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After a little while the boards and nails are neatly piled, exposing the top of a trapdoor, and you make a mental note to tell Branwen before she goes back to her place. Gil yanks the trapdoor open as you do, revealing an old metal ladder and the pitch black. God, it's really pitch black. You can only see down a couple feet before the light just stops.
"Huh." Gil scoops up a nail and tosses it down. It ricochets down the ladder and splashes into the rippling blackness. Splashes? Rippling? "Oh, boy. That's straight into a locus. ...Manse. Sorry."
"What? No it's not. There's a whole sewer down there! With fish in it, and scary noises, and—"
"Isn't the manse wrecked? Maybe it's been leaking. But I-I-I think this is where we want to go, so we may as well...?"
Gil makes an excellent point. "Okay. Mayhaps we shall venture into the— yes. Good idea. I'll go first! Oh, but I better—" You fish the alarm-bird out and wind it up. "Since I brought it, and all. All done. Close the trapdoor after you, or the snake'll get out!"
You stow The Sword and bird and indeed go first, clambering expertly down the ladder. Gil follows, like a good retainer ought to, and follows your instructions, like a good retainer ought to. What you didn't account for is the fact that, without any light from the open trapdoor, the ladder would vanish, sending you falling—
"SHIT!"
—sending you and Gil falling a long way into the blackness. Then, sailing into more blackness, but it's punctuated with chunks of rubble and free-floating segments of office and pipes and machines, and your stomach's at your feet. You may actually be rising now, but it's the same thing, in a practical sense, and you fling your arms in front of your face and pray not to smack into anything too heavy. Positive thinking. Positive thinking. Gil somewhere around you is mumbling to himself, curses or invocations or God knows what. You are looking up (or down?) and seeing blue. Quite a lot of blue. Against all odds, this is a good sign.
Last time, you smacked into Us on the back of a giant worm. This time, there's nothing at all between you and the prospect of ramming into and splattering onto its semi-solid surface, not even a tossed suitcase. Not even Gil to absorb the blow. You shut your eyes, which isn't very positive-minded of you, and therefore miss the moment when the goo opens wide to swallow you whole. You only feel it cradling you for a moment, then the whole world goes soft.
-
You have been told in no uncertain terms that your true and given name is CLAUDIA FAWKINS, but no meddling parental units can strip you of your chosen (and much cooler) moniker: C.R. FAWKINS. As a matter of fact, no meddling parental units can strap you down and chain you up in the slightest, despite their best efforts following the much-lectured-about "Godsday Incidents." Incident-ssss, the 's' always drawn out.
(2/4?)
