NUMBER 0: We have pissed. Maybe even shat. Did a little handwashing, potentially. And now… we are back.

NUMBER 1: It’s old man in the shed time.

NUMBER 3: Let’s go!

NUMBER 0: So Middleburg Nickelhead is standing there in the shed after failing to smash a doorknob with a hammer and throwing that hammer, and the old man is standing at the gate with a baseball bat. He notices you noticing him, and says, “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

NUMBER 2: “Where are they?”

NUMBER 0: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you had better get the fuck out of here before you get dragged outta here to a hospital.”

NUMBER 2: “Seven people had me thrown over a bridge. I know one of them is hiding here.”

NUMBER 0: “You’re the only motherfucker who’s gone rooting around in my property. Now I won’t say it again: fuck off, or you’re only at the Lord’s mercy.”

NUMBER 2: “Are you harboring them? You can’t protect them from me!” I take the pitchfork and stab it through the door.

NUMBER 0: Quick muscle mass.

Number 2 rolls a quick 10.

NUMBER 2: Yup.

NUMBER 0: You stab the pitchfork all the way through the door. If anybody was inside of there, they definitely would have screamed in pain. You hear nothing, though.

NUMBER 4: It’s fight time!

NUMBER 3: Get ‘em!

NUMBER 0: He goes, “I fucking warned you!” and marches ahead with the steel bat.

NUMBER 2: I need to tear the pitchfork out and smack that bat out of his hands.

NUMBER 0: Roll for… let’s say muscle + stamina. You’re working yourself quite a bit. Just roll better than a 2.

Number 2 grabs the D20 and gets a 5 roll.

NUMBER 2: Just barely.

NUMBER 1: Oh!

NUMBER 0: Before he can even swing at you, you tear that pitchfork out, wing it all the way around, and if you don’t quite hit the bat out of his hands, you hit his arm far enough off course that you have time to act again.

NUMBER 2: Keep the momentum going, swing it back around and pin him into the tractor with it. And drop the hammer so I can do that with both hands.

NUMBER 0: Hell yeah. I don’t suppose a stat check is needed for using momentum… although, you are in a pretty tight space, and that’s a long pitchfork. Try depth perception again.

NUMBER 2: You mean you want me to fail again.

NUMBER 1: Precisely. It’s funnier that way.

Number 2 rolls dispiritedly and lands a 4.

NUMBER 2: Right. That’s right. That’s what I thought.

NUMBER 0: Oof. You really try to keep that pitchfork’s momentum going, but get it caught on doorframe of the room on the side wall. The makeshift office one.

NUMBER 2: I knew that room was cursed.

NUMBER 0: With you left vulnerable, this guy has a second to recover and get that bat swinging back at you. And… hm… what stat would work to check like, dodge reflexes? How about… yeah, I think improvisation works. Roll improvisation to check if you can react to this guy in time.

NUMBER 3: The heat! The heat!

Number quietly rolls the D10, landing a 7.

NUMBER 2: Improvisation is 2, and that’s… goddammit.

NUMBER 1: One short. Ouch.

NUMBER 0: Ouch indeed. You try to pull the pitchfork out of the room, but just get it stuck on the doorframe again as the man cracks the baseball bat onto your right shoulder.

NUMBER 3: Ah!

NUMBER 1: Oh!

NUMBER 4: And this is made of iron? Fuck.

NUMBER 2: Well, so is at least 20% of my skeleton. This hurts me less than it would you.

NUMBER 0: Yeah, but it still hurts like a motherfucker. It doesn’t break anything in you—maybe one of the spikes in your skeleton absorbed most of the shock—but that's gonna leave a fucking mark on your skin. You get—wait, roll body stability first.

NUMBER 2: Why did nobody else get thrown in a near-death situation for their intro?

NUMBER 0: We still haven’t done Rob yet.

NUMBER 3: I don’t think you should put Rob in a near-death situation.

Number 2 rolls a 6, above the needed 4.

