felldenlogs | THIS MAIZE IS A MAZE!

[ The last time Bruce saw Sam, he was blasting Bat out of Hell on the docks. It made an impression. He can't see that face now without hearing nothing really rocks and nothing really rolls and nothing's ever worth the cost... He hasn't really kept up with him since then — all the dying and resurrecting has taken up a lot of his time — but, upon stumbling upon him in the labyrinth, he's pleased to see Sam's still breathing after everything that went down in the past couple weeks. Of all of the Moon Temple, he is one of a small number Bruce does not actively root against. ]

What, no Meat Loaf?

Edited 2019-11-15 00:10 (UTC)

( the labyrinth was ac- more than incidental. he's been helping to maintain the defenses outside, knowing that was where his strengths were best put to work. riddles? not exactly his bag of cats.

but flora'd asked him to come, so here he is.

everyone knows the trick to a maze is to keep one hand on the wall. always the same one, and you'll find your way out. but that apparently doesn't work when it's fucking magic.

(god, he hates magic.)

he's intently staring at a wall of brush, debating whether or not he can just fly over the damn thing when he hears bruce's voice. it's a welcome sound, honestly. sam doesn't actively root against him, either. he turns to the man with a grin and a vague little two-fingered salute. )

You think that'd help? I can belt out Life is a Lemon right here and now. Maybe Death has a sense of humour.

[ Bruce sighs. ] It does.

[ Said with a tone that suggests its sense of humor is, in fact, very unfortunate. Tragedy plus time is comedy, but trick or yeet? is still far too fresh to be anything but horrible. As is everything Lorelai has ever done to him. The only part of Death he hasn't yet been traumatized by is Azrail. ]

But not the kind you want to indulge.

[ With that kind of humor, Sam would end up transmogrified into a lemon. ]

( it's probably not smart to shrug and thumb his nose, so he doesn't. but whatever fear of death he ever had got rattled out of his bones in the al-hajarah.

being a lemon would be a novel (if horrifying, in that eldritch terror way) thing, at least. so there's that. )

Speaking from experience?

( look, he doesn't know the Sordid History. )

We don't get along.

[ It Happened To Me: The Physical Embodiment of Death Called Me a Furry. Or maybe, It Happened To Me: Death's Attendant Made Me Play Telephone With a Naked Guy. Or— you know, in his time here, Death has made him suffer through a lot.

He crosses his arms. ]

For an ancient deity, it's remarkably juvenile. I still trust it more than this Hierophant character.

( he lifts one shoulder. )

How else're you going to stay sane?

( his humour has always tended a little towards the gallows sort. he remembers joking with hoi about how there wouldn't be enough of them to scrape into a casket if they got wiped out by an rpg, and kurik chiming in to say that if any of the resultant sludge got mixed up they'd be sharing space for eternity. you assholes already don't give me enough fucking elbow room! funny stuff, then.

you deal with death long enough, on a broad enough scale, you probably find your own ways to cope. sam doesn't really buy into the omnipotent/omniscient deity thing that some people or cultures do. they're fallible. how else can they reflect humanity (or: insert other race here) otherwise?

so some version of death being juvenile is, honestly, something he gets. it even sort of makes him sympathetic. how many people would welcome death with open arms? how many more hate it and all it stands for?

... though the mention of the hierophant makes him snort in amusement. )

I get the whole Tarot theme, but do you ever feel like some crazy hippy is about to show up trying to hand out healing crystals and salt lamps?

A little.

[ He's not too into tarot himself; he knows about it for the sake of knowledge and nothing else, but he's never been much for forms of divination. The only oracles he trusts are... well, Oracle. He can't lie and say it doesn't feel like he's fallen into a woo-woo hippie's wet dream. ]

It's not just tarot, though. Famine's straight out of the Four Horsemen.

[ His mouth twists into a thoughtful frown, his brow furrowing. ]

I wonder what source they'll pull from next.

( like someone fell down the tree of What White People Know About Mysticism and hit every fucking branch on the way down, honestly. )

Wendigos are Indigenous. Algonquin or Ojibwe originally, I think.

