>[5] Write-in.

  How are you supposed to reason with a thing? You tried and you failed and nobody can expect any more than that, right? Nobody can give you shit if you cut your losses. Nobody can…

  The scene: Monty's office, tomorrow. You'll stumble in. "How's my favorite quartermaster?" Monty will say, because he always does. "I'm your only fucking quartermaster," you'll say, because you always do. "Charlotte killed a random woman." "And did you do anything?" he'll say, and look up over the top of his newspaper, and judge you, and that'll be enough to blacken your mood for the rest of the week.

  Nobody can give you shit, but that won't stop them. You rub your forehead. "Just because this isn't… this isn't ''real,'' or whatever, doesn't mean it doesn't matter— you're still doing it, aren't you? You still have to own up to your fucking— it doesn't matter how much blood— you're still killing her!"

  Richard sheathes the sword. "Oh," it says. "Alright then."

  "…Alright then?" You don't want to jump to conclusions. "Is that a 'I won't kill her'?"

  "Oh, yes." It circles around the swivel chair and claps its hands onto your shoulders. This shouldn't fundamentally work: in heels, Charlotte is four inches shorter than you. But this isn't Charlotte, you remind yourself, so it's reasonable to be unnerved by the clammy palms and iron grip. Nothing stronger than unnerved.

  It takes your chin in one hand, keeping the other pincered at the base of your neck. You flinch.

  >[-1 Grit: 7/15]

  "Madrigal— Maddie? Can I call you that?"

  "Fuck no."

  "Oh, don't be like that, Maddie." Richard tilts its head. "I'm just trying to check if you're feeling comfortable."

  This is such blatant gullshit you're somewhat at a loss. "Um, I'm fine?"

  "Oh, Maddie, don't lie to yourself. You're so tense. And you're laboring under all these awful preconceptions…"

  And there it is. Son of a bitch. You yank yourself from the grip on your chin, but you're unable to free your shoulders. "Could you not lead with all the shit, or did you get hoodoo cursed to do sinister grandstanding every time you have a point?"

  Richard seems more amused than you'd hope. "I have lemons, I make lemonade."

  "You have what?"

  "In any case, you lack grounding in metaphysics, so the first issue is… forgivable. I don't speak in riddles when I say this isn't real, Maddie, that's the technical term. It's a bit like squares and rectangles— everything that's real exists, not everything that exists is real. Yes?"

  You rub your neck. "If you're going to do a lecture, can I sit down?"

  "The chair is occupied. But to your point— the unreality of the situation has no bearing on moral decision-making. Is that what you said?"

  "If I say yes, will you get off my shoulders?"

  "Of course."

  You inhale. "Yes. Only I didn't say it like a pretentious fa—"

  Richard doesn't move. Neither does their grim, stenciled-on smile. "I was lying. You're right, it has no bearing: the presumption was that that matters."

  "Oh, sorry," you hiss. "I forgot."

  "Not a problem, Maddie, we won't mention it further." Richard rubs your shoulder chummily. "So it's settled, then? I'll murder the woman?"

  Who could blame you for this? "God, you're just an evil motherfucker, aren't you?"

  "I'm not evil."

  The smile has slipped. It takes you a moment to realize, and another to process: that somehow hit. "You're not an evil motherfucker?"

  "I am a motherfucker," Richard says seriously. (You conceal a snicker. Charlotte would keel over if she knew those words passed through her lips.) "I'm not evil, Maddie. This is for our long-term benefit, and I'm concerned you can't understand—"

  "The long-term benefit of maybe someone maybe not fucking— tattling on us? That fucking long-term benefit? That's pathetic. Or if it's not pathetic, it's a weak fucking excuse for sadism, pal."

  "I'd call that more of a short-term benefit." Richard draws their sword, releasing you in the process. "Long-term is, I break Charlie of the bad habit I already broke her of."

  You pace out of touching distance. "What?"

  "Picking up strays." The sunglasses glint in the fluorescent lights. "Not enough love in her childhood, so she projects, that sort of thing. Quite tragic. Etcetera."

  "That's… worse," you say. "That's— you're conditioning her by murdering people she likes."

