"Come on, Charlie, you can't nap on the street." Richard's back. Of course he is. He is standing over you, looking a little out-of-sorts— his bow tie is crooked, his eyes are rheumy. "Stand up. That's a good girl."
He offers you a hand. You hesitate, then take it— there's no chance he'll take no for an answer. He hauls you up.
"So," you say. "They're gone."
"That they are, Charlie! I have to congratulate you—"
("Please don't throw another party," you mutter.)
"—on that very efficient resolution. Throwing Monty under the idiomatic bus? Brilliant. Wonderful." He claps you on the back. "You're making big steps, Charlie."
You stick your hands in your pockets and don't say anything.
"Now listen. Interrogation? Excellent work. Fighting skills? Could use some, ehh, fine-tuning." He squeezes your shoulder. "You did get your arm cut off. Were this occurring in reality, you would be permanently maimed, and you'd look like a proper idiot to boot. I see notable room for improvement."
As much as you hate to admit it, he's not totally wrong. You flash back to the polishing of the axe.
"But that's not a problem with me around. A few minor alterations and you'll be better than ever, yes? How about it?"
You'd normally be against this, but in the light of your previous circumstances you're warming up to the idea. "I mean..." you say. "As long as it's not weird, I guess."
"Oh, naturally, Charlie, naturally." Richard gives your shoulder a good-natured rub. (You didn't think he had a good nature.) "Temporary, too, of course. Excellent choice."
In the first four threads (hint: this is thread 4), I had a more robust RPG-ish system behind the narrative, including a skill tree Charlotte would be advancing through. I dropped this after thread 4 because none of my readers were very interested in it, which was a good idea in the end, but there's a little bit of vestigial tissue of it still present in the story. For instance, the players chose a skill here:
>[3] Ophidian Charm — Your natural charm, only moreso. Spend 1 SV for every 10 DC of a social check to automatically succeed. Unlocks social tree.
By Thread 5, this skill and the overall skill tree were scrapped. So was SV, a second status tracker for the amount of power Richard had, though it'd get recycled for other purposes later. Charlotte still picks up certain powerful abilities throughout the story, but they're significantly rarer and less "game-y" than they would've been, and the first one doesn't show up for another 100+ chapters. (I have good reason not to tag Drowned Quest with LitRPG or Progression.) They're pretty neat when they do show up, though.
You wait to feel different. It never comes. You swallow. "...Did it happen?"
"Oh, Charlie, I already did it. While you were lying there? I thought you were in a position to be reasonable, so I went ahead with it. No problem."
There it is. Now you feel different— nauseated. "So I've been altered this whole time? And I didn't know it?"
"All you need to know is that I'm acting in your best interests, Charlie. Ehh, hold on. I need to go. Be right back."
"Go where? Oh."
He's vanished. God! You resolve, then and there, to ignore him. He talk at you as much as he wants— you'll sit here until you go home.
You wait.
From behind you, a pop and a vexed rustle. Your jaw is set. You do not turn to look. If you engage with Richard in any way, you're the one that loses.
You hate Richard. You hate losing.
If only there were something else to look at. The night air is unwelcoming and sticky, the street— excepting your blood— empty, the buildings sludgy. Everything has an oil-slick look about it. You don't think you were supposed to be here so long. (Or maybe you're still a little drunk.)
From behind you, some kind of infernal caterwaul— like a hobnail on slate, or (you have traumatic memories of biscuit-making) the feeling of cornstarch on dry fingers. It comes in starts and stops, which is far worse than it going all at once. You are ashamed to report you flinch, not once, but multiple times— but you don't turn around, which is the important thing.
Ever since the bad eye, your peripheral vision has fuzzed significantly; Richard was circling around to your left, so you don't see him until he's nearly in front of you. He was hauling an enormous standing blackboard across the cobbles. He leans sweatily against it. The telescopic pointer protrudes from his pant pocket.
"Hello, Charlie," he remarks.
"Hello," you respond, out of good breeding. Then you scowl.
"I'm back!"
You cross your arms. "So?"
"Welcome back?" He raises his eyebrows. "Did your mother dearest not teach you how to properly greet someone, Charlie? I know her brain was scrambled, but— it goes 'hullo,' or 'salutations,' then 'welcome back,' then 'how are you, how was your day…'"
You drum your fingers against the side of your chest. "I assure you, nobody in the past 20 years has ever said 'salutations.' Or 'hullo.' Who taught you to properly greet—"
"Thanks, Charlie, it's good to be back. Not pleasant, though; it's never pleasant!" He makes a motion as if to light a cigarette, but pauses. "I'm doing well enough, thanks for asking, though if I were properly greeted it certainly would've been better. For your education, it may also have been polite to have been asked about this blackboard…"
He reaches for the pointer. You narrow your eyes.
He retrieves the pointer, extends it to its full length, and braces it at his chest.
