Mark stood at the precipice of the massive retaining wall, looking down at the snowy settlement of Alwayswinter.

It hadn’t changed since they first got here. Not a bit. Compared to everything Sara had built and managed at the Suckin’ Vapes base, Mark actually felt surprisingly confident in his infiltration plan. All he had to do was go down there, create as much chaotic noise as possible, and draw out the guards until he got snatched up. Simple, right?

Then why did it seem… cruel? Leaving Sara to manage the impending corporate war alone felt wrong. Nah. Sara had explicitly ordered him to be creative. And creative he would be.

Raven had confirmed that all of Alwayswinter—except the massive hotel on the far side—had been entirely taken over by Craig's Owlbears and cronies. The sweatshop staff lived high above the valley in Kristen Stewart’s Bluff, which explained why the heavy wooden lift was locked down, only moving once before the shift and once after.

Mark stepped off the ledge. He quickly cast Feather Fall, his Wizard robes billowing around him as he floated gently to the snowy bottom of the wall, landing just outside the Alwayswinter tree line.

He concentrated, pulling on his Changeling biology, and shapeshifted flawlessly into his carefully crafted temporary persona: Disgraced Professional Darts Champion, Dick Shooter.

His all-white tailored shorts and airy, unbuttoned cabana shirt perfectly tied his sun-bleached white hair to his pristine white boat shoes as he strolled confidently into the freezing town. He made his way past the main concourse, ignoring the staring NPCs, and headed straight for the hotel on the other side.

There it stood. He couldn’t believe this fever dream had actually manifested.

The hotel's massive, glowing neon logo was a giant Ritz cracker surrounded by 90s-style geometric stars and confetti. Across the face of the cracker were two identical sets of palm trees flanking a very specific, pixelated Bel-Air mansion. Smack in the absolute center of the logo was an animated rendering of Alphonso Ribeiro doing the Carlton dance. Across the top, in a smooth purple-to-blue gradient font, was the name: The Ritz Carlton.

Mark took a long, proud look at his own ridiculous homebrew handiwork, nodded approvingly, and pushed through the heavy glass doors.

At the front desk, he was greeted by a beautiful Dryad wearing a bright, geometric outfit he absolutely would have seen Lisa Turtle wearing on Saved by the Bell. She folded her hands over something he didn’t quite see, but noticed a familiar green glow on the table below it.

“Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton. I hope you arrived well,” she recited in a flat, customer-service tone.

“The flight was really neat,” Mark chuckled under his Dick Shooter disguise, leaning heavily on the wooden counter and noticing the Assistant Manager nametag on her blazer. “I need a room up high. I like to see the snow from up there.”

The Dryad nodded, not looking up from her ledger. “That will be five hundred gold.”

“Five hundred gold!” Mark nearly screamed, his rich-guy persona taking over. “I’m Dick Shooter, hun! How about I stay for… nine gold?”

She stifled a derisive chuckle. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shooter. Our prices are strictly firm.”

He scratched his clean-shaven chin. “Thirteen!” he countered loudly, to her visible dismay. “And I’ll throw in a personalized autograph.”

The Dryad sighed deeply and casually dinged the silver bell on her desk twice. “Geoffrey!”

A side door opened, and the most aggressively average-looking human male Mark had ever seen stepped out. “Yes?”

“Mr. Dick Shooter here seems to have completely missed the mark,” the Dryad smirked, thoroughly unimpressed with the haggling. “Escort him out.”

Geoffrey rolled his eyes, looking profoundly bored. “This way, please… Dick.”

Mark's internal Dungeon Master ran the rapid calculations. His physical stats were garbage. He had exactly 4 Strength. If this thoroughly average bouncer grabbed him, it would actually hurt, and an escort out the front door wouldn't get him into the back rooms where Craig operated. Four Strength made for some very interesting tactical decisions.

“Alright!” Mark threw his hands up in mock defeat. “No bullseye this time!”