NUMBER 2: There we go. Finally.

NUMBER 0: Okay, you aren’t knocked onto your ass. You manage to keep your footing after that strike, and can recover the pitchfork. So now this guy is in front of you, baseball bat in hand, preparing to nail you again, and you’re here with a pitchfork firmly in tow.

NUMBER 1: Stab him in the head.

NUMBER 4: Please don’t stab this old man defending his property in the head.

NUMBER 3: I think I second Number 4.

NUMBER 2: But isn’t ownership of private property theft? Who gave this man the right to buy up a piece of the land and take it away from everybody else?

NUMBER 4: He’s just running a little farm by his house. Don’t kill him, dude.

NUMBER 1: He just fucking hit you with a baseball bat because you were too stupid to unlodge a pitchfork from a doorframe. Fucking end him.

NUMBER 0: Curious. Do you listen to the angels on your shoulder telling you to be peaceful, or the devil telling you to kill this guy? Does this have the auspices of a morality check?

NUMBER 2: My morality is 2. If we roll for that, it’s going to fail.

NUMBER 0: There is an 80% chance that it will. Or—eight or higher is three numbers, so there is actually a 70% chance of failure.

NUMBER 4: You’ve got to try. Three out of ten numbers you can roll will save that man.

NUMBER 2: What else can I do other than stab him?

NUMBER 4: Block the baseball bat when you tries to hit you again, kick his feet out, and run.

NUMBER 2: Or I could hit him in the head with the stick part.

NUMBER 1: Bro, just stab him. What are you doing?

NUMBER 0: Is there some non-morality-based reason that Middleburg would choose not to stab the man?

NUMBER 1: You can’t block an iron bat with the wooden handle of a pitchfork.

NUMBER 2: No, no. Postpone the moral questioning. To immediately stab this guy when I’m threatened would be pathetic. I need to take him down, then decide whether to spare him.

NUMBER 0: Do we want to integrity check that?

NUMBER 2: Fuck.

Number 2 quickly nabs the D10.

NUMBER 2: Give me a 5.

He rolls a 4.

NUMBER 2: Fuck!

NUMBER 3: Oh no.

NUMBER 0: Guess not. The choice is now, Middleburg: is it life or death? Or at least attempted death?

NUMBER 4: Come on, Number 3. Focus our positive energy together and make that dice roll an 8.

NUMBER 3: On it.

Number 3 closes his eyes and focuses real hard. Number 4 follows suit.

Number 2 carefully holds the D10, shakes it cautiously, and lets it roll. He lands a 6.

NUMBER 2: Guess not.

NUMBER 4: No!

NUMBER 3: It didn’t work!

NUMBER 1: You guys are fucking losers.

NUMBER 2: It’s not my fault I can’t win a single fucking roll that matters.

NUMBER 4: Grand Master! Help!

NUMBER 0: Oh, sorry, is this a bad time to mention that in all the time you spent deliberating whether or not to stab this guy, he swung the bat straight down and broke off the fork part of the pitchfork? You’re holding a stick now, Midburg.

NUMBER 3: Holy!

NUMBER 4: We did it! It worked!

Number 1 groans.

NUMBER 2: Okay, but I can still hit him across the face with the splintered end.

NUMBER 0: You certainly can. While his bat is down, you can whip the stick up and smack him right in the face, and leave a nasty jagged cut along his cheek and forehead. Big owie.

Number 3 shudders.

NUMBER 4: This is better.

NUMBER 0: He’s stunned now.

NUMBER 2: I don’t have a moment to waste. I'm charging right through him and out of the shed.

NUMBER 0: Do we wanna roll stamina again just to check your energy to do that?

NUMBER 2: I don’t want to, I’d like to just do things and have those things work.

Number 2 gives a quick D10 roll, getting 10.

NUMBER 2: How many 10s is that now that weren’t necessary?

NUMBER 0: Nice. You’ve still got the juice. You fucking plow right through this guy as he reels from that wooden slash on his face, and you escape the shed with ease.

