kipperlily

## The Death and Afterlife of Kipperlily Copperkettle   //"Non temer; ché ’l nostro passo non ci può tòrre alcun: da tal n’è dato."//   —Dante Alighieri, //Inferno//, Canto 8, 100-104 There had been the heat. The fire, the screaming, the noise of the world burning down around you as you raced to build a god from its ashes. You remember being frozen. You remember dying. You, KIPPERLILY COPPERKETTLE, have landed yourself in Hell. What will you do? [[>Get the hell out of here.]] [[>Sit down and cry.]]

You check your pockets for equipment, and find yourself coming up empty. Of course they're gone; you're in Hell. All material possessions get left behind, you reason to yourself, the acridity of sulphur already forming on your tongue. Nevertheless, your fingers ache for the comforting grip of your dagger, and the reliability of a bit of rope. You've done more with less, you know this. But it would help if you had something. Where the hell are you, anyway? [[>You're in Hell, idiot.]]

You've always been a bit of a whiner, if you're being honest with yourself. There had always been a lot of unfairness in your life, and who could fault you for trying to correct it? But you //hate// moping. Moping is for quitters, and you've never been a quitter. You'd wanted things to change, that's all. You'd wanted something better. For yourself, for your party. You'd wanted to be //known//. You'd wanted to be a hero. [[>You refuse to cry.]]

This isn't your fault. You shouldn't be here. [[>Riz Gukgak.]] [[>Kristen Applebees.]] [[>Your parents.]] [[>Your party.]] [[>Jawbone.]] [[>Porter Cliffbreaker.]]

There was never any doubt you'd end up here, anyway. People who go to Heaven do good things in their lives. And as much as you'd like to forget, they don't kill their best friends. A potent sourness fills your mouth. At least you're somewhere, now. Lucy had been trapped in nowhere. [[>You hate yourself for it.]]

Of course you do. [[>Sit down and cry.]]

This is stupid. You are KIPPERLILY COPPERKETTLE, and far be it from you to let a little bit of death get you down. You're going to find something to do. [[>Get the hell out of here.]] [[>Find someone to blame.]]

Even a Barbarian could have told you that. As an Adventurer, you're contractually obligated to know what the Nine Hells looks like, even if you've only learnt this in theory. Parties (not yours) go on adventures, and those adventures take them all across the realm, so it's useful to know the rough layouts of the Upper and Lower Planes, if you'd ever get there. (You think about the one adventure you've been on, and how it got you all killed.) (Well, not all of you. You didn't die.) (This is your first time dying.) [[>Look around.]]

As you recall, you died a normal death (that is to say, one where a devil or a god didn't directly drop you in the circle of their choosing). This should have landed you just outside the Nine Hells' processing centre, where some poor unfortunate soul has to sift through your documents and your long list of sins before you get shunted to a punishment for all eternity. Where this punishment would place you, exactly, depended on your race, religion, and the noble intentions of those who had sent you here (that is to say, your murderer). That's for a later you to figure out, though. And hopefully, if you can get out of here, that won't be a problem for you at all. [[>Find a friend.]]

You didn't die alone, you remember this. Your friends — your party members — had died before you did. You shudder; you can hear the sounds of crushed bones and yelps of pain echo through this whole Plane, even from miles away. (You had watched them die, right in front of you. Porter had told you to remember the plan, to stay out of sight until all was right and he would have all the power in the world to do whatever you wanted: to make you his knight, his prophet, his princess.) (They would all have been revived eventually. Porter had said he would make it happen.) The heat of this room isn't that different from the place where you died. [[>Look harder.]]

You are starting to feel like something might be wrong. You've been walking for ages, the red rock hot under your feet. You are in an endless space which is also a barren football field, as far as you can tell. This part of Limbo is fairly crowded with shades, milling about their own business as they wait to be processed. But it's still sparse enough and, you think, small enough, that you should be able to find your familiar faces, if they are here. You are starting to wonder if you were mistaken. Maybe you hadn't seen things right, maybe Oisin and Ivy hadn't fallen first, and maybe they had just lain there on the floor with their eyes closed, ready to wake up the moment someone shook them. Even as they were covered in blood, Oisin's glasses cracked and scattered by force to your feet, where you had been crouched at the bleachers, gritting your teeth. Waiting to spring into action. Waiting. [[>Feel the guilt.]] [[>Don't.]]

You didn't do anything wrong. Why should you? [[>Keep looking and waiting.]]

You are pretty certain that something has gone horribly wrong, or worse, horribly right. You know from years of practice during your living hours that your measured pace is about a 100 steps a minute, and more if you hasten yourself or sprint. You also know that you've circled this entire area three times, maybe four, knowing the terrain has been changing ever so slightly each time to throw you off. You've been here for three hours. Your friends aren't here. Which means they're either alive, or in the Upper Planes. As a tightening knot in your stomach warns you, it doesn't mean that you've won. It might mean that you've lost. [[>Maybe they'll come for you.]] [[>Maybe they won't.]]

You //really// didn't do anything wrong. Why should you? [[>Keep looking and waiting.]]

You know your friends. You know how much Oisin and Ivy care for you, the combined weight of their sneers enough to make the average freshman burst into tears when they made fun of your name. Mary Ann, with her little Quokki Pet toy — Mochi, was it, the latest one? — had never said much, but had always remembered your favourite ice cream flavour on the rare occasion that you stopped by Basrar's after training. And Ruben's music had changed, but he had always made time for you when you needed it. They wouldn't leave you here. [[>Keep waiting.]]

You know your friends. You know how Oisin roared at you when he came back to life, claws scraping at your skin as you leapt away, how Ivy had cocked her bow at you, eyes glimmering with rage and tears in a way you had never thought her capable of. You remember how Ruben had screamed, long, guttural, until his voice became nothing but a creak of a whisper, //what did you do to me, to us//. You remember how Mary Ann had knocked you down to bloodied. You don't know what they think of you anymore. You can't do anything else. [[>Keep waiting.]]

You are definitely still toe-curlingly angry, the kind that makes your skin want to peel off at the edges and leave you raw. You had always liked that about yourself, and it had only felt better once you had that glistening star implanted inside of you. Porter had liked it even more, said that your intensity was inspiring. That he could see you becoming a leader: not on the Council of Chosen, stuffy bureaucratic //nerds// that they were. No, a real leader, a changemaker. You would weave the threads of the new world together. You need something to do. [[>Look around.]]

First on your shitlist for whenever you get out of here is Gukgak, stupid fucking //Riz//, poster boy for being the perfect Rogue, the perfect adventurer. Who had been the one who had put you here, seized in motion like a Looney Tunes character and dropped into lava. What a pathetic way to die. You should have known better, but you had been so angry, and he had been so //annoying//. It wasn't fair, the way that you had spent the past two years just trying to get through school, watching him and the Bad Kids go on their silly little adventures. Watching them die on livestream, and miraculously come back. Every A that you got in class, every rat that you had stomped to death, didn't seem to matter to everyone else. It was always poor little Riz, who had such a tragic life with his dad's death and whatnot that any achievement he made as an adventurer was crowned a god-given miracle. (Part of you notes that your little spiel doesn't rile you up the same way, doesn't put you on your feet, get you pacing, the way that it used to. There's a hollowness in your chest, one where a brilliant, shining, glorious gem of beatific anger used to sit.) [[>You don't need that to be mad.]]

They had never been perfect, but that had been the most annoying part. They should have been dog-shittingly, corpse-rottingly //awful//. That would have given you something to be mad about. Instead, they had been as average as it gets for Elmville: humble beginnings, mid-career, middle-management, middling life. They had an only child (as much as one could afford nowadays, with the price of housing!), and a little suburban home with a garden. Neither of them had outrageous backstories or swashbuckling adventures. Both Mom and Dad had been //Mumple// people, for god's sake. You had resolved early on to be nothing like them. The idea of it truly made your skin crawl; of staying in one place, never moving, never being seen for who you were. You had always known that you were meant to be something, but no one else seemed to recognise it. You had filled in the papers to go to Aguefort yourself. It had been the first time you hadn't told your parents what you were doing, and it wouldn't be the last. The space in your chest, where a gem had once resided, aches. [[>You don't need that to be mad.]]

He had never really managed to help. Maybe a little bit at the start, if you strained to recall an even shorter version of yourself, perched on a chair in his office, mug of tea sitting in front of you, untouched. You had never liked caffeine. Every night, you went to bed punctually at 10pm and woke up at 7 on the dot to get ready for school. Breakfast in the morning had been warm water, and toast with butter, kaya jam, and soft-boiled eggs, prepared by your loving mother before she left for work. Caffeine threw off your routine, and it was one of the few things that kept you on track and not flipping your shit all over the place. He had insisted that it wasn't caffeinated though: a herbal blend that he had picked out himself from who knows where. You hadn't asked, on purpose, because you knew it was going to be tied to some ramble of unseasonable length, and you had training to get to and goblins to shadow. So you took a sip for politeness, and had found that it was annoyingly disarming. Jawbone had smiled warmly, in a way that had made you tense your shoulders and grip the arms of your chair even tighter. He had asked how you had ended up in his office, and you had started talking — and talking, and talking. At the end, when you were done, he had this look on his face that made you shiver, and he had asked you what you could do about all the things you were feeling. You had frozen. //Work harder//, you had mumbled. //Try my best to be a better adventurer.// You remembered that you had stood outside the door later, at the end of the session, thinking about that look on his face. You remember thinking of it as pity. [[>You hate yourself for it.]]

That would be ridiculous. It had been your choice to put the star inside your body, to become a beacon of rage in Porter's universe. It could never be his fault, because you had chosen this. If it's anyone's fault, it's your fault. [[>It's your fault.]]

Maybe it is your fault. Maybe you do deserve to be here. Maybe, no matter how hard you worked, no matter how good you'd been, how much you'd deserved it more than anyone else, the universe had just chosen to be cruel to you. Maybe there was no other way out. Maybe it was always either wallflower or villain for you, no matter how much you tried. You just weren't good or lucky enough to make the cut. (//Oh come on,// says a little voice inside of you. //Be real for a minute, Kipp.//) [[>Feel the guilt (a little bit).]]

Maybe it was their incompetence that got you. That no matter how hard you tried, you would always be second to the Bad Kids, their rivals, their evil twins, their twisted mirrors, what have you. Ruben could have come up with terrible metaphors for days. After the fourth, Mary Ann would have said, //could you shut up, Mochi needs peace and quiet//, and Oisin and Ivy would have burst into giggles. And it still wouldn't have been enough for you. Maybe if you were better trained — maybe if you had gone on adventures together, actually learnt the skills that you needed, instead of grinding out rats in the woods, maybe you would have learnt something. You had always been too scared to do that, worried you might die, or worse, that it might be different from what you always thought you wanted. That you might be different from who you thought you were. It had made a lot of sense to you when Porter had come, bearing gifts and offers. [[>Porter Cliffbreaker.]]

[[>Wait for longer.]]

[[>More.]]

[[>Enough.]]

In the amount of time that you have waited, you have already calculated the multitude of ways that your party members might have come to deliver you from this place. Oisin has Plane Shift, but that relies on knowing exactly where in the Plane he wants to go, and they don't technically know exactly where you are, even if they can guess. You highly doubt that your party members have gone to the Upper Planes. Maybe for Ruben, the sweetest of all of you, but certainly not Mary Ann, Oisin, or Ivy. And well, fuck Buddy, who cares about Buddy anyway. No, if your friends had died in the state that you were all in, in the middle of the ritual, then they would have come here. But if the ritual had gone as planned (which would have been basically impossible, when you think about it, now that you're down here and they're down a Class President), then there shouldn't have been any trouble with getting access to the Lower Planes either. Porter's domain would have encompassed part of it, after all. And you know in the short amount of time that you've been here that there haven't been any mass seismic quakes or anything, which means that all the domains have stayed put where they are. Which means that you've //really// lost. This is annoying. [[>Find someone to blame.]] [[>Keep walking.]]

You decide that you've had enough of this waiting-around-for-people-who-might-ambiguously-save-you nonsense and decide to doom yourself instead. So, you walk into the processing centre. [[>Enter the processing centre of the Nine Hells.]]

The queues here aren't much longer than they were outside, and the rate of processing damned souls seems to be at least equitable to the rate at which they appear. You wonder wryly to yourself what happens to all of this in the event of mass death (like the one that you had intended to cause, anyhow). [[>Ruminate on bureaucracy.]] [[>Get in line.]]

