>Hide: 70, 10, 98 vs. DC 60 - Success.

  God, what'd happen if they saw you? You don't know, but you've read enough pulp novels to guess. Blood'd start coming out of your ears, or you'd wink out of existence, or something. Nothing good.

  So rather than stand there like a moron, you half-skid half-roll behind an armchair like a moron. The noise of your desperate tumble was mostly covered, you think, by the sound of the door creaking open.

  "We've talked about this," Ellery says. "You can't just drop in on me..."

  Boring. Boring. You've heard this once, and once is all the times you want to listen to Ellery. You busy yourself instead with picking at the floorboards. There's a loose one here, right under your legs. Blah blah blah. He's still talking. How long did this go on?

  "...Lottie. Uh, I like your snake. Cute bow."

  You freeze. Two of your fingernails may be wedged between a plank and the wall trim, but you still ought to be completely hidden.

  "Where'd you get it?" he continues blithely.

  He knows! He knows, which— well— there were the notes. But that's different! That's right now! This is then. So much for not winking out of existence. You're well and truly skunked, now. You've been overmatched. You might as well stand up right now to save a fraction of your pride...

  "I bought it in town," past-you says. "Had it shipped in special from the City. I doubt you could afford it, honestly."

  Oh. Most of that was a lie. A good lie— smooth, plausible.

  You don't tell good lies. You browbeat your way past inconvenient truths. You don't buy this for a second. Richard?

  "Probably true," Ellery says, after a short pause. "Can I get you a water?"

  Rainwater, you mouth. "Rainwater," past-you corrects. "Not filtered. If it's not terribly inconvenient."

  This plank is definitely loose. So loose you can pry it up barehanded, as it turns out. There's a square of yellow paper inside.

  "It's going to be water. It won't have dirt in it." You can hear Ellery clicking his fingers against the doorframe. "You don't have a lot of bargaining power, Lottie."

  "WHATS THE FUCKING DIFFRENCE? ITS JUST WATER," says the paper. It's covered with dust. "TELL ME IN THE OTHER ROOM."

  Past-you doesn't say anything, but you can feel the heat of her death glare from here.

  "Cool. Don't break anything." Ellery strides across the room, less fluidly than you remember. He opens the right door, ducks through it, and shuts it.

  There's no chunk-chunk-chunk of deadbolts. The doors are unlocked.

  >[1] Follow Ellery to the room on the left, begrudgingly. If you're not being led by the nose one way, you're being led in the other.

  >[2] He can (excuse you) go screw himself. Stay right here and keep an eye on past-you. Maybe strike up a conversation, since so far there's been no blood from your ears.

  >[3] Go into the lab instead. What was Ellery doing in there to begin with?

  >[4] Try the door to the stairs / to the outside. Richard isn't even here to explain the whole crown thing. What's the point of staying?

  >[5] Write-in.

  You consider the paper, briefly, before tearing it into neat squares and shoving the debris under the armchair. You stand, careful to keep your weight balanced.

  Past-you is occupied in examining the space where the mirror used to be. Past-Richard lounges in the opposing armchair— one arm splayed out over the top, one leg bent awkwardly over the other, like he's not quite sure of the point of all these limbs. He is staring into the middle distance, doing nothing in particular.

  You tread over to him on the balls of your feet. Which is difficult, given the heels on these boots, and it's not your fault if you creak a little. Or a lot. Oh, he's looking directly at you, isn't he.

  "Your collar's flipped up," he says. "Haven't you noticed?"

  "Haven't I…" It is. You smooth it down self-consciously.

  "Ought to tie up your hair, too. It's getting all frizzy again. We both know that's never a good look, Charlotte."

  "…We both know."

  "That's what I said, yes. Are you quite finished?"

  "Am I quite… no!" Why had you ever wanted him to talk? What's wrong with you? "There's no 'we'! You're not an authority on, on collars, or hair, or looking good— you're a snake, okay? All you're supposed to do is eat fish and frighten people!"

  He scratches his temple. "And how long were you waiting on that?"

  "I— it doesn't matter. I'm right. And I'm from the future, by the way, if you didn't notice—"

  "Aren't you special." He adjusts his… you'd assumed it was his usual tie. You hadn't looked. It's not: it's a scarlet bowtie.

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

  The snake—! But it's still there, behind you, decked to the nines in snake terms. It hovers nonchalantly. You're feeling just the opposite: did you do something wrong? Step on a butterfly? Fire the gun before it got hung on the wall?

  "I can't change it," he says, by way of non-explanation. "So thanks for that, really. You've got me looking foppish."

  "Good!" you say suddenly, and with a great deal more venom than you were expecting. "You're welcome! Can't wait for it to happen to you! You don't know how much I'll enjoy it!"

  "I believe you've clarified that."

  "Good!" You're being loud. You cast a cautious glance at past-you, who's paid no attention. "Or she'll enjoy it, at least. Can she hear this?"

  Richard smiles, close-lipped, and switches the position of his legs. "Oh, no. She's in the past. It's a different country, they say. Very poor reception."

  "Who's they?"

  "Why ask me? All I know is how to eat fish and scare people, Charlie."

  He might be offended! You couldn't be happier. The bowtie, too, is a masterpiece— it's garish in new and interesting ways, and it lacks any and all snake imagery. You walk off without the courtesy of a reply.

