[Redux] FULL Monty infodump update

>Get the deets

"...if it [i]must[/i] be Jean... I thought she went by her last name?"

"Most commonly, yes. It makes me no difference."

"Um, okay. If it must be her, then you have to tell me absolutely everything about her. Because I don't know [i]anything.[/i] Is she a real doctor?"

Monty sighs. "Not much more than I am."

"Meaning—"

"She knows how to take bodies apart. Shakier on how to put them back together. I needed to give her [i]something[/i] to do." He fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. "In my defense, she does know how to use a bandage, and it's far from an essential role down here. Seems you're either fine or you're dead, and—"

"I thought we were in hell," you say snidely. "You think people die a second time?"

"I'm not sure what else you'd call it, Charlotte. Maybe they escape. Maybe they go somewhere worse. Maybe they come right back here, as Garvin has posited to me. I wish I knew. But I can't imagine my answers actually matter that much to you, do they?"

"Just asking. Anyways, so she and you were friends—"

Monty chuckles. "I wouldn't say that. I think it's possible she considered that to be the case. I can't say I did— and that's long before any of this, to be clear. We have always been... of very different minds."

"Meaning she's a thieving jerk?" you say. "And you're merely a thieving jerk accomplice?"

"In a sense." Monty ducks his head. "She's always preferred the spotlight over me. That's one difference. She used to be very well-known back then— [i]very[/i] well known— and it wasn't out of raw talent, though she wasn't bad. What she [i]was[/i] was a born showwoman. She was 'the Executioner,' because she'd chop off people's heads, see, in broad daylight. People loved it. She had radio interviews and sponsorship deals out the ears, or neck stump, if you will. Zero grace. Zero subtlety. I could've taken her out fairly easily if she wasn't always surrounded by fans— they'd all take a damned bullet for her, see. Which I thought was a fairly obvious bending of the rules, but the Committee thought otherwise, and she was never reprimanded."

He's rattling this off all clipped-like, maybe so he doesn't think twice about telling you all this, but it makes it hard to follow. "She had [i]sponsorship[/i] deals? Did you have sponsorship deals?"

"..." He sucks in his cheek. "...A few. I needed an additional income stream."

Somewhere out there in the world, there's collectible Monty merchandise. When you become Queen, you'll order somebody to search it out. For your palace decorations. "What did you sponsor?"

From the look of him, he looks like he regrets ever bringing up sponsorships, and possibly being born. "It's been many years, Charlotte, I don't have a strong— I believe one of them was shoe polish. And some variety of patent medicine. She had many more than I did, because she liked having her endorsement on things. Even back then I found the glad-handing crass."

"So you're saying you didn't like all the attention? And stuff?"

"I thought it was beneath me, Charlotte." He clucks his tongue sardonically. "So yes. I loathed all the attention."

"Which is why you decided to go be a famous murder person—"

"Game player. And believe me or not, but I wasn't in it for the fame. I'd say she was, but I also believe she enjoyed killing people."

"And you didn't?" you say.

"I didn't feel anything about it. It was something to do." Monty swivels his chair a little, first one way, then the other. "What I enjoyed was winning. And being good. I was very, very good. If I could've been so in relative obscurity, I would've, but being very, very good builds a reputation on your behalf, and— I don't mean this to paint myself in a better light than her. It all went straight to my head. I wasn't a nice man back then, or a good man, and I especially wasn't a personable man. Jean was extremely personable, back then and now. People were just [i]drawn[/i] to her."

"You might say she had a... a cult of personality going?"

"Sure, I might say that. It was all faintly mystifying to me at the time, but it and the Committee favoritism made far more sense when I was inadvertently promoted. Guess who was pleased to see me? She said I was one of her favorites. I don't know that we'd spoken two words." He rolls his shoulders. "I was obligated to invite her for dinner with my wife and I at least once after that. Constance was pleased I made friends. I was lying to her quite a lot, that entire year."

On one hand, you'd really like to focus on the vile, twisted inner workings of your thief. On the other, Monty's talking about himself without you literally having to pry it out of him, which you think might be a first. Best not to rile him up. "Mm-hm?"

"I'd say that was the worst part of it, but the company was terrible, the work was abhorrent, and the prospect of being stuck there for eternity was unimaginable. It was worse than death, and I can say this because I have [i]experienced[/i] death. I would rather be rent limb from limb—" He stalls himself, takes a couple deep breaths. "Jean enjoyed it."