It doesn't take you long to get to the front of the line, which is both comforting in its efficiency and distressing in signalling that you may never, ever get out of here. More concerningly, when you reach the front, a devil dressed in plaid with black, square glasses looks up at you and says, "Waterbilly Hopperbottle?" Your mouth immediately curls into a sneer. "It's Kipperlily," you reply primly. You will not be ruffled by this. The devil lets out a bark of laughter, then says, "just messing with you kiddo. Orders from the boss up top." You quirk an eyebrow up. You weren't aware that this place had a boss, in all your studies at Aguefort. Maybe the syllabus wasn't up to date. The devil notes your look of confusion and clarifies, "our archdevil. This place //is// operated by the Bottomless Pit, you know. It's just outside the first ring." //Ah//, you realise. //Figueroth//. [[>Get mad.]]

The bureaucracy of it all is comforting to you, somehow. You have always been good at writing and organising and files and colour-coded tabs. You are a fiend at Hexcel, which, even if you had never been great with magic, had always allowed you all sorts of nifty tricks (with thanks to the older Abernant sister for that particular bit of arcanotech). You know how to use conditional formatting, to invoke schools of magic using hex codes. You can translate somatics into sums and make equations out of equipment. You had been using this all year to make custom runes and sigils, all ready for their caster to deploy at a moment's notice on their crystal. Mostly for you to use, of course. Everyone else in your party had still had class to go to, but you had other tasks to attend to. You had been the one who had put together the arcanotech circle at Frosty Faire, because truly, between all your other party members, who else would have handled it? Ruben had been the most help, with his access to his uncle's equipment and tools, and together you had made quick work of setup and the trap laid for your mechanical principal. In another life, you think, you could have been a great Artificer. It's a shame that you had already been so good at being a Rogue, and the two didn't exactly multi-class well together. The shade behind you grumbles that you're blocking the doorway, snapping you out of reverie. [[>Get in line.]]

You have had ENOUGH of this. It is one thing for your life to have been an absolute pathetic waste of time, but for you to persist with being bullied in death? Fuck these Bad Kids and their fucking shenanigans. You barely even notice you have moved until you have pinned the devil to the floor, chair kicked away, with your hands at his throat. His eyes are bulging. "Sorry, I didn't mean— hey, please— I have a family—" You hiss, for the first time. He goes quiet, and whimpers. The sound makes you think of cleaning rat blood off your mary janes. You sigh, roll your eyes, and pull yourself to your feet, the same mary janes making lithe little clacks against the linoleum floor as you step away. "Can you //please//," you emphasise, "just give me my paperwork so that I can move on faster." [[>Wait.]]

You settle yourself in the next room, waiting for your papers to be cleared. [[>It takes longer.]]

Not this shit again. [[>Longer still.]]

You decide that you take back everything nice you thought earlier about bureaucracy. You've had enough of this bit. [[>Wait your turn, no matter how long it takes.]] [[>Get the fuck out of here.]]

Wait inside, wait outside, it's all the same to you. You admit defeat and slump on the bench. It's actually just five more minutes before a separate devil, this one in pinstripes with blond hair, comes out with their brow furrowed at you. "Copperkettle, is it?" They say, as you sit upright. You nod, a slow affirmation. If you've done the math right, you probably belong in the rings for wrath or violence, so it's surprising when the words that fall out of the devil's mouth are neither. "The boss wants to see you." A forked tongue flickers out of their mouth, then vanishes. "There's some... complications with your paperwork." Complications? There's nothing complicated about your case. You're a fairly simple girl, you think. [[>Follow them.]] [[>Get the fuck out of here.]]

You will be a Rogue until the day you die, and you've already done the hard part. You tell the devil on duty that you're going to need to use the washroom, nevermind the fact that you're already //dead//. There are certain rituals that you need to do if you're going to pretend that there is a shred of normalcy left at all in your body. [[>Find the bathroom.]]

Obligingly, you follow the devil through a trailing mess of hallways. You had always memorised the Nine Hells by their sins, rather than by their actual names, but it suddenly strikes you that this place is also called the Bottomless Pit, and it is indeed //bottomless//. After at least 30 minutes (again, you are counting paces), you realise that you are still walking in the same hallway, which only seems to go downwards. The long halls are also filled with a cacophony of souls wailing and guitars riffing, which makes you wince and wish you had some earplugs. Not only have these shades been cursed to rock out, they are also pretty bad at it, which even you can tell from Ruben's meagre experiments with emo rock. Finally, after wandering for an excruciating long period of time, and listening to more poorly played rock trombone than your ears had ever asked for, you reach a door, inlaid with red velvet and gold. [[>Open the door.]]

You are ushered by your devil guide into a lushly decorated music studio, stratocasters and microphone stands as far as the eye can see. Your knowledge of music is largely in the realm of the classical: piano lessons growing up gave you an appreciation for the genre, and you've never felt a need to listen to anything since (other than obligatory listening to Ruben's emo anthems, and before that, hippie ukulele music). This is still somewhat of a foreign world to you, mixers and amplifiers scattered around the room, with devils and doomed souls winding up loose cables and calling for sound checks. It is extremely overwhelming, far more than it was in the hallway. You already hate it. At the far end of the long room, you see a desk, covered in what looks like a functional mountain of paperwork, and perched on top of it, an upsettingly familiar archdevil strumming a bass. You allow your displeasure to show on your face. Whatever she wants, she's not getting it out of you that easily. [[>Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear.]]

You hang back just outside the bathroom and wonder how you got here. By your count, it's been at least twelve hours since you fell down to Hell and your life ended. And you know from your own study and digging through the restricted section of the library, trying to find information on a god whose name had been erased from the world, that time doesn't always flow the same in the Upper and Lower Planes compared to the Material one. So all your friends might have left you to rot here for twelve hours, or twelve days, or twelve seconds. You try not to think about it, because what the hell is the point? You're already here, anyway. Being dead means you're no longer Material, which means that technically speaking, there isn't really a rush to get back there anyway. (A small part of you notes that no one has tried to Revivify you. //Yet//, another part of you corrects yourself.) You need to get back. [[>Roll for Stealth.]]

You have a feeling that somewhere out there, someone is playing dice with your fate. Possibly blindfolded. With their hands tied behind their back. You think you can |C>[do it]. [[>Roll a Nat 1.]] [[>You are far too good at this.]] \(click-append:?C)+(t8n:'dissolve')[ //(you roll a (text: (random:, 1, 20)).)//]

Five minutes before you step out of the bathroom, the devil on duty remembers that no one actually uses the bathroom on account of it literally being hell, so he stands outside until you step out. He shuffles you back to the waiting room immediately. [[>Wait your turn, no matter how long it takes.]]

With your exceptionally reliable talent, you know that there is absolutely no way anyone here is better at Stealth than you are. You are an extremely skilled Mastermind Rogue. You are walking out of here scot free. So, you duck out the nearest window, and nimbly land on a soft grass patch, which you feel must have been cosmically designed for enterprising escapees such as yourself. Surely you can't be the first or the last person to attempt to escape Hell. You brush non-existent dust off your clothes and, ah. You've finally taken notice of your appearance. [[>Examine yourself.]]

You didn't realise that injuries earned upon death persist into the soul of the deceased, although you think there's probably something psychological to it, come to think of it. You had been too busy thinking and walking before to notice how singed your clothes are. You brush a hand over your cheek, cringing at the strange texture. Ah. You have burn scars. You suppose there is probably something magical about this. Hell being designed to remind you of your greatest failures, and whatnot. (An image of a knife in your hand flashes in your mind, your knees folded under you as you lean over a bloodied and mangled body, begging her to wake up.) Nevermind. You really need to get out of here. [[>Climb over the fence.]]

You hop the fence like it's nothing, and start making the trek back to where you first landed. Well, when you say landed, you mean started. You don't exactly remember what the fall was like, if there was a fall at all. Maybe dying was as simple as waking up on the floor of Hell with no memory of how you got there. There's probably some answer as to how to get out of here, though, back where you came from. Or at least, someone you can ask. You hit a junction. [[>Go back to the beginning.->The Death and Afterlife of Kipperlily Copperkettle]] [[>Walk the other way.]]

It's taking you a while to realise, you're not actually that mad about being dead. You were mad about how you got here, which was still completely unfair to you and you were definitely screwed over from the start, but actually being dead? Annoying, but fine, you suppose. Not that much different from being alive — in the time you'd been here, you hadn't exactly needed to eat or sleep, now that you were a shade. Nope, just a very determined shade. You couldn't imagine coming back as a ghost. You had heard vaguely about Zayn Darkshadow in your freshman year, and seen him floating around the hallways as a sophomore. It seemed kind of stupid to subject yourself to that sort of in-between half-life. For you, it was either being alive or bust. [[>Visit the fountain.]]

The person who had thought to install this clearly had a sense of humour, this comically shining oasis amidst the hot smoke and magma of Avernus. You had seen it in the distance, making your rounds across the football field before you realised none of your party members had followed you here. It had been a strange mirage, the kind of thing that you assumed devils invented to bait foolish souls into having somewhere to go and achieve some sort of respite. Well, here you were. A foolishly dead soul, and looking for some sort of respite. The fountain is, as you observe amusedly when you amble closer, spouting boiling hot water, steaming into the air even in the Pit's heat. You guess it really is meant to torture poor souls. But you get a closer look at the sculpture, and snort dismissively despite yourself. The centerpieces of the entire affair are statues of the Bad Kids, carved of shimmering white marble. Water is sprouting from various points of interest: the tip of Adaine's sword, power chords from Fig's bass, the curl of a question mark from Kristen's staff. The three boys are also immortalised in stone, Gorgug swinging his axe, Fabian striking a pose with his battle silk, and Riz leaping into motion with his arquebus at the ready. They look ready for combat, all of them, glory and refinement and emitting pure, earnest, //heroism//. Without a second's hesitation, you spit into the water immediately. Behind you, someone chuckles. [[>Whirl around.]]

You are a Mastermind Rogue with a high level of expertise. No one //ever// gets the jump on you, unless you let them. So who the fuck is this guy? The first thing you notice: he's a goblin, clearly, but not the one you loathe. He's reclined on a nearby park bench, and something in your head chastises you that you probably shouldn't assume that all goblins are related to each other, but this guy looks uncannily similar to Riz in the shape of his jaw and, well, in his fashion sense. The dress shirt and pants far better suit the older goblin than the younger, though, and a yellow tie swings loosely from his neck, where he's popped the top buttons of his shirt open to cope with the heat. To top it all off, the man is holding a smoking cigar, eyebrows vaguely raised in your direction. "Penny for your thoughts?" You don't know what to say, so you just stare blankly at the man. You don't need to be a Mastermind Rogue to know that all context clues point to this being Riz's dead father. [[>Walk away.]] [[>Take the penny.]]

You turn around immediately. You are not engaging with this. No one could pay you enough. "Sorry," you call back. "I didn't realise there was anyone around." You don't expect to hear a reply. "It's okay, I didn't know you had such strong feelings about them. It just caught me off-guard, is all." This makes you pause in your stride, and then sigh. Where the hell are you going, anyway? [[>Back to the processing centre.]] [[>Hang around.->>Take the penny.]]

"I just think," you say through gritted teeth, "that they don't deserve an ounce of the glory that they get." "Who, the Bad Kids?" Pok Gukgak smiles, in a fond way that makes you want to choke. "Eh, call it what you want, but I like them. They're good kids, despite what the name might indicate." You give him your best patented Kipperlily Look, and he holds up his hands, cigar balanced between his middle and ring finger. "Sorry, my bad. I paid the penny and all." "Yeah, whatever." You feel numb now, hands curled into fists by your sides, gaze dropping to the pittiful semblance of grass beneath Pok's feet. "They just piss me off. Everything about them." Pok's face is now impassive, and he uncrosses his legs, leaning forward slightly. "Go on. What about them?" [[>Keep going.]]

You know that you're literally talking to the father of your self-declared rival, but my god, you're already dead, it doesn't fucking matter. He can't kill you more than you already have been. "Well, for starters," you sneer, "your son killed me." "Sorry to hear that." He barely seems surprised. You know how good of a Rogue his son is: this checks out. "Yeah, well, he caught me in a net and then he dropped me in lava." As an addendum, you add, "it hurt." He audibly winces, "yeah, I can see how that would sting." There's a moment of silence between the two of you, so you turn back to stare at the fountain, because you can't stand to think about looking in his direction a second longer, even if it's not directly at him. "That's all you have to say?" Now, he seems vaguely surprised. "I thought you'd have more to say about it." [[>Say more about it.]]

