Quoted By:
"More than <span class="mu-i">see.</span>" You scramble backwards ("What the fuck!") as the tentacle bulges and shifts, developing— fucking shit— <span class="mu-i">eyes</span> and a <span class="mu-i">mouth,</span> all lopsided. "We're prepared for anything together, honeybunches," says the fucking tentacle, which is fucking looking at you— you fucking take back the "pretty coherent by dream standards," you take it all back, this is— "not picky" your fucking ass, surely you can do better than this? Than a toothy ass-squeezing man-tentacle? But you have made and laid all over your bed at this point, so you grit your teeth and say "Sure are" and set off along the catwalk.
It's not precisely what makes you squirm, but a narrow, swaying band of metal hung over the infinite fucking void is doing you no favors. Would it actually kill Pat to spruce up the fucking place? Are you <span class="mu-i">actually</span> going to pick a random fucking ladder? Fuck that. You stop in place, grip the sides of the catwalk, and try to focus. Is there anything different?
Yeah. There is.
>[Your GRIT is: Slightly Low]
>[1] Descend the ladder that leads to the loud gurgling, like something liquid.
>[2] Descend the ladder that leads to the rattling noise, like something mechanical.
>[3] Descend the ladder that leads to the horrible fucking stench, like you don't even know what— like something fucking dying, you guess.
>[4] Ask— (urrrrgh)— ask Lester One to just tell you where the closest ladder to the fucking door is. It's going to lord this over your head, but it beats getting lost and ambushed by Pat. [-Grit]
