[b]Lucien![/b]

What’s going on here? Pretty obvious. You’re about to be hunted for sport by a bunch of cannibals. The threat of cannibalism is actually a really big part of pulp novels about the Heart, and you know the warning signs: big inviting grins, bones and body parts being a fashion statement, protruding ribs, and physical mutation and horn growth. Yep, this is some textbook cannibal tribe shit you have gotten yourself into. Probably worship that Angel, too.

What will happen if you get away? You’ll end up in another disaster, probably, but that one might not want to eat you or blow you up, so, hey, progress! Whatever’s going on, it’s unlikely you can get out of it completely without some help from the likes of Coleman or Ailee.

What in the environment could hurt you? Well, the Owls with adorable little knit collars that are popping out of the vents around you. Trained Owls. My god. Those cannibals are definitely missing fingers, ears, and tendons from the effort. Their hoots are ominous as they hop and scuttle towards you, extending their retractable talented forelimbs.

What’s the safest way out? Good question! Not the vents. Not the store passageways. Not the cafe with the angel inside it. But if you can get over to that elevator shaft, scramble up it, and crack open a door higher up? The Owls can’t fly up that high with their fluttering jumps, and the cannibals won’t have good lighting for shooting you down.

Good luck.

***

[b]Ailee![/b]

The hive deliberates. This takes longer than you probably want, but the Bees have to debate amongst each other: are you what you claim to be, are you aligned with Calamity, are you part of the Working. The glyphs were for your benefit; you have to watch them and consult the book to eavesdrop on their discussions.

Then the Bees begin rhythmically lighting up a passageway, indicating that you should follow. You descend, and come out in what once might have been a ticket office.

The room is calcified. Thick pulp and wax have turned manuals and pamphlets into solid blocks, and the only break in the slick glaze all around is an iron spike growing out of the ground, rusty and malignant, twisted into some strange floral form.

The Enemy, the Bees around you signal. The Enemy, The Enemy. Friends = scattered, lost. An animal that consumes other animals. Danger.

Exit? Remain? Destroy?

***

[B]Jackdaw![/b]

“The [i]law[/i] is avarice. Rule by want. And I want what you have more than you do, as you can plainly see.” The Chief Squeaker pulls out a scale, which seems to be favoring one side very definitively. Then the scale is gestured at emphatically before being folded back up. “Now, hurry up, hurry up, before I make up my mind about what I’m going to turn you into! Probably a kobold. But if you move any slower, maybe a bug!”

***

[b]Coleman![/b]

“Why?” It’s almost snarled. “Crew?” This seems to satisfy her for a moment, as she rolls it over in her head. “Crew. Needed. Mmhm.”

She lets you up, but doesn’t remove the carabiner. This is a little awkward, but it seems rather important to her that she have the ability to knock you down or drag you around. “Scattered? Disaster. Skeleton crew. Bonecrackers, Angels, Squeakers, Bees. Owls in pipes. Dead. Minimum?”

Bonecrackers? That sounds ominous, doesn’t ring a bell. Squeakers? Rats, bunch of dragon cultists and surreal imperialists. Angels? Heart-fauna, very dangerous. Bees? Unlucky, possibly invasive species. Owls? Pack hunters, go for the hamstrings.