You do have more to say about it, actually. You have so much to say. But you have no idea where to begin. "Honestly? Killing me was maybe the only thing he did that directly pissed me off," you say flatly, "all my other grievances have been accrued by the sheer fact of his existence." Pok nods with an expression that, to you, reads kind of like //hm, fair enough, keep talking//. So you oblige. "He's never been in class. He spent half of freshman year in a //jail cell//, and then Eugenia Shadow gave him an A anyway for eating the vice principal! Every time I see him, he's always handing out his stupid little business cards. One time I swiped one of them, just to see what was on there, and it was just his name? And 'unlicensed private investigator', but with unlicensed written in really small font? It changed after freshman year, but ugh, what a stupid thing to write down." You are twiddling the edge of your vest as you talk, and starting to pace. "The little //freak//. I still don't get how he of all people has friends, if you can even call them friends. Seacaster calls him //the Ball// all the time, and he thinks it's, what? A fun nickname? Even I know that idiot is being bullied, and I don't even know him." You sniff, a little //pfft// escaping your mouth. [[>Keep complaining.]]

It is not hard to get to her, since you already know where she is. Fig easily sleds down her paperwork mountain once you approach, and she thanks Vinny (your guide devil, you think) for bringing you all the way down here. Then she greets you. "Hey, Kipperlily. Great to see you." "Figueroth," you mutter sullenly. She is far too perky for your liking. "It's been a minute," she acknowledges. You wonder, again, how much time has been passing in the Material Plane since you've been here. There's really no way of you knowing for certain. "Well," she clarifies, "it's been a month. For me, I mean. Not for you. Not sure how long it's been for you, exactly." Oh, okay. So things //had// really gone bad. //And more than that//, whispers the voice in your head. //No one had wanted to come for you.// [[>Do not flip out.]]

By god, you cannot lose your temper right now. It would reflect terribly on you. You always knew how to keep it together better than this. And more than that, it's not even about the stupid girl in front of you and her little hopeful grin. "What do you want, Fig," you manage to say, hands fisted into the fabric of your skirt. (You want to scream. You want to start throwing things.) "Well!" She says, voice full of hesitance, "we're having some trouble with your papers, and my guys thought I would be the best person to handle you, since I... was there. I guess. Haha." Right. You are being //handled//. [[>Be handled.]]

"See, the problem is," Fig elaborates, pulling a stack of papers out of the mountain and causing a small avalanche, "you died under weird circumstances. Normally, for mortals who are being influenced by another being — you know, possessions, curses, the works, they get absolved of wrongdoing. More often than not, that means that they get sent to Heaven." She pauses. "At least, that's what the guys tell me here anyway." You stare at her, imploring her to continue, so she does. "So, by that logic, there's no fucking way that you're supposed to be here. Buuut," she raises a finger, "you kind of got influenced by choice. Which makes things extra weird, magically speaking. And so it becomes my problem, which is annoying. Because all our options of where to send you are, strictly speaking, wrong." You sigh. "Yeah, so what am I supposed to be doing about it? Just standing here?" "No, I mean, look, Kipperlily. We can't put you in the ring for wrath or violence, because you weren't technically doing those things until you got that little star in you. But we can't send you to Heaven because you agreed to it. So you're like, extra extra stuck in limbo." "Also," Fig adds as an afterthought, "it's kind of putting a spanner in the works here, because we still have tons of people to process all the time, and they're not moving forward because you're still technically in the queue. So we need to think about your options, but there basically aren't any with the current legislation." [[>Think about your options.]]

You are too busy being deeply annoyed to think about your options. Not mad, not raging like you used to (your chest //throbs// where it used to be, at the thought), just deeply, firmly, sickeningly annoyed. You hate this. You hate this girl. You hate being stuck here. You want to move on, and let yourself be punished, but you can't. You are very inclined to stomp away right now, make the trek all the way back up through the endless hallways and ascend the Bottomless Pit back to where you were before. Better that than to stay here and deal with all of this. [[>Just walk out! You can leave!]] [[>Deal with it.]]

Before Fig can get another word in, you shake your head. "This is too much," you mutter, and without saying anything else, you turn out the way you came and head back upstairs. [[>Roll for Stealth.]]

You take a deep breath. If you're going to be able to deal with this, you need all of this clattering around you to stop. Fig catches the look on your face, and to her credit, is wise enough to take a hint. "Hey, could all of you loudass motherfuckers go practice in a separate room! I need some peace and quiet in here!" As the skeletons and shades clamber out of the room, Fig turns to you and lets out an unexpected sigh of relief. "God," she remarks, "it's so hard keeping up expectations in here, sometimes." "Why would anyone ever expect anything from you," you reply automatically, deadpan, then cringe at your own audacity. Fig has a full, deep-bellied laugh, you realise, as she giggles at your statement nonetheless. "You know what, that's fair. I did quit going to school forever last week." You blink in surprise. You'd thought that the Bad Kids were tight, the kind of "forever" adventuring party that gets celebrated in every fiction book you'd ever read as a kid. They'd graduate from Aguefort together, and then go on to be celebrity adventurers, ones who would travel the different planes together, delve through dungeons, save the world multiple times over. Not that you had wanted any of that for them, you had wanted them to crash and burn in Hell and die, but you'd expected that. This... this was a little different. Maybe. "Well, maybe not forever," Fig continues, shrugging, "Ayda says that she can tutor me and I can go get my GED at some point if I really want to. I dunno. But definitely not at Aguefort, and not for a long while." You wonder what her adventuring party will do without her, their Bard, their Warlock, their Paladin. Their Fig. (You wonder what yours will do without you. You are still their Kipperlily. To you, at least.) [[>Work out the terms.]]

Fig says that there must be some way around it, but truth be told, she's never been the best at sitting down and drilling through pages and pages of reading and writing, and worse, legalese. The words and letters fly off the page for her, and sometimes they also start doing kickflips and ollies if they're feeling particularly enthusiastic. This has never happened to you, but you've always been a strong reader, so you feel like you would have noticed. You think you get why she hands off her homework to Riz and Adaine, now. It takes you far less time to pour over your own documents, scattered across the studio floor, to find the beginnings of some sort of language loophole. Within the hour you have found three pages out of a hundred that might be helpful, and in another fifteen minutes you've found the right paragraphs. Fig, to your benefit, peppers her lawyers with questions via text — not hard to find, when you're an archdevil of the Nine Hells. A total of three hours later, you think you understand the full terms of the situation you have laid out in front of you. [[>Lay out the points.]]

Seated criss-cross on the floor, you read out the following list to Fig, scrawled in your neat handwriting:   1) You were magically influenced by another being in a way that affected your judgement.   2) Under this influence, you did a bunch of heinous things that you may or may not have done otherwise. (Under this point, you mentally note that you probably would have cracked eventually, but you have to admit begrudgingly after thinking about it, that with the jarring feeling of the empty hole in your chest, the urge to commit homicide when you get upset is dialed down significantly. Not entirely, but enough.) (You think about Lucy, and you want to hurl.) You return to the list.   3) Magically speaking, this doesn't count as coercion. Fig interrupts you, here. "The emphasis is on magically speaking. Because you know. It's literally Porter. He's evil." "He's not—" you begin to reply. "Kipperlily. He tried to take over the world and killed all your friends." "Well, no, actually. I killed all my friends." You both pause at this, unsure of how to continue. Fig looks deeply unsure, gnawing on her lip like she wants to skateboard away from this conversation. //Me too, bitch//, you think. "You even killed me for it, if you recall." There's barely a hint of venom behind your words. You should probably have been killed for it. Fig is unable to meet your eyes. "Yeah," she admits. "We did." [[>Sit there in silence.]] [[>Get up and leave.->>Just walk out! You can leave!]]

You are starting to realise that you feel terrible. Not angry, raging, hot blood and fizzy static on your tongue and behind your eyes. Just plain terrible-no-good-horrible. Fig is first to speak, again. "Look, Kipperlily, we need to talk about this," she says. You can tell she's choosing her words carefully, like she's talking to a wounded animal. It makes you feel fragile, and you hate it. [[>Stay silent.]]

"I mean, if anything," Fig continues gently while you are lost in thought, "he did the same thing to me. To Gorgug." You don't know the specifics of what Porter had said to her, to get her to sign on to be ~~Bacharath's~~ //Ankarna's// Paladin. If anything, you'd chosen to shove it out of your mind entirely. All of your efforts to be the best that you could be, the best supporter of your God and his vision, and you had still been passed over because it wasn't strategic. You had offered, at one point, to multi-class into Paladin in Fig's stead, but Porter had shook his head. It didn't play to your strengths, he had said; even Mary Ann would have made a better choice, if she had given a fuck. You shake your head. "It's not the same." Fig gives a derisive snort. "What about it isn't?" [[>Keep talking.]]

You stare down at your hands. Habitually, you have been fiddling with the edge of your skirt, where the seams of the fabric have been splintered open by fire. "Porter..." There's a lump in your throat, but it's the driest it's ever been. "He told us there was a chance." Before Fig can ask, you add, "a chance that we could be heroes the way that we wanted. That I wanted, I mean." She's quiet, thoughtful, so you go on. "There was one day, where, I don't know. I don't remember the exact day, but he called me into his office. I'd never really spoken to him before, but I knew he was Mary Ann's barbarian teacher, so we'd all seen him once or twice." "I thought I had gotten into trouble," you say, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. "By then we had been training in the woods for a full year, and I knew you were supposed to be going out on quests, //doing// things. Being adventurers. I thought he was going to call me a coward, or something. But he was really nice." "He told us... he told me that we had a chance on doing something great. That we were hardworking, consistent. That he saw a spark in me, that I just needed the right teacher and the right guidance. To become something more. And then he told me that he could help." You bite your lower lip so hard, you can taste iron and salt. "It took us a few meetings. He told me to bring the rest of my party with me, so that he could help them too. And it was good. He knows so much — he taught us so much. He helped us with our training, he made us stronger." Here, your voice cracks in a way that makes you feel like the child that you are. "But it was always me first, and Lucy. Lucy because she was our Cleric, and he needed that — he needed her. Me, because I was good at everything else. And he said he needed our help too. That he couldn't do it without us, without me. But that there was something he needed to do, first." You stop, because you don't want to talk about the rest. The rest is blood, and helping to hunt your friends down in the woods, and your best friend choosing death over you. [[>Avoid her eyes.]]

You can't look at her. She'll look at you the way that your parents did, that Jawbone did, eyes filled with nothing but pity. There are only two people who have ever looked at you with anything different, and look how that turned out for you. "Kipperlily," she says, "I don't think this was your fault." You can feel the hole in your chest pulse like a heartbeat. "Figueroth." "No, really." Fig sighs. "Look, Porter's a... he's a charming guy. I really can't blame you, because what the hell. I got charmed too. Not magically, he's just... He's good at that. Good at talking to you like you're special." [[>Let her speak.]]

"Me and Gorgug talked about it, after it all," Fig recounts. "I felt really bad. Porter had been... well, Porter had been fucking //negging// him all year, and had made it so hard for him with the MCAT and everything. And I felt really fucking bad, because like... I had been sitting there the whole time, and I mean." She plays with the ends of her braid, you notice. The words keep spilling out of her. "It's not like I managed to stop Porter from picking on Gorgug, or anything. So I felt fucking terrible, because I knew he had been evil all along, kind of, but then I also didn't, and I was starting to feel good about him, because he kept saying that he liked my spunk, and it was like. Well. When a teacher tells you that kind of shit, what are you gonna do, walk away from them? I mean, I did, a couple of times, but then it kept happening, so I was like, well, maybe it's real, y'know? And Gorgug did manage to show him, eventually, so we thought it was some kind of tough love thing, like oh, he pushed you because he knew that you could be stronger than that." Here, Fig finally pauses for breath. "But then, Gorgug said afterwards, he thinks that Porter might have just been trying to make him so fucking mad he would explode. In hindsight." And you know what that would have meant, if Gorgug had well and truly cracked. Then he would have been Porter's to own, just like the rest of them. [[>She's still talking.]]

"And it sucks! Because like, I really like Ankarna, I do, and she's really sweet and her relationship with Cassandra is really sweet and it's not like I want to //stop// being her Paladin, or anything. Working with Kristen is great, and we've been making some really great plans for how to get this pantheon back on track and everything. But it's just, I still can't help but feel like I //fucked up//, like I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be doing this." Fig has gotten up to pace, now, her braid and tail both swaying to and fro as her feet sear a path into the carpet. It reminds you of those little barren paths you'd seen people carve through inconvenient patches of grass. Desire paths, you think they were called. Fig's seems like more of a frustration path to you, if anything. "And it's like. Riz-" you flinch, but she doesn't notice, "-says that it's not my fault, that I was manipulated and I couldn't have known what Porter was thinking. But I //knew//. I knew he was evil from the start and he //got under my skin//." You realise that Fig is actually shivering a little. With disgust. With rage. "So," she says, voice filled with resignation, "I think I get it. When you say that you chose it yourself. But he's still fucking evil, and gross, and creepy." [[>Sit with that.]]

