it seems she has taken a liking to Ramster! Quickly, Ramster, escape!>>6050391So true.>>6050419Hi! I appreciate the offer, but I'm not sure what this would entail in a practical sense. I wouldn't want to spam up the QTG with some kind of back-and-forth roleplay-- I don't think that's the right place for things-- and I'm pretty happy with how everything wrapped up here. If you wanted to do your own write-up and pastebin it in the QTG, I think that'd be cool and I'd be happy to read it, or if you just want to hear Richard's personal feelings and biases about Beta, I'd be happy to do a little OOC write-up for you (though I think they were touched upon in this and the last excerpt). Or if you have some other idea, please let me know.
>Serious businessYou start moving, lest CFK find you defective, but that doesn't mean you've decided on anything. When you're at a crossroads like this, you think it's important to lay out the pros and cons, so you don't go making decisions on impulse. This time, you feel like starting with the cons.Cons: If anything goes wrong with anything you try, you will be captured and sent to mind-prison. Also, even if you manage to fly off and escape, a pissed-off Casey Fucking Kemper will send a fleet of goons after you, specifically, which will ruin Lottie's entire bombing plan and make her very unhappy with you, specifically.Well, that seals it. You will be a wonderful, effective, rule-abiding, very quiet tour guide. You will arouse no suspicion, you will locate Lottie, and you can watch as she unleashes almighty hell on whoever. Yeah. That's more like the natural order of things.I think you're capable of shenanigans if you wanted to be.That last clause is doing a lot of heavy lifting, Teddy. You're happy, you're free, and you— you don't know where you're going. Shit. One sec.You don't navigate a locus any differently than you used to, not really. Technique's the same: have somewhere you need to go, think a lot, let your feet do the walking. It's the effort that's changed. Where you used to meet resistance— you were imposing your will on the place, bending it around you— now you... goddammit. You're struggling for a way to make this not sound airy-fairy. Now you want to go to the Thinking Machine, and there's no resistance, because the place doesn't bend for shit. You don't have to make your path the right way to travel, because your path is, unfailingly, the right way to travel. You know it is, for a fact. In your gut.You don't think you succeeded at the non-airy-fairy: it sounds like GS still. Goddammit. Still, can anything argue with the results? You hop on a w— on a travelator, cross onto one moving perpendicular, wobble along the top of a fat orange pipe (CFK does not fall off, no matter how funny that'd be), find the entrance to a fatter blue one, and enter. The inside is slick and the drop near-vertical and if you had a stomach it might've been upset, but you keep one hand on your neck so the bowl doesn't pop off, keep your toes pointed, (know in your gut when the pipe ends), and land on your feet. You even have time to step neatly aside before Casey Fucking Kemper and Everard Someguy tumble out. Casey scrambles up and pulls out his walkie. "Hi! Can we get some cushioning installed under— what?" (The walkie crackles.) "Yes, I did just— it's for everybody! Don't tell me it costs anything. We're where Dreams Come True, and we can't get ourselves some damn pillows underneath all the—"(1/2)
No point listening to that. CFK has such a distinctive frequency of voice— the man who launched a thousand bad impressions— that he's paradoxically easy to tune out. Even easier than usual, since there's so much else to listen to:tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tapthock-thock-thock-thock-thock-thock-thockdit-dit-dit-dit-dat-dat-dat-dat-dit-dit-datclick-click-click-click-click-click-THUNK—SHINGIs this the Thinking Machine? Because you don't see a lot of machine, and there doesn't seem to be a lot of thinking happening. What you do see are people— hundreds within view— lined up at huge rows of desks, seated identically ramrod-straight, banging away at identical typewriters. If they were real typewriters, they'd be worth a fortune: even the scrap is valuable. If they were real people, that'd— that'd be fucked, you think. None of the typing speeds vary at all. None of them stop for a sip of water. There are long cables running between the desks and the ceiling. You were trying to see where the cables were going (ineffectually: though you can "look up" well enough, you're pretty farsighted— maybe you can install a lens into the bowl?) when a different type of cable caught your eye. It doesn't lead to a desk. It leads to a person in a diving suit. They're hovering over the shoulder of one of the typists, two rows over.>Pick up to 2 (at least for now). >[1] Listen to Casey narrate about the "Thinking Machine." >[2] Follow the diving suit's example and take a look at the physical state of a typist. >[3] See what's actually being typed.>[4] Attempt to discreetly slip off and meet the diving suit. Who is this guy? >[5] Tip Casey off about the diving suit. If you wanted a chance to solidify his trust, here it is.>[6] Write-in.