( things he does not like talking about: that. but they're discussing an information exchange, so. maze aside, it's as good a reason as any to strike up a conversation on his hard no list. )

It comes back to a lot of stuff that's Earth-derived. Which, I don't know about you, is a bad look for a place that's supposed to be the origin of all gods, unless Earth really is the center of the universe.

( their backwater little dust ball? sounds fake. )

We'd like to think we are.

[ Earthlings are awfully self-absorbed. (Not that he doesn't love Earth over all the other worlds.) He's a hypocrite for thinking this; Earth mythology was the only kind he was even considering in the first place. He's not up to date on his Martian folklore. ]

Maybe Earth mythology draws inspiration from here, not the other way around.

[ It's as good a theory as any. He doubts Earth is actually the center of the universe. ]

( he remembers his first foray into the gods' wood. wondering if, for his grandparents' sake, there'd be some little sign of wakȟáŋ tȟáŋka. not a god who needs a shrine, but he'd searched anyway. the great mystery kept its secrets. )

I could buy certain subsets of it, but. There's over four thousand active religions on Earth, and some of them are pretty distinctive from what's going on here. Not to say there can't be more than one man behind the curtain, but.

( he rolls one shoulder up into a shrug. )

Detective, conspiracy theorist. Is there even a difference any more?

Just because it's a conspiracy doesn't mean it's not true.

[ He's seen more than a few conspiracies in his day. They're old hat, practically predictable when it comes to something like this. It would be stranger if there weren't at least a couple conspiracies going on. ]

What's your take?

You'd think they'd get more creative.

[ It's not like he's asking for it, but as far as logic puzzles go, Knights and Knaves isn't exactly intellectually stimulating. It's old hat, speaking as someone who solves riddles on at least a weekly basis. If it's a slow crime week. ]

It's just basic Boolean algebra. That is, if you assume the rules weren't also a lie.

[ He's flexing on Bigby a bit. He can't help it; after being nearly yeeted by Bigby's wolf paw a while ago, Bruce feels the need to assert that he's Better Than You. Just a little bit. ]

Edited 2019-11-15 00:09 (UTC)

[Bigby shakes his head, eyes shut, brow furrowed. God help him, he misses the door.

» I've seen this before.
» I don't think they're lying.
» What's a Boolean?
» ...]

I don't think they are. Games follow rules and rules have to have an order to them. They don't have to be honest, but they have to be fair, in their own way. [He puts a hand in his pocket, the other hanging loosely at his side.] Otherwise they aren't really games.

[If it sounds insane, that's because it is. And Bigby, realizing this, answers truthfully; albeit belatedly and with little more than a small shrug of his shoulders.]

Fairy tale logic.

Edited 2019-11-18 05:35 (UTC)

Optimistic of you.

[ Interesting perspective. Pretty trusting. After his reasoning of fairy tale logic, Bruce raises an eyebrow. He doesn't usually base his decisions on what would or wouldn't happen if his life were written by the Brothers Grimm instead of Tom King. ]

It's not a fairy tale. It's a riddle.

[ They're not mutually exclusive, but one he's much more confident with than the other. Fairy tales he knows of, but riddles he knows. Whether he wants to or not.

Looking like he doubts it: ] Have you ever done a logic puzzle before?

[Wow, the confidence in this room is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Again, he answers honestly:] Nothing formal. But I've heard about this one.

[This one in question coming from the two veritable statues flanking the stone door in front of them. After explaining the rules of the game, the creatures wearing Azrail and Lorelai's faces have fallen silent, their eyes the color of a dead trout's underside as they stare vacantly ahead at the space between Bigby and Bruce. Even if they had made an effort to look more approachable, it's clear to Bigby that they aren't the real ones just from smell alone. Both attendants have unique scents; Lorelai's is like pumpkin flavored coffee on a cold day, Azrail's is like dead leaves burning up in a bonfire.

These things don't smell like that at all. In fact, that don't smell like anything. If they're not monsters, they're dolls — empty husks meant to perform one purpose.]