You wish you didn't understand what she was saying. You're not sure if it makes you feel worse or better. What feels far worse is what she says next. "I'm sorry for killing you. For us, I mean. On our behalf." [[>Accept the apology.]] [[>No fucking way.->>Just walk out! You can leave!]]

You don't want to accept the apology. [[>Come on, Kipp.]] [[>Nope.->>Just walk out! You can leave!]]

You can't take this. [[>Oh, come on.]] [[>If it sucks, hit the bricks.->>Just walk out! You can leave!]]

... [[>Okay, fine.]]

[[>You don't have to accept the apology to move on.]]

"I don't think you should apologise for things that you don't regret," you cough out. Fig's face falls, and though you might wish otherwise, you catch yourself feeling guilty again. She's silent for a little bit, and then says, "I talked to Lucy." Your heart jumps in your chest. You're going to throw up. [[>Throw up.]]

Your body wants to throw up, but there's nothing in your stomach, because you're dead. Instead, you dry-heave onto fuzzy red carpet, heart pounding in your ears and eyes to the rhythm of a missing shatter-star. You barely care about Fig now. Fuck Hell, you've felt like you're being haunted by ghosts — one ghost — the whole of the past year, and no amount of going to the afterlife can ever stop her voice from following you, it seems. It takes you a good few minutes. If you were still alive, you'd be sweating buckets from the effort, but then again, you'd be doing that in this entire ring anyway, literal hellhole that it is. [[>Try to recover.]]

You don't know if you should even still be here, but you retrieve yourself from being hunched over and pull your knees close to yourself, all huddled up. Fig has been standing in the middle of her frustration pathway, chewing on her cheek. She had reached out a hand automatically to try and stabilise you, you realise belatedly, probably to toss you a Healing Word or just pat you on the back for relief. But she held back, and you're at least grateful for that semblance of distance. It makes it easier for you to pretend you're holding it together. Part of you wants to ask further, to know more about what your (former?) best friend said, whatever it was that resulted in an //apology// from Figueroth Faeth for your own murder, of all things. She isn't even the one that killed you. //And//, a cold voice in your head reasons, //it's not like she had trouble fucking with Ruben all year long//. This is true. You think of Ruben, who had come to you in his poorly smudged eyeliner and ripped jeans with stars in his eyes, obsessed with this new girl whose name you hadn't ever heard of (and you would know: you've routinely broken into Gilear's office to examine at the namelist for your entire year, looking for potential rivals and assets). You hadn't known what to think of it, written it off as some sort of odd hallucination or construct or //something//, but she had just kept appearing, pretty much anywhere. The part of you that still remembered the earnest boy with the ukulele before he had become the moody asshole with the electric guitar, had gone on high alert. You had worked really hard to dig something up after that. But that hadn't turned into anything, because then Wanda Childa had just straight up //died// outside Ruben's house, apparently, and you had gotten the call from a sobbing, snot-filled gnome who could barely string words together from the despair. Boys, you suppose. It had all happened very fast, but this "Wanda" girl showing up again in the gym, somehow alive, barely trying to talk to Ruben, and then turning into Fig and immediately launching into a tirade about how hard she had worked all year to try and get //something// out of him? Man, even that had given you whiplash, and your lips automatically curl in disgust at the thought. Who the hell did this //bitch// think she was, coming to you with an apology, anyway? [[>Make her pay.]]

She had made you into a joke, and she had known it. You, who had worked so hard your entire high school career, to make something of yourself, to be seen, to become the leader you knew you were meant to be. Who had put so much effort in that you had even done the impossible, found the Rogue teacher when no one else could, when it was an impossible task. And for fucking what, for some girl with her ridiculous salsa hats and shrimp jumps to come and show you up? People hadn't taken you seriously before, and any ounce of credibility you could have had was snatched away, by this fucking //idiot//. Who couldn't even keep a god with her for more than one year before fucking it up of her own accord. A Cleric who couldn't even get enough followers to fill a room, let alone an entire church. Stupid, jacked, red hair and freckles Kristen Applebees, who had undermined not only you, but everything you had ever cared about, everything you had ever //wanted//. You reach, reflexively, to run your fingers over the star that once sat in your chest. [[>You don't need that to be mad.]]

You barely think another thought before you launch yourself at her, a clumsy move, given that your speciality has always been attacking from the shadows. So you have no element of surprise, and Fig deftly dodges out of the way of your unarmed strike. You stumble forward into empty space, your legs still feeling like jelly under you. She doesn't even attempt to hit you back; just disengages and moves a couple paces away. This makes you feel so much worse. [[>Go again.]]

This time, she actually catches your fist in motion, and you suddenly recall that on top of all her multiclassing, Fig is also still an //archdevil//. You see it coming, but she still slams you in the gut with her fist, |B>[bright orange flames] sprouting from the tips of her fingers, and you choke out a gasp of pain. "Enough!" Fig snarls, her other hand lifting you by the fist up into the air in a way that sends sharp, sparking jolts of pain through your shoulder. She's not very tall by Tiefling standards, but certainly much taller than //you//. Your legs are dangling a foot above the ground. "What the //fuck// is wrong with you?" This close, you can see flame flicker in her pupils, a reminder that you aren't just dead, you're in //her// domain. //She// is the archdevil of this part of the Nine Hells, and yes, Porter had made sure you were all Level 20 by the time he was done with you, but you know in your heart that you hadn't developed any of the skills to actually match it. You also know that it's not just about abilities, it is about respect, renown, and who you //are// in this world. And you're nobody. You're just KIPPERLILY COPPERKETTLE. You seethe. The memory of a star in your chest throbs. "I'm just trying to help you, you idiot!" [[>Refuse to be helped.]] \(click-append:?B)+(t8n:'dissolve')[ //(you receive (text: (random: 1,10)) fire damage)//]

"I don't want your fucking help!" You hiss. "I don't care if you don't want my help, you're still my fucking //problem//!" Fig hurls back, voice laced with equal parts irritation and venom. Then, she catches herself, and her face falls again, crumpling in on itself. As if on autopilot, she sets you down on the floor, and you immediately scramble as far away from her as you can get, back against the door, your shoulder and stomach both complaining immensely. You'll know get over it. You're already dead anyway, so what's it gonna do, kill you a second time? She hasn't moved since she set you down, fists still tightly wound, but by her side now. Oh god, she looks like she's going to //cry//. [[>Watch the girl cry.]] [[>You've had enough of this.->>Just walk out! You can leave!]]

It's a while before she starts to talk, sniffling her way through her words. You have been standing there, silent, ready to go again at a moment's notice. (You know that attacking her again isn't exactly going to get you anywhere, get you out of Hell, away from all of this, but it might still make you feel better.) (Nothing has made you feel better since Lucy, your brain politely informs you.) (//Shut up//, you think.) "I've been trying to stop it," Fig says, voice cracking a little as she wipes a stray tear off with her leather sleeve. "Lashing out, I mean. After everything." You say nothing, because, what do you have to say to that? She coughs, a slight //ahem// to get the phlegm out. "It was actually Fabian, who remembered, after we cleaned up everything at the gym, and the cops had gotten there, and everyone had gone home. We were getting ready for bed at Mordred, when Fabian had texted our group chat, and he was like," and here, Fig does an uncannily good impression of her friend's bizarrely affected accent, "//hey, the Ball, what the hell was up with those weird soil samples? Did we ever figure that one out?//" "And it was Adaine who was like yeah, we did figure that one out, that you guys had been sowing the grounds of Elmville with little shards of rage-crystal, shatter-star, whatever. That it had been helping to seed the place for Ankarna's arrival, just all around the whole town. Making it part of her space, bringing it closer to her." You know this. It had been one of Oisin's jobs. "And Riz said, yeah dude, that was the thing that made everyone so goddamn mad all the time this year. Like you could walk into a room and move your desk and chair the wrong way and it would tweak someone out so bad that they would start getting into a fight with the person next to them, and then in the midst of that argument they woud smash someone //else's// desk, and that would piss //them// off." "And," Fig says, "then Gorgug was like. Hey guys. Have we been really mad, recently?" [[>Furrow your eyebrows.]]

"And I felt pretty weird, so I chimed in like yeah, I don't know, have we been really mad? Like when I thought about it, I remember being mad, yeah. Being mad about school, that I had to go for class and do my homework when I never had to do that, but now it's a big thing or Riz doesn't get to go to college. And he can't not go to college, because he's Riz, and I love the guy to bits. I remember being mad about that. Not at Riz, it wasn't his fault, just- I had been mad about it, kind of, I just didn't want to say that to him." "That was like, the first thing. Then I remembered you guys, your party, and I was like. Hang on. And Kristen was on the same page, because god did she think you were annoying — sorry, not related, kinda, maybe, but anyway — it didn't fully make sense. Things didn't one hundo percent add up, especially towards the end of the year." Fig is staring at the ground intently now. "It's a little blurry, after we took the Last Stand. Like, I remember what happened, and I remember being there, and all the investigations we did and the conclusions we came to, but the feelings? It's a little further away." "I just remember being so mad, especially when we saw you guys in the gym, and it was just, so." Here, she shudders. "It was a lot." A new, horrible feeling is creeping up your back. [[>Watch her elaborate.]]

"So," Fig says, her voice shaking, "when I say I'm sorry for killing you, I'm sorry for all of us. I mean it. I really mean it." It is chilling to know that you feel calm, almost, like your whole brain is freezing from the outside in. You maintain your silence, because you still don't know what to say. "I'm sorry," she repeats, "I don't think we were ourselves that day. We were mad, yes, and there was good reason for us to be, but. Knowing what happened to you. And knowing what happened to me, and to us. It shouldn't have gone that way." You swallow the lump in your throat. "Also," she pauses, then adds, "once again, Porter is fucking evil. For all of this." [[>Yeah, okay.]]

Alright. "I get it." The sigh in your voice sounds rough, even to your own ears. Fig jerks back a little, probably because she hadn't expected you to say that at all. Her shoulders drop a little: you realise that she had been holding them all tensed up. Readied for you to jump her a second time. You wince, internally. "We knew what it did when we spread the powdered stuff. We thought we would be prepared because we were already all the way there, if you know what I mean. It didn't make a difference for us. So, whatever you were feeling: I got there first." You gesture towards your chest to illustrate. Fig's eyes are still watery, but she snorts lightly. "It's not a competition, Copperkettle." "Everything's a competition, and I'm here to win it all." She fumbles with something in her pockets, then pulls out a clove cigarette and lights it with a small spark off her finger. "Smoke?" Your nose wrinkles. "Ew." [[>You take it anyway.]]

Ruben had tried to pick up smoking, because it had been part of his whole schtick after his aesthetic shift, but it hadn't stuck. In that time, he had made you take a single puff, after which you had hacked and choked and gagged while he laughed his ass off. This time, it's a little better. You don't choke on the smoke immediately, and manage to breathe it out in a steady stream. You move to sit yourself down by your own papers, scattered by the motions of your own combat, and Fig follows you, plopping herself down with both her legs stretched out in front of her. The smoke of her cigarette lingers, and the studio is filled with an earthy, spiced scent. Very suddenly, Fig blurts out, "we don't have to be friends." "Huh?" you say. "Sorry, sorry," she quickly corrects, panicked, "I mean. What I meant was. Just because I'm trying to help you with this doesn't, um. It doesn't mean that you owe me anything. I don't want you to feel that way. It's still part of my archdevil duties, so like... Even if you hadn't accepted the apology. I still would have to figure this out. At some point." You acknowledge that, you suppose. Maybe it's the cig getting to you. "Thank you, anyway," you say, quietly. She doesn't seem to know how to respond to that. [[>Study your paperwork, again.]]

The ultimate problem, you are coming to realise, is that you can't move through Hell because you don't fit any of the usual case criteria. Bad things happened to you, partially of your own volition, but not enough that you can't write your own will off entirely. Hence, you belong in Hell, but there isn't a right place to send you, because none of the sins you've committed fully rest on your shoulders. (You are thinking about Lucy again. Well, you think, even that happened after the star.) It takes you a good half-hour of reading paragraphs over and over before you think you have a possible solution. [[>Propose.]]