  "Oh, no," Richard says patiently. "She's murdering people she likes. It's more effective."

  "That's, um, evil." You're out of other things to say. "That's like the dictionary definition of…"

  You trail off.

  Look: it wouldn't be wrong to leave. You like to consider yourself a generally good, generally nice person, but you're not a fucking saint, okay? That's why you got arrested, that's why you're down here. And anyways, you signed up to babysit Charlotte, not her demon overlord, and Monty knows it. The door's right there.

  "Someone has to look after her. She's only a girl, Maddie. You know she didn't have a father?"

  The sword, in Charlotte's manicured hands, hovers just above Guppy Villalovez's unknowing neck. The situation has suddenly shifted from 'fucked up' to 'fucked up, but in an interesting way.'

  >[+1 Grit: 8/15]

  You pause. "This is for Charlotte."

  "Of course. Isn't that what I said?"

  "…Not exactly, no. You're murdering for Charlotte's benefit. I suppose you'll say you possessed her for her benefit, too."

  "Yes."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Have you considered she might not appreciate… all this?" You gesture at the sword. "She's not a grateful person, Richard, and that's when people aren't being murdered. I daresay she won't like it, in fact. She'll probably fucking hate it? And you? Have you considered—"

  "She'll come around to it," Richard says, and flourishes the blade, and swings, and…

  Coughs. Black spit dribbles out the corner of their mouth. Their sword hand trembles, with the sword itself at a limp angle midair.

  "Will she? Will she come around to it? She might to your face, whatever that looks like, but I think she's gonna resent you."

  Another cough. The sword hand trembles. There's no sword in it. "She— tries. She can't."

  "Because of your winning personality, clearly."

  Richard wipes the spit away. "Something very much like that, yes."

  "That was sarcastic," you feel compelled to add.

  "Quite."

  Well, you can't win 'em all. Better to focus on the— goddamn, you hope it's a victory. It's certainly hard-fought enough. "Where'd the sword go?"

  "Spiritus quidem promptus; caro vero infirma," is your cryptic response. Richard is out the door before you can stop them.

  "What?" you call from the doorframe. "Is that spirit langu... oh, hell."

  >[-1 Grit: 7/15]

  You had looked down. Because the security room (as the sign above the door calls it) is not in a hallway, like you'd reasonably assumed. Rather, it's located on a catwalk forty feet above a bustling factory floor. The air smells of copper.

  "This is unfortunate," Richard says mildly. "I'd prefer to be touching the ground."

  "No, really?"

  "HEY! DIPSHITS!" You are not alone on the catwalk. A clean-cut douche leans precariously against the rail ten feet down. "IT'S NOT COCKTAIL HOUR! GET BACK TO WORK!"

  Oh! He's not talking to you. You breathe again.

  "YOU TWO! HEY!" Shit, nevermind: the douche is snapping in your direction. "PAY ATTENTION! DO YOU WANT TO DIE?"

  Is it a trick question? He doesn't appear armed. You glance at Richard, who offers no answers: it's as surprised, or moreso, than you are.

  "No!" you shout back, after a moment. (It's true.)

  "THEN WHERE'S YOUR FUCKING GEAR, HUH?"

  >[1] Uh… you lost it! Obviously. You're so clumsy. Whoops.

  >[2] You never had it! Obviously. You're not a factory worker, you're… Management. Come to inspect. Of course. Yes.

  >[3] You never had it! You're just, um, visitors. Didn't he hear you were coming?

  >[4] Look… this guy is on a catwalk 40 feet in the air. He is leaning over the edge. You could easily— easily!— bumrush him over the edge. It'd practically be self-defense. [Gain Grit.]

  >[5] ………Let Richard handle it. [Lose Grit.]

  >[6] Write-in.

  Who leans over a railing like that? He's just asking to trip to his gruesome death. Or, well, be pushed… which would be a quick, low-risk way to solve your problems. But then what? Everyone would look up. Unfortunately, this has to be subtle.

  Good thing years of under-the-table dealings have shaped you into an easy and dexterous liar. You just need a second to recover before you slap on your best I'm-your-boss face and turn back to the douche. "About time," you scoff. "We've been waiting for— how long, Frances?"

