Chapter Text
NEEEEW ACHIEVEMENT!!!!
“Wait, Bosses Can Leave Their Rooms?!”
> Yes. Yes they can. Welcome to the second floor, bitches!
Reward: This shit plays great on the recap episode. If you scream loud enough, maybe you'll make the show!
NEW ACHIEVEMENT!
“Dungeonpreneur”
> You have invented a stackable weapon, device, or potion. Look, we put your name on it and everything! You’ll go down in the Dungeon Codex’s history as a dude with great jugs and even greater explosions.
Reward: For every kill made with this device by other crawlers, you will receive a single gold coin. If you survive the dungeon, you will continue to receive this benefit—even during future seasons—at the current gold to credit exchange rate for the remainder of your natural life. Our lawyers made us put that last part in, but between you and me, we both know you’re probably going to die, and we’re going to keep using your hard work for our own benefit.
Carl grunted and swiped through the rest of the achievements, most of which were related to blowing things up, almost dying, or other things that had become depressingly mundane by this point. The moment Mordecai had finished telling them about his time with Odette as his game guide (which was still a damn crazy thing to consider), Donut had insisted they open their loot boxes ASAP—possibly to clear the vaguely awkward silence that lingered in the air after Mordecai’s dramatic monologue. Carl was just thankful that his body seemed to be back in working order after the few hours of rest they got.
Shockingly, the game had let him keep the snacks he’d looted from the production trailer. He sat munching on a pilfered apple as he watched Donut open her boxes. Though it was probably physically the same, it felt different to eat something with the knowledge it had been on the surface less than 24 hours prior. All the ingredients in the Bopka-made food seemed to just be spawned into existence by God-knows-what process.
“Ooooh, looks like we both have beauty routines to do now!” Donut giggled as she nudged her new brush at Carl. It granted stat boots upon periodic usage, just like his pedicure kit. He rolled his eyes and held it out for her to butt her head up under.
His boxes, much like many of hers, were pretty average. More standard adventuring fare, some gold, some scrolls, and even an explosive or two from his Demolitions Expert box. The only one he knew would probably contain something moderately useful was the Boss box they’d both received from killing the Krakaren Clone, which is where the new hairbrush had come from.
At first, he desperately hoped for pants once again, but tried his damndest to bury the thought in his mind. Odette’s warning echoed in his ears, reminding him that the dungeon would only give you what you wanted if your frustration became less entertaining than turning it into a Monkey’s Paw situation. Donut had wisely not commented on the number of torches in her boxes this time either—he was proud of her for that.
The bronze-plated box opened with only slightly more fanfare than his others had, and Carl had to take deep breaths to restrain himself from throwing it across the room. Donut was not so subtle, and started laughing almost immediately when they dropped to the floor in a heap.
Item: Enchanted BigBoi Boxers
Armor Type: Underwear
The standard, magically censor-friendly undergarment for superheroes, anthropomorphic animals, and other cartoon classics. If the wearer has a dick, the convenient hole in these heart-patterned undies would allow them to flop it right out and make the whole world their toilet. I don’t advise doing that right now!! I hear it results in some pretty nasty shit these days.
> +2 to Constitution
> Wearer may cast a level 15 Protective Shell once every 30 hours
Mordecai’s feathery “eyebrows” nearly jumped to the ceiling. Carl, as much as he hated to admit it, could also recognize just how good the item was, especially after reading the spell’s description.
“That’ll block just about every form of magical and physical attack in the dungeon,” the shapeshifter whistled. “Doesn’t last too long but that could change if you manage to get your Intelligence up more. Goes without saying but don’t use it unless it is an emergency.”
Carl swallowed a sigh of resignation and held the stupid heart boxers out in front of him, ignoring Donut’s poorly disguised giggles. Honestly, they weren’t the worst item he could have expected, it was just… well, it made him uncomfortable. For more than the obvious reasons. He did not like Odette’s statement that people thought the AI was being too nice to him, not when it was a machine that could very easily be told to swing in the other direction. And they were (mostly) white, for Christ’s sake! Even though he was no longer actively menstruating, the thought of anything staying clean in this dungeon for more than 20 minutes seemed goddamn impossible.
As he went to examine them further in his inventory, his eye caught on the Swear Jar buried pretty deep in his hotlist. He still hadn't had the opportunity to actually try it yet, and this item felt like it was bordering on "offensive" territory, even if he was more annoyed at the absurdity than anything. He clicked on it, deposited a single gold coin, and sighed when it clinked uselessly to the bottom.