"There might be a way around this part," you say, pointing at the lines that spell your sentence. It's actually about half-blank, since your judgement didn't happen the way that it was supposed to. "Since the main problem is that there's nowhere to send me, we just need to find somewhere to send me. Wherever in the Nine Hells that is." It's ironic, you think, the way that you're dooming yourself to your own fate. But it's not like you have any other choice. All things considered, you did still earn your own place in Hell. You've gone over this line a dozen times now, and it's still a little confusing, so you frown a little as you say it. "Now, the problem with //that// part is that there's a limited number of people who have the power to decide where to send me. Because paradoxically, in order to decide where someone can go in Hell, you need to have that soul already be part of your domain. As in, the soul is already being tortured there. But since I'm not being tortured anywhere, yet, there isn't exactly anyone who's in charge of me." At this part, Fig startles you with a smile, a toothed grin that stretches across her whole face. "Well, I know how to change //those// rules." "You would, wouldn't you." She smirks. "I'm the archdevil of rebellion, baby. This is just part of my job description." Fig snatches the papers from you, and the symbol of anarchy flashes to life on her forehead, burning in bright red. With her index finger, she scrawls on your death papers in flame: OWNER OF SOUL, FIGUEROTH FAETH. [[>Sell your soul to the devil.]]

Her words hang in the air briefly before searing themselves onto the page. Immediately, you can feel something in the core of your body //twist//, and there is a burst of stars behind your eyes. Your head suddenly hurts, really really badly. And so does your tailbone, weirdly enough. The sudden fireworks of pain escalate and sharpen into agony, your temples aching and pulsing as your back arches from the force of it. Your hands are clutching the carpet, then your head, and you can feel something — //something//, is changing the shape of your skull, wresting itself free from your forehead. Your spine is adjusting, too, to accomodate a sudden weight at the bottom of it, just above your butt: not a huge amount, but noticeable nonetheless. Your body is //hot//, more hot than you've ever felt before, even when you were being burned in lava, because the heat is coming from //inside// you this time. You can feel yourself curling up on the ground in the fetal position, and there's a voice in the room shrieking, screaming out. You realise that it's yours. [[>Cool off.]]

This time, Fig throws you a Bardic immediately, followed by a Healing Word after she realises you're still writhing on the floor in absolute agony. It does help, a little bit, offers a bit of a cooling effect to the fever of your skin. If you weren't so focused on the copious amounts of pain you're in, you would also notice the way that the gentle hum of the Bardic makes your ears pop and your sinuses clear. It is at least ten grueling, excruciating minutes before the pain starts to subside, and you feel the core of your body start to relax slightly. Something in your lower half is twitching, and the weight above your face has shifted to having two poles, one on your left temple, and one on your right. When you feel ready, you weakly raise your hand to feel around it. Ah. You have horns now. And by the weight and feel of it, even without looking or touching it, you can deduce that you have a tail. It is a miracle that you haven't passed out, you think, shakily pulling yourself upright into a sitting position. Fig helps you up, all wrought with barefaced concern. "Sorry again," she says, "never done this one before." "Could've fooled me," you mutter, but there is nothing behind it. You have had the longest fucking day in the history of Spyre. [[>Check yourself out.]]

Fig helps you stand up, and there's no full mirrors here but you catch yourself in the reflection of the drum shield. You can see the horns now, twin red pinpoints straight out of your temples that push your hair out of the way where they emerge. They're not-quite smooth, similar to the texture of bone, you realise, and they go outwards and then straight up before ending in a neat, short, point. It suits you, oddly enough, you think. Simple, uncomplicated. The tail is a different beast, and it feels entirely strange to have a new appendage stretched out behind you. It's torn a hole in the back of your skirt, you realise, from the sheer //size// of it, and it is stronger than you knew tails were: you were familiar with Oisin's, of course, but a dragonborn is much different from what you are now. You swish and flick it on instinct, and it feels oddly natural. Hilariously, you are still the same Halfling height. Perhaps the only Tiefling in the whole of Spyre to be just under three feet tall. You press a hand to your chest and feel nothing there but the gentle warmth of your own blood and skin. [[>Wonder.]]

Fig is watching your expression, and she giggles when you... well, you suppose, you feel curious, mostly, so you must look that way too. "Look at you! All deviled up," she says. Her smile has returned to her face, but now it's one of relief, and maybe, you think, of determination. You are still not exactly certain what you've signed up for, but she flicks her hand, and you can feel something new, something unusual, pulse within you. You've never felt magic in your body before: every time you've used it, it's been with a tool of some sort, or getting Oisin or Ruben to do it for you. But this feels like what Oisin had described when you had asked him about it, the flow of mana through the body like a soft, thrumming hum. "A heartbeat, but warmer, I guess?" he had said, scratching the back of his head. Experimentally, you mimic a gesture you've seen your friend do with his hands, and a bright blue ghost hand appears in front of you, hovering in space. Huh. You have spell slots now. [[>Be the Warlock.]]

You'll do it. [[>Accept the apology (for real this time).]]

You suppose this really is one way of making sure that you belong to //someone//'s domain. Fig seems a lot more cheery now that she knows that everything's gone right, or as right as it could have gone. She dusts herself off, practically humming with energy. "You're my Warlock now! I think!" She then pauses to look momentarily horrified, and clarifies, "not that it means that you owe me anything! I mean what I said. It's just a formality so that I can give you options." You have a feeling that she really did mean it. It's a strange thing for you to be shown kindness without expectation, and it still makes your skin crawl a little bit, but you feel marginally better. Which is scary. Good is a scary feeling. She ushers you out of the studio and into the hallway, towards a completely different part of the Bottomless Pit. She starts talking, again, as you walk. "So no real terms and conditions." "Right," you say, keeping pace with her. "You should be able to call me whenever you want, because of the connection. You don't have to do that if you don't want to, but you can if you need to. In a pinch." "Uhhuh." "I'll try my best not to bother you, but you're officially an emissary of mine now, supposedly, so there may be some duties that you'd have to attend to." "Yup." You are starting to find the energy that she's putting out overwhelming. "But yeah, once again, no expectations! It's really good. It's all good with me, Kipperlily. Can I call you Kipp? Sorry, sorry." "Kipp is fine," you say, absently. You had a task, a problem. Now you're done with that problem, kind of. Or at least, part of it is resolved for now. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean you know what happens next. And, you realise, your gut tightening, you feel pretty nervous about that. [[>Reach your destination.]]

Based on your pacing (Fig takes longer strides than you, but walks far more slowly), it takes you another fifteen minutes after that to reach where Fig had intended for you to go. It's a field with a collection of pools of thick, bubbling blood, most of them six feet or so across. It's not as huge as the endless football field you saw when you first got here, maybe a third of that at best. But as you watch, a shorter devil, maybe five feet tall and dressed in a full suit, languidly rises out of the blood, brushes himself off, and heads off to work. Fig chirps, "these are the commuting pools! People use them to get around here, and they're basically like portals to wherever you want to go. And like, since I own your soul now and I can decide where you go for the rest of your afterlife, I think it would be smart if I just, uh. Let you decide that for yourself." She pauses, then says quietly. "I can also send you back to the Material Plane, I think. If that's what you want." Your heart leaps in your chest. You kind of do. You do want to get out of here, to see your party. Live your life again. But there is also a lot gnawing at you. No matter how you feel now, you did still fuck over your entire party. There's a good chance that they will hate you forever and never want to see you ever again. You could make things a lot worse, going back. You are KIPPERLILY COPPERKETTLE. What will you do? [[>Get the hell out of here!!!]] [[>Face your patron and walk backwards into hell.]]

You turn to Fig, who's been waiting for your decision. "I think I still have things I need to figure out. Before I go back," you say to her, your voice quiet. "It might not be a forever thing, I think. But I just..." She nods, and swallows. "You just need time. I get it." "Yeah." "You turn to stare at the pools of bubbling liquid in front of you. It's not a rolling boil, more like a gentle simmer, and it doesn't actually seem to be that hot, compared to how you felt before. Come to think of it: the world doesn't feel as sweltering as it did prior to you entering the depths of the recording studio. You glance down at your skin, now tinged a pinkish-red, even amidst the general redness of Avernus around you. Gingerly, you step into the pool. The blood soaks up to your ankles, but doesn't seem to seep into your clothes. Your feet are dry. Huh. Weird. Gross. It's definitely blood though, it smells like iron, but it also smells fresh, untouched by the scent of rot. //Thank god//, you think, as you wade further into the pool, //you wouldn't want to be diving through someone else's germs//. Who knows where you'll go after all of this. Fuck, you could even go get a job. Wouldn't that be thrilling. Fig gives you a little wave once you reach the midpoint. "See you on the other side!" You roll your eyes, and fall backwards into the pool. [[>Dive as deep as you can go.]]

''CODA ONE.'' You pop out in a room that is dark, echoey, and smells of sweat and odorous socks. You groan. You know exactly where you are. You're in the Aguefort Adventuring Academy Gymnasium. Gross. You've arrived through the door, somehow, in the middle of the night. The lights are off, but you can hear the squeaking of sneakers and small moans of pleasure, which. Oh my god, //yuck//. Someone is in here. At least //two// someones. You smash the switch next to the door immediately, and the gym floods with bright fluorescent light. It lands squarely on two figures. "Applebees?" "Kipperlily?" "//Kipp//?" The two of them leap apart immediately, hair all mussed up and faces flushed. Kristen Applebees is exactly as annoying as you remember her, stocky and built, a look of pure befuddlement on her face. And well. Fuck that noise, your heart is going to leap out of your chest, because she's with Lucy Frostblade. Your Lucy. "Uh, heyyy, girlie. It's good to see you?" Kristen offers. "Oh my god, Kipp." And Lucy crashes into you, the kind of crushing hug that makes you instinctively grip her back. She's just aware enough to not get impaled on your new horns, but she squeezes you tight, and you let yourself be held, and close your eyes. "Luce, I'm so fucking sorry." The words slip out, less a statement and more like you bawling your eyes out. "Hey, hey! It's okay. It's okay, I've got you." Her words are firm, far too firm for the girl you love, the girl you murdered. You can't stop crying. Lucy is talk-whispering over your shoulder, probably to Kristen, you think, although you can barely make out what she's saying. Something very like, "we'll talk about this later!" and "are you sure??" You refuse to think about it any further. You don't have any space left in your brain. You don't even know why Lucy is being so fucking nice to you. You //killed// this girl. Very gently, she picks you up, still locked in her embrace. Your face is stuffed into her shoulder. You feel so gross right now. "Don't worry, Kipp," she murmurs. You can feel her pulling out her crystal, texting the rest of your party members. "I'll bring you home." ''END OF ROUTE.'' [[Credits.]] [[Go back to the beginning.->The Death and Afterlife of Kipperlily Copperkettle]]

No point in letting random strangers, familiar as they might be, deter you. Maybe you should just be hanging around and waiting for news of your ill-fated doom instead. You make the long trek back to the processing centre, images of your above-ground nemesis still lingering in your mind. [[>Wait your turn, no matter how long it takes.]]

"So you have this twerp of a goblin — not that there's anything wrong with being a goblin, mind you — just running around, making a fucking fool of himself. All through freshman year. And I didn't pay much notice at the start, because I just thought, what a fucking idiot, what an embarrassment. But then he went and ate the vice principal, and not only //that//, but turns out that he's got some fucking sad pathetic backstory to boot? Ohhh, that's fucking //rich//." "Like, I get that it's not his fault or anything. He was just born that way, with a dad who had the decency to die tragically and heroically or whatever. But it's not fair! What about the rest of us! I have had to struggle, and grind, and slog away for fucking //hours// in the woods, only for this guy to swoop in with his stupid name and get all the glory." "I think Riz is a perfectly nice name," Pok points out wryly. "Very traditional. I'd pick that one." "No, not Riz. The other name, //the Ball//." "Right, I see." [[>There's also his party.]]

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you note that the fountain is still running its streams of steaming water, making the air around you not only hot, but also terribly humid. Dribbles of sweat are running down your forehead, and you wipe it off with your sleeve so you can keep talking. "And it's not just Gukgak, it's his whole fucking party. They're all insufferable. Each of them is absolutely //deranged//, there isn't a single one of them that doesn't have something deeply abnormal going on over there. Applebees — I had been all ready to run my campaign. I had everything planned out. And this girl comes in, and she's like, //haha, guess I'll run for president for the bit!// Like, seriously? This doesn't even mean anything to you! Fuck off! You're doing this because you hate me! I have never seen Faeth go to class a single day of my schooling life, and they still let her multiclass about it! Then there's Seacaster, with his rich parents and annoying declarations, like //ahah, I'm Fabian Aramais Seacaster, son of Bill Seacaster//. Shut up! We all fucking know! You say it all the time! Go fly a fucking kite! Thank god Abernant and Thistlespring don't cause any problems, because if they did, I would fully go fucking //insane//!" You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "Me and my party: we all worked so hard. Multiple hours every single goddamn //day//. Rain or shine, we were there! We worked really fucking hard to be strong, we deserved it all! And these assholes would just saunter in, do one little quest, and suddenly they're the heroes of the whole school. Aguefort's little pet babies. He's always giving them some special quest, something that only they can do and no one else can, and what do the rest of us do? Dungeon crawl? Fetch quests? Find ten lost chickens and return them to a guy waiting outside his house? Who knows! It makes far more sense just to grind rats in the woods. Even if it sucks. You go out there, you die. Who's going to bring you back? You can only have so many diamonds stocked up." Pok says, "but you can still go on a quest, if you really want to." "Well, we finally did, and look how that turned out for us," you snap. "Are you afraid of dying, Kipperlily?" "Well I'm already here, so what does that matter," you snarl, and then freeze. [[>He knows your name.]]

