Quoted By:
>Gambling: just say no!
>2, 56, 92 vs. DC 60 — Mitigated Success
>No spendy
Indeed, there is a large brown bin shoved against the wall, brimming with... objects. "RANDOM SHIT," declares its handwritten sign, and there's two additional stickers slapped on under that: "BUY AT OWN RISK" and "DAMNED IF I KNOW." The stickers look fresh. Perfect.
Your first, second, and third instincts are to plunge your hands in there and trust your innate bomb-detecting skills to come up with something useful. Richard isn't even here to tell you not to do that. (Because it's inefficient, or maybe because he doesn't want you to cut your fingers on a sharp thingamabob.) Except that makes it all worse— if he did tell you not to, you'd be automatically driven to spite him. Instead, it's just you, and a bin, and a dead-eyed snake. The snake is flicking its tongue right at you.
Heaving a great sigh, you flop to the ground, stow the mantis in the inside pocket of your cape(let), and begin to pick through the bin ""methodically"". Laying your findings in rows on the ground, you sort them uselessly by color to spite the snake anyways. The snake does not comment.
After a little while, you crane your neck over your rows. God, what even is this stuff? Roscoe wasn't kidding with his labels: much of it appears to be straight-up garbage or salvage. That's a rusted belt buckle, and that's a fork snapped in two, and that looks like a tangle of fishing line. There's some animal bits: a perfect folded square of alligator hide, a long pointy thing that resembles a bear stinger. There's the truly indiscernible: a dried hunk of something rainbow and shiny, a corkscrew-shaped ivory doohickey. There are no bombs.
No bombs that you've laid out yet, anyways. You consider your color-coded rows, and you consider the snake, and you consider the bin, which is half-empty. Oh, to hell with it— you're a lady of action, not of sitting on the ground and boringly sorting. If you wanted somebody to boringly sort things for you, you would've brought Gil. (He'd probably even like it.) If you shove your hand in there, you're bound to find something, and if it isn't the absolute best bomb ever... pssh! It doesn't even matter! You will find something. You will. Er, and you're even going to put your new gloves on, so nothing can poke you. Ahem. Here goes...
You feel around blindly before closing around a big cylinder. It's a... wait for it... oh. Darn. It's a can, with a label on it and everything. "Finest Plums." If you threw a lot of plums into the middle of Headspace, would that jam up the works sufficiently? No? Probably not. Well, you must've picked this up for a reason. Positive thinking. You turn it around, then upside-down, and perceive a rattling from inside the can, and the flopping-down of a... stick? It looks a bit like a peculiar string of licorice, or a cigarette with no paper on it. It smells a bit like a cigarette, too. Smoky. Are they smoked plums? Or...
(1/3)
