Hello. This is my Tumblr. You can find some key things to know about me under the cut.
I'm on a bunch of other sites too. Find some of them here!
Old enough not to want to admit how old I am. Suffice to say, I'm not a minor.
Australian, for my sins.
Nonbinary libertarian socialist.
I'm bad at being a fan of things. I don't like the things most people like and the things I do like I generally like for different reasons than the ones that most people who like them like them for.
That said, you'll probably find me posting about:
Failbetter Games' oeuvre, including the Fallen London universe (inc. Sunless Sea, Sunless Skies, Mask of the Rose, et al.)
Classic Fallout (1, 2, New Vegas. I've played most of the others but don't care for them very much. Haven't watched the show and you can't make me.)
Dorothy L. Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey stories. (And other detective stories, but Wimsey remains the best of the bunch.)
Taskmaster is rather good. Taskmaster New Zealand is also very excellent. Taskmaster Australia's a bit rubbish.
My taste in music is embarrassingly eclectic. Seriously, it's like a bomb went off in a record shop. No consistency at all.
You'll also find posts about lots of other things - maybe Disco Elysium or Twin Peaks or Undertale or whatever - but I can't pretend to be an expert on them.
I use tags as metadata and not as postscripts. Sorry - I learned how to organise things with tags and now I can't un-learn it.
Also I've been posting here for fifteen goddamn years where the hell did all that time go how does any of this work
I always struggled with basic tasks. I thought I was just stupid and lazy. When I found out that thousands just like me had been diagnosed with ADHD, I cried, because it's sad that they're all stupid and lazy too.
When people say someone is shot 'right between the eyes', I always envisage a shot like this:
But, generally, what they actually mean is a shot to the centre of the forehead - located 'between the eyes' on the horizontal axis, but not the vertical, like this:
Which is fine, I suppose, but, following that logic, a shot 'right between the eyes' could just as easily have struck here:
Presumably, by an assassin who targets nu-metal musicians - they shot his soul patch clear off!
You're on a three-day journey on the Great Hellbound Railway. You have your choice of cabins in either of the sleeper cars. Unfortunately, the dining car is out of service due to an incident with a chertapple flambé, so you will have to take your meals in your cabin. Which place are you taking?
Some factors to take into account:
Cabins A, B, C, D, E, G, H, I, J and K are doubles with bunks. Each double has generous washing facilities which are shared with the opposite cabin.
Travellers whose portraits are above the diagram have claimed the top bunk; travellers below have claimed the bottom bunk. For example, A represents sleeping below the Bishop of Southwark.
Cabins F and L are singles. They have more modest washing facilities, and they do have doors opening on to the adjoining single.
His Amused Lordship's snoring can be heard from the cabins on either side of him.
Silas the Showman has been known to get blackout drunk and sleep in the bath 'in case of accidents'.
Jasper and Frank share a bunk; one sleeps while the other does paperwork.
The conductors have a betting pool going on whether Tatterdemalion and Summer stop having noisy arguments and start being noisy in other ways before the end of the journey. No-one has bet even a single penny that they will at any point stop being noisy.
Your Aunt and Mr Huffam will most certainly jimmy the lock between your rooms and do some snooping - Huffam for a story, your Aunt for some benevolent familial interference.
Yep, that he did! In the Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone we get this quote: "He's following someone. Yesterday he was out as a workman looking for a job. To-day he was an old woman. Fairly took me in, he did, and I ought to know his ways by now.' Billy pointed with a grin to a very baggy parasol which leaned against the sofa. 'That's part of the old woman's outfit,' he said." So not only did Holmes dress up as an old lady, he did it so convincingly that he fooled someone who worked with him for quite some time too
He pranks Watson and Athelney Jones with a disguise in The Sign of the Four, too, so this is very much in-character. (Relevant passage under the cut!)
A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had a coloured scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long grey side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.
“What is it, my man?” I asked.
He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” said he.
“No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have for him.”
“It was to him himself I was to tell it,” said he.
“But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai Smith’s boat?”
“Yes. I knows well where it is. An’ I knows where the men he is after are. An’ I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it.”
“Then tell me, and I shall let him know.”
“It was to him I was to tell it,” he repeated, with the petulant obstinacy of a very old man.
“Well, you must wait for him.”
“No, no; I ain’t goin’ to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr. Holmes ain’t here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself. I don’t care about the look of either of you, and I won’t tell a word.”
He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.
“Wait a bit, my friend,” said he. “You have important information, and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or not, until our friend returns.”
The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognised the uselessness of resistance.
“Pretty sort o’ treatment this!” he cried, stamping his stick. “I come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!”
“You will be none the worse,” I said. “We shall recompense you for the loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not have long to wait.”
He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk. Suddenly, however, Holmes’s voice broke in upon us.
“I think that you might offer me a cigar too,” he said.
We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us with an air of quiet amusement.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You here! But where is the old man?”
“Here is the old man,” said he, holding out a heap of white hair. “Here he is,—wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test.”
“Ah, You rogue!” cried Jones, highly delighted. “You would have made an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and those weak legs of yours are worth ten pounds a week. I thought I knew the glint of your eye, though. You didn’t get away from us so easily, You see.”
so i made a generator that creates a "the/a/an Adjective Noun" style epithet and assigns them a faction. there's over 200 adjectives and over 300 nouns for a total of at least 5 unique combinations. admittedly some of the combinations will be canon characters, contradictory/nonsensical, or Moon Moon type shit but that's not my problem. the 12 in-game factions are available alongside a few non-faction major players like the tigers just for kicks. i'll go back and add new shit if i feel like it ig.
anyway just for fun, reblog with the first guy you generate please :)
the admiral told me his zee captains keep getting lost at zee so i asked him how many zee captains he has and he said every time one of them is declared dead he just enlists their scion so i said it sounds like he’s just feeding zee captains to salt and then maybe’s daughter started crying
Madame Shoshana, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in the Neath,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the Series 3 Taskmaster,
(Those are fires that are his eyes. Look!)
Here is Griz, the Taskmaster's Assistant,
The Efficient Commissioner.
See her task, which she carries in her hands,
Which I am forbidden to see. I also find
The Series 1 Contestant. Fear wakeful pigs.
I see crowds of people, seated in a theatre.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs Petrovsky,
Tell her I bring the bat-horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
MR TASKS: Good evening, Fallen London. I am Mr Tasks, and I am the Taskmaster of the Bazaar. My devoted myrmidons have brought together five of the city’s most eminent personalities and had them compete for the Neath’s most desirable reward: my personal approval, made manifest in the form of my gilded likeness. Pray reward them for the wisdom they displayed in agreeing to participate by giving them a round of applause; they are: Chuffy McAvoy-Dauntless!
CHUFFY: (waves cheerily to the audience)
MR TASKS: Emilia Hathersage!
APRIL: (looks up from the shorthand transcription provided to her by a Black-Clad Assistant to wave briefly)
MR TASKS: F.F. Gebrandt!
F.F.: (waves, briskly and efficiently)
MR TASKS: Mr Inch!
MR INCH: (twirls his moustaches magnificently)
MR TASKS: And the Pirate Poet!
PIRATE POET: (raises her hand to her brow in a corsair’s salute)
MR TASKS: Unfortunately, I have not been granted absolute authority over this competition. Instead, some portion of that authority has been devolved - in every sense of the word - to my so-called ‘assistant’ - who, I suppose, propriety demands should also be treated to applause. Please give a half-hearted, dispirited clap for the Efficient Commissioner!
(Griz neatly squares the pages in her clipboard and sits, clearly ready for an evening’s assisting.)
GRIZ: Good evening, Taskmaster.
MR TASKS: What exactly is your role here?
GRIZ: For the past eight weeks, I’ve supervised our contestants as they completed important and worthwhile tasks at the Taskmaster Manor. I also perform the introductions to the tasks, cue the projectionists, tabulate the scores, and ensure the entire production achieves its desired story-output and stays within its allotted budget.
MR TASKS: I’m sorry - that explanation was so tiresome, I stopped listening. What did you say after ‘weeks’?
GRIZ: I-
MR TASKS: Never mind! I understand the first task is that all of our participants must give me a present!
GRIZ: Yes, almost. We begin, as always, with the prize task. Each of our contestants has brought in a prize on a set theme. You’ll rank the prizes from worst to best, and whoever wins tonight will take home all five prizes!
MR TASKS: We let one of them keep them? (it sighs heavily) I suppose it saves us having to provide additional incentives ourselves, if they were so ungrateful that such things were needed. What is the theme for today’s prizes?
GRIZ: Ein Katzenjammer, une gueule de bois, the morning after the night before, the Gin Fairy’s calling-card. That’s right; this task is all about the deleterious effects of overindulgence in vinous and spirituous liquors, because we’ve asked our contestants to bring in the best hangover remedy. Tonight’s winner will take home five hangover remedies, and will presumably feel quite confident about the possible outcomes of having a celebratory drink afterwards.
(The two points of fire beneath Mr Tasks’ hood shift in a manner that could be interpreted as a roll of its eyes.)
MR TASKS: Chuffy!
CHUFFY: Hullo!
MR TASKS: What have you brought that can treat a hangover?
CHUFFY: Ah, well, it’s - my grandmother.
(On the stage: the Dauntless Temperance Campaigner, seated in a comfortable chair.)
CAMPAIGNER: Hello, dear.
MR TASKS: How, exactly, does your ancestor constitute a hangover cure?
CHUFFY: First of all, she’s always encouraging a chap not to drink, which I’ve heard can help prevent the old vino flu.
F.F.: (scoffing) You’ve heard?
MR INCH: Did you not think to try it yourself?
CHUFFY: Never been the scientific type, y’know. Second, if I do find myself wakin’ up with a headful of badgers, she makes me a slap-up brekker with plenty of toast, and only gives me a gentle talking-to about having over-done it on the old guzzle.
CAMPAIGNER: You’d feel much better if you showed just a little moderation, dear.
CHUFFY: Yes, Grandmum. Sorry, Grandmum.
GRIZ: To be clear, if you don’t win tonight, will someone else be able to take your grandmother home?
CHUFFY: Oh, corks - didn’t think of that. Um - well, they can’t keep her - she’s her own lady, y’know? But perhaps she could pop over and make them a slap-up brekker. Would that be alright, Grandmum?
CAMPAIGNER: I’m very busy, you know, dear, but I’m sure I can fit it in if it helps you win your contest.
CHUFFY: Thanks awfully.
CAMPAIGNER: Jeremy sends his best!
MR TASKS: I think that’s quite enough of the family reunion. Ms Hathersage, what do you recommend for a hangover?
APRIL: (writes on a big notepad for a moment, then holds it up) A really hot curry.
(On the stage: a steaming hot bowl of mushrooms, vegetables and rice in a rich green sauce.)
MR TASKS: Intriguing. How hot is it, exactly?
(April turns the pad around, draws a single line, then turns it back again.) A r͟e͟a͟l͟l͟y hot curry.