He notices that you notice, so he drops the act. "Sorry, I should have said something," Pok apologises, one hand waving his cigar in the air, and the other shoved in his pocket. "My boy did tell me about you, you know." Of course. You wouldn't have expected anything less. Running to his Dad to tell him what a cool sick way he'd killed you, with the fancy little gadgets that Daddy had provided — there's no way that Pok wouldn't have known who you were, really, now that you're actually thinking about it. He takes a puff, then blows out the smoke into the steam of the fountain. The screams of the damned echo out from the depths of the Bottomless Pit in your silence. "He told me that he killed you, yeah. So that's how I know who you are. He didn't tell me all the other stuff, but his mom visits me, so I know a little bit more than what he tells me too." He sighs, a little forlornly. "He's a good kid, but well. I wish I could be around more for him. He's trying really hard." You bristle a little. The audacity of this guy, really, to say all of this to you. Who cares about what he thinks about Riz? Not you! The next thing he says catches you off-guard, though. "He did mention that he was a little sad the last time we talked about it. Said that you and him were more alike than he thought." [[>Be bewildered.]]

You are nothing like Riz Gukgak. You are prim and proper, and you do not let others push you around. You have a sense of self-worth. You do not wear stupid, ugly hats. You'd shown up to class every single day, until you hadn't needed to. You are smarter, better, far more capable than he is. You feel a strong urge to push this adult into the fountain. [[>Go on, try it.]]

He dodges deftly, swiftly, pulling himself out of your reach before you can even grab him off the bench. You hide immediately and disappear into the shadow of the fountain, trying to get the upper hand, but he //vanishes too, into thin air// — there's barely anywhere for him to go, surrounded by nothing but red rock and the depths of the Pit itself. You look around quickly, trying to spot where he might have vanished, but a low, suave voice in your ear says, "down, girl." And you are grappled instantly, face slammed into the grit of burning earth and arms held firm behind your back. "What, the fuck," you gasp out. [[>Get down.]]

You are already, so securely down. There is literally nothing you can do to get out of the vice grip that you're in, with your arms pressed gently but firmly against your back, held down by one of Pok's knees. Your face landed on its side, thankfully, so you don't immediately eat dirt, but it also means that you can see him frown at you. "Bad form, you know, to attack someone who hasn't even done anything to you." "My bad," you snarl, "you pissed me off." (As you say this, the hole in your chest aches immensely.) "What, me?" Pok says, looking unimpressed. "I'm just reporting what I heard. It wasn't even anything bad, in my opinion." You resent this. You resent being handled like a child. Being talked down to like you don't understand what's going on, like you don't know //exactly// what he meant. [[>Let him tell you what he meant.]]

Pok sighs in a long-suffering way, then runs his hand through his carefully gelled hair. "Look kid, I don't think he meant it in a bad way. Like, yes, he did say some impolite things about you too, and Sklonda did chew him out about it a little bit. But when he said you were similar, I think he meant it all around. Both the good and the bad." "You're both very talented Rogues, from what I know. I mean, finding Eugenia herself, in your junior year? That takes some real determination and spunk, and I know she doesn't exactly make it easy. So that's already one thing that the two of you have in common." Then, he chuckles lightly. "It's funny, you know. You find the same things annoying about each other, too." You groan. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." [[>Refuse to hear any of it.]]

Well, you can't, really, because you're still pinned to the ground. Pok only snorts at your disdain, and says, "well, you are. I love my son to bits, but when he's at his worst? Doesn't sleep, always hyperfocused, can't let go of anything. Holds grudges forever, that boy. He was like that when he was in kindergarten, I remember. He kept biting the other kids because they took his toys from him during playtime." //Well yeah, you would have too, if you were him//, you catch yourself thinking. "I worried about him, when I ended up over here, on this side of things. He's not the best at making friends," at this, you scoff, "and without me around, it became his Mom's job to take care of him." Pok is starting to look a little misty-eyed. "And I knew Sklonda could handle it, because Sklonda can handle anything. But it's hard to do it alone. Especially with a kid like Riz, because he's, well. He's so independent that he's hard to talk to, sometimes. And he doesn't ask for help at all, even when he needs it." Your shoulders tense up, and you let out an irritated sigh. //Well, doesn't that sound fucking familiar//, whines your conscience. //Shut the fuck up//, you think back, rolling your eyes. Pok adjusts the position of his knee a little, releasing some of the pressure from your ribs, but not enough to let you get up. "He told me what happened when he met the Rogue teacher," he says, "and about how even Eugenia said you two were alike. That if things had just been slightly different, you might have wound up the same way." //We are not alike//, you want to scream again. //This is Riz Gukgak, you're talking about!// But you say nothing, and stay sullenly silent. [[>He really just keeps going.]]

Of course he outclasses you. He can literally do anything you can do, but better. You can already feel the hot flush of annoyed embarassment on your face. You remember the day that Porter had pulled you aside and asked you how your training in the woods was going. At this point, you had had meetings with him alone twice. Before, he had asked you what your party was like, and you had told him about your friends; nerdy, scrawny Oisin, snarky and sharp Ivy. Mary Ann, quiet but blunt, and Ruben, sweet and corny. And Lucy, kind and gentle. Then you had mentioned that you trained in the woods almost every day, because you wanted to be strong. Very quickly, you had added on, you were working yourselves up to it, to going on some sort of bigger adventure together eventually. You just had to get yourselves ready for it first. He hadn't said anything, or been the slightest bit quizzical, only a gruff, "huh. Alright, okay." When he had asked you about training, again, you had chirped a bright response, rehearsed a billion times over with Lucy and Oisin, "it's going great! We're having a really good time practicing our different spells and skills." He had asked if you wanted some help with that, and if so he could bring something along for you. You hadn't been able to say no, really. When you had seen the bloodied carcass of the Purple Worm dragged in front of you by an enlarged Barbarian, Jace Stardiamond — "call me Jace, darling" — in tow, you had started to have second thoughts. Your friends had all exchanged looks with each other, Oisin and Ivy swapping Messages immediately. Mary Ann had been as expressionless as ever, but Ruben had shot you a quick look, eyes wide and brows furrowed, the one that you knew meant, "oh golly jee, what the hell." Unfortunately, Porter's eyes had roved over all of you before settling on your sweet little gnome buddy. "Hopclap, is it? You're up first," he had said. Ruben had closed his eyes tight before hitting the finishing blow. He had gone up by three levels immediately. [[>Snap back out of it.]]

There's nothing you can do about it now, anyway. Those skills are locked off to you now, and you can't exactly gain them back, you think. You can't really gain any more experience or unlock new skills when you're dead. That's the whole point of being alive, in this universe. When you're alive, you can do stuff. When you're dead, that's... Well. That's it, forever. You have seated yourself, teetering on the rim of the fountain, by the edge of the boiling water. Thankfully, it's large enough that you're outside of the direct splash zone, but you can still feel the heat coming off of it. You sigh in defeat. It's kind of embarrassing, really, for you, to be here in this situation. You, dead, here with your arch-rival's father, also dead, and having him wipe the floor with you while barely lifting a finger. Pok has settled back onto the bench, one leg crossed over the other as he leans back. He is still smoking his cigar, which seems to be never-ending, now that you think about it. Perks of being in Hell, you suppose. Huh. You //are// in Hell. Didn't Riz's dad die a hero, or something? [[>Why the hell is he here?]]

You voice your question to him, and this one he expects, it seems. He waves his free hand in the air dismissively. "Oh, I'm on business. I just finished hashing out the last parts of my deal with Captain Seacaster, and now I'm taking a break before heading back to the office." Then, he adds, "Fig has been kind enough to let me hang out here, and get her little guys to leave me alone. Which I can't say is a privilege that I have in every single ring of Hell." He winks at you conspiratorially. "I do have to keep a low profile, though. Can't pull out the old wings and halo, or it'll start attracting all the wrong kinds of attention." You can't really say that there's a right kind of attention to be attracting in the Nine Hells, but whatever. He laughs when you say that. "I mean, he's being piloted around by the guy I just made a business deal with, but Kalvaxus still has plenty of allies around here, so I do have to be a bit careful. During the meeting, he wouldn't stop bellowing over from the prow that I had tasted delicious, and that he'd eat me all over again if he could. Also, that's not even getting into everyone else I pissed off when I was alive. Even without all the spy stuff, I was still technically a diplomat. It tends to do that to you." He checks his watch, which you recognise as similar to the one that sits on Riz's wrist. "I should probably get going soon, actually. It's technically still office hours." [[>Watch him smoke.]]

He releases another stream of white smoke into the air, and you watch it join the rising steam above. You still resent the implication of you being similar to Riz at all, because //gross//, but at least his Dad seems marginally less grating. (You catch yourself almost feeling a little bit of admiration. Yuck.) "Hey, kiddo." He catches your eye again. "Thought experiment." "Yeah, shoot, I guess." "What would have happened," Pok says slowly, "if you had turned Porter down?" You. Hm. You'd never thought about it that way. Honestly, you realise that you don't know, when you think about it. "Well, I wouldn't have," you say, "because he was right. About everything." "Go on." "I mean, he was right that the world was unfair. That we had been mistreated, cast aside by those who were in power, and that the only way for us to move forward and be who we wanted to be was to seize that power for ourselves. And he was going to lead us there. Why wouldn't I want that?" Pok's voice is sharp, and his eyes glint. "That doesn't answer the question, my girl. What if you hadn't?" Images of your friends, bloodied and bruised, with their chests brutally ripped open and their guts spilling out onto the grass, flash through your mind. You flinch. [[>You don't know what to say.]]

"If I let you up, you have to play nice. I don't enjoy beating up teenagers, you know." "Yeah, yeah. Fine." He releases his grapple, and you push yourself to your feet, your ribs still sore from the pressure. Somewhere in your mind, a little traitorous voice remarks that he is //really// good at combat. It makes sense that he had been a superspy, or whatever had been going around the rumour mill when Kalvaxus had been defeated. "What kind of Rogue are you, anyway?" you ask, and your abrupt shift in questioning makes Pok actually react with a surprised noise. "Oh? Hm. Mastermind, actually." Oh, god fucking damn it. [[>Well, now you're miffed.]]

You really wish you could get up. It would be far less demeaning, but instead you're horribly stuck on the ground while Riz's dad waxes poetic about his son. "And now this Porter guy," Pok says, "well, he sounds like a riot." You stiffen. "Riz... well, he said that Porter had really done a number on you. That he'd put these... rage stars, in your chest, to control you. That he'd tried to steal a domain, become a god. That's why Riz had come to me to talk about Ankarna and all of that, because that had been the god he'd been worshipping. Well, good riddance, and all of that. Most gods don't take too kindly to those who would try to usurp one of their own, because they know they could be next on the chopping block for that kind of ambitious mortal. And the devils will have fun with him, here." Oh. //Oh//. You suddenly feel lightheaded. Porter is here. He's in Hell. [[>Defend your god.]]

"He didn't-" you huff. "He didn't control me." "Really?" says Pok. You can feel the skepticism in his voice, and it irritates you. "Because as far as I know, most teachers don't kill and resurrect their students to get them to do their bidding." "He didn't kill me. I chose to take the star willingly." "Is that so?" "Yeah." "Hmm." Pok takes another puff of his cigar. "That seems different from the others." "Yeah, because I helped kill them." "Yeah?" "Yeah." You're not proud of what you've done. But you know that you've //done// it, that this had been something you wanted to do, in that moment. You remember that glorious, gleaming twenty-four-pointed star, the energy that it had filled you with from the moment it had filled your chest. How it had invigorated you, how it had made you feel //alive//, in a way that nothing ever had. You shiver at the memory. It had felt worth it. All of it. To you, in that moment. You knew that. [[>Ask to be let up.]]

