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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:rs3aPQ5F Thu 28 Nov 2024 10:02:51 No.6148941 View View Report

Quoted By:

>Hatching

You have never heard of her before. If you had, it'd hardly matter: she is nobody, is nothing, is vapor. Her usefulness has ended. A chassis needs no name and no person. It shall be what it will be; it will be what it is, and what it is now is you. You are not the great sleeping WYRM, not yet, but you could be. When you snap the tethers on this wretched place and suck in its broken remains, perhaps you will be. You will bring this about in short order.

———

Charlotte Fawkins? Who's she? She's you. You think that you may have gotten a bit in over your head. That is the phrasing you are using for now. You think that your mind and body may have been hijacked to make a proto-God. A brain-WYRM. You have a terrible feeling you may have walked into a trap, either set intentionally, or simply fated for you. You, Herald. You, Wyrm-daughter. A heroine of somebody's story. Not your story, Ellery said. Not yours.

>[-3 ID: 0/14]
>[EXPENDED: A Manse of Your Own]
>[ID: 1/14]

By all rights you ought to be nobody, nothing, vapor. This is surely what was intended. You would ordinarily invent about your heroic constitution seeing you through, but you don't have the capacity; you're barely anything right now. You wouldn't know what precisely. (It's not your subject.) What you do know is that you are somewhere very much like, but not at all, your manse. Marble and light, a smell of roses, all balled up close. When you felt for your manse in your mind, it felt physical. Like you had buckshot lodged in your brain. It doesn't feel like you're in your manse. It feels like you're in the buckshot.

You have an abstract sense that Richard is responsible for this, as he was for the "bomb shelter". It's very like him to have redundancies in place. Possibly you'll thank him later— it's easier to thank him when he's nice. You are also preferring to think there'll be a later. You are alive: yes. You are in a good situation: no. You are helpless to whatever's being done to you.

But you are alive. That is the first step. You are alive and the YOU out there is not yet free. That is the second step. You aren't certain what the hold-up is, but you can guess. The red stuff squirms in here, not out there. Power, but no divine mandate. It won't necessarily last. But it's good. Positive thinking.

You suppose it's also good that the YOU appears to want to blow up Headspace. So if all else fails, at least you'll have done that. So nobody can laugh at you.

Anyways. Above all else, hope is not lost. Above all else, there still is a Charlotte Fawkins. And you believe— you must believe, you have no choice but to believe— that this is enough. A name and a person versus the world. It must be enough.

—

(Choices next.)

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:rs3aPQ5F Thu 28 Nov 2024 10:01:43 No.6148940 View View Report

Quoted By:

>Incubating

You have never heard of her before. If you had, it'd hardly matter: she is nobody, is nothing, is vapor. Her usefulness has ended. A chassis needs no name and no person. It shall be what it will be; it will be what it is, and what it is now is you. You are not the great sleeping WYRM, not yet, but you could be. When you snap the tethers on this wretched place and suck in its broken remains, perhaps you will be. You will bring this about in short order.

———

Charlotte Fawkins? Who's she? She's you. You think that you may have gotten a bit in over your head. That is the phrasing you are using for now. You think that your mind and body may have been hijacked to make a proto-God. A brain-WYRM. You have a terrible feeling you may have walked into a trap, either set intentionally, or simply fated for you. You, Herald. You, Wyrm-daughter. A heroine of somebody's[/] story. Not your story, Ellery said. Not yours.

>[-3 ID: 0/14]
>[EXPENDED: A Model of Your Manse]
>[ID: 1/14]

By all rights you ought to be nobody, nothing, vapor. This is surely what was intended. You would ordinarily invent about your heroic constitution seeing you through, but you don't have the capacity; you're barely anything right now. You wouldn't know what precisely. (It's not your subject.) What you do know is that you are somewhere very much like, but not at all, your manse. Marble and light, a smell of roses, all balled up close. When you felt for your manse in your mind, it felt physical. Like you had buckshot lodged in your brain. It doesn't feel like you're in your manse. It feels like you're in the buckshot.

You have an abstract sense that Richard is responsible for this, as he was for the "bomb shelter". It's very like him to have redundancies in place. Possibly you'll thank him later— it's easier to thank him when he's nice. You are also preferring to think there'll be a later. You are alive: yes. You are in a good situation: no. You are helpless to whatever's being done to you.

But you are alive. That is the first step. You are alive and the YOU out there is not yet free. That is the second step. You aren't certain what the hold-up is, but you can guess. The red stuff squirms in here, not out there. Power, but no divine mandate. It won't necessarily last. But it's good. Positive thinking.

You suppose it's also good that the YOU appears to want to blow up Headspace. So if all else fails, at least you'll have done that. So nobody can laugh at you.

Anyways. Above all else, hope is not lost. Above all else, there still is a Charlotte Fawkins. And you believe— you must believe, you have no choice but to believe— that this is enough. A name and a person versus the whole entire world. It must be enough.

(Choices next.)