GRIZ: I believe our infernal neighbours have developed a system to measure the hotness of foods. According to that… you know the commercial curry powder that one might purchase from a grocer?
MR TASKS: That would fall under Spices’ purview, but go on.
GRIZ: This is hotter than that by approximately five orders of magnitude.
MR TASKS: Very impressive. Very impressive indeed. F.F. Gebrandt, you are one of our fine city’s pre-eminent chemists; no doubt you sell some concoction that you recommend for such complaints?
F.F.: Post-intoxicative maladies are a challenge, but the most effective prescription I’ve found is a simple mixture of pure water and acetylsalicylic acid.
(On the stage: a conical flask containing a pale blue liquid.)
MR INCH: Acid? Is it dangerous?
F.F.: Not particularly. It can be derived from compounds found in the bark of the willow tree, has minimal negative effects if given in controlled doses and can be used to treat earache, toothache, tennis elbow and housemaid’s knee.
MR INCH: Pity.
MR TASKS: Intriguing. But you seem to feel you have something better to offer, Mr Inch?
MR INCH: Hair of the dog! The only thing for a hangover.
(On the stage: a quantity of stiff, fibrous material.)
MR TASKS: Why would he bring dog’s hair?
GRIZ: ‘Hair of the dog that bit you’ is a common metaphor for drinking more alcohol the next day.
MR TASKS: Ah, yes. I see. But he’s actually brought the hair, to make some sort of pun.
MR INCH: What? No. It’s the quills of a Varchaasi mastiff. Their noxious venom produces eight days of the most agonising convulsions - after which, you’re guaranteed to have forgotten all about your little headache!
GRIZ: Instead of removing the pain, you diminish it by introducing a more severe pain?
MR INCH: Life’s all about contrasts!
MR TASKS: Hm. Interesting. Now, Pirate Poet, do you believe you can contrast yourself from your competitor’s contributions?
PIRATE POET: I admit, F.F. and I have hewed quite close together on this one. I brought fruit juice.
(On the stage: a large glass of a cloudy orange liquid.)
F.F.: I have seen it recommended for replenishing sugars… but I’m detecting the presence of one or two additional ingredients.
PIRATE POET: Perishables don't keep on long voyages, of course, so I’ve mixed it with something to preserve it - just a spot of rum. And gin. And cinnamon, cloves, pepper, anise and ginger.
CHUFFY: If all physic were like that, I wouldn’t mind seeing the doc!
GRIZ: Does that actually help treat a hangover?
PIRATE POET: Not at all, but it is delicious.
MR TASKS: We’ve seen all five prizes - must I judge them now?
GRIZ: You must.
MR TASKS: How deeply tiresome. Very well. Mr Inch shall receive one point, because his so-called ‘remedy’ would leave the patient much worse off than they were, and unable to work productively for several days.
MR INCH: Damn and blast!
MR TASKS: The Pirate Poet gets two points - her prize seems to encourage the behaviour that caused the malady in the first place, but it does have the advantage of maintaining the status quo.
(The Pirate Poet scowls and crosses her arms, impressively emphasising her biceps.)
MR TASKS: F.F.’s submission seems perfectly sensible, but it failed to excite me - it can take three points.
GRIZ: Three points for F.F. Gebrandt.
MR TASKS: Now, the curry and the grandmother…
CHUFFY: I brought my actual grandmum!
APRIL: (holds up her pad and taps it for emphasis) A really hot curry.
MR TASKS: Four points for the grandmother, and five points for the blazing-hot breakfast!
(April writes a short note and passes it to the Black-Clad Assistant, who reads it, nods and conceals it in a waistcoat pocket.)
MR TASKS: Now, I believe you have made a film containing the contestants’ efforts toward the next task, saving me the bother of having to participate myself.
GRIZ: Ahem… yes, that’s right; for our first task, we offered our contestants the chance to really make their mark.
MR TASKS: What does that mean?
GRIZ: You’ll see when I cue the film.
MR TASKS: So you said it, knowing that I don’t have the information required to understand it?
GRIZ: I-
MR TASKS: If this is how you’ve been running this competition, it’s a good thing I took over when I did.
GRIZ: Let’s see-
MR TASKS: What a ramshackle production.
GRIZ: Roll the film!
(On the screen, the parlour of Taskmaster Manor appears. Griz stands in one corner, clipboard in hand. On the rear wall hangs a portrait of the Taskmaster hunched before a sky bound with spires of steel. At the table sits a Lady in Lilac holding a small, ornate box. Chuffy strolls breezily in.)
CHUFFY: What ho, what ho, what ho.
GRIZ: Hello, Chuffy. This is Millicent.
(Elsewhen, F.F. steps into the room, and pauses when she sees the Lady in Lilac.)
GRIZ: F.F., this-
F.F.: Mrs Clathermont.
LILAC: Mrs Gebrandt.
GRIZ: Ah, you’ve met. Excellent.
(April produces a pair of tin snips, cuts the task’s seal free, and pops it in her pocket.)
GRIZ: Are you… going to keep that?
(April nods and sits down to read the task.)
PIRATE POET: ’Design a tattoo with a hidden message.’
CHUFFY: ‘This tattoo artist…’ (he turns to the Lady in Lilac) Is that you?
LILAC: That’s me.
CHUFFY: Righto. ‘This tattoo artist can help you realise your design, if you so wish.’
MR INCH: ‘The best tattoo with the most ingeniously hidden message wins.’ If you can’t guess what the message is, will we have to tell you?
GRIZ: I wouldn’t include anything you actually want to keep secret, if that’s what you’re thinking of.
MR INCH: Sure, sure. ‘You have a maximum of thirty minutes. Your time starts now.’
CHUFFY: I might have to lean on you for drawin’ the actual pictures. Never was much of an artistic cove.
LILAC: That’s fine; that’s what I’m here for.
(The Pirate Poet has loosened her headwrap and is displaying the side of her neck.)
PIRATE POET: …and I picked this one up in Khan’s Shadow. Done by a word-smuggler out of Scrimshander.
LILAC: I thought I recognised the technique. That’s some nice work on the gradation of the lettering.
(In the studio, Mr Inch is discreetly trying to read the Pirate Poet’s biceps.)
MR TASKS: This task seems fairly simple. The best design with the secret-est message. Naturally, we’d expect the message to be something significant.
GRIZ: Something intriguing.
MR TASKS: Something that at least pretends to be worth keeping secret.
GRIZ: We won’t reveal their messages just yet, but let’s see how the contestants fared at designing tattoos.
(On the screen, Chuffy can be seen, scratching his chin and staring into space.)
CHUFFY: What sorts of things do people norm’ly get tattoos of?
LILAC: I-
CHUFFY: Boats seem to be quite popular. And fish and such. Bats?
LILAC: Bats?
CHUFFY: And lions, and whatnot. Do people ever get people?
LILAC: People have been known to have tattoos of each other, yes.
(Mr Inch paces up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Griz turns to watch him as he passes her.)
MR INCH: Message… secret. Secret message. Secret… design. Picture. Tattoo picture. Right! (he points his cane at the Lady in Lilac) D’you know the badge of the Department of Menace Eradication? Not the one their officials carry; the one on the gate.
LILAC: I believe so - a quartered circle with a braid of rats’ tails.
MR INCH: That’s the one. Right - we start with that design, but I have some changes in mind…
(F.F. is seated beside the Lady in Lilac, guiding her through a precise tracing.)
F.F.: And then three radiating out from that point.
LILAC: Towards the top?
F.F.: Precisely so.
(April draws something on her pad, her face a picture of intense focus, then shows it to the Lady in Lilac, who suppresses a smirk.)
LILAC: I see. And is it happy about this?
(April shakes her head, and adds some detail to her sketch.)
LILAC: Peeling off… I see. (she begins drawing) In colour, do we think? Yes, of course.
(The Pirate Poet has taken up the drawing materials herself and is outlining an elaborate design. The Lady in Lilac attempts to peer over her large shoulder.)
LILAC: Going traditional, are we?
PIRATE POET: You’ll see when it’s finished.
LILAC: I thought you were a writer, not an artist.
PIRATE POET: I’ve been a great many things in my time. Lover, fighter, artist, writer… (she considers the rhyme, then dismisses it with a shake of the head) Some, I have even chosen to remain. (she draws a long, sweeping line, face furrowed with concentration) I am a pentimento of the sins of men… (she turns her design around for the Lady to see.)
LILAC: Oh. (her eyes widen) Oh! I see.
(Chuffy sits backwards in his chair, moustache trembling with excitement.)
CHUFFY: Make sure he looks thoroughly squiffy.
LILAC: Right.
CHUFFY: Wearin’ a morning coat, but he’s lost his topper.
LILAC: Bare-headed, yes.
CHUFFY: And he’s staggerin’ along like this. (he stands, leans back and affects an unsteady walk, taking great clumping steps)
LILAC: I shall do my very best.
CHUFFY: Jolly good.
(In the studio, Mr Tasks has fixed Chuffy with an unamused stare.)
MR TASKS: Your design is of a drunken man who has lost his hat?
CHUFFY: Oh, that’s right! I’d forgotten what I’d done, truth be told.
GRIZ: Would you like to see the completed tattoos?
MR TASKS: You may show them, but I doubt I will be scoring Chuffy’s particularly highly.
GRIZ: Before we show them, I can assure everyone that these have been scrupulously examined by our team of high-energy semioticians to rule out any possibility of hazardous rhetoric or unexploded grammar. We won’t be seeing a repeat of a certain incident.
MR TASKS: What incident?
GRIZ: The regrettable incident involving Furnace Ancona-
MR TASKS: Involving what?
GRIZ: Furnace Ancona… champion of Taskmaster of the Bazaar’s second series?
MR TASKS: Furnace… Furnace? (it clutches its head as if in pain) There was that incident with the law-furnace, when we lost Tuesday?
GRIZ: Never mind - on with the matter at hand. Here is Chuffy’s design!
(On the screen appears a comical scene: a cross-eyed gentleman with exaggeratedly large legs traces an inebriated course across the landscape of Europe, represented by a looping line leading to his feet. He raises a glass to the viewer, and below him appears the text ‘I’m Always Ready To Go For A G T!’.)
CHUFFY: (guffawing and gasping for breath) Just look at the fellow! Never mind his hat - he looks about ready to lose his head!
GRIZ: Would you like to try to guess its hidden meaning?
MR TASKS: I struggle to believe it has any meaning at all, let alone a hidden one. The letters G and T appear particularly prominent - those refer to a drink of some sort, don’t they?
GRIZ: Chuffy, would you care to explain the intended reading?
CHUFFY: Well, back in the day - the time of one’s great-grands and all the great-aunts and -uncles, you know - it was very much the thing to go for a Grand Tour to see the Continent.
F.F.: Thus. the map.
CHUFFY: Right! But this chappie, he says he’s going for a G. T., but he doesn’t mean a Tour… (he starts laughing again) …he means a gin and tonic!
