>[1] What do you want to investigate? (Consider your time limit.)

  ?I can't say I ever approved of this whole practice.? Richard may be disembodied, but it's easy to picture his blank disdainful eyes on the snakeskin on the table. ?Seems like a considerable waste.?

  Like a waste, huh? Maybe for the snake, but it's a considerable win for you: it's hard proof the thing's here, exactly where Madrigal claimed it wouldn't be. How about that.

  ?There must be some kind of point to it, but for the life of me I can't think what.?

  "Hey, Madrigal," you call, and lean over the snakeskin as she paces over. It's strange how it's laid out, almost deliberate— it's splayed out and split open down the center. Did someone place it here? Examine it? Dissect it? And what is the gak on the table? Feels like some long-lost punch stain… something sugary gone to dry. You should've brought gloves.

  "What?" Madrigal says, then "oh." She jams her hands in her pockets. "I see."

  ?Be civil.?

  You fold your own hands behind your back. "Golly, Madrigal, what is it you see? Could it be a… I don't know, maybe a…"

  "Shut up."

  "Gee, look at that! Could it be a snakeskin? Oh, no, surely not. There's no snake in here. Couldn't possibly be a snake in here. Madrigal said so, and she knows everything…"

  >[+1 ID: 5/10]

  ?That's not civil, Charlie.?

  "Okay," Madrigal says, "okay. That is a snake…skin. Is it real?"

  You scoff. "Is it real?"

  ?Scoffing does nothing for you. You just look constipated.?

  "Yeah. I mean, none of this is real. That's what you said, Charlotte. So maybe you just made the snakeskin up."

  She's grasping for straws. You scoff again. "You can see it, can't you?"

  "I can see all sorts of shit, Charlotte, that's not the point. The point is— you come in here wanting a snake, right. So you open a door, and lo and behold… there's a snake. Or as close as you can get. That's how things work, don't they?"

  It's only barely a question— Madrigal's nerves, it appears, are well and truly frayed. "No it's not," you say.

  ?It's farfetched but not actually impossible.?

  ?The issue is you can't tell. An actual skin and a manufactured skin would be structurally identical. Much like jewelry, it's just about the sentimentality.?

  "Maybe," she says. "Maybe it's not. Maybe the snake's hiding in that fucking cabinet over there and we can all go home." She hesitates. "We don't have a way home. Fuck!"

  You dismiss her quibble with a flick of your hand. "Ah, one'll turn up. Just keep watch for any elevators, exorbitantly long flights of stairs…"

  "Elevators?" It's Madrigal's turn to scoff. (She manages to not look constipated.) "Can't walk up a few stories? There's no way we're that deep."

  ?Don't play our hand.?

  But you have to. You have to see the look on her face. "Hundreds of feet. Maybe a thousand."

  ?Good job.?

  "You're a funny one." There's no look on Madrigal's face whatsoever. "I'm going to get the snake out of the cabinet. I need the lockpick back."

  You hand her the lockpick, more than a little put out. Fine, then. If she's going to be like that, you'll be… like this. And go look at other things. So there.

  The ID card on the back wall, for instance, seems to be the centerpiece of a joke you're firmly not understanding. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY"? Happy birthday why? You fight past the intensifying stench to find out. While you have no intention of looking in the creepy crevice, it's no issue to pluck the card off the paper: it's only cellu-taped on, like the rest.

  "Bailey-By-The-Bay Sanitation Department

  HAROLD P. STENNIKER - Sanitary Vice Sub-President

  H BRN E GRN DOB 08/34/1722"

  There's a little unsmiling picture of Harold next to all the writing, but you could not care less— not with the date. That's BTF notation. That's Before the Flood. Happy 235rd birthday indeed, Harold. Did he die when the water rose? Afterwards, trapped in the very sewer he vice-sub-presided over? Did a gator tear his throat out, or did he do it himself?

  It doesn't matter, really. You're stealing this.

  >[OBTAINED: ANCIENT ID CARD]

  Eugh: the floor over here has the same nasty day-after-party feeling as the table. Is it the leaky pipe's fault? There's a clear, snotty residue on it, which you swipe your forefinger through and stick in your mouth. (What? It's time-honored.) It's salty. Faint screams ring in your ears. You take your finger out of your mouth. They stop.

  Huh.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  "Madrigal," you say. She grunts. "What's in all these pipes, you think?"

  "Squid ink. The tears of a million children. Fuck if I know. Oh, we're in business!"

  The cabinet door pops open. There's no snake, firstly. (You're the teeniest bit disappointed.) It's just… well, it's clothing. Sanitary clothing. Thick rubber gloves, hoods, full face masks, galoshes. There's two notices on the interior door:

  

  "GOOPLICATE SAFETY PROTOCOL !! REMEMBER IT !!

  - Keep mouth / nostrils / ears covered at all times !

  - Know the infection signs! Clear sticky liquid - clammy skin - close contact - odd mannerisms

  - KNOW THE SAFE WORD - IT CHANGES WEEKLY - CHECK THE POSTING"

  

  "Get off my fucking back about the snake guys it's management's order not mine

  That being said I don't care whether it's 'bad juju' or whatever stupid backwater superstition, you are going to deal with it

  This is a business

  If I catch anybody fucking with it I am gonna fuck with them personally. It's the only specimen in the entire Corcass you assholes

  Thanks

  Lester F."