"Fine," you say. "Fine. Gosh, Richard, what's with the blackboard. May I please leave?"
"Charlie! I'm glad you asked." Richard transfers the pointer to his left hand and, with the right, takes hold of the blackboard— you notice, too late, the pivots on either end. With a theatrical sweep, he spins the board to reveal the other side.
"Oh God." You place your hands on your hips. "This?"
You should've known from the pointer. It's his investigation board from earlier today, strings and thumbtacks and all, only transferred to a much larger surface You've already seen this. It has already been gone through in exhaustive detail. And you no longer have a drink or three to suffer through it with.
"Yes, Charlie, this. You're probably wondering when I had the time to redo all of it?"
"I guess I am now."
"The answer is multitasking, which you would do well to learn. You can't multitask worth a damn, and I would know."
You dig your hands harder into your hips. "I don't know what that means."
"It's not rocket science, Charlie, it's—"
"Or what that means."
Richard pinches the brow of his nose. "It's— this is a new low, even for you. Multitask. Doing multiple things— tasks— at once."
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"Oh." You could have guessed that, but that's not something you'd care to admit. "It could have meant a task that has multiple parts, you know."
"And I could not care less. The point is you should do it. And I did it. Now, we ought to review this."
"We did review it. Also, I was there when it all happened. If you forgot."
"You were paying attention in neither case, Charlotte, and furthermore I've added considerably to it. Come, sit down— I'll stand."
You press anyways. "Do we have to do it now?"
"I won't be interested later." He waggles the pointer. "Sit."
You sit begrudgingly in an olive-green settee, made all the more atrocious by its solidity— a bastion of bad taste against your liquifying surroundings. Richard straightens his bow tie, clears his throat, and begins:
"Who is Ellery to you?"
"What?" You are already slumped half-over onto the settee. "He's not anyone to me. He's the local crazy guy, Richard. And now he's dead, so…"
"I don't care to catch your meaning, Charlie." Richard jabs at a loose piece of paper cellu-taped to the blackboard, though it takes several tries before the paper flutters to the ground, revealing another beneath it. "CRAZY GUY" is written on it in Richard's distinctive loose cursive.
"I believe this proves my point," you say after a long pause, "of why this is entirely unnecessary..."
"Pish." Richard retrieves the paper from the ground. "It's establishing. So you don't know him?"
"No, he's… Can we skip this? Please? I'm tired. You know the answers. You can read my mind."
"I cannot," Richard says dismissively. "And we are following the process, Charlotte."
You bury your face in your hands. "I hate your process. It's a terrible process. It's stupid."
"And you, O infinite font of wisdom, have a superior one."
"Yes." You slide your hands up through your hair and stand up. "Gimme the— may I have the pointer? You can sit."
Richard's eyes flick from you to the blackboard. He pushes the pointer in and out. "Why? I put a good amount of time into this."
"What, did you practice?" You lift your lip. "You've been interested in this for, God, an hour? Hand me the pointer and I'll do it."
Jaw set, he silently proffers the pointer. You reach forward and take it: it's cool in your hand, with a surprising amount of heft. It makes you feel very official. You guess you understand why he has it.
Richard sits, pissily, on the settee.
"Right," you say. "Nine days ago, I was having some— some limited difficulty obtaining an expedition partner."
"You are unlikable. Nobody wants to be around you." He rests his face on one fist. One leg lies across the couch; the other dangles off the side.
You jab the pointer towards him. "Untrue. I simply discarded most of my options for unsuitability. I purposefully selected Ellery, because he— because— it's not like he had anything else going on. So I pay him a visit, and find him…"
"Discombobulated?"
You can't tell if he's making fun of you: he's got his sunglasses back on. "Uh, yes. Didn't remember my name, didn't remember what he was doing, looked appalling— not that's not normal. He was in the middle of the floor, I think. His dirty floor. And he was believing anything I told him. So why wouldn't I inform him he was coming with me?"
"Very ethical of you."
"He had fun, didn't he? Anyways, success— I also told him to clean up the place, which he did too, so, success— I leave. And I spend the next week preparing extensively..."
"You dithered."
"Prepared extensively, the day rolls around, and… I don't know, he didn't seem especially strange? No more than usual, I mean. We went in, got the Crown, got out... eh..."
You tap the pointer against your palm. Richard is not forthcoming. "You got out, yes."
"...The next day, he, uh, comes to the tent midday. Says Monty wants to talk, also heard Madrigal wanted to talk, leaves. Also seemed normal, if a little nervous."
Richard is inspecting his fingernails. "One might imagine."
"One mightn't imagine— all I know is I blacked out, okay? And now I'm ambidextrous." You wave the pointer in your left hand. "I ought to be right-handed, you realize? Yes? What happened, Richard?"