Status Effect: "Snowflake" has been applied.
> Your hair has been turned for blue for one minute.
> You have pronouns. Eugh. The horror!
A blue tinge framed his vision as Carl rolled his eyes. Apparently "hair" included eyelashes as well. At least the duration was only a minute, he told himself.
Whatever. At least the new pair of boxers was slightly better than his shitty cotton briefs with a hole in the thigh. He gave up another scrap of pride that he didn’t think he had left and stood up to put the new underwear on over his normal ones. He’d never freeball white underwear if he could help it—he wasn’t stupid, thanks.
Not even a second later, his HUD snapped off, and sheer panic immediately flooded through him. Were the boxers a goddamn trap?!
Warning. A Dungeon Administrator is entering this Safe Room. All weapons and spells will be disabled while the Administrator is present. Any attack made against the Administrator will result in immediate acceleration.
A splash of cold water spilled onto the nearby floor with a pop. Donut immediately shrieked and jumped to his shoulder. Whatever snide comment she'd been preparing to make about his hair was cut off by the sudden appearance of...something.
It was a little difficult to comprehend the creature before him at first. It looked like a tiny, 2-foot tall astronaut with a fishbowl for a helmet. The only part of its body he could see—which he presumed was its head—was covered in blue-green scales with big, froglike eyes on either side. Gills flapped every so often on the side of its head, and it had strange, finlike appendages where ears might be on a human. It took him a while to place why the face looked familiar. It was like a cartoonish, far less elegant version of the fish-people he’d seen carved on the entry stairwells to the first and second floor.
A speaker on the front of its puffy suit crackled to life as the alien began to speak in high-pitched, robotically filtered Syndicate Standard. “Hello Crawlers Carl and Donut! I’m Zev, your new Outreach Associate. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
She paused and blinked at him. "You're. Blue?"
“What the fuck?!” Carl growled, ignoring her. “Why can’t I access my goddamn inventory!?! What the hell is a Dungeon Admin?!”
The fish person—Zev, apparently—looked nervous. Maybe that was just her normal face. “It’s a standard precaution so that Admins aren’t harmed in the dungeon, especially when we have no protection on these first three floors. I’m an employee of the Borant Corporation, the producers of this season of Dungeon Crawler: World. And like I said, I’m your new Outreach Associate. I’m here to handle the logistics of your public appearances from now on.”
Carl felt rage start bubbling up inside of him. He finally had a face for the assholes doing this to him—to all of them.
Donut, from his right, gasped with the same excitement she’d had on Odette’s show.
“We have an agent?!” she shrieked, immediately scrambling back to the ground to be on basically eye-level with the aquatic alien. This Zev creature probably could have ridden the cat like a horse.
“Um, similar!” Zev laughed nervously as the Donut’s face came within inches of her glass helmet. Whatever training she’d had probably didn’t include talking cats as part of the standard, much less ones with Donut’s…theatrical passions. “I’m the person who got you guys signed on for Odette’s show. Renting and making contracts for Crawler appearances on external shows is one of the main ways Borant is making money from this season.”
“As if it’s working,” Mordecai scoffed, entering the conversation for the first time. He did not seem pleased to see the fishy alien either. “Everyone in the galaxy knows Borant is already on the verge of bankruptcy going into this damn Crawl.”
Zev’s indigo lips pressed into a thin smile. “The Borant Corporation and our System Government is facing some internal conflict, yes. Crawlers like you two are giving us incredible opportunities for growth and galactic entertainment. You guys have done wonderful so far! Your ratings have been getting better by the minute since your appearance Odette’s show!”
Carl’s chest felt tight again. “Ratings? You think I give a shit about our fucking ratings?! We just got thrown into the middle of the fucking ocean to do circus tricks while we spend every other second fighting for our damn lives down here! We didn’t even get a choice in going on that shitshow!”
The tiny alien seemed to shrink down on herself even more. Carl wondered why the hell they even picked people for this job instead of letting the AI run it. He was pretty certain that he could crack open that stupid fishbowl and suffocate her with enough dedication, consequences be damned. He wondered if her employers would even care—if she was actually important enough to matter more than a couple of Crawlers.