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:iYexJdQa Thu 22 Aug 2024 11:38:52 No.6086132 View View Report

Quoted By:

You are suspended in warm silty water, a situation most beetles would not enjoy being in, but you can breathe and you're more than used to getting wet. You can't see anything except a general sense of light and darkness. You can taste salt through weird pores. Any situation gets more surreal when you have 360º vision and 400 bodies and you're made of air and rocks, but this one is up there, and you're trying to lean into it: to relax, let the current circulate you, forget. You don't need to know where you are and what you're doing here. You don't need to know why your gut's in knots. You don't need to know your own goddamn name, if you don't want to. It wouldn't be like dying. It'd be like you were never born in the first place. If only.

But look, you're working yourself up. It won't do anything if you work yourself up. Have some discipline. Pretend you're taking a deep breath. ...There. Relax in three, two, one.

...
...
...

Still here? Still here. Disappointed? You too, mostly in yourself. You knew it could never work: Richard told you as much weeks ago. It's your curse, he said. You're always aware. You're insomniac while they dream. You're working the stage while they're in the play. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, Beetles. Enjoy yourself.

The water is warm, but the truth is buried ice-sharp in you, little glinting splinters. You're not really here, and this isn't really a place: this is your mind. That's generous. It's more like spinal fluid: it's hard to get more primordial than this. Where do you go when you sleep without dreams? Here. Where do you go when your bastard excuse for a snake-ghost-dad-thing kicks you out of your body? Here, reputedly. Where do you go when you fucked up so bad, when you ruined everything, shot the whole plan to bits, put Lottie in jeopardy, put Anthea in jeopardy too, now that you think about, and should generally and deservedly be the subject of scorn and raw hatred?

You're beetles because if you weren't you might actually try to shoot yourself. It probably wouldn't work, though. Violence is prohibited against Headspace employees.

Fuck.

Fuck! You have to get out of this goddamn place! If you sit still any longer you'll scream and you mean it. You'll lose your goddamn mind. You came close once and you know the signs. You'll start hallucinating next. You have to get out of here so you can fix your mistakes— ha, good luck— so you can even begin to compensate for the damage you've done, so Lottie won't throw you out on your goddamn ass, like you would absolutely deserve. Holy shit. Motherfucker. You have to— you've reached whole new levels of screw-up. You have to get out. There's light, right? Go towards the light. Beetles can swim until you deem it otherwise. Go, go, go, and ignore the dizzy tilting—

(2/4?)

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

View Same Google ImgOps iqdb SauceNAO warmth.jpg, 38KiB, 513x700

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:3ICU1KoN Tue 08 Nov 2022 12:39:58 No.5456057 View View Report

Quoted By:

You've seen a lot of shit. You haven't seen this. But you're not easily rattled, on the whole, and you're trying to get on Pat's good side here, and these things prevent you from reacting stronger than you do. "Shit," you say. "How'd that happen?"

"Self-experimentation's a risky business. Stuff just didn't take properly up here." She pats her cheek. "It's no big deal, really, it just tends to distract people. Nosiness sated?"

"...Yeah."

"Alright. Hey, the tea's getting cold."

It really isn't, but she's right that you haven't been drinking it. You don't know if you'll like it, is the problem, which now that you're saying it sounds real fucking wimpy. But it's been a long time. And you're not the same person. And you are probably investing goddamn leaf water with way more ominous portent than it deserves, aren't you? What's the matter with you? You drink the tea.

Or you "drink" the tea. You try your damndest to, really, but none of it is going down your throat— do you have a throat? If you didn't have one, it'd make a lot of sense, because you're just absorbing the tea. That's what's happening. There is tea in your mouth, and there is tea in your cheeks and your lips and your sinuses, and in your neck and your skull, and it is spreading down to your collarbone, and you're sure that if you drank a sufficient quantity of tea you'd be made of it flat-out. Which you wouldn't mind, because wherever the tea goes it carries with it a heady, syrupy warmth. Your eyes are wide. Your cheeks are flushed. You are trying to determine if you are, in fact, tasting with your entire body.

>[GRIT: High]

"Yeah?" Pat, having reattached the mask, sets down her own mug. "Wouldn't recommend it with iced drinks, necessarily, but..."

"Mm," you say. It's hard to concentrate. "Yeah, I— yeah. Huh. Shit. Um... do you eat everything like this? Because that— I dunno how you'd—"

"I don't eat much," Pat says. "But more-or-less, yes. You can do solids, but they tend to sit there for a—"

"Okay, okay." You'll be back in real life soon. It's fine. "Is that why Lester Food's a powder? So it can be mixed with water, or whatever?"

"Lester Food?" Pat sits back on the sofa. "Where the hell did you—"

"Lester Six showed me, for... some reason. I guess there was none left in the—"

"There was some left. I could've sworn—" Pat squints down into the hallway. "I'll have a talking to with him. He's just supposed to watch you, not drag you into... but yes, it's meant to be mixed with water. Or whichever fluid."

"And... what's in it?"

Is it your imagination, or did she look shifty right there? She definitely glanced away, but you're also definitely biased against her. Hmm. "Organic materials," she says breezily. "Nutrients, vitamins... doesn't taste good, but it keeps them functional. Believe me, they don't need more than 'functional.'"

"Gotcha." So it's dog food for goo men. "So—"

(2/3?)

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