NUMBER 2: I’m taking it to the house now. If this guy just came out to confront me, then I take it his front door is unlocked.

NUMBER 0: You rush to the front of his house. It’s not particularly large, about a couple hundred square feet and two stories. You try the front door. It is, in fact, unlocked.

NUMBER 2: Barge in. Start tearing this place apart. Wherever a person could be hiding, check it.

NUMBER 0: Absolutely. But first… I feel like an improvisation check is due. I mean, you’re moving quickly and there’s a lot of ground to cover.

NUMBER 2: Is this meant to imply that somebody is hiding here?

NUMBER 0: It’s just to check your searching abilities. That’s all.

NUMBER 2: My improvisation is still a 2, so this isn’t going to work.

NUMBER 0: I mean, it could.

NUMBER 2: It won’t.

Number 2 quickly rolls a 4.

NUMBER 2: Right.

NUMBER 0: Dang. So you get right to work, albeit not very efficiently, running through the living room and start flipping over furniture and checking cabinets in the kitchen. You scramble room to room, from garage to laundry room to bathroom to dining room, up the stairs, through bedroom and bathroom and storage room and closet, back down the stairs, searching every dark corner, behind every curtain, back upstairs, turning over beds and dressers and chests, back downstairs, reopening every door and cabinet, checking the showers one more time, going back upstairs—you wreak absolute fucking havoc, and discover nothing.

NUMBER 4: I love how fully you’ve committed to this objectively terrible decision to search this innocent guy’s entire property.

NUMBER 2: The roof. Check the roof.

NUMBER 0: You grab a wooden chair and chuck it through the bedroom window.

Number 4 sputters laughing.

NUMBER 2: I don’t dispute that action.

NUMBER 1: Yes!

NUMBER 2: Although I’m going to have a hard time getting outside.

NUMBER 0: The window is made of tempered glass, it won’t cut you if you jump through it.

NUMBER 2: That’s convenient.

NUMBER 0: So yeah, you jump out onto the roof, or at least a subsection of it, look around, up top, down, the whole surface—no harboring bridge fugitives.

NUMBER 2: Take me to the backyard.

NUMBER 0: You jump off the roof into the backyard.

NUMBER 3: Jesus Christ.

NUMBER 0: Luckily you were only about 10 feet in the air and landed with a safe little roll. The so-to-speak “backyard” is really just a patch of land between the half-acre crop field and a couple farm vehicle sheds. You see a burn pit kept within wire fencing, a swing set, some spare tires, and a tool shed that, coincidentally, the missing hoe and shovel are lying against.

NUMBER 3: Sonuvabitch.

NUMBER 2: My abhorred. Is the tool shed open?

NUMBER 0: It is shut. And it’s kept shut with a padlock.

NUMBER 2: I want to open that shed. And I’m breaking it open with the hoe.

NUMBER 0: Okay, cool. This one’s going to have the same depth perception issue though.

NUMBER 2: Oh, I’m not hitting the lock. Break the door down. I’m about to show Brad how it’s done.

NUMBER 1: Eat my ass.

NUMBER 0: Interesting. Roll muscle just in case.

Number 2 rolls a safe 8.

NUMBER 2: Break me a door down.

NUMBER 0: Sweet. You grab that hoe and take that door to fucking pound town. You chop into it like it’s the fucking Shining. And without even hitting at it sideways so you’re plowing aligned with the wood grain—you’re just fucking slamming the hoe into it, messily breaking through layer by layer. You chop a pretty sizable hole in, enough to fit your hand through. Now this isn’t like a tiny shed for the record, I’d pin it at about 6 x 8 feet. There’s some light peering in through your hole, but not enough that you can fully see inside to make sure nobody is hiding there.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

NUMBER 2: Grab inside and rip the door out.

NUMBER 1: You could just break the handle. Like a smart person.

NUMBER 2: Neither of us are that.