(Mr Tasks turns to its assistant.)
MR TASKS: What’s a stronger word for ‘weak’?
GRIZ: Flimsy? Pathetic? Feeble?
MR TASKS: Yes, all of those. I hope and trust that the other contestants’ entries are to a higher standard.
GRIZ: I can make no specific guarantees; here’s Emilia Hathersage’s design.
(On the screen appears a full-colour rendering of the Taskmaster itself, its robes engulfed in flames. Its face is contorted with pain, and the heat has caused its skin to blister and warp, revealing rows of bloodstained fangs.)
MR TASKS: That’s me… on fire.
(April nods.)
MR TASKS: Chuffy, you’re off the hook. (it points a claw at April) Is there any particular reason you submitted a picture of me on fire, or were you simply eager to earn one point?
(April holds up a note she’d evidently brought prepared for this moment.)
APRIL: It’s an ironical juxtaposition. You’re usually fond of fire, but, here, it’s burning you to death.
MR TASKS: Can we give her no points?
GRIZ: She did technically fulfil the terms of the task.
MR TASKS: Pah. You should have prepared your contracts with greater flexity. Well, take it away; I don’t want to see it any more. Who is next?
GRIZ: Let’s take a look at Mr Inch’s design.
(On the screen: a quartered circle, bearing in its quadrants a wolf, a lash, a cross and a coin. At the centre sits an imperial crown.)
MR TASKS: Hmm. Interesting. That is the Menace Eradication badge, but the rat has become a wolf - among other changes.
MR INCH: I’m saying nothing.
MR TASKS: The lash - what could that represent?
MR INCH: Fungal horses couldn’t drag the secret from me.
MR TASKS: Ah - I have it. You had the last Lieutenant-Eradicator killed by a suborned Khagagian agent to increase your standing in the eyes of the Empress.
MR INCH: Damn your eyes! How’d you work it out?
CHUFFY: It’s a decent picture, though.
F.F.: Yes, it looks quite nice.
(There is a general murmur of assent. April gives a thumbs-up.)
MR TASKS: Not a bad attempt. It gave us something to think about.
GRIZ: It certainly gave the Lieutenant-Eradicator something to think about.
MR TASKS: It did. Who shall we see next?
GRIZ: Here is F.F. Gebrandt’s tattoo.
(On the screen: a curious pictogram, made up of a number of branching paths, joined by and terminating in small dots and all ultimately connecting to a single hollow circle, rendered in gold.)
MR INCH: What’s this? Babylonic cuneiform?
PIRATE POET: Not cuneiform, no - nor any language I’m familiar with.
F.F.: It’s a plerogram, demonstrating the structure of a hypothetical compound of aluminium and argon.
CHUFFY: She’s gone too scientific for me, I’m afraid. Did you understand any of that?
MR TASKS: This compound - does it have potential industrial applications?
GRIZ: Well, that’s just it - we checked, F.F., and there is no such compound. Aluminium and argon don’t mix.
F.F.: Well, no, they don’t - that’s the message, you see.
MR TASKS: What?! Explain yourself.
F.F.: It’s a metaphor for a kind of love. One partner is the aluminium - it’s brilliant, tremendously strong for its weight, and reacts in all sorts of interesting ways when it gets hot. The other is the argon - it’s noble, reserved, a little shy. Their bond shouldn’t work - they shouldn’t be compatible - and yet, in the right conditions, they can make a marriage that suits them both very well.
APRIL: Thus the ring.
F.F.: Exactly.
MR TASKS: Interesting. These lovers - do they reside in London?
F.F.: Ah, no. It’s inspired by friends of mine, who live in, ah, Belgium.
MR TASKS: A pity. Should they ever come to the Neath, we shall have to alert Customs to their intriguing story. Now, I believe we have just one design left to see?
GRIZ: That’s right; here’s the Pirate Poet’s design.
(On the screen: a jumble of nautical iconography, including an anchor, two fish, a length of rope, a lighthouse, a parrot and a furled sail. Everyone peers at it, searching for hidden meaning.)
F.F.: Is this some zailor’s code?
CHUFFY: Is one of the fishes famous?
GRIZ: Famous?
CHUFFY: You know - is it a famous fish?
APRIL: (holds up a note with a skull and crossbones and a question mark)
MR TASKS: Did you forget to include a secret message? That was specifically required.
PIRATE POET: Do you give up?
MR INCH: We give up! What the devil is it?
GRIZ: If we turn the design like this…
(The image rotates one hundred and eighty degrees. Mr Inch’s jaw drops. Chuffy turns bright red. April’s shoulders shake. F.F. gives a slight nod.)
F.F.: Ah, I see.
MR TASKS: Oh, it’s a lady. How did I not see her before?
GRIZ: Yes, there she is.
MR TASKS: The proportions don’t seem proportional. Was this drawn from life? I’ve only visited the Taskmaster Manor the once, but everyone there appeared to have their clothes on.
GRIZ: They generally do, yes.
MR TASKS: And do female humans usually have a-?
GRIZ: (from behind her clipboard) Not always, but sometimes. Though not generally such a very large one.
MR TASKS: She should put it away before someone gets hurt.
(Chuffy begins to choke and has to be slapped on the back.)
MR TASKS: It’s an impractical size for a sword.
MR INCH: (faintly) I didn’t even notice the sword.
MR TASKS: I don’t entirely understand it, but I can’t deny it was well-hidden - though I think the Ministry of Public Decency might consider it improper.
PIRATE POET: Less proper than him having someone killed?
MR TASKS: Considerably less proper.
MR INCH: Weans see people die every day, but this - this is obscene!
GRIZ: Are you ready to judge them all?
MR TASKS: If I must. One point to Ms Hathersage.
(The twinkle in April’s eye fails to suggest a moment’s disappointment.)
MR TASKS: Two points to Chuffy, and I shall expect a letter of thanks after the show.
(Chuffy adopts the characteristic pose of one who wishes to register objection to a telling-off they probably deserved.)
MR TASKS: Now, I liked Inch’s secret, but the Pirate Poet’s was better-concealed…
MR INCH: Hers was just a nuddy!
MR TASKS: Three to the petulant Inch, and four to the Poet. It will teach him not to question my judgements. The five points goes to F.F. Gebrandt and her ingeniously-encoded love story.
(F.F. looks quietly gratified as the others applaud. A tall gentleman in the front row of the audience beams proudly and mouths ‘well done’.)
MR TASKS: I trust you’re keeping track of what that’s done to the scores?
GRIZ: It’s neck and neck, assuming that one contestant has a slightly longer neck and another has a slightly shorter one. Everyone’s on six points, except for Mr Inch who has four and F.F. Gebrandt who has eight!
MR TASKS: Now, I suppose you’re going to force us to endure another of these tasks and then submit me to the tedium of having to judge it?
GRIZ: (wincing) This will be the second of three recorded tasks; I did suggest that, if you wanted to be involved, you should read the material that was prepared for you, or at least watch one of the prior performances.
MR TASKS: So that I can learn how not to do it from my preposterous so-called ‘colleagues’? No, thank you. What are we to see next?
GRIZ: Our next task is a team task. Our contestants divided into two teams, to-
MR TASKS: Two teams?
GRIZ: That’s r-
MR TASKS: But there are five of them. How do you divide them?
GRIZ: They form one team of three and one team of two.
MR TASKS: Surely the team of three have an advantage, thanks to their greater numbers. What is it you’re always saying? ‘Londoners expect an appearance of fairness’, ‘they’ll reject an uneven distribution of wealth and power unless they feel it has been earned’. Yet here you are, giving one team a clear numerical lead over the other!
MR INCH: There’s a point - how do you decide who goes on which team, to give everyone a chance of winning?
GRIZ: When deciding the teams, we took into account the contestants’ ages, areas of expertise, declared earnings, average height and criminal records. Then we made it boys against girls.
CHUFFY: Just like when we used to play as kiddies!
APRIL: The boys always wanted me on their team because I could make firecrackers but I said no. (below the text is a drawing of a muddy-faced little girl poking her tongue out at some boys)
GRIZ: This task was very simple. All our teams had to do was leave the room.
(Mr Tasks’ next cutting remark is cut off as the projector activates. On the screen appears the Taskmaster Manor cellar - a good-sized stone room with a low ceiling. Griz stands, clipboard in hands. The Pirate Poet enters, bowing her head to fit through the doorway.)
GRIZ: Hello, Pirate Poet.
PIRATE POET: Hello. Bit cramped down here.
GRIZ: Welcome to the dungeon.
(The Pirate Poet pauses, her hand on the hilt of her sword.)
PIRATE POET: Just to be absolutely clear, this is just a task for fun and not an actual dungeon, yes? Because putting me in an actual dungeon tends not to work out well for anyone involved.
GRIZ: I can promise you that it is just a task for fun.
PIRATE POET: Good, good. How does this one work?
GRIZ: You’ll find out as soon as your teammates are here.
(April enters and nods at Griz.)
GRIZ: Emilia, this is the Pirate Poet.
(April produces a calling card and offers it to the Pirate Poet.)
PIRATE POET: ‘Emilia Hathersage, Cotterell & Hathersage’. (she turns to Griz) Is this one of my teammates?
(April turns the card over for the Poet to read its reverse.)
PIRATE POET: ‘Please face toward me when you speak so I can read your lips.’ Oh! Sorry - shall do.
(The door opens again and F.F. Gebrandt appears around it.)
F.F.: Ah, it is team day today. I thought it might be. Hello, Ms Hathersage. I’d heard you were dead; I’m glad to see that isn’t the case. And who is this?
GRIZ: F.F. Gebrandt, let me introduce you to the Pirate Poet.
PIRATE POET: (extending a large hand) Good to know you.
F.F.: (shaking it firmly) Charmed, I’m sure.
(On his own team day, Chuffy saunters into the cellar.)
CHUFFY: Mornin’, Miss S - or is it afternoon? I’ve quite lost track.
GRIZ: Good morning, Chuffy. It’s just past nine.
CHUFFY: This film business has my schedule all out. I’m used to lyin’ in a bit in the mornings. By now, I’d usually be lookin’ for a bit of lunch, if you follow. What’s the task for today?
GRIZ: You’ll find out when your teammate arrives.
CHUFFY: Ah, playin’ in teams today, are we? That’s rather jolly. Who am I with?
(The door slams open as if kicked, revealing Mr Inch framed in the doorway. He strides into the room, spoiling the effect a little by scraping the top of his hat on the header, and points his cane at Chuffy.)
MR INCH: Ah, the Dauntless lad, isn’t it? Then I take it we’ll be working together?
GRIZ: Chuffy, this is Mr Inch. You’ll be in a team of two.
(She produces a task from her clipboard and presents it to Chuffy, then removes herself to the doorway as he opens it.)
CHUFFY: ‘Escape the dungeon. Fastest escape wins. If you escape with the treasure from the vault in your possession, your time will be halved.’
MR INCH: What does that mean?