“Well, uh…” She straightened a little bit, her corporate attitude animating her like a puppet on strings as it returned. “…As your new Outreach Assistant, it’s my job to make sure you have more of a choice in the future, or at least some warning about the kind of shows you’ll be on. You got lucky that Odette requested her show to be your first appearance. There are many other external productions that treat participants far worse than she does.”
The alien puffed a few bubbles out of her gills, which translated like a sigh. “Believe it or not, I’m actually here to help you guys. I’m on your side.”
He was about to loudly tell her to go fuck herself, ready to accept whatever punishment would come with that. Anything to get the pressure building under his skin to lessen. But he made the wise choice and clamped his mouth shut as he watched Donut’s tail flit about like a car wash’s inflatable tube mascot.
“Other shows?” the cat trilled, trying and very much failing to sound nonchalant. “There are other shows to be on?”
“Um, yes! Like I said, some of them are not so great, but there are plenty that are! There’s everything from interviews to gameshows to documentaries to storylines that can happen right here in the dungeon! I’m here to help you pick which ones to go on!”
Donut looked like she was going to explode faster than a stick of Goblin Dynamite. “And lots of people watch these shows? Are they any good?”
Zev paused. “I’ve never really been into the Crawl much before now, but it does reach the majority of the universe. It’s kinda one of the oldest staples of intergalactic popular culture. Like your planet’s Friends. Or superhero movies, I guess? It’s a really big hit everywhere, and there are millions of side programs that run so people can keep up with it even if they don’t watch the highlights show itself.”
“Your popular culture is based on killing innocent people for entertainment?!” Carl growled. Part of him clung to the hope that he could get people to recognize that this was wrong and stop it. He knew damn well that was bullshit, but the idea always seemed to spring back up no matter how often it was ripped out. People were assholes. But people could also be...y'know! Nice. Empathetic! Weirdly parasocial about the "safety" of celebrities at least!!
For a moment, he thought that it had worked, that the fish alien would crumble and admit that it was wrong.
She…didn’t.
“There are several jobs and ways of life that depend on this production. It spans back billions of years—longer than almost anyone in the galaxy has been alive.” She looked away guiltily, but straightened and put her ‘professional’ voice back on. “Besides, there’s a way out, as your Game Guide has surely already explained to you. Several, in fact. You will have a much better chance of surviving to take an exit deal on the tenth or lower floor if you manage to get sponsors—and you only get sponsors if people know who you are. Which, no matter how much people like your regular feed, always requires public appearances outside of the usual program.”
Donut stepped in front of him, as if to cut him off from making any more protests. “And we’ll be delighted to do that! I’ve always wanted to be a TV star.” She peered upwards, putting on her biggest and wettest pleading cat eyes. He suspected he was hamming it up for present company, but he couldn’t tell how much. “Carl, think about it! We can be just like Blair and Serena from Gossip Girl!”
“Neither of us is a teenage girl, Donut,” he said, at the same time Zev chirped, “More like Serena and Dan! Without the relationship part, obviously.”
Donut gasped. As per usual, Carl’s reasonable, normal response went ignored. She jumped right into an excited, high-pitched chatter about Gossip Girl to Zev. Carl lost track almost immediately, having never particularly engaged with the show. Was it the one with the old ladies?? Or the one with the evil twin plotline? Gun to his head, he didn’t think he could name more than three characters.
Mordecai looked at him confusedly as the cat and fish fangirled together below their combined knee levels (shin, really, in Mordecai’s case). Carl only shrugged.
He supposed it was better if someone “representing” them outside of the dungeon actually liked one member of their party. Maybe he’d be spared from having to compete in alien Jeopardy! or some other stupid game show. Odette’s was bad enough. Hopefully Donut’s charm and personability would give them an edge in negotiating what they (aka Carl specifically) were and weren’t willing to do. Unlike his cat, he wasn’t too keen on being part of this goddamn dog and pony show any more than he had to be. A quick glance at his new stupid Looney Tunes boxers reminded him that he was already in deep enough.
Carl sighed, leaned back against a wall, and started to reformulate the “stay alive and unnoticed” plans he’d been slowly scraping together in his head. The second half of that appeared to be thoroughly off the table now. If he wanted to survive and keep Donut with him, he’d either need to be a lot sneakier or a lot flashier.