"Oh," you say.

"They all enjoyed it, to varying degrees, but she really did. She thought the illusion of power we had was thrilling, and she thought the company was edifying, and the physical changes invigorating, and the prospect of being stuck in there just about the greatest damn thing anybody could hope for. It didn't hurt that the Committee figured she could go unmasked most of the time. She was good for public relations." Monty smiles grimly. "Wouldn't you know it, I wasn't."

Maybe he thinks that if he says a lot of things offhandedly, he can slip them past you. Ha. "Uh-huh. Physical changes?"

Oh, yeah, there we go. Instant regret. No smile. He's drawn himself up, the spooky arm contracting in coils.

"If the person who stole my one-of-a-kind family heirloom has any [i]physical[/i]— oh, hold on, did I mention? I was talking to Eloise, and she told me about some skientific gobbledygook where reality's been sort of stretching, and now any 'major event'— she said that, 'major event'— any of those could snap it in half? E.g., somebody [i]using[/i] my family heirloom could qualify? Isn't that funny, Monty?"

"I couldn't say," he says, apparently seriously. "Eloise said this? Did she say what 'reality being snapped in half' entails for the layman?"

"Uh," you say. "Everything ceases to exist! All at once! Poof!"

"Is that all?"

"Is that—" God-damnit! "Is that not [i]enough?[/i]"

"I could think of far worse things. Some I've mentioned. The way you have it, you'd downright reduce suffering." Again, he's apparently serious. "I take your general point, I suppose, but—"

"I didn't even say my general point!" You fold your arms. "You [i]owe[/i] me everything you know about quote-end quote 'physical changes.' The world might literally end if you don't. Or maybe it won't, because I'll stop it, and I guess in your opinion that'd be worse, which— maybe just forget the world. You [i]stole[/i] my crown."

"Yes." Monty inhales. "That's fair."

"So are you going to—"

"Please wait." There's a soft noise you can't place, until you realize his foot must be scratching on the ground. "This isn't something I've really..."

You wait.

"...Really, all of this is... I've only ever told Constance. Years ago. ...Please be patient."

How much more patient can you be? You join Monty in the foot-scratching.

"...What kind of face would you expect me to have?" he says.

"Um, what?"

"I've told you enough. You know I was engaged in violent activities for many years. I played the Game. I boxed. I provoked people. What kind of a face would you expect from that?"

What on earth is he talking about? Is he expecting a physiognomal examination? You wouldn't expect him to be that tough, you guess, if you didn't know him— his features are all long and softened and sort of blandly handsome overall. No dashing square chin, no darkened brow, no wicked scar. But is that what he means? If it isn't, you suspect it'd be awfully rude to say, not to mention far too forward. You opt for the safe route of saying nothing at all.

Monty sighs. "I'll be more specific. Would you take a look at my teeth?"

He bares them for you. (Maybe he's sick of you being here, and this is his attempt to drive you away?) You take as polite of a glance as you can get. "They're very... white?"

They are very white, not to mention perfectly straight. He must've had enough sponsorship money (ha-ha) to have a surgeon look at them. "Yes," he says. "They're [i]very[/i] white. Thank you. Did you see any missing?"

He could just be making fun of you. That's a possibility with anybody. "You have [i]all[/i] your teeth, Monty."

"Yes, I do. Which is very strange," he says, "because I've had multiple teeth knocked out over the years. This one right here for sure—" He indicates a definitely-present lower-right canine. "I was 17, I think. Had the tar beaten out of me. There was one somewhere around here—" A couple of premolars on the top right. "—which was a folding quarterstaff to the face, if I remember correctly. And then one in the back from God-knows-what."

Yes. Extremely possible he's making fun of you. 'Taking the piss,' one might say. "You're saying they grew back...? Or..."

"You inquired." Monty shuts his mouth. "I am saying that. I'm saying that six months through my Committee sentence, I wake up with decade-old teeth."

"Oh," you say.

"I had to tell Constance I got implants. At another point, I wake up with an unbroken nose. It used to be I could hardly smell anything." (You eye Monty's current nose: straight as a ruler.) "Scars were going missing. Old aches and pains were going missing. I was..." He bites the inside of his lip. "I had always been fit, but I had also been fairly wiry. Until I wasn't. I was as strong as I'd ever been, and my endurance was good as it had ever been, though no special effort on my part."