CHUFFY: I think it means, if we take ten minutes but get the treasure, and the other team take six minutes but don’t get the treasure, we still win - ‘cause our time will be taken down to five minutes, y’see.
F.F.: ‘You may not damage anything or anyone in the dungeon.’ Did you include the rule so we don’t simply deconstruct the lock?
APRIL: Blow the door open?
PIRATE POET: Or take you hostage until we’re released?
GRIZ: For all those reasons, yes.
F.F.: All right. ‘Your time starts now and ends when all of your team have escaped the dungeon.’
(Griz steps out into the stairwell and pulls the door closed behind her. Three heavy locks click shut.)
CHUFFY. Odds bodikins! Normally, when I’m in a place like this, there’s a constable come to tell me that I did something silly the night before and now I have to go take a peek at a magistrate.
(In the studio, Mr Tasks appears confused, and not a little annoyed.)
MR TASKS: You put our contestants in a dungeon and encouraged them to escape?
GRIZ: That was the task, yes.
MR TASKS: And the fact that they’re all here suggests they all eventually succeeded. Is this what the investment in this programme of yours is funding - dungeons that people can escape from?
GRIZ: It wasn’t a real dungeon - just a cellar with a series of puzzles they had to solve.
MR TASKS: I can only take comfort from knowing that you wouldn’t be so foolish as to let them steal any of our treasures.
CHUFFY: Oh, that bit was easy.
MR TASKS: (makes a noise like a police whistle being strangled)
GRIZ: (quickly) Chuffy seems confident in his showing, so let’s see how the team of two got on!
(On the screen, Chuffy is seen inspecting the door.)
CHUFFY: Three locks. Big’ns, too. You see a key anywhere, old horse?
MR INCH: (standing in the centre of the room and slowly turning in place) I see… some posters, an upright piano, a beer cask, a safe, a pommel horse, a map, a bookshelf, a fireplace, and your backside.
(Chuffy stops trying to peek through the keyhole and straightens up.)
CHUFFY: Beer, did you say?
(Mr Inch kicks the cask, which rings out hollowly.)
MR INCH: Empty.
CHUFFY: Worse luck. Awful lot of clutter down here, isn’t there? I’m the same at home - my box room looks like an archaeological dig. Pretty sure I saw a fellow in a pith helmet goin’ in there with a party of guides. Hullo - you didn’t mention the piano!
MR INCH: That was almost the first thing I mentioned, boy. You ought to wash your ears out.
(Chuffy folds himself into the piano’s stool and begins to play a number from Gillibrand and Searle’s ‘The Jericho Boatmen’.)
CHUFFY: When there came a race to win, he let another do it
While his proxy work’d the oar, he’d stay home with the cruet
But when the trophy was presented, be sure you’d find him there, he
That quite-respected,
Well-connected
Nigh-perfected,
Gondolier,
The Gonfaloni - hullo, what’s this?
(A panel has fallen open on the piano’s front, and something metal gleams within.)
MR INCH: What did you do? What key did you press?
CHUFFY: Just about all of them, at one point or another - must have done something right, ‘cause, look - there’s a key here.
MR INCH: (snatching it up) Excellent work, boy - we’ll be out in no time. (he strides to the door and tries it on the middle look, but it doesn’t turn. He snarls, withdraws it and tries the upper one, which opens with a satisfying ker-chunk.) Aha! So there should be two more hidden around the room. Start looking!
CHUFFY: Right-ho. (he strolls over to the vault door) You ever seen a safe like this? Lots of dials - looks like something from a bank. (he opens the small hatch in its face) Oh, look - you can see inside.
MR INCH: Eh? Let me see.
(The pair of them compete to get an eye to the hatch. At the centre of the small room behind it, a velvet bag can be seen sitting on a plinth.)
MR INCH: That must be the treasure. Keep an eye for a code for the door. But the quicker the better, mind - if we find the keys soon, the treasure’ll only slow us down. (he turns his attention to the room’s decor) Bit of a nautical theme here - significant, do you think?
CHUFFY: Is there? Oh, yes, I follow you - scenes of distant lands, and all that.
(The pair of them stand in silent contemplation of large poster displaying different species of fish. Inch finally ventures an opinion.)
MR INCH: It’s just a load of kippers.
CHUFFY: It does rather remind a fellow of breakfast. So does this next one, actually, with the Indian chappie.
(The poster depicts a gentleman in a turban offering the viewer a heaped plate of something nutritious. Inch taps its caption with his cane.)
MR INCH: ‘Eat for Sikh’ - does that mean anything to you?
CHUFFY: Nothing at all, I’m afraid.
MR INCH: Nor I. (he turns on his heels and regards the wall behind them) Maybe this map of the ‘zee has something. Hum - that’s odd. Looks like it’s painted on tile.
CHUFFY: Tile? As in ceramics? (he takes a closer look) You’re right - that’s deuced queer. Oh, lord - I hope it’s not one of those box puzzles. I can’t stand those.
MR INCH: Those what puzzles?
CHUFFY: You know - the ones where there’re fifteen tiles in a box, and you have to slide them around one at a time.
(Mr Inch pushes a tile and finds that, instead of sliding, it depresses with a small ‘click’.)
MR INCH: A different kind of puzzle, I think! This piece with the island on it was a secret button! (he starts prodding different parts of the map, looking for another)
CHUFFY: Try running’ your finger over it from the top to the bottom - you’ll be bound to find the trick of it that way.
(Inch removes his gloves and shoves them in a pocket, hands Chuffy his stick, and begins methodically pressing, wiggling and jostling every tile on the map. He finds some early success with a piece close to London, but the pair have begun to lose hope before he finds a third button at its very bottom.)
MR INCH: Always in the last d-mned place you look.
(The bottom of the map’s frame falls away, dropping a key to the ground. He plucks it up and takes it to the door, where it fits the central lock.)
MR INCH: Miss Smith, are you out there still?
GRIZ: I’m here. How are you getting on?
MR INCH: We’ve found two keys.
GRIZ: Well done. One more to find.
CHUFFY: Can you offer us a hint, at all?
GRIZ: Do you have a hint token?
MR INCH: What the devil’s a hint token?
GRIZ: If you find a hint token, you can use it to purchase a hint.
CHUFFY: Ah, all right then. One more question: where can we find a hint token?
GRIZ: Get me something to drink and I might be able to tell you.
MR INCH: Something to… the barrel! (he rushes to the cask and lifts its lid) Dauntless! You’ve got long arms. Can you reach in here?
CHUFFY: I can give it a go, certainly. (he lowers his upper extremities into the darkness of the cask and pokes about) Nothing yet… nothing… ah, here we are! (he emerges, holding a coin stamped ‘ONE HINT’)
MR INCH: Sterling work, lad. (he returns to the door and hammers on it) We’ve got a hint token!
GRIZ: I’m sorry; I’m afraid I don’t take hint tokens.
MR INCH: What?! But you said-
GRIZ: You’ll have to find a vendor who sells hints for hint tokens.
MR INCH: Who in this forsaken cellar sells hints for hint tokens?
MYSTERIOUS VOICE FROM SOMEWHERE NEAR THE CEILING: I sell hints for hint tokens.
(Inch swivels about, scanning the room. Eventually, he spots two twinkling eyes watching him from atop the bookcase, which reveal themselves to belong to a small black cat.)
MR INCH: Good gad, how long have you been there?
CAT: I’ve been here all morning. I was having a lovely nap until you two woke me up with your clattering and bumping. (She stretches, fur bristling, then flops on her side to watch the players upside-down.) I’m the hint vendor.
CHUFFY: O, hint vendor, we’ve found two keys already; can you sell us a hint? (he offers the coin; the cat considers it, takes it in one paw and deposits it in some secret shelf-top hoard.)
CAT: What time is it?
CHUFFY: Just after nine, according to Miss S.
CAT: That’s not what the clock says.
(Chuffy and Inch turn to the mantel above the fireplace, where a carriage-clock sits. Inch compares it to his watch.)
MR INCH: I’ve got twenty-five past nine, not eight o’clock. (he peers closer at the clock) It’s stopped!
CHUFFY: My aunt always says that even a stopped clock can be right twice in the day. Usually when I’ve said something clever. (he takes the clock down and begins to fiddle with it) I used to have a watch that I always kept perfectly wound, doncherknow - except I’d set it to the wrong time, so it was never right at all. Dashed nuisance. Probably a metaphor somewhere in that, what? (he turns the clock over and pulls at the winder, which slides free, revealing itself to be the third key) I stopped carryin’ a watch after that.
MR INCH: The key! Give it here, lad.
(He turns it in the lowest lock and the door swings open, revealing Griz sitting patiently by the stairs. Chuffy moves to leave, but Inch catches him by the sleeve.)
INCH: We could still go for the treasure. What do ye reckon?
CHUFFY: I haven’t seen any clues to the code for the safe. (he looks up at the cat) Don’t suppose you know what it is?
CAT: Do you have a hint token?
(Chuffy pats his pockets apologetically. Inch tugs his beard, then looks at the hatch.)
MR INCH: With those long arms of yours, and my stick, do you think you could reach through and snag the purse?
CHUFFY: It’s worth a go!
(They experiment with a few stances before finally pushing the piano stool against the vault door. With one foot on it and his arm through the hatch up to the shoulder, Chuffy casts about with Inch’s cane.)
CHUFFY: It’s dashed heavy, this stick.
MR INCH: The handle’s a sword - mind you don’t drop it!
CHUFFY: (grimacing) I’ll try - I can feel the bag. (he shifts his grip and tugs experimentally) Got it, I think. Help me pull it back!
(Inch supports him as he gingerly withdraws the cane, the mouth of the bag hooked on its handle. It snags a little on the hatch, but he manages to manoeuvre it close enough to grab it and pull it clear. The pair then run to the door and present themselves, panting, to the Taskmaster’s Assistant, bag in hand. She clicks her watch.)
GRIZ: I’ve stopped the clock. Well done, Chuffy, Inch.
(In the studio, the team of two look pleased with themselves.)
MR TASKS: They managed to extricate the treasure without ever opening the vault. An unacceptable weakness in your security, but a clever strategy on their part. What was their final time?
GRIZ: Chuffy and Mr Inch escaped the dungeon in thirty-two minutes and twenty seconds.
CHUFFY: I say, that’s not bad! And with the treasure, that’s…
MR INCH: Sixteen minutes, ten seconds.
CHUFFY: Yes, that! Pretty decent, eh?
GRIZ: (making a show of consulting her clipboard) Ah.
MR INCH: ‘Ah’, what? What ‘ah’?
GRIZ: There seems to be a slight complication…
CHUFFY: Seemed simple enough to me!
GRIZ: We have got a little more of that film to show you.
MR INCH: No!