He knew which one he wanted to pick. He’d seen what happened when you went down the flashy route. The imagery of Odette heaving herself out of ridiculous breast forms and mechanical crab legs still lingered in his mind. A whisper of worry curled at the very edge of his subconscious. He wasn’t sure if it was planted by past personal experience or the consumption of too many action movies, but he certainly knew that playing into a system, even with the most noble intentions, always led to fruitless assimilation without meaningful change.
Plus, he was pretty sure he would only last about 2 seconds kissing ass and being all Donut-y before he lost it and ripped someone’s hair out. Most likely his own.
--
Later that evening (or, he was pretty sure it was evening; time was still sketchy at best in this place), Carl got a message from Brandon asking if they’d mapped their local area and knew where they were. Carl wanted to respond that they had, but realized he hadn’t actually gotten the map from the Krakaren boss. Or any of the loot for that matter—Donut had apparently been too preoccupied by dragging his unconscious body to a safe room by the collar. He decided not to chide her for that and opted to just head back to that room with her to see what they could find.
Unfortunately, the conditions outside the safe room were…less than ideal.
Within a split second of opening the door out of the Training Guild, several foot-sized, sickly pale, disgustingly slimy grubs fell into the room, much to Mordecai’s immediate horror and outrage.
Brindlegrub – Level 5 Janitor Mob. Stage One of Four.
> The Dungeon ecosystem is a fragile thing. With so many dead bodies piling up all the time, you’d think this place would be overrun by corpses within a day! The humble Brindlegrub works hard to make sure that doesn’t happen. Every time a new corpse appears, one to fifteen of these diligent, hungry little guys will spawn from a point no further than 50 feet away. They’re almost kind of cute (and literally harmless!) at this stage of their lives, but once they eat enough decaying flesh… boy oh boy do they change fast. Like a fucked-up version of the Hungry Hungry Caterpillar. And there’s millions of ‘em, thanks to your indiscriminate slaughter! I sure hope that doesn’t cause any issues for you.
Carl grimaced at the wriggling larvae carpeting the floor in one disgusting mass. He remembered seeing these before the boss battle, when they’d backtracked to previous areas. They hadn’t provided much experience, so he and Donut hadn’t really sought them out to kill them. One to 15 per spawn though…. Christ. They should have taken more out before it got to this point. Or would that only spawn more of them?! That was a horrible feedback loop. It had to be some kind of bug--pun not intended.
He shut the door before more of them could enter the room. They appeared as white tagged on the map, likely since they were still in their “stage one” forms. Carl wasn’t too keen on seeing any of the evolutions.
Donut’s map showed a literal river of them through any of the visible paths outside, like some sort of mob blizzard had run through and deposited them all in one thick layer. Their dots all seemed to be moving in a similar direction too—somewhere towards the east. It would be a nightmare to get past them and back out into an open area again. Even just to reach the Boss chamber looked like they’d have to get through hundreds, if not thousands of the things.
Thankfully, his pedicure kit was still active, and would be for several more hours. It was going to be deeply unpleasant, but he wanted to save his explosives for emergencies. Donut also loudly declared she’d be magic missile-ing any that even came close to her, which was stupid because they all knew she’d be riding on Carl’s shoulder anyways.
He allowed himself one more moment of disgust and hesitation before he resigned himself to a lot of smushing.
--
Despite his earlier wariness, the Chopper turned out to be their best mode of transportation along the infested paths. After picking up a few extra miraculously unexploded jugs of moonshine from the Krakaren room, as well as several other pieces of semi-decent loot and his own copy of the Neighborhood Map, he’d given up on caring about whether the thing was safe or not. He never wanted to step on one of those gross slimy fuckers ever again.
It took quite a bit of running around, chatting, and searching, but they eventually pinpointed where Team Meadowlark was in relation to their current position. They appeared to be a few miles east, on the outskirts of the slowly expanding Brindlegrub mass. He shot off a message to Brandon and Yolanda to warn them about the situation headed their way. As much as he didn't want anyone to get hurt, he also kind of hoped it might help them farm some experience while looking for a stairwell.
Donut had hardly talked to him much for the past few hours. Even after Zev’s “official” meeting with the crawlers had ceased, her and Donut had continued to chitchat about their favorite Earth media over the chat function. Carl wondered if she still used all caps when talking to the admin, or if that was a special treatment reserved just for him.
