Psychopaths and Cannibals
The most prevalent features of this floor are a constantly-shaking central support column, massive gaping holes in the floor, and a mist as thick and coagulated as my mom’s (in)famous pikachu stew. I see how it is. The cultists have constructed a devilish pit of sacrifice here and are using the mist to hide the bloodstains. They probably eat their victims too. Sick. Don’t get me wrong – I’m all for abusing the trust of my fellow man. But I go about it the Team Rocket way (a.k.a. the cool way). They’ve got matching outfits and catchphrases and a sense of honor. These people are just psychopaths and cannibals. They are an insult to the good name of crime and they must be eradicated.
There’s one of them now. He’s spinning in place, obviously trying to escape his guilty conscience. Sorry, buddy, but that won’t work. Luckily for you, I’ve got just the thing that will. I introduce him to my trusty knife. Repeatedly. Ignoring his pleas for mercy, I toss him into the same pit where the accusing remains of his victims await with rotted flesh and grasping hands. He screams as they tear at his flesh. Poetic justice and whatnot. It is very ironic.
Even more ironic is the fact that I can’t do that, since I don’t have a trusty knife. Actually, it’s not really that ironic. It’s just incredibly annoying. Lacking any knife-based alternatives, I walk up and introduce myself.
His name is Nico, or so he claims. If not for the whole deranged cultist thing, I’m sure he’d be a very nice old man. But he worships the tower we stand in. He attributes to it an indestructibility that I very much doubt it possesses. He has named himself after an herb. And he never says as much, but his very presence on this floor implies that he wants to feed me to his tower-god via its death-pit mouth. Irrational devotion, murderous impulses, and a crazy name? These are the window into a very sick mind. I attempt to cure it in the only way I know how – I throw zubat at him and hope for the best.