NUMBER 0: So… as you grip your first hand at the hole you’ve plowed, other hand still holding the hoe… you feel a thing of cold metal press against the back of your head.

NUMBER 4: I fucking knew it. How did you forget about the guy for so long?

NUMBER 3: Is he carrying a shotgun?

NUMBER 1: Oh, you’re fucking dead. This is what you get for failing that one brain activity check.

NUMBER 0: This guy is just holding you there. So you have ample time to react however you wish. If you wish.

NUMBER 2: I’m not surrendering. I… shit. I’m pulling a professional combat move here. Hold the hoe behind my back, quickly rotate it to hit the thing away from my head, then whip around behind him and launch him through the door. Is that going to be muscle mass again?

NUMBER 1: Shit.

NUMBER 4: Aw, man.

NUMBER 0: I think that’s going to be stamina. You were just expending quite a bit of energy smashing that door.

NUMBER 2: I have infinite energy. You’ll see.

Number 2 rolls out a 4.

NUMBER 2: It’s so easy not getting 1’s.

NUMBER 0: Yeah. Damn. You still got it in you. You fucking—you pull your fucking karate maneuver with your garden hoe, whap his metal bat from your head, spin around behind him, and fucking kung fu kick him right into the door. Now this alone does not break the door down because he’s a flimsy old man who weights a hundred pounds, but the door is certainly shaken.

NUMBER 1: Sparta-kick that motherfucker through the door. Rupture all of his internal organs.

NUMBER 4: Don’t do this again.

NUMBER 2: Oh, I also want to grab the bat out of his hands as I’m kicking him into the door.

NUMBER 0: So it is. You have his metal bat now.

NUMBER 1: Make his head go splat!

NUMBER 3: Don’t!

NUMBER 4: What the fuck is wrong with you?

NUMBER 0: Is this a true story we’re telling here? Are we controlling real life avatars? Let loose a little, you fucking babies.

NUMBER 2: How about a compromise: instead of kicking him in one area and concentrating a lot of damage, I dropkick him with both feet. It’s more likely to break the door down and less likely to kill the old man, and my objective is breaking the door down.

NUMBER 4: I… I guess.

NUMBER 1: Sure.

NUMBER 0: Alright, I think I’ll let that pass. The old man is pressed face-up against the door and its smashed hole, completely harmless, and you just fucking jump horizontally through the air and blast this guy through the shed door.

NUMBER 4: This poor guy! You just broke into his storage shed and his house and beat the shit out of him when he tried to defend himself!

NUMBER 2: We’re all morally ambiguous characters. You would have fought back too if you were just thrown off a bridge.

NUMBER 1: I’m the only one who isn’t morally ambiguous, actually. And I’m still the only one telling you to kill people.

NUMBER 0: Yeah, Brad is supposed to be the righteous guy of the squad, why are you the one being his devil on the shoulder?

NUMBER 1: Because somebody fucking has to!

NUMBER 0: Okay. You have crippled this old man and broken at least one bone in his chest, he is lying flat on the door on the ground and will not be getting up. You can see inside the shed now, and nobody is hiding in there. Dead end.

NUMBER 2: Could they be hiding in the crop field?

NUMBER 0: Not unless they turned into mice. The crops are only growing a foot out of the ground.

NUMBER 2: Can I pick the crop to see what it is?

NUMBER 0: Absolutely. Upon inspection, you see that it’s a crop that grows into the ground like potatoes or carrots. But you don’t pull anything potato or carrot-like from the ground; it’s actually a bunch of berries.

NUMBER 3: Whoa!

NUMBER 0: This is what the locals call the cenkberry, named after a Turkish botanist. It’s a deep black but kind of shaped like a wobbly teardrop, and much stiffer than your average berry. The stem is also so hard that the berries are usually detached with scissors or a knife. Gives a little extra fiber when you eat it, y’know? It evolved this way because obviously it’s an underground plant, and if you’re pulling a regular bunch of grapes from the ground, you’re going to lose a lot of those grapes in the dirt. So biology made things all nice and convenient. Sinking your teeth through a berry’s hardened skin takes some work, but it’s sweet as fuck on the inside. Tastes quite delightful.