You pick a guard and ask which door the other guard would say is the right one. No matter who you ask, they'll both give you the same answer.

[He folds his arms as he works out the logic in his head.]

That's the door you avoid. The correct one is the opposite one. Right?

Edited 2019-11-18 15:43 (UTC)

[ Bruce is halfway between pleasantly surprised and annoyed that Bigby recognizes it. Pleasantly surprised because it's not like they have a lot of common ground and he'll take what he can get, annoyed because he can't feel childishly superior.

He crosses his arms, expression blank, like he doesn't really care about what's going on here at all. ]

That's one way.

[ He can still flex his extra knowledge! He's showing off a little, so what. Are you impressed by how smart he is, Bigby. ]

Another way is to ask if they're both telling the truth or lying; it can't be true, so whoever says it is will be the liar. Or you can ask something you know to be false. A famous example involves a man asking if they're tree frogs.

[ Bruce shoots Bigby a glance. ]

But your way works, too.

[Bigby pulls a face.] Tree frogs, seriously? You made that up.

[—to look smart, he's half tempted to say. Not that Bigby has any doubts about Bruce's intelligence by this point. The guy obviously has a formal education and enough practical knowledge to give the impression of street smarts. All of this on top of being serious and solemn to a fault, like he's permanently hooked up to a lie detector, where every word that comes out of his mouth counts.

... Okay, maybe he isn't making it up. But still.]

We can try it one of your ways, if you really want. [It's not even an if at this point, less of a hunch and more of a very strong feeling because:] Since you seem to like riddles so much.

[ Bigby's half right. He totally is saying it to sound smart. ]

I didn't say I like them.

[ Bigby's first mistake was assuming Bruce likes anything. Or would admit to it, anyway. He's tough and hardened and never enjoys anything, ever; that's his story and he's sticking to it.

With a non-committal shrug, he says, ] I do a lot of them.

[ He happens to be the type of pretentious asshole that does the New York Times crossword in pen, too, and practices solving a Rubik's cube to improve his time. In case it ever comes in handy. ]

Keeps the mind sharp.

[ Now that he's been called out, he can't actually do it himself, so he cants his head towards Bigby. Entirely flat, to the point where it's unclear whether it's meant to be humorous or not: ]

Go ahead. Ask if they're tree frogs.

[Bigby's frown curls. Just when he starts thinking that he can't imagine why anyone would willingly practice something they don't particularly like — especially riddles — for no good reason, he has to mentally backtrack because a) Bruce said he was a detective, so this makes perfect sense for him, and b) he can imagine it because he's done it to himself too. Not with riddles, but with typing. He hates typing, but it's gotten to the point where you can't exactly go out into the mundy world not knowing how to use a word processor these days.

Bigby tilts his head over at "Azrail" and "Lorelai". The copies don't blink or so much as breathe when he approaches them. Curiously enough, they're only guarding one door. If that much is off already, he wonders how much more of the riddle's setup has been altered.

He looks back at Bruce, still frowning, then back over at the copies, glancing between the two of them.]

Are you a tree frog?

[The answer comes simultaneously:]

Yes, [drones "Lorelai".]

No, [murmurs "Azrail".]

... Huh. [Bigby blinks, scratching at his cheek. In what may be one in less than a handful of occurrences since coming to Fellden, he actually feels genuine pleasant surprise.]

[ Behind Bigby, the corners of Bruce's mouth twitch up in dry amusement. Bigby could have said he wanted to go with one of the non-ridiculous options; he chose that one of his own free will. A moment later, Bruce steps up beside Bigby, mouth settled into an ambiguous straight line again. He spares a glance Lorelai's way, raising his eyebrows. ]

I should have guessed she was the knave.

[ Sure, they're not themselves, but as representations, they're close enough. He doesn't know much about Azrail — he's been super duper lucky enough to deal entirely with Lorelai and Death itself — but Bruce finds it difficult to imagine him being more rascally than Lorelai. Surely they have to represent different aspects of Death. Lorelai is the juvenile, inane temperament that apparently comes from millennia of reaping souls, and Azrail is... everything else, he assumes. ]

...The riddle in this case usually involves a second path, though.