You are at a loss for words. No, he wouldn't have. Would he? //My god, maybe he would//, your brain whispers back. You try your best to shrug it off. "Well, I wouldn't have," you insist. You hate that your voice cracks a little when you speak. "But if I had. Well. Maybe, he would have found someone else, I think." "Really now," says Pok, blatantly unconvinced. You stare at your shoes, holes burned through your socks from lava damage. "Really." Pok sighs, and stubs out his cigar on the bench, then tosses it into the air. It lands in the waters of the fountain with a 'plop' noise, buoyed by the rapid bubbling of the waters. "Look, kid. This guy... He killed your whole party without hesitation. What makes you think that you would have been any different?" //You were different//, you want to say. That you had //known// Porter, in a way that the others hadn't. You knew how he liked his baklava (warmed, with a protein shake on the side), and you knew what he had planned for godhood. How he had wanted to restore his family name, how he had thought that wielding Ankarna's power could change things. For him, for all of you. You had believed him because you had known him, and you had known him because you had believed in him. You had been his pupil, his friend, his disciple. And he had been your god. But you can't shake the question. And it gnaws at you, nonetheless. So you say nothing, again. [[>Try to move forward.]]

Pok shakes his head, like he wants to say more, but isn't sure how. "Look kiddo- Kipperlily," he says, finally. "I'm not your Dad. I'm not even a teacher of yours. But I have a son, and I know what it's //like// to be a kid, even if that was a long while ago for me. I know what it's like to want to be brave, and be special. Those are important things. Ambition can be good, in small doses." "But don't let yourself get swayed by people who don't have your best interests at heart, just because they make you feel like you're worth something. Especially if they're older than you, especially if they're adults." He frowns. "Especially if they want something from you that they can't get anywhere else." You really don't want to think about any of this, and you want him to stop talking and walk away forever. [[>Back to the processing centre.]] [[>Well, fuck this guy.]]

You take it back. At least you never had to interact with Riz Gukgak for extended periods of time, just be endlessly annoyed by his cringey, overrated presence. His Dad, on the other hand, is far more insufferable because he simply won't //shut up//. (//Maybe he has a point//, the traitor in you offers.) (You are throwing rocks in your mind at yourself.) He can't be right. There's simply no way about it. You know what it's like to hide, to be sneaky. If Porter had had ill intentions towards you, you would have known. You would have //known//. [[>Storm off in a different direction.]]

You know which direction takes you back to the processing centre, so you snap, "don't fucking talk to me like you know me," pointedly ignore his reaction, and storm off in the other direction. It takes you maybe ten minutes of walking through burnt rock and scarlet sand before the anxiety finally gets to you. So you spend another ten minutes squatting near a lavafall, hands cupped around your mouth and trying your best to breathe in and out in any sort of regular pattern. You hate that your shoulders are trembling, and that you can't seem to get the rhythms of your breath right or normal. It's not just the lava falls and the heat of this place that's making you sweat, because you are so, so cold right now, shivers all over your skin and face and feet. Not only this, but both your head and your stomach hurt, and your chest is full of sharp, piercing pain, right in the place you know your gem would have been, if you still had it. For fucks sake, you are KIPPERLILLY COPPERKETTLE. No one should ever have the right to make you this rattled. Briefly, you wonder if it's possible for you to die a second time, in Hell. [[>Pull yourself together.]]

It takes you another fifteen minutes of squatting, by your estimate, before you have enough of a hold of yourself to move yourself further away from the searing heat of the lava, and sit with your knees pressed close to your miserable chest. Your god is gone, your friends aren't here, and you are fucking dead. You can't exactly lose more, because you've already lost it all. But you're fucking mad, still, so you hold onto that, because it's something that you know for certain. That you died angry, and that you're still really fucking angry. You hate being here. You hate being here so bad. You're not sure if you're physically tired: you don't seem to need to sleep, or eat. But you feel mentally //exhausted//. [[>Hang out here for longer.]] [[>Walk it off.]]

There's nothing here for you, but all of Avernus is exactly the same to you anyway. Not much point to walking further, when you have nowhere to go. [[>Examine the lava falls.]]

There's nothing here for you, so you might as well walk. [[>Walk.]]

You keep walking. [[>Keep walking onwards.]]

You move closer to the lavafall to get a better look. You are close to the inner edge of Avernus now, close enough that you can see where the molten rock tumbles off into the depths of the Bottomless Pit. Occasionally, you can hear a little 'ow!' echo its way up the walls, deep where you presume it must be splattering someone. The screams of the dead still fill the air, but here, they are also accompanied by a lot of bad rock music. You look at the lava, and think about falling in, again. It had hurt really badly, but it had also been over in an instant. You wonder what would happen if you stepped in it. [[>Step into the lava.]] [[>Have some sense, Copperkettle.]]

My fucking god. You drown in |A>[lava] for the second time. [[Try again?->The Death and Afterlife of Kipperlily Copperkettle]] \(click-append:?A)+(t8n:'dissolve')[ //(you receive (text: (random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)+(random: 1,10)) lava damage)//]

You tear your gaze away from the mesmerising call of molten rock. Does it make you feel awful? Yes. But you already feel awful, and you have enough of a minor sense of self-preservation that you know not to //drown in lava because you feel like shit//. [[>Think about what he said.]] [[>Refuse to think about it.]]

You really don't want to think about it. But you have a niggling feeling that if you don't, you're going to have another fucking panic attack, and the first one sucked enough. You sigh, drop into a squat again, and rub your temples. You know- well, you had known Porter, you remind yourself. He had been really nice to you, and taken good care of you. //Except when he hadn't//, you grimace. You'd tried to ignore it. After Ruben had killed the Purple Worm, his hands had shaken so badly he had dropped his ukulele and thrown up all over the grass of the Far Haven Woods. Porter had been unimpressed, and the rest of you had been too startled to move. Only Lucy had leapt into action, immediately rushing over to rub his back and check if he needed healing, a Healing Word or even a Cure Wounds. Jace had looked over and rolled his eyes. You had asked her why she had done it, afterwards. She had just shrugged, and answered, "I'm our Cleric. That's my job, Kipp." You'd turned a blind eye, afterwards, when she would slip away after training, citing her parents needing her to be home for dinner, and then turning in the opposite direction of the Frostblade family home. You didn't ask where she went, after that, because you knew. Porter had become very interested in her when he had found out both her family name and which goddess she worshipped. He hadn't said why, just said, "hm. Interesting." He had been the one to ask if she would be the Champion. He had been the one to sign her forms, the one to assure you that they would all come back just fine, after the ritual was done. And that it would make you able to harness his power, the power you would share together. [[>She hadn't come back.]]

You would literally rather step in the lava. [[>Step into the lava.]]

--- (link: "save game")[ (save-game: "mySaveSlot") (alert: "game saved!") ] // (link: "load game")[ (load-game: "mySaveSlot") ]

(unless: (passage:)'s tags contains "no-header")[ (print: (passage:)'s name) ]

She had been the last one to die. By the time you had gotten to her, you had already been done with the rest. A dagger to the throat, straight through the back, right through the heart: you had been fast, efficient. And Porter had been right by your side the whole time — you were always quick, but he brought the heat, and the power. He had lumbered through the woods alongside you, holding the world in his hands, little delicious gems made of beauty and pure, shining anger. When the others had woken up, they had been gasping, panting, eyes flashing red with rage and determination and the force of belief. And they had looked to Porter, and seen him like you had seen him. And they had //moved//. She had been the last one standing, retreated to where you knew she had been going after training all this time. Her little rat friends had scattered. (She had probably told them to run away. To keep them safe from becoming collateral damage.) She didn't get a chance to speak before your party members had attacked her. Ruben, with a roar of sound that scattered the birds and made her drop to her knees, hands on her ears in pain. Ivy and Oisin, quick to fire their own damage from a distance. Mary Ann, up front, slicing her axe across her chest. You, with the final blow, your dagger at her throat. "Careful!" Porter had snapped. "We need her body intact." She hadn't said anything before she had died; it had all happened too fast. But she had died with her eyes wide open. All you could have done, in that moment, had been to avert your gaze. Porter had placed himself over the body, his last shatter-star in hand, and stuffed it right into the bloodied, mangled bits of her chest. And you had all waited. The red glow had faded to nothing at all. [[>Your party had gotten to you first.]]

Walking. [[>Try varying your pace.]]

You are so deeply bored of walking at this point. You jog a little faster, just to have something to do. [[>It doesn't help.]]

You have been walking for what feels like hours, until you see a familiar landmark appear on the horizon. You groan. It's the fucking processing centre. You've circled this whole goddamn ring of Hell. [[>Oh, what choice do you have.]]

You walk up to the entrance, because what are you gonna do, go back the way you came? You're about 30 feet from the door when a devil with blonde hair walks out the door wearing pinstripes and looking very, very exasperated. They catches your eye and his expression changes immediately to one of pure relief. "Yo, Copperkettle! Over here!" You grunt in acknowledgement and walk up to them. They looks far, far more pleased now. "My god, the boss was going to kill me if we lost you in this place. We've been looking for you for ages! Your paperwork has some complications, so we can't let you move forward. She wants to see you." Ugh. Seriously. [[>Fine.->>Follow them.]]

It had taken a while for Porter to call it quits and leave. He had ordered you all to bury the body, so you had scraped at the dirt with your bare hands for hours. Then, he had bludgeoned multiple trees in the area, swept one on top of your best friend's dead body, and taken his leave, together with Jace. Only then had the red light faded slightly from the eyes of your party members, as the presence of their captor — your teacher, your friend — moved into the distance. And, when they realised what they, //you// had done? That hadn't been pretty. And there had been no one around to heal you. Your Cleric was buried six feet under. [[>You hadn't been able to sleep that night.]]

Not in the least because of your bruises and fractured bones. You had stumbled to the nurse's office, citing a training incident gone wrong, that you had been far too overwhelmed by the monsters you had encountered. Lied through your teeth and said that your party members hadn't been available, because you had been training solo. Two days later, after she had patched you up, you had broken into the office and scrubbed yourself from the records. You hadn't known till then, looking at it, that Lucy had signed against the form to change her god. In the present, you look into the abyss, and do nothing but scream. [[>Your voice is hoarse.]]

It is horrible, you think, precisely because you know it could have been you. You are still far too proud to cry. [[>Kick a rock into the Pit.]]

It enchants you, the idea of finding the nicest, most perfectly shaped rock to drop on someone's head, somewhere at the bottom of the (allegedly) Bottomless Pit. That you could put all the frustration you've ever had in your short little life (a lot), theoretically exile it into a lump the size of your fist, and wait for it to ping from the bottom. So you do. //One Mountport, two Mountport//, you count. At //nine Mountport//, you hear, "Helio's fucking //balls//, dude!" You can't help it. It makes you giggle. [[>Stumble your way back to the fountain.]]

You don't know everything, but you need more answers. So you walk determinedly back to the fountain, the gait of someone with a bone to pick. Pok Gukgak had mentioned that your god — well, he had //been// your god, you didn't know if he was //still// your god, if you still wanted him to be — your god was somewhere in Hell. That he was dead, that the Bad Kids had successfully defeated him. You didn't know how, still: he was far more powerful than you ever were, and you didn't think they could have done it on their own. Even your whole party, at its best, could never have knocked him down. That was why the rest of them had acquiesced to his leadership. Aside from the whole mind-control, shatter-star thing. Nevertheless, the goblin man might have more information on that than you do. And you can settle this. You don't know how, but you can put it to rest. [[>Return to the fountain.]]

The fountain is empty when you return, which is surprising. In hindsight, you probably shouldn't have expected him to stick around: he //had// said that he needed to get back to the Upper Planes at some point today. And it can't be easy for him to get back there, given how treacherous you know the Nine Hells are to traverse. You are still disappointed, though. To your knowledge, this had been your only lead, your only way of moving forward. The fountain is still spitting hot steam into the air, and Pok's discarded cigar butt has sunk to the bottom of the pool, now. The stickler in you notes that if it hits the drain, it might get stuck and cause the whole thing to clog. You shrug; it's not your fucking problem. Some poor soul of a devil will probably be on cleaning duty here soon, so you'd better scamper away if you don't want to get caught and shoved back into the processing centre waiting room for what's likely to be eternity. Your eyes meet the marble face of Riz Gukgak, set into a determined smirk. You frown back at him. The things Pok said about your similarities still grate on you, regardless of the truth of the matter. You still think he's annoying.Not quite, ‘stuff him in a trash can on the first day of school’ annoying, but maybe ‘never want to see him again if you can help it’ annoying will suffice. You realise there's something on the bench where Pok had been seated. [[>Examine bench.]]

It's a very small and ordinary envelope, you realise, the glue still sealed shut and the paper of it damp from the ambient humidity of the fountain. On the front, written in cursive, it simply says //Kipperlily//. You note that it's been written in fountain pen, probably the same one you spotted in Pok's pocket when he had been holding you pinned to the ground. Damn it. [[>Open the envelope.]]

