?Phenomenal. You take what I do— you always do this, you realize— you take what I do, what I try to do for you, and then you twist it so I'm somehow in the wrong.? Richard sounds as if he's leaning very close to the microphone. He might be angry. ?Damnant quod non intellegunt. Absolutely phenomenal.?
He is angry: the gibberish is the tell.
?It's not about the
You're not sobbing. (It has subsided to a low sniffle.) It's not for no reason. And you think maybe people should see you cry in the middle of the street. Maybe they'll feel sorry for you. Maybe they'll give you an umbrella.
?You are completely off the reservation. You have a reputation to consider, Charlotte, despite your own best efforts to shred it. We are
>[1] No we aren't. We are staying right here, and crying, until somebody notices us and cares about us. And that is that. [Roll.]
>[2] Okay, well, maybe we are leaving. The matter is how:
>>[A] The main trail. It's the least hassle. God forbid you run into Madrigal, though, and if you have attracted attention they'll know exactly where to find you. But that's just your nervous streak, probably. You have a very strong nervous streak, Richard tells you.
>>[B] The back way, past Tom's Cave. Less dangerous than cutting straight through the Fen, less conspicuous than the main trail. But Margo is probably there. Margo does not like you.
>>[C] Straight through the Fen. It's adventure! And nobody will follow you. But that might be for good reason.
>[3] Now that you've stood out here and cried rather loudly, maybe Jacques will pity you enough? And he'll get you a free drink? And he won't be mad at you?
>[4] Write-in.
Maybe you decided you've pushed things enough for one day. Maybe you were just too worn-out to argue. In any case, you're currently limping out of town; you're not using the main trail you came in on, but the rinky-dink side "trail" (it's little more than trampled mud) that meanders past Tom's Cave. You don't want to risk seeing Madrigal again, mostly.
It may not be worth it. The side "trail" doesn't seem at all designed for human use— its rocky switchbacks and thickets of mangrove roots would suit a persistent crab, maybe. Or a snake. Richard has relaxed his chokehold on your neck and sits instead in smug silence. You hope you won't find any leeches in your boots after this.
It takes maybe ten minutes to reach Tom's Cave, but it feels considerably longer. The water has turned sticky with warmth, and you keep finding yourself attempting to wipe sweat off your brow. Hell's steam vents must be raging today.
The cave is as nondescript as ever— little more than a drab hole in the ground. It's not important. You've moved on past the cave in your head. No, you're too busy staring at the two people outside it.
The first is Margo Lindew, who of everyone (unjustly) angry at you is possibly the angriest, probably the most powerful, and definitely the most vengeful. The old bag has enough spite in her to spin a whole waterwheel.
The second is unmistakably Ellery. (You don't care what Ellery's last name is.) Why is Ellery here? He's not supposed to be here. He's supposed to be… you don't know, you just assumed he never left base camp. But here he is anyways, towering gawkily over Margo and gesticulating. Handsign.
Are they plotting against you? You want to know. You have to know. But imagine the earful if you got caught...!
>[1] Sidle as close as you can to see what they're talking about. Attempt stealth. [Roll.]
>[2] You know what? This is definitely your business! Walk straight up and interrupt them.
>[3] It's not worth the risk. Continue on back to camp.
Well, you have to know, don't you? It's just going to gnaw away at you if you don't. And how hard could just sneaking up be?
Not hard. It's not hard, actually— Margo and Ellery both seem pretty distracted by whatever they're discussing. You just avoid stepping on anything too noisy, slide between the least-dirty trees, and find yourself in comfortable line-of-sight to the conversation.
You were looking straight-on before. You're now at a bit of an angle, which lends you some additional information: Margo has a flechette shotgun to Ellery's chest.
?Looks like a surface brand. Probably Oxeye. It has the little doohickey on the top.?
Margo has an Oxeye flechette shotgun to Ellery's chest. God. The important part is that there's a shotgun to Ellery's chest, and Margo's finger lightly on the trigger.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
?Safety's off, too, looks like.?
Between the pain and the last wet remnants of tears and the shotgun, you find it difficult to concentrate on what's actually being said. Worse, Ellery is difficult to understand: his signing is the killer combination of rapid and sloppy. (You'd like to criticize this, but don't have the heart for it.)