  There's a note tacked to the right door. "WRONG DOOR," it says. And then, smaller: "PLEASE?"

  You try the handle, just to make sure it's unlocked. It is. The door swings open without a whisper of resistance.

  There's another note stuck with putty to the top of the doorframe. "WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?"

  A third flutters down from the ceiling, where it was evidently lightly glued. "WHAT IF I WROTE THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT YOU SHOULD DO? WOULD THAT WORK? LOOK AROUND THIS ROOM."

  Good idea.

  It's the same, almost. Counters, counters, bookshelves (except for one smooth, familiar patch on the left wall), water tanks. The left side still hosts an armory of mysterious doctor-y things. The right still has junk.

  So what if the junk is now variously glowing and humming and bobbing gently in the air? It's still junk. There's that, and there's the watery red spackle on the white white tile. Blood or paint. It drifts off behind a tank.

  There's a note in your hand. It's not the same one. "I'D REALLY LIKE TO BE REASONABLE. I'M STILL IN THE OTHER ROOM."

  >[1] You know veiled threats when you see them, but you refused to be cowed by *Ellery*. It just wouldn't do. Look at something in particular. [Junk? / Blood? / Write-in]

  >[2] Blood? You were fine with nonspecific black goop, but blood isn't quite in your paygrade (of a Game Night invitation). You require a detectiving partner who speaks. Get Richard from the entrance and see what he thinks.

  >[3] Oh good! You can go ask Ellery about the maybe-blood, and also the crystals, and goop, and mysterious writing, and ugly wallpaper. Find him in the other room.

  >[4] Write-in.

  You're not impressed in the slightest.

  "Well, moron, maybe you shouldn't've locked me inside your stupid mind tower. What did you want me to do, huh? Just sit there?"

  There's an arrow drawn crudely on the bottom of the note, pointing down. You flip the note over. "YES!" is all it says.

  "Not very bright, then. Though I suppose that's to be expected."

  There's a second note stuck to the first. You peel it up. "YOU'RE A REAL CHARMER. HOW ABOUT YOU TELL ME THIS IN PERSON?"

  …He has a point. You'll pop over, wow him with the force of your personality, extract how to get out of here, get back to it. No problem.

  Past(?)-Richard watches you coolly from the armchair as you stride back into the entrance room and over to the door on the left. "Have fun," he says.

  "What?" He hates fun.

  "That's all, Charlotte. Why must you always look for meaning?" He spits the word like it offended him personally. "Is there some definition of 'have' and 'fun' I've been made unaware of?"

  "Well, it's possible," you say— but you're not paying much attention. The door is ajar. You hesitate. Should you creep in, as to surprise him? He probably knows you're right here, though. Kick the door open? Confidence is essential. Kick it, yeah. "I am dangerous," the move says. "You can't scare me."

  You bob a couple times, to ready yourself, and then the door opens. Via the force of your will alone? No, via Ellery, whose face is set and pensive. One hand is on his hip.

  "Hi, Lottie," he says neutrally. "Good to see you again."

  "Yeah, okay." You duck past him into the room. It's as you first remember it, wallpaper intact. There's no cards on the table or mirror on the wall. "I hope you have water, at least."

  "Uh, yes." He gestures towards the table as he shuts the door behind you. "Would you grab it?"

  The cup is undecorated ceramic, the water— you sniff it cautiously— filtered. Damn! You set it back down and turn to Ellery to inform him of this issue.

  There's no door.

  There's no door. It's a smooth stretch of wallpaper. The edges of Ellery's mouth are quirked upwards. "You have a history with doors," he says in the manner but not the tone of an apology.

  (Have fun? Damnit, Richard!)

  "If you won't drink that water," he continues, "could you set it down on the table? Makes it easier."

  "Could I…" You slam the cup down onto the table. It chips. "How's that, huh? You can't go and— you can't take the door out! That's cheating!"

  He scratches his eye. "Is it? You're not going to like this much, then, sorry."

  The room skews, suddenly and violently, until everything around you is arranged on a single plane— then collapses like a cheaply-built stage set and disappears. You are left standing awkwardly in scorching-white empty space.

  "Have to be extra-sure," Ellery says, and this time there's genuine apology. "You're very good at, uh, breaking out of places."

  "I wouldn't have broken out," you lie indignantly.

  "Right. Would you like to sit down?"

  He already is, in an armchair that strikes you as extraordinarily familiar. He gestures behind you. There is a metal stool.

  (Have fun!)

  You weigh your pride against being trapped forever by a vindictive manchild, and your pride comes out the loser.

  "Excellent. Now, why don't we chat. Who sent you?"

  "What?" No! This is your interrogation!

  "I have as long as this takes, Lottie. Who sent you?"

  >[1] Nobody! Nobody sent you! You came here… for fun, or by accident, maybe. But you don't want that invitation revoked.

  >[2] Madrigal. So you're throwing her under the carriage a little— she's not the one who has to deal with it, okay? It's not *reneging*.

  >[3] It's precisely none of his business, thank you very much.

  >[4] Huh? Who sent *you*? Why is there… [writing on his wall / places in his mirrors / goop on his bookshelf / crystals in his sand / etc— write-in!]

  >[5] Write-in.

  BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #3