You are Charlotte Fawkins, dashing heroine, detective, adventuress, heiress, sorceress, etcetera. Three years ago, you drowned yourself in a quest to find a long-lost family heirloom; nowadays, you're just nobly c̶a̶u̶s̶i̶n̶g solving problems with the help of your trusty retainer/swarm of beetles Gil. Inexplicably, many people "dislike" you, though you've never done anything wrong in your life.

Right now, you and your adventuring party (Gil, Lucky, some guy named Arledge) are attempting to rescue your kidnapped frenemy Madrigal, but appear to have wound up at a pagan festival in the distant past. You and Gil have obtained lemonades.

-

"So when you drink that," you say, "do you taste it <span class="mu-i">everywhere?</span>"

The crowd is thick, the sun is high, and the air smells of grease and wet paint and salt. You can't imagine how Gil isn't hot under his big rainslicker, but he seems to be managing. Maybe beetles don't feel the heat so much. Or maybe it's the lemonade— he's drained nearly the whole cup. He's coughing most of it back up in response to your question. "W- what?"

"Um, I was just thinking... you're drinking it with your person mouth. But you're— you're— you're <span class="mu-i">not</span> drinking it with the rest of your mouths. So do you taste it less? Do they taste it too? I don't—"

He pushes up his tilted glasses with a knuckle, then peers bewildered into his coat. "The rest of my mouths?"

"Your beetle—"

"My beetle mouths." He blinks. "I-I-I don't... um... I don't know. I-I'm not usually both at the same time. Should I try and...?"

"Yeah, go for it." You stick one hand in your pocket and watch him sip lemonade in a state of deep concentration. "Is it <span class="mu-i">weird</span> to be both at once? I mean, both the beetles and—"

Gil swallows the lemonade. "No, i-i-it's— it's nice. Um, I wish it were always like this, sort of. I feel really..." His finger taps against his cup. "This whole place i-i-is really nice, actually. Everyone's so happy..."

You are passing down a row of chintzy pay-to-play games— the prizes, from your cursory glances, appear to be offerings. Or maybe replica souvenir offerings. This hasn't dissuaded winding lines from forming. "They're not even real," you say. "And— and if they were real, it'd just be their dumb dead gods tricking them into it. And their stupid lemonade's too sour, anyhow." You've been taking tiny little sips.

"...Are you sure you're okay?" You feel his gaze on you and stare resolutely straight ahead. "Um... I-I-I didn't think it was too sour. I think they just used real lemons. Or, well, 'real'—"

You scoff. "What the hell's a real lemon? I think they just used the cheap—"

"Like the— like the fruit? I-I-I think they had all the kinds of fruit back then—"

"'Lemon' isn't a fruit. It's a flavor. That's like saying..." You wave a hand. "'Pear''s a fruit, or something. Have you ever seen a pear?"

"Um, no, but—"

(1/4)