The ride, as predicted, took quite a while. He kept having to stop to prevent the Chopper’s engine from overheating and killing them both. Plus, the grub guts kept piling up in the treads and making steering into a goddamn nightmare. He’d had the misfortune of spotting a few of the “Stage Two”, Cow-Tailed Brindlegrubs along the way, which he tried to run over when possible. They still didn’t seem that threatening, but the less of them moved on to those upper levels, the better.
What he wouldn’t give for a truck right now. Or a proper motorcycle. Hell, even a fucking golf cart would be better than this, though he supposed he shouldn’t complain as long as he didn’t have to physically walk over the bugs.
Still, the idea of cruising through an open (sort of) road was…oddly appealing. It reminded him of the first major road trip he’d ever taken when he’d first scraped together enough money for a car, about 4 or 5 years ago now. The Coast Guard didn’t pay great, but he’d gotten some decent government aid from graduating out of foster care and whatnot. The social security deposits were perhaps the only actually helpful “present” his mother had left him with, and he’d used them to get a shitty rustbucket van from one of the guys at the dock. Anything to get out of fucking Texas, he’d told himself, right before clearing his official transfer to a Seattle shipyard. In hindsight, it was a pretty funny place to end up, given how often his father complained about the rampant liberalism and sexual deviancy there. Maybe he’d been subconsciously influenced to move there as an act of rebellion. Whatever it was, it had ended up with him here, in a horrible murder dungeon with no pants or shoes, a horrible ex who was likely dead, and a talking cat that technically wasn’t even his.
For the briefest moment, he found it darkly ironic that a dungeon gameshow run by intergalactic aliens had been arguably more accepting than the state he had been born and partly raised in. The bar was pretty damn low, to be fair. Easier to not think about the higher echelons of self-identification when your focus is on continuing to have a self to identify.
They met up with Team Meadowlark a few hours after their original estimation, which turned out to be for the better since the larger group had been a bit delayed as well. The four caregivers had rigged up some sort of metal cart contraption to transport the less able-bodied residents. Which was most of them. They seemed to have found some sort of magical golden rope to pull it around by as well, which kind of made them look like Egyptian servants or something equally ridiculous. Yolanda also had a new, upgraded crossbow, and Brandon seemed to have found a breastplate. Each of the four had a new boss skull next to their names. They’d found—and evidently defeated—another Neighborhood boss, though it sounded like their experience was far better than Carl and Donut’s.
“You guys still lookin’ for a staircase?” he asked as he pulled up to the middle of their little parade formation. He’d safely stowed the Chopper away, and Donut was briefly back on his shoulder before finding good company in Mrs. McGibbons’s lap. The elderly woman was cooing and petting her and telling her she was a very pretty girl, which Donut obviously soaked up like a sponge.
Brandon replied from the front of the pack, where he was currently on cart-dragging duty. “Yeah. We found one earlier, but there were these crazy spike traps and pits all around it, not to mention a bunch of weird redneck leprechaun guys. We didn’t think we’d be able to get everyone over safely, so we’ve been looking for a more accessible one. Would like to get everyone down to the next floor as soon as possible though. Past that…”
He let the sentence hang in the air, but Carl got what he meant. Race and class selection still wasn’t something he’d put too much thought into. This was partly because he was semi-convinced they’d never make it that far, and partly because he didn’t want to get too hopeful about all the possibilities it could present. If it was anything like the usual video game customization…well, let’s just say there were some changes he’d definitely be looking forwards to making.
Carl grunted in agreement. “We saw one about a half mile from the saferoom that’s a little further down this path. I assume that’s where you guys are headed next?”
“Mmhm. The frequent pit stops are for the best with this crew. Dietary needs, general restlessness, the works. And did’ja hear the announcements after the last recap episode? Yikes.”
He hadn’t, actually, as he was pretty sure he was unconscious at the time. Or they’d been out getting into the fights that would lead to his unconsciousness. Whatever. But the announcements/patch notes still went into a “system notifications” tab of his interface, and he’d read them back when he was reviewing the rest of his achievements. One of the more important updates had been the institution of a “stricter bathroom policy”, which sounded like they’d send a huge, scary mob to kill people that tried to take a shit on the floor. He could see how that might be an issue for a group of retirees that had lost more than a few of their mental faculties. The thought made him shudder.