"If it were relevant, you would know what happened." He gestures nonchalantly. "Isn't this an improvement, Charlie? One of your petty limitations removed? We shall hope for more to come."
"We shan't! Look. I go talk to Madrigal. She practically begs me to figure out what's wrong with Ellery, on account of me bringing him along. Says he hasn't really talked to anyone in months. Conveniently leaves out the fact they're exes. I accept in return for the invitation I'm owed to Game Night—"
"You accepted because you're nosy."
You put your hands on your hips. "Nosiness isn't ladylike. I have an intellectual curiosity in—"
"Prying."
"—other people's personal lives. The point is that I accept. I check in with Ellery next, to see if he knows what happened. But he doesn't talk about that at all, except that I had gold eyes…"
"Brass eyes, I'd imagine."
Of course Ellery gets that wrong. "Brass. Whatever. What he actually talks about is you. Says he thinks I'm talking to someone in my head, says he knows because he used to have someone in his head, too, until he got him out. And he wanted to give me advice on it, except he wouldn't tell me how he got the someone out— so what's the point, then?"
"Oh, Charlie, how you wound me." Richard does not appear wounded. He is fiddling, for some reason, with an expensive-looking fountain pen. "I told you, even if he did say, it wouldn't work. But this is intriguing. What kind of someone, I wonder?"
"Are there kinds?"
"The psyche fractures in fascinating ways when it hits seawater. I'm surprised there aren't more cases around here, in fact. Imaginary people, animals, abstract representations. Images of yourself. Imagine, two Charlies in one head— and you think I'm bad?"
"I'm sure it'd be fine," you mutter.
You're ignored. "Anyway, yes, it isn't strictly relevant. What is relevant is what you failed to include, because you entirely failed to apprehend the situation. Per usual."
"I didn't—"
"Frankly, Charlie, I don't know how you missed this He didn't tell you how because it went wrong." Richard tips his pen towards you. "Wasn't it obvious? It was a botch job; he said as much himself. The thought-double was removed poorly. This could explains both the isolation and the frequenting of the manse."
Ugh! "So you had the explanation the whole time, and you didn't tell me, because—"
"Because you would not have appreciated it, and because I had no interest in the topic. And because it is is an explanation, but not an answer. It doesn't speak to the code, the crystal, the lab equipment, the dated notes… It doesn't even explain your principal question, which is the cause of the dissolution of the amorous relationship. The whore woman, with the scar—"
"Madrigal," you provide.
"Whatever. Unlike you, she seems fairly acute— if the break-up and the procedure directly coincided, I believe she would've taken note. There must be some other rationale."
Your legs are beginning to ache from the standing, or maybe the earlier sprinting. You shift from one leg to another. "Maybe Ellery got sick of her."
"Is she so deluded as to reject all signs of this? I find it unlikely. But you're failing at your lecture, Charlotte. What was after all this?"
You sigh. "I talked to Monty, I broke into his tent— Ellery's tent. Whole lot of paper in there, none of which I could read. Totally illegible. But the weird thing was, some of the things stacked underneath the illegible stuff were totally readable. Not good handwriting, but readable. So…"
Richard stretches like a cat. "So either he's been afflicted with some rapid-onset neurodegenerative disease—"
"What?"
"Or," he says, "he's switched to writing in a type of code. I suspect the latter. I'd take it upon myself to decipher it, but snakes cannot do such a thing. I recommend finding a different expert on the matter."
"I'm the expert, Richard. Who's the detectivess here?" You poke the pointer in his direction. "What if he started writing in code because he went insane? Duh."
"Facileness aside, that brings us no closer to the deciphering, but you may as well move on. The manse." Richard pushes up his sleeve to check a battered wristwatch. "Make it quick, though. We've got about 40 until you start falling apart."
Despite being cobblestone, the street below your feet feels spongy. "What?"
"Oh, you're useless." He stands. A telescopic pointer gleams in his pant pocket— and there is nothing, you realize, in your fist. "I'd have to explain it very slowly to you, anyway. Have a seat."
little more reasonable than it seems.) At least it's historic: this marks the first instance of Richard's blackboard-and-telescoping-pointer setup. As you'll learn in due time, this guy will drop everything to give condescending lectures. EVERYTHING.
BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #8
Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler. It slaps. Consider that your secondary recommendation of the day. The primary one is right here: Shattered Glass by Wistful_Willow, which I've gotten about 1/3rd of the way into and intend to get back to ASAP. This is a cyberpunk noir, featuring cyberdrugs (awesome) and guys with guns implanted in their hands (epic) and more of that besides, but the real draw here is the detailed character writing-- there's a lot of attention paid to what makes the MC the surrounding characters tick, and MAN there's very little I like more than knowing what makes characters tick. Also, the author drew the cool cover! Hooray for writer-artists! Check this one out.
Click this to beat past Bathic with hammers