(On the screen, Griz can be seen, now standing alone in the cellar. She produces the velvet bag and reveals its contents to the camera: a heap of pebbles and a note reading ‘THIS IS NOT THE TREASURE. IF YOU ESCAPE THE DUNGEON WITH THIS THIS IN YOUR POSSESSION, YOUR TIME WILL BE DOUBLED.’ In the studio, Mr Inch is attempting to throttle his hat.)
MR INCH: Blast it! Hang it! Send it on a slow train to Hell!
CHUFFY: Sorry, old chap. It’s rotten luck. My fault, really - I should have checked.
MR INCH: (turning to the women sitting on either side of him) And I suppose you knew all along, eh?
F.F.: (hiding her mouth behind her hand) We may have had the faintest shadow of an inkling.
APRIL: I had been wondering if I should say anything.
PIRATE POET: For what it’s worth, that trick of lifting the bag was ingenious. We didn’t think of anything like that.
MR INCH: (grumbles) Well, thank you.
MR TASKS: A decoy, to trap the would-be thieves - more clever of you than I expected.
GRIZ: Unfortunately, it does mean the team of two’s final time has been increased to more than one hour.
MR TASKS: Bad news for them.
F.F.: I’m not precisely certain of our time - the contest may still be quite close.
GRIZ: I’ve never known you not to be precisely certain of anything, F.F.
F.F.: The scientific process always requires some degree of guesswork. We speculate about what may be, and then we perform measurements to determine what is.
GRIZ: Well, in this case, we don’t have to speculate, as we’ve measured the duration using the medium of film; here’s the team of three’s attempt.
(On the screen, F.F., April and the Pirate Poet can be seen making a rapid inventory of the room’s contents.)
F.F.: One door with three key-locks. One security door with five concentric numerical dials. One self-playing piano. (she casts her eye around the room for a moment before spotting what she’s looking for on the bookcase) With a selection of rolls. One ale cask. Two posters. One piece of athletic equipment. One map of the Unterzee… (she turns to the Pirate Poet) This might be more your area than mine.
PIRATE POET: (she regards the map) Well, that island’s not real, for a start.
F.F.: Which one?
PIRATE POET: That one, by Port Cecil. Maps are treacherous, to be sure, but it’s all just reefs around there - there’s no room for an island that size. (she jabs it with her finger and it depresses at her touch)
F.F.: It moved! Do any of the other squares move?
(The Pirate Poet touches the neighbouring tiles, which remain stubbornly immobile.)
PIRATE POET: There must be something special about that spot.
(They stare at the map for a moment. then F.F. snaps her fingers.)
F.F.: I believe I may have it. What’s another word for an island on a reef?
(The Pirate Poet’s eyes widen with dawning realisation.)
PIRATE POET: A cay! And that would mean… ah! (she presses a tile bearing the image of a long wharf, which depresses like the last) The quay!
F.F.: Brilliant! Now… does anything else on here sound like ‘key’?
(The three search the map for any likely homonyms. F.F. indicates a section with some unusual cross-hatching.)
F.F.: What do these markings mean?
PIRATE POET: Don’t know - it’s not a style I’m familiar with.
F.F.: We’ll have to consult the-
(April suddenly grabs her arm and points emphatically at the text adorning the bottom of the map.)
F.F.: The key to the map - of course!
(She presses the tile bearing the mapmaker’s legend. The frame opens to drop the key within, and April’s hand lunges, snake-like, to catch it from the air.)
F.F.: If we take as our working hypothesis that the other two keys will also be concealed in locations somehow relating to the word ‘key’, then the piano is the obvious place to turn our attentions to next.
(April moves the piano stool aside, kneels in front of the instrument, and begins tapping its panelling. She lifts its top board and peeks inside, experimentally presses several keys, raises and lowers the fall board, and tests the pedals with one foot. Finally, she examines the player mechanism, probing its innards with a slender metal tool produced from one of her myriad pockets. With this complete, she begins writing a lengthy analysis on her pad.)
F.F.: What joy?
APRIL: Def. a mechanism that will activ. when certain series of notes played. Can’t tell which. Roll will work but not req.
F.F.: So we need to play the right tune? Vexatious. Do either of you play?
APRIL: Not really my speciality.
PIRATE POET: If you had one with bigger keys, maybe.
F.F.: We wouldn’t know the tune to play either way. The answer must be among the rolls. (She scoops up the boxes of piano rolls from the bookcase with both arms. April and the Poet take some from her and start sorting through them.)
PIRATE POET: ‘False-star of the East'... ‘You’ll Miss Lots of Fun When You’ve a Constant Companion’... ‘The Individual of Mysterious and Indistinct Gender I Left Behind’... ‘Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Sorrow-Spider’... this could be something - ‘Open Up that Door’.
(F.F., who had been staring at a box inexplicably labelled ‘God is Walking His Porpoise Out', looks up.)
F.F.: Certainly worth a try. Now, how do we work this machine?
(April takes the box, extricates the roll within with its curious rows of punch-holes, and feeds it into the piano. With a thump, a discordant but jaunty tune begins to play, and, a few bars in, the hatch falls open, revealing its resident key. F.F. claps her hands.)
F.F. Wonderful! Now, does anything else immediately suggest itself as related to keys?
(April looks around and shakes her head.)
PIRATE POET: Nothing I can see. I’ll look for anything hidden out of sight.
(The three begin to poke about the room’s few fittings. The Pirate Poet lifts the top off the vaulting horse and looks inside while April opens up the beer cask. She raps loudly on its side to draw the others’ attention and points into its depths.)
PIRATE POET: Something in there? (she joins April and peeks inside) Something shiny. One moment… got it.
F.F.: A coin - good for one hint, apparently. We’ll keep that in reserve, in case we get stuck.
PIRATE POET: How long have we been so far?
F.F.: Not longer than half an hour, by my estimation, but there’s a clock over there if you want to be sure.
(April starts, runs across the room, picks up the clock and shakes it.)
F.F.: Hmm? Oh! By George, I think she’s got it - clockwork has keys!
(April pulls the third key from the back of the clock and the team converge on the door, which soon swings open to reveal Griz leaning on the wall, reviewing her notes.)
PIRATE POET: Now… do we escape, or do we go for the treasure?
F.F.: If we don’t believe we can open the vault, any time spent trying will only diminish our chances of winning. If we do believe we can open it, we’ll only be worse off if we spend more time doing so than we’ve already committed to the task.
(April and the Poet share a look.)
PIRATE POET: I’ve never let a locked door slow me down.
(April shakes her head in concurrence.)
F.F.: Very well. I still haven’t seen anything that could be the combination for the lock, though.
GRIZ: You can purchase a hint with a hint token, if you’ve found one.
F.F.: Should we? Perhaps we should. One hint, if you please.
GRIZ: I’m afraid I don’t take hint tokens.
(F.F. looks faintly offended and April indignant.)
PIRATE POET: Perhaps the cat takes them?
F.F.: What cat?
PIRATE POET: The one that’s been watching us from the bookshelf. Did you not see it?
F.F.: What- oh, so there is. We don’t all have your lofty viewpoint, you know. Pardon me, young feline?
(The cat affects not to have been eavesdropping on their conversation, and, in fact, to be offended by their intrusion on its leisure.)
CAT: Yes?
F.F.: Is it you who sells hints?
CAT: I may do, if you have a hint token.
(The Poet places the token on top of the bookcase.)
PIRATE POET: One hint, please, shopkeep!
F.F.: Do you know the number to open the vault?
CAT: Is it a number? I heard it was a word.
F.F.: But the dials have num- oh, that is interesting. Each number must correspond to a letter of the alphabet.
PIRATE POET: So we have to spell a word with numbers? Something like, I don’t know, ‘5’ for ‘S’?
F.F.: The correspondences may be entirely arbitrary - most likely, there will be a key to the cipher concealed somewhere within this room.
APRIL: Posters?
(They turn to the poster displaying various species of fish.)
PIRATE POET: Not many I recognise. These aren’t zee fish.
F.F.: Surface species, I believe. It’s curious that most are rendered in black ink, but one is in red. Let me see… Clupea harengus, I think- oh, dear.
PIRATE POET: Don’t say it.
F.F.: It’s a red herring.
(April runs a hand down her face. The Pirate Poet looks up at the ceiling.)
PIRATE POET: The rule about not damaging anything - how strict are they on that one, do we think?
F.F.: Maybe this next poster will offer some clue.
(They all stare at the poster with the turbanned gentleman.)
PIRATE POET: ‘Eat for Sikh’?
F.F.: I believe those of the Sikh faith do consider it their duty to provide food for those in need. It’s admirably civic-minded of them.
PIRATE POET: The wording is odd, though. As if what mattered was having a certain number of letters… do you have a pen?
(April produces one from her overall pocket and passes it over. The Poet copies ‘EAT FOR SIKH’ onto her palm, then writes the numbers 1 to 10 under each letter.)
PIRATE POET: There are five dials, yes? So it’s probably a five letter word.
(F.F. spins the dials into place and tugs the handle. It declines to turn.)
F.F.: Drat it. Maybe it’s its other name?
APRIL: FIRES?
PIRATE POET: That’s… 4-8-6-1-7.
F.F.: (click - click - click - click - click - thud) No good. Hm - perhaps it’s one of the others. Hearts?
PIRATE POET: Too long, but we could try 10-1-2-6-3.
(April has been staring at the vaulting horse. She suddenly starts, clicks her fingers several times, then writes something down and crosses out a single letter of what she wrote.)
APRIL: VAULTING HORSE.
F.F.: Vault-in horse? Could it be…?
PIRATE POET: ‘Horse’? I wouldn’t put it past them. That would be 10-5-6-7-1.
(F.F. spins the dials one last time and the vault door swings open with surprising ease. The Poet goes to enter, but April places a hand in front of her. She places her hands together at the wrist, palms up and fingers curled, and then snaps them together.)
PIRATE POET: Good point - always check for traps.
(April makes a cautious examination of the small chamber, then approaches the plinth at its centre. With the aid of a pair of tweezers, she opens the velvet bag, extracts the note from within, reads it, and holds it up for her team to see.)
F.F.: ‘This is not the treasure…’ (she trails off) Oh, dear. Yes; very good thing you checked. But where is the actual treasure?
PIRATE POET: I know a thing or two about hiding valuables - let me have a look.
(She ducks through the low door, The interior of the vault is mostly bare stone walls. She turns, looking for any telltale signs of a secret stash, until-)
PIRATE POET: There’s something written above the door on this side. ‘It’s behind you.’
F.F.: Behind you?
PIRATE POET: But there’s nothing there. Just the empty plinth. Wait - maybe it’s not empty.
(She picks it up and gives it a shake. From its hollow interior slips another bag, embroidered with the word ‘TREASURE’. April picks it up and opens it, revealing a stash of precious stones.)
PIRATE POET: Hah! Paste, of course, but I’ve seen worse attempts at treasure. I think we’ve plucked every fruit this garden has to offer us - shall we?
(April nods, and the three hurry to the stairwell, where Griz is sitting on a folding chair and reading a slim volume.)