With no other help to offer besides trudging ever onwards to the saferoom they were slowly approaching, Carl fell to the back of the mini caravan to keep an eye on Donut, who remained in Mrs. McGibbons’s lap. She was almost acting like a normal cat, except for the occasional gasp at the rambling stories the widow told. She seemed to be recounting fonder memories with her late husband, Barry. Imani kept giving her stern looks whenever she strayed into memories of the more…intimate kind.
Of the many features of aging that Carl was a bit horrified of, dementia was certainly up there. If he ever got to a point where he forgot his own name (but not, for some reason, the exact size of his partner’s genitals), he’d probably prefer to just be taken out back or something.
He supposed his present situation meant he’d never have to face that reality. That was not a very comforting observation.
He, Yolanda, and Imani fell into idle conversation while they walked. The pace felt maddeningly slow in comparison to roaring around on the explosive goblin motorcycle, but he supposed he didn’t mind being back in the company of other people. Since the end of the last floor, when he’d committed himself to helping these people, to helping everyone he reasonably could in this hellish environment, a persistent tingle had started to grow under his skin. Some base biological instinct, no longer fully shunned to maintain his sanity. He’d spent so many years conditioning himself to never, ever rely on another person, to remain as independent and self-sustaining as possible, and now…. Well, he’d literally be dead several times over if he hadn’t allowed someone else to watch his back. It felt like the past decade of cauterizing any potential connections had come undone in a matter of days, and those neglected branches were now desperately flailing for anything to latch onto.
As they continued along the cobbled path, he kept a wary eye on the shadows cast by the various abandoned buildings. He could faintly hear the horrid wriggling of the Brindlegrub mass, even if he couldn’t yet see them on his minimap. A few had been leaking in from various alleyways, attracted to god-knows-what. Even though they weren’t immediately hostile, he made sure to kill any that he saw and kick their bodies out of the way. Yolanda got a few with her new golden crossbow as well. She’d become really damn good with the weapon.
Upon returning from one such extermination of the nasty little guys (which were not at all cute, despite the AI’s insistence that they kinda were), there was a slight ruckus from the slapdash cart they were escorting. Donut was yowling as one of the elderly men tried to grab at her fur too harshly for her liking. Mrs. McGibbons was shouting feebly as well, telling him to piss off. Yolanda looked resigned as she approached to resolve the situation.
Donut, no longer satisfied with her situation, scrambled out of the cart and leaped onto Carl’s shoulder as soon as he was close enough. She nestled into his hood and started grumbling to herself as she started indignantly licking the ruffled fur back into place.
“I know you feel you owe some strange blood debt to these people, but honestly!” The cat huffed and settled her paws back onto Carl’s right shoulder, stretching. “Who knew old people could be so vulgar. I think that Jack guy thought I was some young cheerleader due to my beautiful voice. He wanted to defile me, Carl! I. Am. Appalled!”
He sighed and reached up to pet her, but still kept an eye on the cart situation. Yolanda was trying to convince Jack to sit back down. The man was clearly agitated, standing and yelling at the equally annoyed Mrs. McGibbons. He alternated between loud grumbling and scratching at his pants, as if they had been filled with fire ants. One of the other retirees told him to shut up because it was messing with their hearing aids. Jack ignored them and vacantly tugged at his waistband.
Carl had never interacted with many elderly folks in his life. Certainly not ones with the several medical issues the residents of Meadowlark Care Facility had. He was not by any means well versed in the various cues the human body presented with when the mind had deteriorated past standard levels of communication.
That meant he didn’t think to do anything but watch in abject horror as Jack took his wrinkly, shriveled old man dick out of his pants with a clear intent to relieve himself of at least one discomfort.
Yolanda had about the same reaction time he did, which was impressive given that she was technically behind the man and couldn’t actually see the issue until he turned around to face the wall. Her mouth fell into the same shocked expression that Carl wore just as the man began aiming at the wall.
Even with no Boss present, it felt like time ground to a halt for those few seconds. A notification popped up from Zev, only to be immediately hidden and declared “under investigation”. It went away as quickly as it appeared. Carl barely had time to notice it go. Utter terror raced through him, faster than anything else around him, but he knew his physical movements were far too sluggish to prevent what was about to happen.
The following millisecond created the single worst memory he currently had, imprinted onto his mind like a person’s shadow after a nuclear explosion: Jack, still grumbling utter nonsense to himself, started pissing on the wall as several people screamed in absolute horror.