  You kick the toe of Richard's boot with your heel. "Twenty minutes," comes the prompt response.

  "Twenty minutes, and not hide nor hair of a guide. Not a good start to the inspection, sir."

  Amazing how fast all the color drains from the douche's face. "I- I wasn't expecting an inspection…"

  "Yes," you say, "that's why it's a surprise inspection." Clipboard. This is the perfect fucking time to pull out your clipboard, and it's shoved under your cot at home. You crimp your irritation into a tight business-y frown. "Surprise."

  "…Of course, of course." The man shakes his head. "Uh, my apologies, Ms. Frances, Ms.—"

  "And what's this about needing protection?" You narrow your eyes. "We were informed of no such thing. That's a black mark on your record, for sure. Frances, I need my clipboard."

  Richard, surprisingly obliging, hands you a clipboard. It's not your clipboard— your clipboard has an ergonomic claps, it's the best fucking thing you've ever seen— but it's good enough, you guess. You slide a crayon stub from your back pocket and make a big X on the blank paper, keeping one eye on the douche. He cringes. God, you feel so powerful.

  "Whoever let you in should've told you," the douche finally ventures. "And you should've— no offense, you should've known. You do know what Namway produces… right?"

  "Lester sent us," you say, "and he didn't say anything of the sort."

  The douche blinks. "Lester sent..."

  You make another X on the clipboard. "What did you say your name was?"

  "…" He fixes his shitty tie. "…My apologies for the rude welcome, ma'am, Ms. Frances. I'd be happy to show you around. Was there somewhere in particular you wished to inspect? The factory floor, the vats, the foundry, the—"

  "We'd like to see your screwdrivers," Richard says. "Left-handed. You do have an inventory of them...?"

  The douche stares, dumbfounded, and then bobs his head. "Er, yes, of course. I'll take you right there, if you'd like to follow—"

  Is he calling your bluff?

  >[1] Not at all— he's just scared to death. You'll follow him to the "screwdrivers," suffer through his apologies about how they went "missing," and decide what to do about it then. You'll get to feel smug about it.

  >[2] He must be, right? Apologize for "Frances"'s misbehavior and tell the douche another location you'd prefer to "inspect." [What?]

  >[3] Write-in.

  "Interesting," you say. Your crayon stub hovers menacingly above your clipboard. "Not so concerned about our safety, now, are you? Forgot all about that gear?"

  "Not at all, not at all." The douche puts his hands up placatingly. "It's in with the screwdrivers. Now, please, if you would…"

  You follow the douche down the catwalk (letting Richard walk ahead of you) and pepper him with questions you make up on the spot: recent accidents? Compliance with regulations? Quotas? Unions? You don't have union activity, do you? You mmhm your way through dry and complex answers, making random marks on your clipboard as you exit the catwalk and enter a smoky warren of stairs and balconies. ("We're above the Foundry," the douche explains unhelpfully.) You glean only two things: there are no regulations, and (shockingly) there are a shitload of accidents.

  "Doesn't matter much," the douche says cheerfully. "We just recycle them."

  You make an X on your clipboard.

  Just as you start thinking you're being taken in circles, you stop before a door. (Have you passed it before?) The douche scans a keycard and pushes it open. "Here we are," he says. "The left-handed screwdriver utility closet."

  You give him a look, and he dips his head in assent. "I'll go in first."

  Satisfied, you follow the douche into the utility closet. He wasn't lying: the left wall is lined with masks, gloves, and jumpsuits. "I'll take care of it," the douche says, closing the door behind you. "Screwdrivers are in the back, take a gander."

  You do, half-uncertain despite yourself. Richard lounges against the wall. There are no screwdrivers, left-handed or otherwise. "There's no—" you start to report, when the light flicks off.

  Just as quickly, it flicks back on, and you're not in the utility closet. You're not anywhere, as far as you can tell— it's a white void. You blink, startled and nauseated, and the clipboard falls from your hands. Your heart pounds.

  >[+1 Grit: 7/15]

  "Okay, dipshits," says the douche. He's standing five feet away, one hand on the cord of a disembodied lightbulb. "Jig's up."