GRIZ: Ah, here you are. And with the treasure! Well done; I’ve stopped the clock.
F.F.: Very good work, ladies.
PIRATE POET: That was a silly one.
(April mimes having a jolly good time.)
PIRATE POET: Oh, yes - I didn’t mind it. Overall.
(In the studio, Chuffy is somewhat nonplussed.)
CHUFFY: We were supposed to know to turn the letters into numbers using heavens-knows-what system and then use them to spell ‘horse’? Really?
GRIZ: Opening the vault was entirely optional. You could complete the task without doing it.
CHUFFY: And look where that got us!
GRIZ: There was one additional clue that no-one picked up on.
F.F.: Wait, was there?
GRIZ: If we just take a closer look at the task you all read…
(On the screen, Griz is seen holding the task. The camera zooms in on the wax seal, which bears, in place of the usual sigil representing the Bazaar, the imprint of an image of a horse.)
CHUFFY: To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t think I’d have got it even if I saw that.
(April rummages in her pockets, retrieves a collection of wax seals, and starts looking through them.)
MR TASKS: Well, that certainly seems to have cast the bat among the pigeons.
MR INCH: Cat.
MR TASKS: What?
MR INCH: It’s ‘c- ah, it doesn’t matter.
MR TASKS: No, it does not. What was the team of three’s time?
GRIZ: They spent some time unlocking the dungeon’s secrets. They finally escaped after forty-nine minutes.
MR TASKS: But, of course, they found the true treasure.
GRIZ: Yes, which reduces their time to…?
MR TASKS: You think I can’t perform a single calculation? Their effective time is reduced to twenty-four minutes and thirty seconds.
GRIZ: That’s right.
MR TASKS: Or, just over the time it takes for twelve factory labourers to take their daily break.
GRIZ: Right. Wait - why twelve?
MR TASKS: Because they are permitted one two-minute break per day, so, naturally, it will take twelve of them twenty-four minutes if they all go at once. Ms Hathersage explained it to me before we began the show, and her mathematics seemed entirely sound.
(April gives a big, trustworthy smile.)
GRIZ: I see. On the subject of numbers, how do you want to divide the scores? Ideally, the teams’ points will add up to five.
MR TASKS: You mean they should only get one point each? Very well.
GRIZ: No - that is, I mean that one team should get, say, two points, and the other team should get three.
MR TASKS: In that case, the team of two should get two points, because otherwise they’d have to divide the third one between them.
GRIZ: …perhaps you should just award the points based on how well you think they did.
MR TASKS: That’s what I was going to do before you butted in! I think we have to acknowledge that Chuffy and Inch’s time was the fastest before bonuses and penalties were applied, but the other team ultimately achieved greater success. I think three points each for the team of three and two for the others is judicious, don’t you?
GRIZ: I do. I very much do think that.
MR TASKS: Good! Now, what has that done to the scores?
GRIZ: F.F. Gebrandt retains her lead with eleven points, while Mr Inch is lagging behind with six!
MR TASKS: Hard luck for Mr Inch. Perhaps he can be cheered up by some commercial messages.
GRIZ: Our studies have shown that few things improve one’s mood more than commercial messaging. Nothing that people will pay us so well to do so cheaply, certainly.
(On the screen, two hands can be seen delicately laying a pendant against a customer’s decolletage. A voice proclaims that an investment in a Trompowsky et FIls necklace is a sacrifice worth making.)
POSSIBLY TROMPOWSKY OR ONE OF THE FILS: …and a venom-ruby choker makes for a gift that they will treasure for the rest of their life.
MR TASKS: Did Mr Stones approve the script for that advertisement?
GRIZ: I believe so, yes.
MR TASKS: How very curious. Someone must have taught it to read. Now, I believe we have one more film to endure?
GRIZ: To enjoy, yes. Our final filmed task of the evening is one that really plays to our contestants’ strengths.
(On the screen, the grounds of Taskmaster Manor can be seen. A task sits on a very large anvil, kept in place with a hammer. Mr Inch enters and strikes the anvil with his cane.)
MR INCH: What’s the task - ‘shoe a horse, most shoed horse wins, your time starts now’?
GRIZ: We haven’t got a horse to hand today.
MR INCH: (picking up the task) I’m not surprised - price of horseflesh these days. (he tears it open) It’s a disgrace, really. ‘Lift a heavy weight.’
THE PIRATE POET: ‘Heaviest weight wins. You have twenty minutes. Your time starts now.’ Easy.
CHUFFY: Can I get someone to help me lift it?
GRIZ: All of the information is on the task.
CHUFFY: B-but… (he gawps momentarily) It isn’t, is it? If I lift it with someone, I don’t know whether old Tasks is going to say ‘Chuffy, you tom-fool, you were supposed to lift it on your own’ or ‘good thinking, Dauntless, my lad - five points for you’! I’d say that’s the sort of information that could make or break a chap’s attempt, doncherknow?
GRIZ: You have eighteen minutes and fifty seconds.
CHUFFY: Oh, cripes.
(In the studio, Mr Tasks looks almost cheerful.)
MR TASKS: A nice, simple task. Lift a heavy load.
GRIZ: They could use any method they liked - they just had to lift the most weight.
MR TASKS: A task with obvious applications in the service of the city. I hope they demonstrated some ingenious methods for hauling goods.
GRIZ: If that’s what you’re expecting, then you should expect the unexpected. Here are Chuffy and F.F. Gebrandt’s attempts.
(F.F. turns away from the screen, one hand over her eyes. On the screen, Chuffy is taking his blazer off and rubbing his palms together.)
CHUFFY: You don’t often see an anvil, do you? I imagine, once upon a time, you couldn’t cross the road without tripping over a gaggle of anvils, but… (he stands over the anvil, grabs it by one of the horns, and tries to lift it) ‘pon my soul! It is heavy, isn’t it? What’s it made of - steel?
GRIZ: It is made of steel, yes. We tried to get one made of something lighter, like paper or cake, but it turns out they don’t make many of those - they’re not as popular.
CHUFFY: Pity - that’d be dashed handy. (he shifts his grip and tries to lift it by the base, without success, then gives it a despondent kick) Oh, d-mn! Blast, blast, blast…
(F.F. Gebrandt is re-reading the task.)
F.F.: I’m going to need some tools. Will you let me know when half my time has passed?
GRIZ: Certainly.
(F.F. disappears into the garden shed, where she can be heard rummaging about. Something ceramic can be heard shattering.)
GRIZ: F.F.? Are you alright?
F.F.: I’m fine, but someone needs to mend this shelf! It was badly designed!
GRIZ: Alright, I’ll make a note of that. Rebuild shelf… to higher… standard.
(The anvil is shown, quite alone and apparently unbothered. Rapid footsteps can be heard approaching.)
CHUFFY: Haaaaaaahh!
(Chuffy leaps at the anvil, posed for a rugby tackle. It tips slightly in response to his efforts, leaving him to tumble through the air and land, spreadeagled, face-down on the lawn.)
GRIZ: You have four minutes left, Chuffy.
CHUFFY: Doctor. Hospital. Nursie.
(F.F. has arrayed a heap of tools and lumber by the shed. Griz checks her watch.)
GRIZ: That’s half your time gone, F.F.
F.F.: One minute!
(Three minutes later, she emerges, carrying a sawhorse, a hammer and a bag of nails, with a ladder under one arm and a loop of rope over one shoulder. She sets up the sawhorse facing the anvil, lays the ladder in place across it and begins fixing it to swivel on a point.)
F.F.: Archimedes once said… I’m translating from the Greek here, so this is an approximation, but Archimedes once said ‘give me a lever and a fulcrum...’
(She fits one end of the ladder in place around anvil’s base, then grabs hold of the other end and pulls it down with all her strength.)
F.F.: ‘...and I can move the Earth!’
(The ladder creaks, bows, and then, with a great splintering crack, breaks into two, dumping F.F. on her rear. Griz glances at her watch and then blows her whistle.)
GRIZ: That’s your time up, I’m afraid. So, was that a ‘eureka’?
F.F.: Shut up, Griz. And help me up.
(In the studio, F.F. is jabbing fervently at the air.)
F.F.: That ladder was not structurally sound!
PIRATE POET: Like the shelf?
F.F.: Exactly! That shed lets the roof-drip in. Everything in it was rotten from damp. It took me all that time to find something that looked strong enough for the purpose.
MR INCH: They say it’s a poor workman who blames his tools.
F.F.: Well, they’re wrong. Some tools are rubbish.
MR TASKS: And you, Chuffy - you thought you could move the weight by running at it?
CHUFFY: (with a cheerful shrug) I did! Turned out, I couldn’t.
MR TASKS: Did he lift the anvil at all?
GRIZ: He did move it slightly, but not vertically. That said, they didn’t have to move the anvil - they could lift anything they wanted. In the course of completing the task, F.F. Gebrandt lifted some study, well-maintained tools which, together, weighed approximately eighty pounds.
MR TASKS: That’s better than nothing, I suppose. And Chuffy?
GRIZ: The heaviest thing Chuffy lifted was the task itself, which, with its solid cardstock and attached wax seal, weighed approximately one ounce.
CHUFFY: Well, an ounce may not be eighty pounds, but… eighty pounds saved is eighty pounds gained, I suppose?
(Mr Inch leans over to the ladies on his right.)
MR INCH: Does that mean anything, do we suppose?
F.F.: I doubt it.
APRIL: Definitely not.
CHUFFY: Eighty is weighty!
MR TASKS: Now, I want to make myself absolutely clear. If Chuffy comes anything but last in this task - if there’s anyone who lifted less than an ounce - I will have this theatre burned down with everyone still inside it.
GRIZ: I-
MR TASKS: I’m completely serious.
GRIZ: Let’s see Mr Inch and the Pirate Poet as quickly as possible, then. And if the wardens could please ensure the fire buckets are full and ready, please.
(On the screen, Mr Inch is calling to someone off-screen.)
MR INCH: Go up to my room and fetch Parzival! Parzival! No, that’s Bartholomew - Parzival is the - with the horns, yes. (he looks up at the pulley mounted to the wall of the folly) Miss Smith, would you be so good as to give me a leg up?
(The Pirate Poet is holding the anvil under one arm.)
PIRATE POET: This is a start, but what else can I lift?
GRIZ: You can lift whatever you like.
PIRATE POET: …you?
(Moments later, Griz is sitting on the Pirate Poet’s shoulders. One of the camera operators rides her left arm like a bosun’s chair.)
GRIZ: Are you still filming, Peacock?
PEACOCK: Certainly am, Miss.
(The footage shows the view from Peacock’s camera, rather herky-jerky as the Poet crosses the lawn.)
PIRATE POET: This is fun, but I think we need to find something really heavy.
(The anvil now sits on a reinforced pallet, along with a barrel of bricks and a heavy-looking plant pot. The pallet is attached to a rope; the rope is attached to a block and tackle; the block and tackle is attached to Parzival, who is a particularly bulky aurochs.)