NUMBER 2: Cool. I’ll take a bunch with me then. Stuff it in my pocket.

NUMBER 3: You’re gonna eat berries out of your pocket?

NUMBER 2: Unless we have magical inventories like D&D, yeah.

NUMBER 0: You’ll get proper backpacks later. For now, you just have your pockets.

NUMBER 2: I’ve gotta be well fed for this wild goose chase I’m on.

NUMBER 1: Uh, yeah, this is definitely taking a while.

NUMBER 4: How long have we been here?

NUMBER 0: The real question is, how long do we have to go?

NUMBER 2: If this place is a dead end, then I’m going to the house I should I have gone to in the first place. Where is the closest house or barn or any indiscreet building in the direction of the bridge?

NUMBER 0: Nearest you, there is a large plot of land that curiously hasn’t been used for farming purposes, and will require a long walk through a grassy plain with a handful of trees, some garden plots, and a decently-sized pond. On the far end of that property full of freshly-mowed grass is a comfy humble little house, with a separate garage structure and a small shed like the one you just busted open.

NUMBER 2: Take me there.

NUMBER 4: Here we go again.

NUMBER 0: You walk. You leave the current property you have just completely destroyed, and walk into the next, and its beautiful chunk of shaved nature. There are absolutely zero signs of life anywhere you look on this property, critters or fish or otherwise, unless you count algae in the pond as life. But you can stand under the shade of a tree and feel nice.

NUMBER 2: I’m gonna eat another cenkberry under there.

NUMBER 0: Nice. Maybe we could do a fingernail check to see if you can slice off one from its stem.

NUMBER 2: With a fingernail score of 7? Game.

Number 2 rolls a 10.

NUMBER 2: Critical fingernail success.

NUMBER 0: You fucking chop that cenkberry loose into your mouth without even trying. Flawless.

NUMBER 1: You’ll find any way to drag this scene on for longer.

NUMBER 0: That’s right. So, Middleburg… as you come closer—within earshot—of the house, you notice something peculiar. There’s a distinctive… arguing happening within the walls. One voice close to shouting, another one shouting a little bit quieter, back and forth. But the contents of what’s being shouted are lost between the walls. You can only hear the mumbled echoes.

NUMBER 3: Are we about to walk in on a domestic dispute?

NUMBER 1: If so, now you have no excuse not to kill somebody.

NUMBER 2: Specifically two voices? Arguing with each other, while still trying to stay subtle? I don’t buy it. I’m going in.

NUMBER 0: And you’re still carrying that baseball bat.

NUMBER 2: That I am. Now please quietly approach me to the front door.

NUMBER 1: Do you still have that hoe? Now would be the time to do The Shining bit.

NUMBER 2: Carrying both a heavy wooden bat and a long unevenly-weighted hoe would be very inefficient. I’m sticking with the bat.

NUMBER 1: What if you stored the hoe in the back of your shirt?

NUMBER 2: And fucked up my balance and center of gravity? We’re not doing a Dark Souls roleplay. And that’s nothing to say of what that would do to my ability to bend over. If I’m lodging it in my pants, I won’t be able to bend my entire upper body with that giant fucking stick locking everything straight up. What if someone swings a sword horizontally at my head? Am I supposed to drop onto my ass to dodge it?

NUMBER 1: Okay! Point made. No Shining bit today.

NUMBER 0: You could still try with the bat.

NUMBER 2: I’m not intending to make a dramatic entrance that gives the people inside time to escape.

NUMBER 0: Understood. So, you calmly and conspicuously make your way to the front door. The arguing inside is a bit more legible now. Do you listen in or make your entrance.

NUMBER 2: Listen.