  "Madrigal? Have you ever heard of a…"

  "Fuck off," she says, and you're about to get very offended before you see she's looking behind you. You turn. You can appreciate her sentiment.

  There is a five-foot snake on the table where the snakeskin used to be. It looks at the both of you with blank disdain.

  ?Hm.?

  >[1] Stab it! Stab it! [Roll.]

  >[2] Nobble it! With… can you do any better than your bare hands? [How? Roll unless the plan is exceptional.]

  >[3] Oh God, uh, say something! [What?]

  >[4] This is— this is definitely Richard's territory. Just do what he tells you to do. Good plan.

  >[5] Write-in.

  You begin to hum and, as an afterthought, wave your hands in circles. (You're sure you've read to do this somewhere. Or someone told you?) Madrigal watches in disbelief. Even you're startled when the snake's head begins to bob in rhythm to your humming, which is singularly loud and tuneless.

  ?This is disrespectful. Cease immediately.?

  Cease? You intensify your gesturing. It's working, isn't it, so what's the big deal?

  ?You are making a mockery of yourself, Charlotte. That's the big deal.?

  ?And to prey upon the baser instincts of a sibling is cruel.?

  The snake droops onto the table. Madrigal is contemplating her purpose in life, from the looks of her. You? You're just self-satisfied. Really, "cruel?" You're not flaying the thing; all you're doing is waving your hands in circ— is he embarrassed?

  ?I am a professional, Charlotte; I do not get 'embarrassed.'?

  Uh huh. Well, he can't stop you, unless he has any better— no! Scratch that. That's a dangerous line of thinking.

  ?Of course I have better ideas.? See? Of course he has better ideas. ?Talk to it.?

  "Do you talk?" you ask the snake on the table. It doesn't respond. "I don't think it talks."

  "Wow," Madrigal says. She's leaning back against the wall, playing with her zipper. "Take a fucking guess."

  ?It doesn't— it's likely it lacks some capacity for higher-order reasoning. It is rather small. There's only so much one can do with a brain the size of an egg.?

  ?It will, however, listen to a direct superior. It knows that much.?

  You lick your lips. "Er… stay still."

  "I am," says Madrigal. The snake says nothing, but continues to bob its head in a regular fashion. You fold your arms.

  ?You are not its direct superior.?

  ?Well. You might be, but there's no evidence for it. Stop fretting, Charlie, or it'll spread, and you won't like that at all. Just repeat. Shh. Look it in the eyes and repeat after me. 'My name is Harrier-Leftenant Charlotte F. Fawkins.'?

  "My name is…" You hesitate. "…I don't know what that—"

  ?Harrier-Leftenant. Say it.?

  "Harrier-Leftenant Charlotte F. Fawkins," you repeat numbly.

  ?'I am the sole heir of the Fawkins name, the foremost walker of the and the only possessor of the Second Crown.'?

  "I am the sole heir…"

  ?'I am the Herald of the Bright Epoch and the bringer of the new dawn.'?

  Moving on to making stuff up, now? You suppose the thing won't know the difference. "I’m the Herald of the something-or-other… I won an award for my sculpture, once," you add unexpectedly. You feel something has to counterbalance the throat thing. "Third place. But the first two cheated, I think, they were awful—"

  ?'And most importantly, I—' bend down here, Charlie, keep eye contact— 'I am only in every measurable way, and you can taste it, can't you, elder cousin, it's in the water— you can taste it, and you know what your place in the heap is, and though you have no concept of fear it scares you— and you will cede. You will cede, because it is writ in the single line of your being, and you will do as I, Herald, say without question. And you will it.'?

  This is not you it's describing, you think, not you at all; you can't say this out loud— but it's too late, because you've said it out loud. You said it out loud as it was being narrated. You couldn't stop yourself.

  >[-1 ID: 4/10]

  Madrigal, gnawing on her thumbnail, has transitioned to a more complex existential question: what am I doing here?

  But you don't care about Madrigal. Richard cares— you care about the snake. And the snake is unmoved. It pays no especial attention to you. Its eyes are blank and disdainful.

  ?That is not a snake.?

  This seems to you like a stretch. You think Richard's just pissy about that whole spiel falling flat.

  ?No. This is not a thing of subjectives, Charlotte. Subjectives don't exist. This is a yes/no question.?

  ?The answer is no. It is not a snake. It is something that looks like a snake.?

  You realize several minutes too late that the tabletop is now completely dry. There is no residue.

  "Madrigal," you say. "Madrigal, we missed some— GNNRGF."

  Having spent the entirety of your speech sizing you up, the goo in the snakeskin coils and launches itself against your face. The thing is barely set, you note distantly; it has the consistency of wobbly gelatin. Five feet of wobbly gelatin. You stumble backwards at the sheer weight of it and sputter: parts of it are liquefying, seeping through gaps in the snakeskin, and attempting to find room in your mouth and nostrils. It tastes salty. Distant screams.

  "Sonuvabitch!" goes Madrigal, and only just leaps out of the way before you crash into the wall. She grabs clumsily for her spear. "Sonova— I fucking hate caves!"

  >[1] AUGHGRGLGARGAHH— [Roll.]

  >[2] AUGHGRGLGARGAHH— wait a sec. [Spend 3 ID. Autosucceed.]

  >[3] Good thing, you note distantly, you have a BRILLIANT CONTINGENCY PLAN to help you out… [Write-in. You may still have to roll, depending, but modifiers will be added.]