MR INCH: Come along, Parzival! (he joins in tugging at the rope) There’s a lad!
(Inch by inch, foot by foot - the pulleys groaning all the while - the pallet lifts off the ground and hangs precipitously in the air.)
MR INCH: Look at it! Soaring like a bird! That’s lifted, yes?
GRIZ: Yes, that is lifted.
MR INCH: Well done, Parzival! Now to put it down again…
(He pulls his sword-cane from its sheath and, before Griz can tackle him, slices clean through the rope.)
GRIZ: EVERYBODY GET DOWN-
(The Pirate Poet walks through the garden, bearing Griz, Peacock and an underbutler with a tray of cups of tea.)
GRIZ: You have very comfortable shoulders. You also have two minutes left.
PIRATE POET: Alright, everyone off - I’ve just had an idea.
(The crew climb down, Griz holding the tray until it can be safely lowered to the ground, and resume standard positions. The Pirate Poet approaches the greenhouse and crouches to examine its foundations.)
GRIZ: Pirate Poet… what are you doing?
(She works her fingers into the earth at the base of the brickwork and tenses.)
GRIZ: You’re not going to…
(The Poet’s muscles quiver like a whole orchestra’s worth of violin strings. A gap appears between the ground and the bricks. Plants can be heard sliding off shelves. Somewhere, glass shatters.)
GRIZ: Please put it down; it’s very expensive. Please - (her watch chimes and she blows her whistle) Time’s up!
(The Poet tenderly lowers the greenhouse to its previous footing. Some of the mushrooms within start luminescing, bright and crimson.)
GRIZ: I think you may have frightened the foliage.
PIRATE POET: It’s good for them. Helps them grow.
(In the studio, Griz is discreetly trying to hide behind her clipboard.)
MR TASKS: You allowed them to damage Bazaar property?
GRIZ: The Pirate Poet returned the greenhouse to its original location with minimal upset; those panes were likely already damaged and due to be replaced.
MR TASKS: And Inch and his stunt with the rope?
GRIZ: I can confirm that the Taskmaster Manor suffered no property damage as a result of the unsecured load falling to the ground.
MR TASKS: Hm. (it sniffs) Very good.
GRIZ: Two production staff were struck by flying bricks when the barrel burst and had to spend a week in hospital, and-
MR TASKS: Yes, yes - you’ve established that nothing important was damaged.
MR INCH: Parzival doesn’t like to move backwards! Much better to just rip the plaster off and get it done all at once.
MR TASKS: What were their scores?
GRIZ: We didn’t get a chance to weigh Mr Inch’s load after it was lifted, but we’ve calculated its approximate weight at half a ton.
(Inch sits up straighter and twiddles his moustache with glee.)
MR TASKS: And the Poet?
GRIZ: That’s difficult to say, exactly - certainly, the two members of the staff, the camera and myself together weighed more than eighty pounds and less than half a ton. As for the greenhouse…
PIRATE POET: What? There was nothing on the task that said I couldn’t lift the greenhouse. It didn’t say ‘If you lift something containing decorative creepers and Italianate garden furniture, you will be disqualified’!
APRIL: Are you sure?
PIRATE POET: I checked.
GRIZ: No, it’s just that we’re not sure exactly how much you lifted. We’re not sure how much the greenhouse weighed, or how much of that weight you were bearing.
F.F.: It would depend how close she was to its centre of mass. Oh, and that’s assuming it’s of a uniform shape and that the surface below it is perfectly flat.
MR INCH: Well, did she lift more than Parzival?
F.F.: If we assume that Parzival was a frictionless sphere…
GRIZ: Suffice to say, I believe the weight she lifted was more than the weight Inch lifted, but she didn’t lift it entirely off of the ground.
MR TASKS: I shall have to consider this. But I notice you have left one contestant until last. I presume this means Ms Hathersage’s attempt has been noteworthy in some regard.
GRIZ: That is a warrantable presumption; here is how she lifts weights.
(On the screen, April is seen writing a hurried note. She finishes with a flourish and passes it to Griz.)
(The camera spins to catch April’s back disappearing through the gate to the street. A junior assistant begins packing up to follow her, and the footage cuts out. It resumes in a grand and gloomy garden, not far from the Taskmaster Manor and looking out across the Stolen River.)
GRIZ: I don’t see her…
(The camera scans across the park - the fig trees, cajoled into an approximation of life by the Department of Parks and Game; the Laudian church, with its battle-scarred tower; the grand Bazaarine fountain, installed with a mechanism which releases the flow of water when a penny is inserted. Finally, it sights April emerging from behind a public convenience, carrying a large box and trailing a length of wire.)
GRIZ: Is that the weight you’re lifting?
(April shakes her head and opens the box’s lid to reveal a large handle. She holds up one hand, fingers extended.)
GRIZ: Five? (April lowers one finger) Four? Three. Two. One.
(April plunges the handle. For a moment, all is silent and still. For another moment, nothing is. Smoke billows across the park as the fountain leaves its moorings and shoots roofwards, trailing pipes behind it like a startled jellyfish.)
GRIZ: Bl—y h-ll.
(Where the fountain stood is now a crater in the cobblestones which is quickly filling with the water that sprays from the ruptured mains. April hammers a notice into the exposed earth: ‘FREE FOUNTAIN FOR THE ENJOYMENT OF THE PUBLIC’.)
GRIZ: (weakly) Well done, Emllia. I’ve stopped the clock.
(In the studio, there is a stunned silence.)
MR TASKS: Did we own that?
GRIZ: I believe the land belongs to the Diocese of Canterbury, though His Grace has not made any claim on his Fallen property nor responded to our correspondence. The fountain was installed by a patron of the church, since retired to the Grand Sanatorium.
MR TASKS: I see. Unlikely to cause any legal bother, then. How much did it weigh?
GRIZ: Several tons, certainly. We’ve dredged the river to determine its final resting place, and the pieces we’ve been able to recover were of solid marble and bronze construction.
CHUFFY: Just to be clear: we’re definitely counting it as ‘lifting’ if you get a cow or a ruddy great bomb to do it for you?
MR TASKS: ‘We’ are, yes.
CHUFFY: All right, all right, just askin’. Thought perhaps I still had a chance to come third if the cow and the bomb were disqualshed, you know.
PIRATE POET: It did say that it would burn the building down with us in it if you came third, though.
CHUFFY: …fair point. Tremendous congratters, Inch, Ms Hathers - jolly well done there.
MR TASKS: Ah-ah! Your precipitance does you no credit, young man. I have not given out the scores yet.
CHUFFY: Sorry.
MR TASKS: One point to Chuffy, and you may send the fire engine home.
GRIZ: (visibly relaxing) One to Chuffy.
MR TASKS: Two points to the doubtable F.F. Gebrandt, and three to Inch and his beast of burden. Now… the poet and the pyrotechnist. If we cannot be certain exactly how much their respective loads weighed, we must go with the one who lifted theirs the higher. Four points to the Pirate Poet and five to Emilia Hathersage!
(The Black-Clad Assistant silently applauds.)
GRIZ: With that, Emilia takes the lead with fourteen points, but F.F. and the Pirate Poet are right behind her with thirteen points each.
MR TASKS: Now, I’m informed it’s time for the contestants to make their way to the stage for the final part of the show. So, hurry up, then. Immediately!
(On the stage, the contestants stand in an orderly line behind a large crate. Opposite them, a a Nervous Pipefitter in a boiler suit sits in a jockey’s weighing chair next to a large shape covered by a dustcloth. Griz surveys the scene without her usual air of quiet confidence.)
GRIZ: Mr Tasks, I believe you personally wrote this evening’s live task?
MR TASKS: I did. I insisted upon doing so, as a condition of my participation in this waste of everybody’s time.
GRIZ: Who would you like to read it out to everyone who doesn’t know what’s in it? Including me?
MR TASKS: I literally could not care less. Whoever you want.
(April holds out her hand to take it. Griz goes to hand it to her, then pauses, brow furrowed. April grins.)
GRIZ: Chuffy, would you do the honours?
CHUFFY: Certainly shall, Miss S. Where are my readin’ specs? (he pats his pockets) Oh, right - I don’t wear ‘em. Ahem. ‘Outfit this worker for duties in a dangerous environ without going over the weight limit. When your turn comes, you may place a piece of equipment on the worker. If your equipment puts the worker over the weight limit, you are disqualified and the round is over.’ This isn’t half long, is it? Chappie needs a cough drop to make it to the second paragraph.
MR INCH: Just read it all before we forget the rules, lad!
CHUFFY: Beg pardon, old beast. ‘Greatest weight of equipment placed on the worker without going over wins.’
GRIZ: (sagging with relief) Excellent. A simple game of dressing-up.
CHUFFY: (raising a finger) ‘However, after the round is over, the worker will enter the dangerous environ and attempt to complete their duties. If they succumb to their injuries before doing so, no-one gets any points.’
(F.F. raises an eyebrow. April takes on a calculating look. The Pirate Poet points across the stage.)
PIRATE POET: So there’s a chance this ends with them being killed? That’s obscene!
MR TASKS: You better do well at this task, then.
(The Nervous Pipefitter whimpers.)
GRIZ: (under her breath) I don’t want to watch someone die today.
MR TASKS: What?
GRIZ: Chuffy, you go first. Please open the crate and choose a piece of equipment.
(Chuffy throws the lid back, revealing an assortment of industrial kit. He picks up a pair of leather gloves, weighs them thoughtfully in one hand, then carries them across the stage.)
CHUFFY: Would you mind popping these on?
(The Pipefitter dons the gloves. The bar of the scale trembles slightly.)
GRIZ: F.F., you can go next.
F.F.: Rule one of any dangerous endeavour: always wear eye protection. (she selects a pair of shielded goggles and straps them to the Pipefitter’s head)
GRIZ: Mr Inch, your turn.
MR INCH: Something not too heavy… ah! Just the thing! (he picks up a leather apron and drapes it over the Pipefitter) Can’t do the straps up while you’re sitting there, but you can fasten them when you stand, young lad- er, lass- er, yes.
GRIZ: Ms Hathersage, you’re next.
(April rummages in the crate until she finds a large enclosed helmet. She brings it to the Pipefitter and, with a wry shake of the head, removes the goggles and tosses them away.)
F.F.: Hey! Is that allowed?
MR TASKS: I have no objection.
GRIZ: I’m going to say that you may remove your competitors’ equipment, but that equipment will still count towards their score.
(April fits the helmet securely onto the Pipefitter’s head. The bar of the scale swings, but remains within the acceptable limits.)
GRIZ: Pirate Poet, you’re up.
(The Pirate Poet leans down and presses a pistol into the Pipefitter’s hand.)
PIRATE POET: Whoever made you do this, don’t let them do it again.
F.F.: The equipment included a gun?
MR INCH: She didn’t get that from the box - I think it was in her trousers!
GRIZ: Please restrict yourself to the equipment provided!