NUMBER 0: You hover your ear next to a crack in the door. A guy inside hisses, “Go get your fucking phone now!” The other yells back, “Do you even know where the fuck he is? How many minutes have you wasted shittalking while he’s been out there looking?” And the other replies, “Rhodri! I’m not fucking around! We need to fucking leave this town immediately! Go back out there and get your goddamn phone!” Rhodri says, “Fuck you, man. Fuck you. You’re just using me as fucking bait. Well I’ll tell you fucking what,” and you hear footsteps coming closer to the door. “I’m more than a fucking pawn. And if you let me get fucking killed out there, you’re gonna be in the deepest shit of your life.” The other goes, “That won’t mean shit if we’re both fucking dead. Now go! NOW!”

NUMBER 3: Oh boy.

NUMBER 0: And Rhodri, right at the other side of the door, says, “We’re gonna die no matter fucking what if I blow our cover, you shitbag!” The door swings open. But Rhodri is still looking behind him. “Backup is fifteen minutes away, at least!” And he turns his head. And you are right fucking there, holding a baseball bat.

NUMBER 4: Fuck!

NUMBER 2: Right upside the chin. Make a dent in this bat.

NUMBER 1: Let’s go!

NUMBER 0: Before either of these guys can even scream in fear, that baseball is firing into an upswing, and you fucking home-run this guy’s head, and he flies back over five feet. The fucking ding sound against his chin was on decible-par with a church bell. And Lord only knows what that did to Rhodri’s teeth, discounting the potential/guaranteed brain damage and broken jaw. He is fucking out.

Number 1 cheers. Number 3’s jaw is hung open in shock.

NUMBER 4: I feel less bad about this than the old man because these are like 19-year-olds, but… God.

NUMBER 0: Once Rhodri’s knocked-out carcass hits the ground, the other guy straight ahead starts panicking. “Holy fuck! Please, dude, fuck! Look, we can talk about this! We can—” He grabs this small black sleeve band from his pocket that fits around his fingers, and backs away around the corner in the kitchen.

NUMBER 1: A finger sleeve?

NUMBER 0: Yeah, it’s just a cute little accessory band to keep his main fingers warm.

NUMBER 2: I’m gonna step over Rhodri and follow him over nice and calmly.

NUMBER 0: You walk over Rhodri, whose eyes are hanging half-open and twitching. You appear over the corner where the guy is still backing up, moving through the kitchen hall to another living area, and you see him with the sleeve band on his hand striking against some fuzzy patch on the side of his pants. It looks like velcro, and he’s hitting it like you would when trying to light a match. And you can swear you’re seeing tiny sparks come out every time he strikes it with the band.

NUMBER 1: What’s this guy cooking?

NUMBER 4: I think you should stop whatever he’s doing.

NUMBER 2: Keep following him, and when I’m close enough, jump out and lash his arm with the bat.

NUMBER 3: I got a bad feeling about this.

NUMBER 0: You follow him as he backs out of the kitchen and halfway through the dining room around the corner, up against the wall next to a door seemingly leading back to the living room, still attempting to strike at that patch on his thigh. And the more it doesn’t work, the more he freaks out. “Come on, fuck, come on! Look, man, I don’t know what the fuck you want from me, but there isn’t shit that you’ll get from this! I don’t operate alone!”

NUMBER 2: Keep getting closer.

NUMBER 0: You come within eight feet of him, and he panics and opens the door. He stands in the middle of the doorway, striking the patch even more incessantly.

NUMBER 3: Get him already!

NUMBER 0: Number 2, roll for improvisation.

NUMBER 2: What’s happening here? You know I’m not getting an 8 or higher.

Number 2 rolls a 4.

NUMBER 2: Of course not. Do I miss him with the bat?

NUMBER 0: He strikes at the patch one more time, and a lot of sparks fire out from that. His finger band starts aggressively sparking too like a tiny firework, and then those sparks cascade into a colossal projectile firestorm, blasting out of control across the ground and the walls like a handheld flamethrower, before he aims it at you and you're engulfed in an avalanche of fire before you can think to react. It only hits over you for a second, but it hit like the fucking hells washing over you. The guy loses control of the firestorm further, backing away into the living room and shooting flames all over it too.

