You don’t really need all three poles broken, do you? One will be enough for whatever plan you and your writers have. I’m spitballing here, but maybe a rip in the tent that’ll allow Signet access? Of course, this would be after I’m dead. That’s all you’re expecting out of me, isn’t it? You’re serving your viewers something amazing either way. If I do it, awesome. If I fail, tragic. And no matter what, your program is drowning in viewers.
I have an offer for you. If you want these ratings to continue, I suggest you listen carefully.
This is what I’m proposing. I know you can’t help me in any way. That’s against the rules, and the last thing we want is to draw the ire of the system AI. But I want to be on your show. As a regular. If Donut and I both happen to survive past tonight, and I make it to the sixth floor, I will sign an exclusive agreement to only complete elite-themed quests on the sixth floor that are directly associated with Vengeance of the Daughter.
Look at the ratings you’re experiencing right now. I am told that new programs such as yours rarely receive anything like this. Most fail right out the gate. You probably went out of your way to place this circus near me and Donut in the hopes we’d stumble upon it. Now imagine the ratings if we continue to participate in this storyline.
You have thirty seconds after the end of this message to agree. If you do not agree, I am going to cut my hand again, and I am going to give Grimaldi here some of my healthy blood. And you know what that means. And after I’ve un-poisoned the vine, I am going to sit here for the rest of the night and enjoy the show. Nothing will happen, though I might spout some of these theories out loud. Signet won’t get inside. Your special guest star’s appearance will be a dud. After all this buildup, people will be pissed. It’ll be Geraldo and Al Capone’s vault all over again. You probably don’t know what that means. Translation. Nobody will watch this shitty-ass show ever again.
But if you agree, I have a plan. A good fucking plan that people won’t stop talking about. But I’m not going to attempt it without a deal.
Zev: This is not what we discussed.
Carclass="underline" Send it now. Quick before he dies.
Zev: They already heard it. My boss patched them in. We’re waiting for their response now.
Out on the arena, nothing changed. Down at the bottom of the bleachers, Apollon the ice cream-selling strongman looked up at me, and we met eyes.
Zev: Okay, they’re no longer listening. It’s a deal. They say, and I quote, “Let’s see what you got for us, Crawler. If your stupid ass can get out of this, we look forward to working with you in the future.”
Carclass="underline" You’re our agent, Zev. I want this to be official. On paper. Or whatever you guys do.
Zev: Don’t worry about that. It’s official. I have the power to sign on your behalf.
Carclass="underline" That’s terrifying, Zev. Okay, they’re about to be pissed off. If they ask, tell them I know what I’m doing.
Zev: Do you?
Carclass="underline" Fuck no. I’m making this shit up as I go along.
With that, I once again cut open my hand, and I dripped the blood on the root, healing the boss monster. Again, nothing changed. I had no idea if it would’ve worked or not, but at least for now, I wasn’t going to find out. I stood and walked down the bleachers, approaching the strongman.
As I walked down the stairs, I pulled up my inventory and found the Wisp Armor spellbook. I’d been holding onto it because it appeared to be super valuable, and I wanted to sell it. Donut asked me about once a day if she could have it, and I’d almost relented a few times. It was a magic protection spell, and it would be useful to her. But at the same time, I was supposed to be our party’s tank. I needed protection, too. I wanted to wait until I saw what sort of spells were available at the magic shop first before I decided what to do.
But I no longer had the luxury of waiting. I read the book’s description again.
Wisp Armor
Cost: 5 Mana
Target: Self Only
Duration: 5 minutes + 1 minute per level of spell. Requires 5 minute cooldown.
Surrounds your body with tendrils of light. While ineffective against physical attacks, this spell negates 75% of incoming damage from magic-based attacks. Provides temporary immunity to mind-control effects. Higher skill levels increase both effectiveness and duration. It also makes you look all wispy and ethereal and druid-like. A great spell to have if you’re a club kid or trying to bang a vegan.
I activated the book and added the spell to my hotlist. Because of that Heal spell I’d cast earlier, I had to take a mana regen potion to bring my available magic points back up to five. My mana regenerated faster than it had before, but it was still maddeningly slow.
I approached Apollon.
“Hey there, buddy,” I said. “You got any of them there ice cream cones left?”
“Yes,” Apollon said. The large, muscular ogre moved slowly but with deliberate ease. I wondered how strong he really was. I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out. He pulled out the mass of worms on a rotten cone, and he handed it to me. “Compliments of Grimaldi,” he said.
I looked at the wriggling mass of worms on the rock-hard cone. I cast Wisp Armor on myself. A six-minute timer appeared as sparkling lights started to twirl around me like a swarm of comets. I opened my mouth.
Like the sign said, no chewing was necessary. The worms glided right in, entering my mouth and sliding down my throat.
I met eyes with the ogre, who just looked at me. Even he seemed shocked I’d just done that.
You have been infested with a parasite!
“Delicious,” I squeaked as I tried not to vomit.
Do not worry. You are one of us now.
Yes, love. We will not feed you to the clowns. We don’t feed family to the clowns.
One of us, Carl. One of us. Gooble Gobble, Gooble Gobble.
We see your memories.
We are you. You are us.
The words spoke in my mind as I stumbled toward the exit. I felt them in my gut, writhing, expanding, growing. The Clammy Clown moved aside as I pushed through the exit.
No, Carl. We have use of you, and it is not safe for you out there. Papa Grimaldi cannot regenerate you like the others. She will kill us. She will kill you. You are special. No. Why do you not stop?
Something shifted in my gut. The worms stiffened, grew more rigid.
Carl.
This was a new voice. It wasn’t the all-voices-at-once of the parasites. This was Grimaldi.
Carl. No.
“Can you hear me?” I gasped. When I spoke, I felt the still-growing infestation enter my throat, like I’d swallowed a string that wouldn’t go away. I gagged. I felt the ends of the worms growing up into my mouth.
Carl, I can hear you. Our minds are one. I know what you are doing. Come back. Please, come back.
I felt the mental tug that attempted to get me to stop, but thanks to my Wisp Armor’s ability to negate mind-control effects, I still had autonomy over myself, but only for the next five minutes.