(The Pirate Poet shrugs, as if arming the proletariat was the kind of accident that could happen to anyone.)
GRIZ: We haven’t crossed the weight limit yet, so we’ll go around again - in the same order, if you please.
CHUFFY: Oh, me again, is it? Righty-ho, then - what do people usually wear to perform honest toil?
(He selects a woolen cap and places it on top of the helmet. It slides down the metal surface until it catches on a bolt and hangs in place.)
F.F.: My turn?
(Griz nods. F.F. leans over the crate, considering her options, until-)
F.F.: What’s this? A miniature airship?
(She lifts out a limp canvas envelope, attached with a hose to a gas cylinder. She opens the valve and the envelope inflates until it lifts out of her hands, revealing a harness hanging below.)
CHUFFY: It’s a one-man lifting balloon!
F.F.: Too small to actually lift anyone off the ground, but… arms up, please? Thank you. (she buckles the harness over the Pipefitter’s torso) But it will reduce their effective weight, allowing more equipment to be worn.
MR INCH: Ah! Which your rivals will be quick to take advantage of! (he hauls a pair of iron safety boots from the crate) Get those trotters up, young’n!
GRIZ: Please do not injure the worker while applying the protective equipment.
F.F.: It would defeat the very purpose of the equipment.
CHUFFY: And none of us would get any points!
(Inch finishes forcing the boots onto the Pipefitter’s feet and returns to his spot, leaning on his walking stick.)
APRIL: What lifting gas is in the balloon?
GRIZ: Hydrogen, I believe.
APRIL: Will the work involve open flame?
(Griz looks at the Taskmaster, who is trembling with glee, and then looks back again.)
GRIZ: Almost certainly.
PIRATE POET: Are you saying it might explode? (April nods) Oh, for the love of Stone…
(She strides across the stage and, with a single swing of her sword, severs the ties connecting the balloon to the harness. The balloon flies off to become lodged somewhere in the theatre’s rafters, while the Understandably Terrified Pipefitter sinks slightly into the chair, causing the scale to tip and a small bell to ring.)
GRIZ: That’s the weight limit, meaning the Pirate Poet is disqualified and the round is over! No more dressing up!
MR TASKS: Return to your seats, and we shall see whether your efforts have been enough to ensure the necessary work is done!
(The contestants sit and watch as the Pipefitter stands, awkward in their iron boots and helmet. Two stagehands carry the weighing chair away, while a third pulls the dustcloth away, revealing a sturdy glass-fronted chamber laden with pipes, pistons, gears, chains and chemical tanks.)
MR INCH: Good God above.
MR TASKS: Behold, the dangerous environ! The peon must replace the Leadbeater & Stainrod ‘Basilisk’ Foul Air Dissemination & Propagation System before the atmosphere within the chamber becomes unbreathable. There will be additional hazards, typical of the modern workplace, which will make themselves obvious. Ideally, your protective measures will be adequate and the system will not need to be shut down for body retrieval.
(Griz has put as much of herself behind her clipboard as she can, her fingers bone-white at the knuckles. The Pipefitter enters the chamber and a stagehand seals it closed. Gears begin to turn, pistons to pump and chemical tanks to bubble. They begin removing the bolts holding a corroded fitting in place.)
MR TASKS: Shall we play ‘Hot or Cold’? Because they’re getting warmer!
(Something compresses noisily and a gout of flame blasts across the top of the chamber. The Pipefitter ducks, but, their helmet having apparently met the challenge ably, they’re able to continue removing the mechanism from its coupling. It sticks for a moment, but pulls free with a tug, trailing a tendril of a viscous tar-black substance.)
F.F.: Thank goodness for the gloves.
CHUFFY: I say, is this quite safe?
PIRATE POET: Of course it isn’t - that’s the whole point.
MR TASKS: Perhaps, instead, we could play on the see-saw?
(A circular sawblade rises through a slit in the base of the chamber. It strikes against the Pipefitter’s boot, releasing a shower of sparks, before sinking again. Hands shaking, they place the replacement mechanism in its requisite flange and begin securing it with the first of eight wing bolts.)
MR INCH: Ha-ha! That’s because of me! I did that!
APRIL: L&S parts over-engineered as usual.
MR TASKS: Or we could play ‘Puss in the Corner’!
(With a rattle like the firing of a Gatling gun, a series of bolts bursts from an over-pressurised steam pipe. Several strike the Pipefitter in the ribs, causing them to stagger and nearly fall.)
F.F.: Holy h-ll!
PIRATE POET: Shut this down! Now!
CHUFFY: Wait, I don’t get it - what does ‘Puss in the Corner’ have to do with anything?
(The Pipefitter rallies and finishes securing the winding-cap. The ventilator mechanism springs to life, venting a quantity of smoke onto the stage.)
MR TASKS: The work is complete, so it is time to distribute points!
(The audience clap and cheer. Two stagehands wheel the chamber away as the Pipefitter attempts to open it from within.)
MR TASKS: How did that affect the scores?
GRIZ: First of all, we must address that the Pirate Poet caused the scale to go over the weight limit, and so she is disqualified from this round.
MR TASKS: No points for the Pirate Poet!
GRIZ: Next, F.F. Gebrandt fitted the worker with the goggles and the individual lifting harness. The balloon entirely negated the weight of the goggles, so her total weight is actually negative.
F.F.: Oh, dear - I hadn’t thought of that.
MR TASKS: Astonishingly, despite going into the negative, you still get two points!
GRIZ: Two points for F.F. Next, Chuffy contributed gloves and a wool hat - very light.
MR TASKS: Three points for Chuffy. Now, Ms Hathersage only got to contribute one item, didn’t she?
GRIZ: She did.
MR TASKS: So the question is: is a helmet heavier than an apron and a pair of boots?
GRIZ: It is, yes.
MR TASKS: Oh. So much for suspense. (it throws its claws up in the air and slumps in its throne)
GRIZ: The head is much heavier than the feet, and their respective protective equipment follows suit. Inch comes second, but Ms Hathersage was undoubtedly the winner of that task.
MR TASKS: Fours points to Inch and five to Emilia Hathersage!
GRIZ: That means that tonight’s final scores are like a bursting corset.
MR TASKS: What?
GRIZ: They’re very tight… until they’re not. Chuffy is in last place, with twelve points.
CHUFFY: (applauding) Fair enough - best chap on the day, and all that.
GRIZ: Only one point ahead of him, it’s Mr Inch and the Pirate Poet, who both have thirteen points!
MR INCH: Wait, she was disqualified in that round and I nearly won, and all I did was catch up with her?
F.F.: I guess thirteen points is what you get when you bring a sword to a tasking contest.
PIRATE POET: Ha!
GRIZ: Just two points ahead of them, it’s F.F. Gebrandt with fifteen points!
(F.F. curtseys daintily and smiles at the front row.)
GRIZ: And then, way out in front, it’s Emilia Hathersage with nineteen points!
MR TASKS: Well, now - what have we learned tonight? We’ve learned that you can hide a message in a tattoo if it’s upside-down, and you can hide a treasure in a plinth if it’s right-side up. We’ve learned that a cow can lift an anvil higher than a balloon can lift a peon, but a bomb can lift both highest of all. And, most importantly, we’ve learned that Emilia Hathersage is tonight’s winner. Emilia, make your way to the stage and claim your selection of hangover cures!
(April runs onto the stage, picks up the bowl of curry from the prize display, and brings it down to place in the Taskmaster’s claws. She returns and offers a choice of drinks to the Dauntless Temperance Campaigner, who refuses the cocktail but accepts the flask of water. The pair of them share a toast as Mr Tasks tries a bite of the curry.)
MR TASKS: It is hot!
(The seven sigil-bearing wax seals surreptitiously placed on the underside of the bowl begin to glow.)
MR TASKS: Possibly, somehow… too hot?
(Smoke rises from under its robe. It shifts uncomfortably for a moment, then bursts into green flame.)
MR TASKS: Too hot! Too hot!
(Griz dives for cover as the Taskmaster leaps from its throne and charges into the wings, beating at the flames that engulf it. April raises her glass from the stage and silently mouths ‘Fortunato’. The miniature airship, having been leaking gas for some minutes, sinks to the floor and collapses in a heap of canvas and leather.)
(In the highest spires of the Bazaar, the Efficient Commissioner bolts upright in her sensible-but-comfortable bed. She scrabbles to light a lamp, to find pencil and paper, to replicate the image that woke her from her dream. After a few false starts, she recreates Chuffy’s tattoo design, with its map of Europe and its curiously stylised figure. She traces the wanderer’s path.)
GRIZ: Sicily… Vienna… Paris… Berlin? And… what was it he said? He looks ready to lose his head?
(She erases the figure’s head. Without it, he looks less like a man than a symbol, or perhaps-)
GRIZ: No… it can’t be. Can it?
(She copies the headless figure to one sheet of note-paper and its looping path to another. Holding them in front of the lamp’s light, she overlays them, and a burning sigil appears in her mind - ‘a revolution that cannot be delayed by a dynasty in decay’. She drops the pages to the floor, where they turn once more into childish drawings.)
GRIZ: A coincidence. It must be. The boy’s a fool.
(Nonetheless, she picks up the speaking-tube beside her bed.)
GRIZ: Could the volume of the Tragedy Procedures relating to political unrest in Continental Europe be brought to my study by morning, please? And, also, fetch out the mechanical Mr Veils and modify it to stand in for Mr Tasks. Just until the current Mr Tasks has finished… convalescing. Thank you.
"The name of the blog is called 'https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justdiptych'."
"Oh, that's the name of the blog, is it?" Alice said, trying to feel interested.
"No, you don't understand," the Knight said, looking a little vexed. "That's what the name is called. The name really is 'https://www.tumblr.com/justdiptych'."
"Then I ought to have said 'That's what the blog is called'?" Alice corrected herself.
"No, you oughtn't: that's quite another thing! The blog is called 'https://justdiptych.tumblr.com/': but that's only what it's called, you know!"
"Well, what is the blog, then? " said Alice, who was by this time completely bewildered.
"I was coming to that," the Knight said. "The song really is 'Just "Diptych"': and the posts are my own invention."
scifi/fantasy rpg: Yeah so when you go outside settlements there are Plunderers. These are like fully-grown human beings whose only purpose in life is to attack people who travel between settlements. This lifestyle is somehow sustainable enough that there's more of them than there are friendly NPCs
Where do Plunderers live? Well in Plunderer Camps, which are often quite permanent-looking settlements, but like. Don't think too hard about why this entire group of people is just considered intrinsically criminal with no attempts to even try diplomacy or trade with them.
Plunderers can be distinguished from Normal People by the fact that they wear distinct Plunderer Equipment and have fully separate aesthetics in how they construct their settlements compared to everyone else.
Anyway I was playing Baldur's Gate 1 and there's a quest where a paladin asks you to collect "Bandit" scalps. These are dropped by everyone in the Intrinsic Category of Bandit. Which really struck me as particularly shameless about this whole thing.