>>6050885>2&3Calculator version friends?
>>6050885>3 and 4
>>6050453>I'm pretty happy with how everything wrapped up here.Oh okay, I understand>your own write-up and pastebin it in the QTGHey, that's a great idea! I'll try to give it a shot within the next day or so.
>>6050885>>3 and 4
>>6051335>>6051013>3 & 4>>6050895>2 & 3Called for 3 and 4 and writing. I am starting to get our yearly art influx in: will post it as it comes, though I may save some of it for relevant occasions. >>6051098>Hey, that's a great idea! I'll try to give it a shot within the next day or so.Awesome! Looking forward to it.
>Be friendlyYou got them all here safely, so CFK should be fine if you wander off, right? If he's mad, you can say that you're a new model. With the Wander Off Protocol activated.He's in the midst of giving Everard a spiel, so maybe he won't notice you're gone at all, and maybe you won't be caught dick out, pants down. Maybe this will have been a good idea, not a brain-damaged plan-ruining one. See, you're trying to be less negative. Is Teddy happy?I didn't say anything.It's just different when you're being watched. Anyways, you're going now. Last chance to stop you.I don't see anything wrong with what you're doing.That makes one of you. You think it's the body. If you were jittering, that'd be the signal that you're en route to deep shit, and you could course-correct from there. Very reasonable. Instead, you have this dead lump, and it enables all your sketchiest ideas. You were actually considering pushing Everard Otherguy off a fucking pipe, Teddy.Did you?No, but— you're just going. The closest row of desks is a few feet away, and a few steps later you're there, right behind one of the typists. None of them have turned to look at you. Are they Friends, too? None of them have wacky heads. The one you're behind has a wire running out of her neck.You always thought jacking was a mercenary profession, so it's good to know that you were doing some social good, too, by screwing around with Headspace. Though you don't think the boys would appreciate them being blown up. Bad for business. They'd have your balls on a platter if they knew you were doing it. Fuck them! Tough fucking luck. You didn't see any of them come along to bail you out: Lottie did, and she did everything else besides. She's worth ten of any of them, and she'd be worth fifty if she stopped vanishing on you. (Do you smell smoke yet?) You're dithering now, though. You always do this. You're whatever the opposite of a man of action is. The typists aren't relevant to you— they're getting evacuated or blown up, whatever's most useful to them— but whatever they're typing is. You press up against the bowl to peer at the sheet of paper: ....|.|. .|.|..|| .|..|... .|.|...| .|.|..|| .|.....| .|..|.|. .|.||... .|.|.|.| .|.|.|.| .|.|...| .|..|... .|..|.|. .|.||... ....|.|. .|....|| .|.|...| .|.....| .|.|.|.| .|.||..| .|..|.|. .|...|.. .|.|.|.| .|..||.| ....|.|. .|.|..|. .|..|... .|.|.|.| .|.|...| .|.....| .|..|.|| .|..|..| .|.|.||. .|..|... .|.|.|.| .|.|.|.|(1/2)
It's... lines. And dots. Are you missing something? Is your vision that crap? You should be able to read, but... no, they're all the same, no matter the distance. Lines, dots, lines, dots. The typewriters have all been modified to accept a huge roll of paper, instead of individual sheets, and each typewriter spits out a little more of the roll every time the typist completes a row of lines and dots. They've been going for a long, long time, because the rolls of paper cascade off the typewriters and off the desks and into a gap in the floor. Most of the wires and cables also run through (or from?) that gap, though some reach up to— you thought it was the ceiling, but now that you're looking at it, that's clearly another set of desks and chairs and typists up there. Shit. This is a whole operation.An operation of what? Where is the Thinking Machine? Are the typists a machine, somehow? Is the thinking the output, or the input? Where is that paper going? The diving