You read it, because what else can you do. Your curiosity has always gotten the better of you. It reads: //To Kipperlily, Sorry for leaving early, kid. You walked off very abruptly and I didn't know whether or not I should follow you, but I thought I should probably give you some space. Plus, I needed to get back to the office anyway, so I thought I'd just leave you a little note, plus something for you to get around with, assuming you come back here.// At this, you curse, because you've been read for filth. //Sorry for talking about Riz so much: what can I say, he's my son, I love him. But it was probably rude of me to say all that to you when you did literally just die, from your perspective. I still stand by what I said, of course. From what I know, what happened to you wasn't right by any standards of teaching or parenting. You are, of course, fair to disagree with me. But I'll drop Eugenia a message asking for her opinion at some point. Did I mention that we went to high school together? Might have forgotten that.// At this, you groan, because of course they did. //I've put the number for her crystal below — she might have more things to say about it, now that it's all over for you, anyway. That's if you can get ahold of a crystal. They tend to be pretty sparse in Hell, and I don't have a spare one on me right now.// You sigh. You are never calling that number. //The other thing enclosed in this envelope might be of more immediate use to you, though.// This makes you squint. //It's one of my spares: from my deal with Captain Seacaster. A season pass for the Goldenhoard. You should be able to use it to get around the Nine Hells without any issue, if it's in the planned route of the Captain's ship. It's also got a little something extra tagged onto it, which will let you cast Pass Without A Trace on yourself and anyone traveling with you once a day, as long as you attune to it first.// You whistle. That //is// nice of him. //Take it as a token of trust from me. Riz said that you're a brat, and I'm inclined to agree, but you were also still his classmate, so I do feel a little responsible for you. I've let the Captain know that you'll be heading there in advance. Don't keep him waiting, he gets cranky.// //One last thing: give my son a break. I didn't die on purpose, nor did he suffer for years to get some sort of delayed glory for it. And he didn't have to respond to it the way that he did. He earned his heroism. You can earn yours, too.// //Best wishes, Pok Gukgak// [[>Pull the card out of the envelope.]]

This thing is nicely laminated, you note, pulling it out of the envelope. It's not every day that you find a nicely textured card of reasonable quality, especially in Hell. The card reads, "SEASON PASS TO THE GOLDENHOARD, FORMERLY KNOWN AS KALVAXUS, CAPTAINED BY CAPTAIN BILL SEACASTER, ARCHDEVIL AND FATHER OF FABIAN ARAMAIS SEACASTER, MAXIMUM LEGEND". Yet another Bad Kid you're going to have to avoid, then. Oh well, you'd survived the first round well enough. You are KIPPERLILY COPPERKETTLE. What will you do? [[Get the hell out of here?]]

''CODA TWO.'' You're not sure what you expected a pirate ship to look like, but certainly not like the gutted carcass of your ex-vice principal's soul. You've been waiting for the ship at the port of Avernus for a few days, keeping out of sight of the devils which move about, loading bottled souls and other odd, fiendish equipment onto the docks. Despite it having just left this ring, you had overheard that the ship was scheduled to dock a few days after your arrival, yet another reminder of the strange, non-linear passage of time in this place. The spell on the season pass had been more than helpful in relieving some of your worry. You hadn't exactly been sure what would have happened if you had been noticed by one of these guys here, but given that it was still quite literally Hell, it couldn't have been good for you. You had crouched yourself down behind a set of wooden crates when another minor devil walked by, then spotted something in the distance, and started yelling for people to ready the ropes. For some reason, you had thought that the ship being made of Kalvaxus' body as part of his eternal punishment had been more metaphor than literal, but as you will later come to realise, Bill Seacaster is a very literal man. The ship howls as hooks are thrown into his body, pulling it into port, and devils of all sorts start rapidly loading and unloading goods from the ship. You sneak on with ease, and manage to get yourself below deck without any trouble. When the ship takes off again, you've been lying on a different bunch of wooden crates for at least two hours. You're impressed. You work hard, but these devils work harder. Lithely, you lift yourself off the crates and make your way to the captain's quarters. You peek into the room through the window, but you can't exactly hear everything. He's having dinner, and the third, monstrous arm on his back with the hook is holding up a Tiefling in red clothing by the scruff of his neck. If it were you, you'd probably be distressed, but the Tiefling is kind of giving off an expression that says 'this is just a normal everyday thing for me', and the pirate captain is laughing while he chugs down another mug of beer. Hm. Interesting. You knock politely on the door of the room. From this angle, you can't see directly inside anymore, so it surprises you slightly when the Tiefling has been let down from his post to come open the door for you. "Hiya lass, how can I help you?" "I'd like to speak to the captain, please," you say, as prim as you've ever been. "The captain, eh?" murmurs Bill Seacaster, standing up from his chair. He squints at you through the door, and in a rush, is pointing his cutlass at your throat. "Never seen you before. What are you doing on my ship?" "I'm looking for passage." You, undeterred, flash your card in the air, proving your point. A look of interest breaks out on his face. "Ah, a guest of Pok's! Come in, my dear. Sit yourself down. Where are you looking to go?" He drops the cutlass, but keeps his right hand on it, his third hooked hand waving you into the room. You eye it, and you do not move further in. "I'm going to the ring of heresy. I'd like to find my teacher there." His smile is full of gold teeth and eyes far too wide open for your comfort. "Your teacher, eh?" he says. "Not many teachers committing that particular crime. But a little birdie told me recently about one who had just dropped in, not too long ago. Said he was giantkin, or something, and he had a scar running just so." Bill draws a line with his finger from the top of his head to his crotch. You don't say anything. Instead, you slowly move your hand to the dagger you'd lifted from an unsuspecting devil two days prior. Bill notices, and guffaws. "Now, now, girlie, I'm not going to hurt you. I honour my deals," he says. "What's your name, lassie?" "Kipperlily Copperkettle." His eyes delight with recognition. "No wonder! Pok did mention you were coming aboard a while ago. Said you were a Rogue, too." You stare him down, keeping as much of a poker face as you can. His eyes glint, anyway. "Tell me, Kipperlily. Have you ever thought about becoming a Swashbuckler instead?" ''END OF ROUTE.'' [[Credits.]] [[Go back to the beginning.->The Death and Afterlife of Kipperlily Copperkettle]]

''CODA THREE.'' You're dry, you think, which is still really weird. The next thing you realise is that you're cold. Like, really, really cold. The portal has dropped you off on a cliff, and so you peer over the edge to get a grasp of your surroundings. Beneath you is a lake of ice, with souls frozen and trapped in the waters, which is already quite distinct. This is in stark contrast to the volcano which has spawned on your left, and the giant fortress you spot in the distance to your right. Ah. The deepest ring of Hell indeed. You're in Nessus. You don't know what you expected, really. Perched on your mountainside view, you can see the path you would need to take to get to the fortress, and getting either frozen or burnt to death doesn't seem to appeal very much to you. So you set off for the large building in the distance. It doesn't take you as long as you expected to get there, mostly because you've given up waiting on things, and so you're much less conscious of time passing as you make the trek. Now that you have horns and a tail, it's much easier for you to blend in with your surroundings, so you just pretend that you're a normal little girl who enjoys torturing others and being rude for no reason. This isn't honestly that far from the truth at this point, so it's not super hard to pretend. You reach the grand doors of the fortress, and the guards seem weirdly fine with letting you in, because of how you look. You wonder if people have ever broken into here by just sending a Tiefling down. Also, you do suppose that when they ask where you're from, an inherited anarchy symbol flashes on your forehead automatically in response. Maybe it's really just that easy. They send you in with a guard, just a regular devil suited up in light armor with a little pitchfork, to make sure you stay on the right path and don't get lost on the way to where you want to go. As you walk, she informs you that they like to keep things traditional around here. Keeps the spirits up, she says. You can't exactly complain, although it makes you feel like you're in a costume store just walking around here. To your knowledge, the other parts of Hell tend to prefer formal suits nowadays, so many they still get visitors with expectations here. You make it to the throne room without any trouble. To your mild surprise, Asmodeus, the Raging Fiend, the Lord of Nessus, isn't exactly lounging at his post, waiting to threaten incoming adventurers. Instead, he's sitting at a desk in his dark robes, wearing glasses, and frowning at a computer screen. "Good god," he sighs, and then notices you're there. "Oh, hello there, little Tiefling. What are you doing here?" You straighten your back and put on your best 'teacher's pet' voice. "Are you hiring?" He looks a little nonplussed, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Well, I am having some issues that none of my current staff can seem to solve." He snipes a glare at the devil-guard who brought you in, who quickly excuses herself, then absconds to stand outside the room. Asmodeus stands up and leans over his desk to get a closer look at you. You do not fold. You look at him, steely-eyed, and repeat, "I'm looking for a job." "Huh." He says. "Listen kiddo. Are you any good at Hexcel?" You scoff automatically. "I'm extremely proficient at Hexcel." Asmodeus' face shifts, and he now looks like a cat with a bird dropped into its lap. His eyes gleam with hellfire. "Oh, excellent. That solves my problem exactly. I can be convinced to open up a position. What's your name again?" Outside, you hear the sound of someone screaming, and then the sound of something falling out of a window. There's the //thump// of that something hitting the ground, but its accompanied by the crash of metal on rock. "My name is Kipperlily Copperkettle." "Very nice. I think we could be great partners, you and I, Kipperlily." You smile a toothy grin. "Excellent." ''END OF ROUTE.'' [[Credits.]] [[Go back to the beginning.->The Death and Afterlife of Kipperlily Copperkettle]]

"So yeah, eventually we talked to Lucy and your other- the Rat Grinders, right, because how else are we supposed to make sense of all of this? And then they tell us how the shatter-star makes you feel, when it's lodged in your heart, and how it makes you feel. Like you could do anything. Like anything could set you off. And Riz was there, and Riz just said, god damn, because what else can you say to all of that?" You are nothing but quiet, so she adds, "Lucy told us what she remembered, too. What you were like, before all of this happened to you." Automatically, you tense up. "She said you had been so bright-spirited, so excited about the whole thing. You had really thought you were doing something good, that you guys were finally going to catch up- well, catch up to us, I guess. That this was a way you had thought that you could be as good as us at adventuring." Oddly enough, the words sound almost bitter on her tongue. "And I told her, Lucy, you //don't have to be like us//. It is //exhausting// to be like us. Aguefort always gives us the worst assignments, the absolute slop that he doesn't want to deal with but can't avoid or the world will end or some stupid shit along those lines. We're just convenient to him. We're just also, like. Good, at it, I guess." Fig laughs wetly, and shakes her head. "Sometimes, I hate all of this. I wish we could do less. That we could just be normal kids, not the Bad Kids. That's one of the reasons why I'm done. I wish it hadn't gone like this." [[>You think you might get it.]]

This Dimension 20 fanfic was written by Joan Radius! Find me on <a href="https://scalematey.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a>. This fic has also been cross-posted by me onto <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/65358556/chapters/168176605">Archive of Our Own</a>, where you can also leave kudos and comments! Thanks for reading!

Modern classic Say hi IH Trailer dropped Played by (Fig) Conversation with yourself (Kipp, Pok) Cis-her gal-a-them (Fig dyslexic, Kipp Sinkie Chinese) In Other Words (Epigraph at the front) In the Bulb We Trust (talking about Porter being Kipp's god loosely?) Happy D20 Exchange! Hey Girlie :) My OC, Now (Fig ending) My OC, Now >:) (Kipp one billion lava damage) Nuts and Bolts ''(>Ruminate on bureaucracy)'' You can be your own dad Cut your losses at one dead friend How did we get here (Kipp and Pok) Brighter than the sun, swifter than the wind (get the hell out of here!!) Ragh's my guy (the gay gym but specifically the Frostkettle dynamic. not the Kristen/Lucy that's just to assert that it's a gay gym) ''DIALOGUE PROMPTS'' "Good is a scary feeling." ''(>Be the Warlock.)'' "I'm going to throw up." --> "You're going to throw up." ''(>You don't have to accept the apology to move on.)'' "Penny for your thoughts?" ''(>Whirl around.)'' "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." ''(>Let him tell you what he meant.)'' "It's kind of embarrassing, really." ''(>Snap back out of it.)'' "I've never thought about it that way." --> "You've never thought about it that way." ''(>Watch him smoke.)'' ""no. they wouldn't? oh my god, they would." --> "No, he wouldn't have. Would he? //My god, maybe he would//, your brain whispers back." ''(>You don't know what to say.)'' "I'm throwing rocks at you in my mind." --> (You are throwing rocks in your mind at yourself.) ''(>Well, fuck this guy.)'' "Walk it off!" --> Walk it off. ''(>Walk it off.)''