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You have to re-re-re-re-remind yourself that this is all a dream before you can actually gun for it, though. Which is not a complaint or a take-back, just a necessary step. Because even with that reminder, the process (if it can be called that) is disgusting, with your skin sticking and thinning and ripping and spilling you over the uncold tile. You are blind. All you can do is will yourself forward and hope to god 'forward' is where you think it is, because you are going to be truly fucking pissed if you put in all this fucking effort just to reconstitute yourself three feet to the left.
You're greatly relieved when you heave yourself upward into a darker, damper space, and even more relieved when you flail around against the wall long enough to find a light switch. You're less than pleased to see the door blockage, though. It's nothing simple: no shelf in the way, no wad of gum in the lock, nothing. Why would it be? Why would it be anything except a motherfucking pulsating <span class="mu-i">flesh tendril</span> plastered against the doorframe?
>[Your GRIT is: High]
That's not the only flesh tendril, either. The shit is everywhere: creeping along the floor, coiling up the wire shelves, spilling out of— that must be the source, the floor drain. You haven't been noticed yet, if indeed flesh tendrils can notice. Zero reaction. They're all pointed toward a few shelves in the back, the ones stacked with gunnysacks. Stacked with Lester Food?
There's a lot of other shit on the shelves, too, but you're too rattled to take it all in. It's not a huge room, and it's not decorated at all. The only other notable thing you can spot, halfway hidden behind a big wad of flesh, is a square opening in the wall. With a shelf in it, or some shit, hung by a... cable. A dumbwaiter. To transport things between storage and whatever lies under storage— the basement, maybe. Or wherever these tendrils come from. Or both.
Excellent. Fan-fucking-tastic. A lead! And if you actually normal, actually sane, you'd be squishing yourself straight into there and figuring out where it went. But you're <span class="mu-i">neither</span> and your palms sweat even in comparatively spacious tight spaces and right now just the vague prospect of entering the dumbwaiter makes you want to hurl. Fuck!
>[1] Get the fuck over yourself and use the dumbwaiter. [----Grit]
>[2] Ignore the stupid fucking dumbwaiter and see what shit Pat has stashed in here. Steal it. (What kind of thing are you looking for? Write-in.) [+Item(s)]
>[3] Why did Lester Six want you to go in here? Did he know about the tendrils? Investigate in more detail and hope to hell you don't piss anything off.
>[4] Get the fuck out and go bang on Pat's door. Inform her that her storeroom is infested with horrific fleshy stuff. Either she'll appreciate it, and you'll get kudos, or she won't, and you'll at least look like an honest sort. [+Pat's Trust, Pat wakes up]
>[5] Write-in.