[ One certain death, one the way forward — he's not quite sure what just one is supposed to mean. Maybe it's some sort of magic. He's getting tired of all the magic in this maze. ]

Well, we didn't actually give them an answer yet.

[He gestures with the side of one hand to Azrail's copy, dead in every way except physically. And even then, he has his doubts about that.]

You, [Bigby says, fixing his eyes on the Azrail copy. That actually provokes a reaction from it, albeit a minuet one: it slowly turns its head to Bigby, just enough to show that that it's listening when he goes on to say,] Let us through.

[Before Bigby can even wonder if that's the right protocol (and if it isn't, he's going to be one step closer to doing what he did to the last door that just had to make his life difficult), Azrail leans over to the side where Lorelai is standing, reaches for the door knob — a brass fixture in the shape of a creature that looks a little bit like a goblin — and slides it over to his side. It doesn't make a sound as it glides across the stone surface until it slots into place with a grinding but soft little click like ancient, rusty gears coming to life.

Bigby's shoulders ease up as tension trickles out of them, and he turns to Bruce with an expression accompanied by a head tilt that says See? and another one-handed gesture that says After you.]

[ Bruce watches Bigby order Azrail around with a sense of uncertainty — that's not how the 'fork in the road' riddle customarily goes, after all — but after he moves in response, he can only assume it was the correct move. Not the one Bruce would have made, since he'd still be considering the significance of removing one door and what that means for the riddle itself, but maybe it's a good thing Bigby's around after all. ]

Brave of you to volunteer to go second.

[ This is a joke, albeit a very deadpan one. He isn't the type to hand out 'good job's and gold star stickers, so he gives Bigby a nod of acknowledgement that He Didn't Suck.

He glances at Lorelai and Azrail one last time, a little unsettled by the uncanny valley of it all, before reaching for the ornate door knob. He turns it, opening the door and stepping over the threshold. Everything looks decidedly nonlethal, so he surmises that they completed the challenge correctly; piece of cake. Satisfied, he turns to say so to Bigby — and promptly falls through the floor. ]

[The room behind the door is a simple cobblestone path bordered by hedges, but it's a straight shot with no turns or hidden angles as far as Bigby can tell. In a word, it's convenient. Bigby doesn't like convenient. It's usually a smokescreen hiding darker things or a shoddy, thrown-together job that doesn't give the same kind of results the harder way would. Either way, he's not sold on this just yet.

He takes a step forward right as Bruce turns back with his mouth open like he's ready to say something. That slight open-mouthed look is the last thing Bigby sees of Bruce when, like a magic trick, he disappears within the blink of an eye. There's a whoosh of air that rushes up from the hole in the ground that swallows him, and Bigby sees the whites of his eyes right before he's yanked down, smells the sudden rush of adrenaline seeping out of his pores and the stale, dank air coming from the space beneath him that isn't at all unlike the fetid air in New York City's darkest, oldest subway tunnels—

—and Bigby's moving fast and hard, all animal instinct as his hand shoots out to grab Bruce's in the split second time window he has before that too is swallowed by the dark.]

[ From the moment Bruce realizes the ground beneath him has given way, he makes sure to fall safely: keep it loose, tuck in the chin, give into the fall. Bigby reaching for him after he's essentially gone ragdoll throws a wrench in the works, as he's now an over-200-pound burden weighing Bigby down. About to dislocate his own arm, if he's being honest.

He takes a moment to survey the situation. He's still alive, which is a good sign that he hasn't actually reached the 'certain death' portion of this challenge; he's not exactly alone, though, which isn't promising. Bruce can't see much in this darkness, but he can feel it, limbs wrapping around his leg and tugging him down. He gives it a swift kick with his free foot, which only succeeds in making it grasp tighter. Bruce thinks he may have offended it.

Something's gotta give, and he's fairly sure he's not going back up. So, Bigby's coming down. Without giving him the courtesy of a warning, he gives Bigby a solid yank over the threshold. ]

[Oh holy shit. He's gone into dead weight mode.