He pauses for a few beats, rubbing his thumb against the knuckle of his forefinger. "All of this disturbed me, but none of it so much as— at this point I was 27, or thereabouts, and I had already found a couple grey hairs. I assume from stress. You see a lot of prematurely grey Game players, just as you see a lot of prematurely dead ones. I wasn't fussed about it. I was more fussed when I discovered all the grey hairs had turned [i]brown.[/i] And that it was growing in thicker than it had, and my skin was firmer, and one night Constance asked—"

His voice cracks.

"—asked me if I had signed a sponsorship deal for an anti-aging pill. And I didn't know what to tell her. She was kidding. I told her that I was just happy to see her— that when she was around it may as well be a—"

Monty stops, staring out at the wall again. Maybe it does have some comfort to offer. You don't know. You fidget. "Um... so... you're saying that wearing the spooky masks magyckally—"

"I didn't say 'magic,'" Monty says tightly. "I don't know what it was."

"Um, well, you grew back teeth... and reverse-aged... so I don't know what you think it could be other than that, but—"

"I don't know."

"Okay. Whatever. You don't know." (Still magyck.) "And do you think this happened to Jean Ramsey also?"

"If you look at her teeth," Monty says, "then yes. That's a tip for you, actually. That's how you spot us. Identical teeth."

It'd be a little funny if his tone weren't so devoid of humor. "Um, got it. Do you think this speaks to any advanced capabilities? Like, is super smart now, or super fast, or strong, or—"

"Not smart. I don't think it got into the brain like that. She's cunning— I wouldn't misestimate her— but no genius. Nor am I one, for that matter." Monty taps the desk. "I don't think she's inhumanly fast or inhumanly strong. I'm not, but she was on the Committee for much longer, so I can't be certain. I would assume she's merely [i]very[/i] fast and [i]very[/i] strong, but I still wouldn't recommend you fight her."

"You said you could beat her," you mutter.

"That's meaningless, Charlotte. I could beat you."

This has gone too far: he's gotten [i]cocky![/i] "Oh yeah? Prove it!"

"No," says Monty.

"Then you're a coward! A low-down— I bet I [i]could[/i] beat you. I bet I could beat you, and I bet you know it, and you're scared, and you—"

He's impassive. "I'll revise this. Please don't fight her directly. She was holding back on you before. She's killed men twice your size who [i]know[/i] how to fight, and that was sans-artifact. Get it back if you must, but I know you'll want to duel. Don't."

What you're hearing is 'absolutely duel, but upgrade incredible magyckal abilities first.' "Uh-huh. So that's the physical stuff. Did your stupid spooky mask give her anything else? Anything that could be described as 'magyckal,' perhaps? Given the shadow arms, and the turning-into-shadow thing, and the—"

"I don't know."

"Really? Because I seem to recall being plunged into a spooky darkness dimension, and also you have a shadow arm right now, which you started oozing out right after you got really really mad and plunged me into— yes! You were making that exact face!"

Monty attempts to correct his strangling expression, to little avail. "I don't know about any of that. I have no explanation."

"Um, are you sure? Because I'm thinking that maybe you were wearing this spooky mask for a whole year, and maybe it leaked some spooky energies into—"

"I think we better stop," Monty says.

He leaves off the "for [i]your[/i] sake." Fine. Jean Ramsey: very tough combantant. Possible spooky energies. "Stop everything?"

"Is there more you need to know?"

Maybe. But probably not right now, you're sensing. "Uhh... that was a lot."

"Yes. It was a lot." He reaches for some stray papers, apparently for the sole purpose of stacking them officiously. "You won't be speaking of this to anybody, will you?"

Uh... will you?

>[A1] No. It's between you and him. Promise.
>[A2] No. It's between you and him. Promise. [Lie.]
>[A3] You'll keep his personal stuff secret, but the accomplice stuff is fair game. People deserve to know that their noble leader is a low-down thief. That's just how it is.
>[A4] You can't promise anything. Sorry.
>[A5] Write-in.

>[B1] Go plan things with Gil and Richard. You've put it off for long enough, and you have a lot of complicated things you need to work out.
>[B2] Go speak to Eloise. The tent's solved, but she still needs to be told about it. And maybe you better tell her to check in on Monty after you leave. He doesn't seem too great at the moment.
[spoiler]>[LOCKED] You got Gil's tent solved, so your desire to speak to Horse Face has reverted to your customary 'nil.' If you have things to ask him, you can do that when he drops off Henry's Annie-resurrection instructions.[/spoiler]