NUMBER 1: What the fuck?!

NUMBER 4: I want that finger band.

NUMBER 3: He was just hanging out with that in his pocket?

NUMBER 2: What… the hell?

NUMBER 0: Middleburg’s body cools down nearly as fast as it was just toasted, but the stinging pain of it lingers, as does the several little fires on your clothes.

NUMBER 3: Stop drop and roll! Stop drop and roll!

NUMBER 2: Tear my shirt off and pat off my pants. Run to the living room through the kitchen. What the hell is going on in there?

NUMBER 0: Well, the house is burning down. The spots on the walls and the floor where the firestorm hit in front of you are still burning, and spreading. You run into the living room to find things look worse. The guy is lying in the middle of a charred and actively burning shitfest, with the finger band sputtering out its last breaths of flame. The furniture around has been completely engulfed, massive lines across the walls and ceiling are burning, half the floor around has been ignited including by the entrance and all over the back door behind you, and Rhodri’s unconscious body is currently transitioning into a charred corpse. And he’s too cerebrally shocked to move.

NUMBER 4: No! Not Rhodri!

NUMBER 1: First death! We did it!

NUMBER 2: Jesus fucking Christ.

NUMBER 0: The fire sleeve finally dies out, and the house fire is getting worse very quickly. Curiously, no fire alarms go off. Must have not changed the batteries.

NUMBER 1: Did I hear you right? Was that guy standing by the back door before and he ran to the kitchen instead?

NUMBER 4: Wait, where are the owners in all this?

NUMBER 0: Long gone. One of the doors must have been left unlocked, because there were no signs of forced entry you saw. But anyways, Middleburg, you’re standing here with this guy in the center of a burning house. It’s getting hotter in here.

NUMBER 2: I’m gonna ask him, “Are you Andrew?”

NUMBER 0: He just looks around in a panic. “I—fuck, man, I—” And he looks over at Rhodri’s burning body. “Oh, fuck! Oh fuck! Fuck! Rhodri! Shit! Oh god!”

Number 4 quietly whines.

NUMBER 2: “Focus! If you want to leave here alive, you will tell me what I want to know!”

NUMBER 0: “What the fuck are you—? No, we’re—we’re fucking dead, dude! We’re fucked!”

NUMBER 2: He elicits a groan from me. I walk through the burning ground, pick him up by his shirt, and throw him outside through the front door.

NUMBER 0: I don’t doubt the balls on that man to walk through active flames. But that won’t protect you from the smoke. Roll immune system.

NUMBER 3: Uh oh.

NUMBER 2: I’m going to need a 7. I’m not holding my breath.

Number 2 rolls a 10.

NUMBER 2: Huh. Okay.

NUMBER 0: Look at you, immune to all things. Good ideas included. So you march right through the fire to manhandle this fucking guy, carry him to the door, and throw his ass outside. And he lands right on the edge of the stairs, making him roll down backwards over his head and land crotch-first on the dirt with his chin slamming against the bottom step.

NUMBER 3: Oh—oh dear.

NUMBER 0: And you jump right out of the house to safety next, without taking a modicum of meaningful damage to your lungs, somehow. You just brush off all of that smoke with a light cough. And Rhodri has been left behind to die in the flames, rendered physically unable by Middleburg to escape on his own. Your first murder victim.

NUMBER 2: That’s bullshit. I didn’t cause that fiery cyclone in there.

NUMBER 0: The guy scampers up and trips back on his ass, and just starts almost crab walking away from you. “You! You motherfucker, you killed him! Rhodri!”

NUMBER 2: I’m gonna look at the fire behind me and look back at him as I walk down the steps. “I didn’t do that.”

NUMBER 1: This shirtless juggernaut with an iron baseball bat, just descending upon you. What a sight.