If Bigby were shifted into another form, even a partial one, lifting Bruce wouldn't be a problem. But he's not, and the sudden shift in the other man's weight when he lets his body go slack throws him off balance, and if that wasn't enough, now he's being yanked forward. It feels a bit like playing tug-of-war, and whoever's pulling from the other side only just decided to make its presence known a second ago.

So Bigby has no chance to brace himself. His feet slide on the ground before that final yank dislodges them altogether. From there on, the sky becomes a rapidly shrinking ball of light above him as he starts falling, still grasping Bruce by the wrist.

A hand shoots out, wrapping itself around Bigby's outstretched arm. It comes from his left. Another comes from behind him, tickling his ribs before it finds purchase on his hip, digging fingers into him. And then another, this one grabbing him by the leg.]

The fu—

[He's cut off by yet another hand that slaps itself over his mouth, and before he can bite it, his eyes adjust to the darkness and he finally sees what kind of tunnel he and Bruce are falling into. He freezes.

Lining the walls are countless arms, legs and heads. Each one is the size of an adult human limb, which is Bigby thinks they are at first until a dusty flash of metal catches his eye from the wrist of the hand covering his mouth, and he notices deep grooves and lines in the "skin" of another one.

Hinges. Ball-jointed limbs. And then, when he catches sight of one of the heads, one eye closed peacefully while the other flickers open unevenly to reveal a glassy, dead eye, he realizes just how off he really was. No, not human. Not human at all.

Dolls.]

Oooh! Visitors!

[A chorus of high-pitched voices rise up from the depths of the tunnel, coming all the way from the bottom.]

Edited 2019-11-23 18:34 (UTC)

[ Gross.

Bruce is quiet after seeing Bigby be silenced; he doesn't have much to say to a pit of dolls anyhow, except maybe to point out how uncomfortably handsy they're being. The person pulling on his leg has turned into multiple people tugging on his limbs; he supposes it's better than dropping them unceremoniously on the ground, but it feels like someone should have bought them dinner first.

He sighs. Maybe he should have tried to climb back up after all. Then again, this feels like the sort of maze where adversity means you're headed the right way, and it doesn't seem like they've fallen into a pit of certain death, unsettling as it may be.

It would be helpful if they could actually move, though. It seems like a long drop to the bottom, but that's better than staying here forever.

He tries to extricate himself from the dolls' grasp carefully at first, but that proves futile. They're definitely persistent, and it feels like their grip just tightens whenever he tries to slip out of it. Okay, plan B. Politely ask that they stop, you might think, but no. 1) Personal space, 2) personal space, 3) stay out of my personal space.

Bruce does finally speak, but it's only to grunt out, ] Let go, [ before attempting to elbow one of them in the hinges. It's not greatly effective given his limited range of movement, and it's not the first combat experience he'd have liked Bigby to see him in, but at least he's trying.

Speaking of Bigby, Bruce shoots him a pointed Look™. He's a damn magic wolf. Surely dolls aren't his one weakness. ]

[With a doll hand's spread over his mouth and about five others holding him back, the way Bigby tries (and fails) to quirk an eyebrow at Bruce as his forehead creases must be a sight to behold. A stupid, uncomfortable, distressing sight to behold, the epitome of why is this happening, God? He'd mentally ask that right now if he didn't just remind himself of Fellden Rule #509: There is no God in Fellden, but there are twenty-one of them. And in this instant and many others before, all of them seem to really hate Bigby Wolf and Bruce Wayne.]

This one looks sad! [The closest doll head to Bruce — which coincidentally happens to be only a foot away from his head — shrieks, joining the rising chorus of Visitors! that continues to bubble up around them.] Doesn't he know how to smile?

Let's find out!

[Two arms shoot out at Bruce's sides, the wriggling fingers attached to them relentlessly tickling him under his arms and ribs. They don't feel like they're made of wood or plastic like their appearance would suggest, but there's something stiff and unnatural about them all the same. Bigby can vouch for that; the one over his mouth feels, smells and tastes like old wallpaper left to decay in the back of a dark basement.