suit has crossed to the next row over: one away from yours.You saw him hopping onto the elevator down. You heard CFK bitch about a second intruder. It doesn't take a genius to connect the dots. If this guy is invading Headspace from the outside, you probably have similar goals— but god, what shitty timing! Whatever reason he's here is about to be moot, guaranteed, and there's a solid chance he'll be exploded in an hour or two— Lottie seems confident that everybody can be evacuated, but come on. It'd be decent of you to tip the guy off, so he can go home and kick his feet up and have a beer instead of courting death from multiple sources. Is CFK looking for you yet? No, he's still monologuing. It must be his special talent. You consider your options for traversal, then go for the one that looks the coolest: unscrewing your head, tossing it over the desk, then relaxing and falling to pieces and slipping over and catching it before it hits the ground. Then: recoagulating, crouching, screwing the bowl back on.Wow. Nice work.Thanks. You knew it would work, but didn't want to believe it, so you're pretty pleased with yourself. (Why can't it always be so fluid?) Hopefully the diving-suit guy thought it was cool, because he definitely saw the whole thing. Geez, he's pretty short. Shorter than you are. Poor guy. No wonder he needs the whole disguise.He doesn't speak— but he does start signing at you. Shit. You're rusty at handsign. "I AM HERE..." Easy enough. "...FOR [???]..." Something positive? Peace? To help? "THERE IS NO [???] TO [???] ME..." To kill them? Hurt? Tease? Tattle on? You don't recognize that one at all, sue you. (Handsign loses a lot of usefulness once your throat's used to talking.) You think he's basically telling you to piss off back to CFK, though. Probably saw you with him. Hmm.(Choices next.)
>[A1] You think diving suit guy thinks you're a Friend— you don't know how he makes sense of the beetles, but maybe Friends do that. Take the bowl off and put your actual face back on to convince him otherwise.>[A2] Leave the bowl on. Try to convince him you're in disguise as a Friend (semi-true), or that you've been deprogrammed (also semi-true), or whatever he'll listen to. You can't afford Casey Fucking Kemper looking over and catching you with a head on. [Roll.]>[A3] Well, you tried. Head back before you're dog meat.>[A4] Write-in.IF [A1] OR [A2]:You have no hard question limit, but the more you ask the more likely Casey's going to wrap up before you do.>[B1] Who is this guy?>[B2] What does he want?>[B3] Has he seen a lady in overalls? Dark hair? Maybe set some fires somewhere?>[B4] Does he know anything about the other intruder?>[B5] How'd he get into Headspace?>[B6] Does he know where the best spot to blow shit up is?>[B7] Headspace is going to explode, FYI. He better scram.>[B8] Write-in.
>>6051430>A2>B3,7The most pertinent
>>6051430>>A2>>B3,7
>>6051567>>6051673>[A2], [B3], [B7]Called. I need dice.>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 5 (+5 Sick Stunt) vs. DC 60 (+10 ???) to convince the diving suit guy you mean no harm!(No ID spendy, you're Gil.)
Rolled 93 + 5 (1d100 + 5)>>6051878
Rolled 95 + 5 (1d100 + 5)>>6051878MURICA
Rolled 17 (1d100)>>6051878The dice gods have blessed us! But will they continue to do so?
>>6052003They will not!>>6051888>>6051894>>6052003>98, 100, 23 vs. DC 60 -- SuccessYou still pull it off, though. Writing.
Nope, had to drop everything to help a friend in need. This thread isn't going smoothly, and I'm still going back to work next week-- I'm considering calling it here very early and picking up after work/art season ends (ETA ~2.5 weeks), since those two things are consuming my time and attention at the moment. Let me know if you guys would prefer continued sporadic updates or if you'd rather take a break and pick up later. (And happy belated 4th to all Muricans in the thread!)
>>6052022Sporadic updates pls
>>6052022Sporadic
>>6052003Doesn’t a 17 mean instant crit-success?>>6052022Your call. Whatever works best for you.