You try your best. "Uh," he's saying. "I don't think there's— there's really no call for this, uh, all this hostility— Margo—"
Her fingers barely twitch off the grip. "That's Mrs. Lindew or 'ma'am,' to you, boy."
"—Mrs. Lindew, if you'd just— please drop the gun, uh, and we can get back to those questions—"
"I didn't hear questions—"
"—Okay, well, I did ask them, so, uh— is there any chance you can explain the bones? The big fuck-off massive piles of bones? How many people's worth of bones is that? Have you noticed people going missing over the years? Have people been fed to the alligator tower? Did you know there's an alligator tower? Why do you sit here every day? Are you hiding something, Mrs. Lindew? Are you—"
"—All I heard was the guilty conscience of a criminal. Do you know what crime in these parts is punishable with, boy? I know you're one of them camp people."
"…Execution? I feel like it's probably execution."
"Hm." Margo narrows her eyes. "I prefer 'justice'."
>[1] Oh God! You're leaving. You're leaving right now. You can't be complicit in this. This never happened. You were never here.
>[2] Oh God! You can't just let someone else shoot Ellery. That's *your* job. Do- do, uh, do something. [What?]
>[3] If Ellery gets shot and dies, and you watch, you can blackmail Margo into dropping the whole "eviction" deal later. It's only reasonable.
>[4] Just wait. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe this will be fine.
>[5] Write-in.
You don't have to do anything.
The thought sends a cold prickle down your back. You don't have to do anything. Nobody's watching you. Nobody's making you. It's entirely between you and your conscience.
?And me.? Richard twitches. ?But I trust you'll do the right thing.?
The question is not what you ought to do. The question is what you ought to get out of it. If Ellery lives: well, he's indebted to you. But is that something you even want? And do you want to be chased by a crazy bint with a shotgun? No and no. If Ellery dies: that's leverage, isn't it? All it requires is a little application.
Ellery is worth more to you dead than alive, you realize dispassionately.
So you watch.
"...I, I mean," Ellery is saying, "I guess you can call it anything you want? You can call it, gods, I don't know, 'somersault,' but that doesn't make it ac—"
You clap your hands to your head a fraction too late. The BANG is muffled by the flesh and fabric and the big chunky suppressor at the end of the barrel, but it's still enough to send you reeling backwards, your ears ringing horribly. But it's nothing— nothing— nothing compared to Ellery, who is
BLURRY with motion, clutching and hacking and wiping his stained hands on his front, though it only stains them more, and he has no front to speak of— it is gone, spattered on the ground— you could stick a hand in the hole; you could stick a head— he is waterfall-gushing blood, as could only be expected, but it's the wrong kind of blood, neither thin bright scarlet velvet red nor gloopy antacid pink; it's silver, a little rusty around the edges, and thick like syrup—
>[ID: 2/11]
—and he's standing, still standing; he's almost steadier on his feet than he was before the shot, like all his jumpiness was contained in his chest, or something, and has now been blown to pieces— and he's grinning crazily. Amused by some private secret inside joke. His hands are moving:
"Try the head!" he says.
Margo, to her credit, is more surprised than shocked; she wasn't expecting this, but could've assumed. She mutters something to herself you can't hear and pumps the shotgun once.
You cover your ears this time.
The BANG is less loud, maybe because your hearing's already dulled, but it's accompanied by the unmistakable splintering of broken glass— and no, you don't know, don't want to know, you hope Ellery's skull isn't made of glass— you shouldn't think in the present tense. Ellery's gone, Ellery's all across the sedge, Ellery's pooling out of the thing toppling to the ground, which doesn't look like a person, doesn't look like it ever was a person, looks hard and waxen—
>[ID: 1/11]
You are crying again, and attempting to vomit, though of course you haven't eaten anything real in months, so all it is is sickly acid. Margo doesn't hear you. Either she can't hear you, from two gunshots, or she has earplugs in. Margo is standing from her rocking chair and taking the body by its feet. Margo is dragging the body into the cave.
?You'd think she'd just go for the head in the first place.?
You don't feel good.
>[1] Sit here for a long time.
>[2] Limp back to camp.
>>[A] Tell Madrigal.
>>[B] Tell Monty.
>>[C] Don't tell anybody.
>[3] You need a drink about a hundred times more badly than previous. Jacques might understand.
>[4] Write-in.
"He actually did score a shocking amount, all considering".