Bigby's eyebrows knit sympathetically as he watches the spectacle in front of him (or is it below him?) unfold, and he gives Bruce's arm a sharp tug, trying to dislodge him from the reach of the arms attacking him. He should stand to be a little more firm, and he could. The trouble with that is if he pulls any harder on Bruce, he could dislocate his arm.]

[ That's just his resting bitch face, excuse u. His bitch face gets bitchier, an incredible feat considering how he naturally looks like he wants to kill everyone in the room and then himself when he's feeling perfectly content. He is not, in fact, ticklish — that's the kind of thing you train yourself out of the moment you realize that being tickled really ruins your I am the night shtick. It's annoying more than anything else, and in combination with Bigby ineffectually tugging at his arm, it feels like some strange, low-grade form of torture.

You know, it's really starting to feel like bad things happen to him just because Bigby is within a one-mile radius. He's Bruce's own personal bad luck charm.

Bruce attempts to kick off some of his — not attackers so much as nuisances, honestly, but they're troublesome all the same, and starting to give him a sense of claustrophobia — to mostly unproductive results (although he thinks he might have scratched one of them up a little, and he'll take that small victory). He grunts in frustration, really wishing he'd come in costume. Sure, Bigby would have thought he was in fetish gear, but he'd also have blades in his gloves and ten different kinds of security measures he could activate right now, so who'd end up laughing? ]

I know you're stronger than that.

[ At this point, he'd rather have sweet freedom and an injury than this. ]

[Bigby's eyes narrow and his brow creases even harder; at this point he's going to have another hole in his head. Then he digs his own fingers into Bruce's wrist and gives his arm a single, solid yank — hard enough to make something in it pop, but thankfully it isn't the bone. Whatever it is, it's abrupt and forceful enough to dislodge Bruce from hands behind him, which push out and flail at the air as they try to regain their hold on him. At the same time, there's a very loud CRACK!

Actually, no. It's more of a crunch, like very dry cereal being chewed or packing peanuts being ground up. Thankfully, that isn't coming from Bruce.]

HE BIT ME!

[A wail splits the air. And sure enough, Bigby turns his head and spits out three slender, pale doll fingers, squirming even after they've been separated from their owner, still twitching even after they've left his mouth. More shrieking voices join together in a chorus.]

Oh no! That wasn't very nice!

How could you?

It HURTS! It HURTS, it HURTS, IT HURTS!

That's so mean!

[And then, all those dozens of arms and hands that had been holding them up pull back, sharply and abruptly.]

[ Bruce's shoulder immediately starts to burn, but it looks like he's gotten off easy compared to the dolls. He's done some pretty gnarly things, but never has he bitten off three of someone's fingers. He only has a moment to process the sheer force someone would have to use to bite through doll fingers before he's suddenly tumbling down the dark tunnel again, with only enough time to grab onto his shoulder with his other hand and angle it away from whatever waits below.

He hits the cold, hard floor with a thump, rolling in an attempt to lessen the impact. Every single part of his body feels— well, like he's just fallen down a pit, but he grits his teeth and bears it as stoically as he can manage. He doesn't want to seem — or be — weak.

With his good arm, he pushes himself up to a sitting position; the other one hangs limply for now, more of a nuisance than anything else. He pinches the bridge of his nose. ]

You just had to bite.

[Freefalling through a hole lined with doll parts — there's a new one for the ol' mental filing cabinet. Bigby doesn't have a chance to brace himself. He doesn't even have a chance to grab Bruce (who kind of started this, let's be real). All he can do is try to force himself to stay upright as he falls, because catching the floor with his face is harder to recover from than catching it with his ass.

When he finally lands in a heap, every bone in his torso screams. Unlike Bruce who at least has the right idea to roll, Bigby takes the impact in full, falling into a bed of furry green moss growing out from the cracks of the stones that line this dark little chamber. It all literally grinds to a halt when a heavy iron grate slams shut somewhere high above them with a bang, blocking out most of their light, and with that, their way out.

