You are Charlotte Fawkins, dashing heroine, detective, adventuress, heiress, sorceress, heraldess, etcetera. Three years ago, you drowned yourself in a quest to find a long-lost family heirloom; nowadays, you're still working on that heirloom thing, though you, trusty retainer Gil, and snake(?)/father(?) Richard have had plenty of other adventures. Inexplicably, you are plagued with strange omens and vile nemeses, even though m̶o̶s̶t̶ ̶p̶e̶o̶p̶l̶e̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶o̶k̶a̶y̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ y̶o̶u̶ ̶n̶o̶w you're beloved by everybody you know: after all, you've never done anything wrong in your life.

Right now, you've successfully imploded the villainous corporation Headspace (and its Management), and have returned to a larger audience than you expected.

Also, a louder one. There's a lot of people in a small area and they're all looking at you and clapping and cheering for you, because you did it. You did what you said you would. You saved people, and Headspace is no more, and... you think you need to sit down. There's still a possibility you're dead.

You glance down at Gil, slumped, knees out, hand loosely clutching your boot. He looks exhausted. Which is your fault, you think. You did that to him, because you didn't plan enough, and you went all stupid and Managery, and you didn't even blow it up properly, just imploded it, which is way worse and less—

Gil, seeing your glance, has reached up and slid his fingers into your forgotten open hand. He is tugging slightly. It takes you another moment to realize what he means, and then another to stiffen and help pull him to his feet. The instant he's up, he yanks your arm above your head, and the cheering swells feverishly. You spot Eloise, two fingers in her mouth, wolf-whistling.

Oh God. You might not be dead. This might be real. You might really be a...

Gil drops your arm, and Madrigal comes out of the front of the crowd, waving hers. "Okay! Okay! Cool it! Give her some fucking space! Does she <span class="mu-i">look</span> like she has anything to say right now?!"

She looks at you. You can't think of how to respond. Gil has dropped your arm, but not your hand, and he speaks for you. "...Maybe later."

"Maybe later! So if you don't have anything you need to tell Miss Big-Dick right this fucking second, you can all go off and get into— Monty! Corral them!"

"Okay, folks, if we could back up..." Monty launches into his natural-born role of traffic cop while Madrigal turns back to you, hands on hips. Is she angry at you? She doesn't look angry, but... "So."

You process. "So?"

"So you did it, you fucking nutcase! You <span class="mu-i">did</span> it! Not that— I mean— I know you said you would, but there's a big difference between that and, I mean—" She rakes her fingers through her hair. "I mean, that's a <span class="mu-i">power move.</span> That's a big-dick fucking power move. That and Bug Man's—"

"I didn't do that much," Gil demurs. "All Lottie."

(1/3)