The room is, I admit, disappointingly theatrical. You awoke, chained by the ankle to that iron radiator in the scullery of your hive. Though, we both admit it has never been host to an honest meal. The radiator is hissing with civic spite. The floor is tiled in a pattern that suggests grief. On the stove, centered over a ring of blue flame, is a dented iron pot full of boiling tallow. Boiling. It pops and spits with a greasy impatience, exhaling the rich, animal stink of rendered fat. The pot itself has been welded to the stovetop in four ugly seams, each bead of metal thick enough to survive tantrum, leverage, and several low-grade acts of divine resentment. It cannot be tipped. It cannot be slid. It cannot be persuaded. Someone has taken precautions, and how flattering that must have felt for them. A small card has been nailed to the cabinet at eye level. The handwriting is juvenile, but the cruelty has ambitions. ꓄ꃅꍟ ꀘꍟꌩ ꓄ꂦ ꌩꂦꀎꋪ ꋪꍟ꒒ꍟꍏꌗꍟ ꋪꍟꌗ꓄ꌗ ꅏꃅꍟꋪꍟ ꍏ꒒꒒ ꌗꂦꎇ꓄ ꓄ꃅꀤꈤꁅꌗ ꁅꂦ ꓄ꂦ ꀸꋪꂦꅏꈤ. ꋪꍟꍏꉓꃅ ꀤꈤ꓄ꂦ ꓄ꃅꍟ ꓄ꍏ꒒꒒ꂦꅏ ꍏꈤꀸ ꋪꍟ꓄ꋪꀤꍟꃴꍟ ꅏꃅꍏ꓄ ꂦꉣꍟꈤꌗ ꅏꃅꍏ꓄ ꌃꀤꈤꀸꌗ ꌩꂦꀎ. ꓄ꃅꍟ ꎇ꒒ꍏꂵꍟ ꅏꀤ꒒꒒ ꈤꂦ꓄ ꒒ꀤꌗ꓄ꍟꈤ. ꓄ꃅꍟ ꀘꈤꂦꌃꌗ ꅏꀤ꒒꒒ ꈤꂦ꓄ ꓄ꀎꋪꈤ. ꓄ꃅꍟ ꌗ꓄ꋪꍏꈤꁅꍟꋪ ꃅꍏꌗ ꍏ꒒ꋪꍟꍏꀸꌩ ꌗꅏꍏ꒒꒒ꂦꅏꍟꀸ ꓄ꃅꍟꂵ. The last part is, unfortunately, true. Somewhere in the adjoining room, a stranger shifts in their bonds with the wet, panicked discomfort of someone who has been made to swallow porcelain stove knobs, brass fittings, and possibly one of the screws from the pantry door. They are no help. This is not their fault, which makes the arrangement a degree less tidy. They are, by all available evidence, regretting their involvement. Your lusus, meanwhile, has done nothing wrong. Within reach, however, are tools. These tools are an inconvenient sort, selected by a person who understands that hope is funniest when it has to assemble itself from insults. There is a bent fondue fork, too short by several inches and slick with old cheese. There is a pair of sugar tongs, silver-plated, delicate, and clearly intended for extracting cubes from a tea service rather than a key from boiling fat. There is half a broom handle, splintered at one end, with no bristles and no dignity. There is a rusted soup ladle with holes punched through the bowl, rendering it useful only for failing to carry liquid and proving that someone had time to modify a ladle maliciously. There is a length of curtain cord. Frayed. Decorative. In no way heatproof. You will find that their length, though comforting, does not permit you to grasp the key. Merely, to bother the stranger. The key is underneath a small iron cage. It requires dexterity to retrieve, and lift. All of these items are either too cumbersome, too lengthy, or too humiliatingly delicate to help. The chain around the ankle allows enough movement to stand, kneel, strain, and reach the stove only at the very edge of one's capacity. Naturally. One may extend an arm toward the pot and feel the radiant heat push back before skin ever reaches the surface. The tallow rolls and churns, opaque and yellow-white, concealing the key entirely. Every bubble that breaks seems to say: perhaps. Perhaps here. Perhaps lower. Perhaps deeper. The stove knobs are gone, leaving only bare metal stems protruding from the front panel. They are too smooth to grip by hand. Too hot to hold for long. Too stubborn to turn with anything delicate. The sugar tongs slip. The butter knife bends. The fondue fork skates against the stem and threatens to fling itself behind the stove, where all useful things go to become rumors. The pot cannot be toppled. The flame cannot be reduced by ordinary means. The stranger cannot be induced to return the knobs on command, despite being addressed with a degree of civility they are currently too distressed to appreciate. One is left, then, with the intended lesson. Not courage. Courage is what dull minds call panic after it has survived. Not sacrifice. Sacrifice implies nobility, and there is nothing noble about boiling kitchen grease in a welded pot. No, the lesson is patience under insult. The careful inventory of indignities. The conversion of uselessness into sequence. The radiator knocks behind you like an impatient audience member. The tallow boils. The stranger gags in the adjoining room. Your options are obvious, only to the two of us. Sacrifice your hand, or sacrifice a person you have no particular reason to care about. A less dignified person might call this a route to your victory. I would call it an unnecessarily warm inconvenience.
~Oh is this a ch~OO~se y~Our ~Own adventure type thing? I start jerking ~Off ~#nsfw~
I appreciate your initiative. It is misplaced, of course. This is not a choose your own adventure. It is, at most, a choose your own consequence. An important distinction, though I understand why someone in your condition might struggle to tell the difference. Do continue, if you must. The radiator will not judge you. The tallow will not wait for you. The key will remain exactly where it is. I would only advise that you finish before the room does. -horror
√(Hm. 8/10. Pretty good Saw trap, but you didn't account for psionics. Not that I have any. But someone else could)²
~-h~Orr~Or, huh? I cO~ntinue jerking ~Off, I grab sO~me O~f the b~Oiling tall~Ow tO~ lube myself up ~#nsfw #nsfwe #b~Ody-h~OrrO~r~
Fortunately, I did. This was not a work of fiction. I am merely describing the situation an unfortunate naysayer found themselves in recently.