NUMBER 0: “I didn’t—I don’t—fuck! Just get away!”

NUMBER 2: “Are you Andrew?”

NUMBER 0: “What the fuck do you want from me?!”

NUMBER 2: “Who do you work for?”

NUMBER 0: “Fuck you! Fuck off!” And you hear the sound of sirens blaring from the distance. He looks around and says, “No… oh, god fucking—”

NUMBER 2: “Focus!”

NUMBER 0: “Look, man, it doesn’t matter. If it’s not me, it’s someone else, and you’re fucked no matter what!”

NUMBER 2: “How?!” And I smash the ground next to his feet with the bat.

NUMBER 0: “Chill! Fuck! I—I think… I… uh…”

NUMBER 2: “Think!”

NUMBER 0: “There’s this… there’s a place in Harborview! It’s in Harborview! You’ll find… um… it looks like a big fishing shop, huge selection of boats inside, a-and it’s usually run by a guy named Giannis. There’s an employees door all the way to the right, and—” A police car skirts up to the house and screeches to a stop on the lawn, tearing up the dirt. The cop steps out with a taser in tow, and shouts at Middleburg, “Sir! Put the bat down, now!”

NUMBER 3: Oh man, you’re not looking good here.

NUMBER 1: Always the fucking pigs, ruining all the fun.

NUMBER 4: Don’t fight the cop.

NUMBER 2: Shit. Was it the old man who called?

NUMBER 0: Most likely. But you are not getting answers from Andrew anymore. He gets up and tries to run off, but the cop yells at him, "You don’t go anywhere either!" And he stops, throwing his hands in the air.

NUMBER 2: “I’m trying to get information from this man. I was thrown off of the bridge by him.”

NUMBER 0: “I was called in for an assault at the house just down the road by a brawny bald man in wet clothes. I don’t care what your excuse right now is, you’re coming with me.”

NUMBER 2: Okay. So the cop is a comfortable distance away where he can shoot me with the taser, and I can’t lunge quickly enough to attack before getting tased.

NUMBER 0: That’s right. Not in a good position.

NUMBER 2: And if I were to get tased, hypothetically, is there some roll I could do to withstand it?

NUMBER 4: Stop it.

NUMBER 0: I… I mean, I guess withstanding a taser shot comes down to a question of sheer willpower. That would be one for integrity.

NUMBER 2: And that’s a 50/50 shot for me. So if I try the cop and win, that would give me some extra time to interrogate Andrew. And if I lose, then I lose my shot at innocence and get put away for assaulting an officer. Decisions… decisions…

Number 2 ponders for another moment.

NUMBER 2: No, no. What other information I could get from Andrew isn’t worth the inevitable prison time and arrest warrant when I escape. I’ll surrender now, and plead my innocence. I’ll take it to Harborview when I get out.

NUMBER 3: Phew.

NUMBER 4: When you escape?

NUMBER 1: We’ll have plenty of time to fight cops later.

NUMBER 0: You drop the bat and surrender to the cop. You get handcuffed and shoved into the car, and the cop goes to talk to Andrew. You are out of commission—and now, your opening chapter is finished. Holy shit.

NUMBER 2: Wow. We made it.

NUMBER 4: What a fucking trip that was.

NUMBER 1: Yeah. I asked back there in the house what Andrew was cooking when he put on that finger band, and it turned out the answer was Rhodri.

NUMBER 4: Dude!

Number 3 covers his face to hide his shameful snickering.

NUMBER 0: Low blow.

NUMBER 1: I also can’t believe that that one intelligence check that you failed when you started looking for Andrew sent us on a whole pointless 20-minute tangent. That was great.

NUMBER 0: Expect many, many more tangents like that in the future. There’s so many more bad decisions to be made.

NUMBER 2: Yeah. And thanks for letting me swallow half the session thus far.

NUMBER 3: But thank the lord, it’s finally Rob’s time to shine. It’s Robing time. Rob Pastamoose.

NUMBER 4: Calm down.

•••••