Quoted By:
"Because I'm inclined to think it would be 'none.' Or 'negative,' possibly, what with the constant damsel in distress—" He twirls his hand. "How much effort have you expended on this 'person,' again?"
"Don't say person like that," you mumble. "And a lot, but he's my retainer, so—"
"And what has he done for you in return? Melt. Provide leverage for a kidnapping. Further provoke the proprietor of your tent. Abandon you. Am I missing anything?"
"He's not— it's not about—" You're having difficulty reconciling your current grudge with the feeling Richard's provoking in you. "Shut up, okay? He's not even— he's Madrigal, so he's not even thinking straight, and I'm sure he'll be properly sorry when this is done. He's sorry about a lot of things, you know."
"Is he?" Richard adjusts his tie.
"Is he— yes!" You've never heard another living person apologize so much. "So let's just go, okay? God."
So you go. It's easy enough to turn around and march through the craggy gap in the cave wall, even if you have to hop over a few stray rocks to do it. The tunnel it leads into is unlit, but that poses no trouble to your keen night-vision: thank God, because if Richard had to trap-hunt for you again you might just die of humiliation. Instead, he just pads along a little behind you as you explore this— this <span class="mu-i">remarkably</span> familiar tunnel. "Um, we haven't been here before, right?"
"Headspace?"
"I guess, or..." You trail your hand against the cave wall.
"Not that I'm aware of." (There's a lot riding on that 'aware of', you think.) "The pattern of the rocks repeats every ten feet or so, though. Perhaps you're noticing that. How's your tooth?"
"My tooth?" You run your finger down the fang. "Pointy?"
"The other one."
The <span class="mu-i">other</span> one? All your teeth are at least a little sharp, but you only have one of any notable length— your left canine tooth, or former left canine tooth. Your right canine tooth is normal. Your right canine tooth is wobbly. You're tonguing it now, and it's wobbling, and quite despite yourself you do feel a twinge of nausea.
"Should be out by tomorrow," says Richard, "or tonight, or I don't know what I'm doing."
There's an obvious retort just sitting there, but do you <span class="mu-i">want</span> Richard to not know what he's doing when he's busy changing out your teeth on you? It's not as though he'd stop if he were awful at it— he'd just do it worse. It'd grow up through your gums into your nose. You don't want to invoke that.
So you don't, and round a bend, and squint painfully against a dazzling glare from the corridor— for the tunnel is suddenly lit and tiled, and there's a brightly colored sort of cabinet parked against the wall, and a few shiny flyers are cellu-taped around it. Directly across from the cabinet(?) is a opening in the wall, and above the opening is a small black thing.
Richard draws up beside you. "...A vending machine."
"What?" you say.
(2/3)
