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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:GLO3Tgnc Thu 21 Nov 2024 11:30:36 No.6145132 View View Report

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>Continued

That doesn't make you feel better. The truth is that you're out of ideas. You guess that your memory is all messed up, and Ellery's isn't, and maybe that's important. Heroes are often amnesiac. Except Fake Ellery's memory is messed up even worse, given the whole dying-and-forgetting loop. You also guess that maybe you're special because Management picked you out to screw with and not Ellery, except they did pick him out to screw with. And they probably picked out loads of other people too. Dozens.

So there's nothing. The critical, pivotal difference between a famous heroine and an annoying nobody— it doesn't exist. Ellery may as well be you. In another time, another place, down a different winding pathway, maybe he would've been, and maybe you'd be half-real and half-Richard and going half-insane in your own red-lit manse, trapped there to save Gil or somebody. But you aren't. Because of chance? Because you got the helpful snake and Ellery got the psycho one? Because of fate? Even though you and him are equivalent, you were marked out differently from the start? Because of divine intervention?

Or just because. There is no reason. The reason is the reason. You are special because you are. You are special because you must be; somebody must be, and that somebody is you. Somebody must be the heroine. There's no such thing as a story without a heroine. Why not you? When you wanted it badly enough? Did Ellery ever want it? All his adventuring's to clean up his own mess. You're not even saying that's wrong: it's better that than do nothing at all. But if his life were going well, would he be here? Or would he be off doing... you don't know what Ellery does when he's normal. Literally anything else? Has he ever been normal? (Not really, he says casually.)

A heroine goes out and does things. She acts. Other people react. For other people, the world changes. A heroine changes the world. That's the entire point, you think, the whole entire point. Other people change; other people are malleable. The heroine has nothing about her to change. She is infinitely dashing and daring and witty and wise. She is fixed, idealized, constant, perfect. All setbacks are temporary. All obstacles are surmounted. The world is always saved— is always saved— and the heroine cannot die— cannot die, unless she wills it. And if she wills it, she'll live forever after in songs and stories and attractive statues in public parks, so even then she's unassailed.

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:bFAtGa2j Thu 29 Dec 2022 11:44:38 No.5511757 View View Report

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>Bite me!
>Outside Gil: 44, 73, 44 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success
>Arledge: 90, 49, 48 vs. DC 75 (-5 Distracted) -- Mitigated Success
>???: 73, 100, 62 vs. DC 70 -- CRITICAL SUCCESS
>Annie: 118, 127, 123 vs. DC 80 -- Nat 100'd

You watch her for what feels like an eternity. To— to make sure she's okay. You guess she looks okay, or— or more than okay, really. Inside the pustule, her skin is paper white; her lips are rosy; her clothing is immaculate. Her gleaming curls float softly around her. She could be a statue, or something. In marble. In ivory.

And that's messed up, isn't it? Statues don't set things on fire or romance giant worms or take you shopping or sledgehammer walls or use dumb made-up words like "heretofore" or "shalt." Statues can't be infuriating or baffling or odds-defying or awe-inspiring (at least not any you've seen). Statues don't have retainers. Or friends.

Also, notably, statues aren't alive. You land on the surface of the pustule and bite into it. The chamber rumbles. You ignore that and bite again. Below you, the fronds thrash. You ignore that. Lottie's here. You bite again. And so on until the air is sludgy and dark, the chamber is twisting, and you've gnawed a ragged pinprick in the side of the pustule.

A thin stream of red liquid flows from it, and you take off to examine your handiwork proudly. Soon enough the whole pustule will be drained, Lottie will wake up, and this nightmare can come to an end. Er, hopefully pretty soon. The pustule is distending a little bit. Maybe you should bite another couple holes? Like a colander? Maybe you should get out of the way. Yeah. You dart sidew—

The pustule bursts, releasing a thundering cascade of red liquid: you narrowly dodge the center of it, but you're still spent spinning. You nearly bang against the wall, narrowly avoiding a net of grasping— hold on, the wall? The chamber must've shrunk drastically while you were biting, which doesn't make you feel— goddammit! Lottie! Shit! You're with Lottie, Lottie's safe, you've found Lottie, you're with— and you're with her, under the churning red water. Her eyes are darting wildly, but her body's limp: she's letting herself sink, or doesn't have the strength to do otherwise. You're in front of her— you're in front of her face. Her gaze fixates on you. Her brow furrows. You can feel her recognition spasm through you, slow at first, then—

That was the other thing Richard told you, after you told him to shove various objects up his ass enough times. That you made a mistake, rooming in Charlotte's head. That she'd take you and she'd mold you into whatever she wanted. Her pet. Her slave. That you were powerless to resist, being hollow inside. That it'd probably already started.

(1/3)

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