From his place on the ground, Bigby rubs a palm over his face and holds it there, over his eyes.]

Sorry I didn't ask first.

[No he isn't.]

[ Bigby's landing is— well, it looks pretty painful. Or at least it would be if he were a human; Bruce doesn't have a frame of reference for being a magical wolf-man, unfortunately. He cringes at the sight, although Bigby's smart-ass response makes him feel a little less bad for him.

Bruce attempts to move his injured arm and quickly realizes that his mobility is limited and it goddamn hurts. He bears it with a stifled grunt, reminding himself that he literally did ask for it. He glances over to survey how Bigby's doing; it's hard to tell, since he still doesn't know the extent of Bigby's invulnerability. Sure, things won't kill him, but he never said they wouldn't maim him. ]

Are you hurt?

[ He truly is asking because it matters, but there is a small part of him holding a notepad, ready to update his Bigby contingency plan with whether dropping him down pits is a viable attack strategy. ]

[The hiss of air through clenched teeth draws Bigby's attention, and he slides his hand off his face and starts pulling himself up with his head turned in Bruce's direction. Which is a mistake. His rubs hurt. His tailbone hurts. His back hurts. Even tensing the muscles sends waves of pain shooting up his body; he's been through this enough times to have names to put to the hurt, and while he doesn't have Swineheart's education, he doesn't think bruised ribs or slipped disc would be too inaccurate.

Thankfully, it's nothing he can't heal from in record time. He can't say the same about Bruce, though.]

I'll live. [His voice is thick and throaty with his own suppressed pain. Clenching his jaw, he pulls himself all the way up, forcing himself to sit. Standing might be a little too much for now, but crawling isn't.]

How's your arm? [He bites down, edging closer to Bruce.] Is it broken, or dislocated?

[It's obvious which among the two he'd prefer. Once he's close enough, he looks the arm in question over, not with his hands but with his eyes, studying the way Bruce is holding it.]

[ With a dubious frown, he looks Bigby over. He looks more worse for wear than he's seen him yet, and 'I'll live' is hardly a ringing endorsement, but he supposes it's better than the alternative. At least he didn't land on his head.

Bruce barely has to think before he says, ] Anterior dislocation.

[ He's had enough injuries to know exactly how each one feels by now, and this one isn't exactly an unfamiliar feeling. During his vigilante career, he's had his arms pinned, twisted, and slammed so many times that a shoulder dislocation is practically routine. If Alfred were around, he'd pop it back in and get Bruce high enough on painkillers to go into the office like nothing ever happened.

Unfortunately, papa isn't around to kiss his boo-boos better, and as far as he knows, shops in Fellden don't sell hydrocodone. He winces at a surge of burning pain at his joint and wonders if there isn't at least some sort of magical Icy Hot. ]

Going to have to reduce it.

[ Which is going to hurt all over again. ]

[ If things go on the way they have, Frederick's going to run out of fingers with which to count the number of strangers he's been mashed together with by the machinations of this maze.

Well, better this confident-looking man than the strange woman in cat ears.

They're in a room, brightly lit in oversaturated yellow and decorated in gaudy red and white with various contraptions in each corner. The worst of it all is the music, a cheerful jingle that grows more distorted with each passing loop.

And of course, there's the beautiful and foreboding warning on the wall: escape if you dare. ]

Even if there is some worse fate in store if we fail to escape, I suspect this music will cause me to lose my wits long before that happens.

[ His eardrums are going to bleed soon. ]

[ How many times has he been to a sinister carnival? Too many. At this point, he's just tired of it. Get a new motif, people. ]

Escaping is the only option. Dangerous fate or not.

[ After all, being stuck in this room together certainly isn't an option. As polite as Frederick is, he'd rather not die here with him. It's nothing personal. ]

Start searching for a path out.

[ It's not going to be that easy — things like this never are — but it's a start. ]

THIS MAIZE IS A MAZE! | CLOSED-ISH

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it's time for an escape room

ignore how late this tag is