Quoted By:
>[ROUTELOCKED]
You've met the real Lester (or at least a way better copy of him), and he was an unlikable douche. This Lester is not only an unlikable douche but a disgusting monster thing. You have approximately zero desire to talk to or look at it ever again, much less shack up with it. In either sense.
But you've dealt with your fair share of unlikable douches, and you don't put your personal qualms over practical matters if you care about keeping your job. Fact is, you're not exactly rolling in allies. And the thing <span class="mu-i">seems</span> to sincerely like you, or at least your tits and ass. (Whatever works.) You believe it when it says it wants to escape together. How is it going to help you do that? You don't know— it looks pretty damn tank-bound. But surely it knows some stuff. Maybe it has fucking hidden depths. Who cares? Maybe you can use it as a meat-shield when Pat turns up brandishing a gun at you.
That works. "I gotcha, pal," you say, spit on your palm, and stick your hand out. The Lester-tentacle scoots closer, so you grab its wobbly arm and pump vigorously. "Deal's a deal. We'll get out of this dump, both of us."
Well, you will: whether <span class="mu-i">it</span> escapes or not is none of your business. Maybe it'll be convenient, maybe it won't be. It's not like it can tell your smile's glib. "So, partner... what do you know?"
---
>[SOMEWHERE ELSE]
You are Charlotte Fawkins. After tracking down the remaining members of your rescue party, you, Gil, Arledge, and Lucky have finally made it through the gate to the sacred Temple Falls... only to discover a corpse polluting the water.
Gil has begged off and retreated, claiming that his glasses were misting over. Arledge has tied a scarf around his nose and mouth. Lucky, taking no such precautions, has scrambled up the slick rocks and is bent over the corpse. "Woman," he reports. "Mid-late twenties. Wrists slashed, throat slashed, eyes cut out... wounds look recent. I estimate within the last half hour. We may presume this is the murder weapon."
He wraps a tissue around his hand and slides the knife from the corpse's back. "Nice weapon. Looks specially made. Skin around the entry point is puckered and discolored, blade has tarry residue— I'd guess poison. I'd further guess that accounts for the excessive bleeding."
"Or he could've asked me about it." Arledge's hands are clasped tightly behind his back. "Of course it's poison. It's a premonition."
You're hunched over and staring into the red water. "Of?" ("JUDGMENT COMES," the message on the wall screams.) "Oh. ...Of judgment?"
"Of the end of the world, yes. I suppose you know how the Flood happened."
Obviously. "The dumb gods up and died and royally <span class="mu-i">screwed—</span>"
"That's propaganda. They were betrayed and murdered by mankind. Can you guess how?"
You narrow your eyes.
"They were stabbed with poisoned blades and hemorrhaged." Arledge runs a thumb along the wall. "Gods have a lot of blood. Eight of them together have more than you can fathom."