He shuffled slowly after Geoffrey toward the exit, his mind racing. He paused in the middle of the lobby, striking upon a new, desperate plan. “Wait! I wanna speak to your manager.”

Geoffrey stopped, turning around, and let out an audible, exasperated sigh, slumping his shoulders forward and dangling his arms. “Fiiiine.”

Geoffrey trudged back past the desk and pushed through the swinging double doors into the employee-only back hallway. “Craig! Dealing with a Karen!”

Dick Shooter’s eyes pulled wide open. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He was actually here. Shit.

Seconds later, the swinging doors parted. There he stood. All six and a half feet of the imposing Rabbitfolk.

“How can I help you, sir?” Craig asked, putting on a highly unconvincing, artificially polite managerial tone.

Mark took a deep breath, letting the chaotic energy of Dick Shooter shine. “I was just asking… what’s your name?” He pointed at the Dryad behind the counter.

“Bukkakelyn,” she said. With a straight. Fucking. Face.

“Buuuu—” Mark choked, barely passing an internal Stun check against the sheer, unadulterated filth of the name Craig had apparently assigned her. “I was just telling Bukkakelyn here that this was the nicest damned hotel I’ve been to, and I’d like to stay in the penthouse suite. And she was completely atrocious to me! I demand you comp my stay!”

Craig blinked slowly. “Um. You offered thirteen gold for a five-hundred-gold room, sir. I need to ask you to leave the premises immediately.”

Shit. He was running out of conventional plans.

Geoffrey stomped his little foot on the carpet in front of Mark and huffed. “Come. On. Nowwwwuh!”

Time to get creative. Mark inhaled deeply, bore down hard on his abdominal muscles, and physically pushed.

Spppprrrrriiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeesshshshshshsh.

The wet, horrific sound echoed loudly in the pristine lobby.

“Oops,” Dick Shooter shrugged casually, looking down at his white tailored shorts. “Pooped myself. Can I use the employee bathroom in the back to clean up real quick, Incellio Kontos?”

Craig paused. It was almost imperceptible, but Mark caught the rabbit's eyes narrow in sharp recognition of the hyper-specific American Dad reference. Craig smiled thinly.

“Absolutely, Mr. Shooter. Right this way.”

A massive weight lifted off Mark's chest as he followed Craig past the desk and down the private back hallway toward a solid oak door. Craig pulled it open and held it politely. “Here you go, just this way.”

Mark immediately, profoundly hated shitting himself. As he walked toward the door, he could feel the warm, awful mess starting to spread and slide down his inner thighs. The smell was instantly atrocious. Back in the lobby, Bukkakelyn and Geoffrey audibly gagged, covering their noses in horror.

As soon as Mark stepped across the threshold, he realized it wasn’t a bathroom. It was a completely empty, soundproofed storage room.

A heavy hand shoved him hard from behind. The door slammed shut, the deadbolt clicking into place. Craig was standing inside the dark room with him. The tall Rabbitfolk folded his arms over his chest and shook his head slowly.

“You think you can just come into my hotel and play your stupid tabletop games, Mark?” Craig sneered.

“Mark?” His adrenaline spiked, playing dumb. “No, I’m Dick Shooter.”

“And let me guess,” Craig scoffed, pacing the small room. “You need me to fill in a slot down at the, uh, garage? Need as many packers as you can get?”

Mark sighed, dropping the Changeling illusion. His sun-bleached hair and cabana shirt melted away, returning him to his frail, robed, human Wizard form. Unfortunately, the physical shit stayed exactly where it was in his underwear.

“I completely forgot you actually liked Twiztid,” Mark muttered.

Craig reached up and sharply rolled back his sleeve, revealing a tiny, faded Hatchetman tattoo. “Way more than you.”

Mark shook his head, pushing his own wizard sleeve up to expose his full, intricate Psychopathic Records lore tattoo. “Twiztid isn’t even signed to Psychopathic anymore.”

“They’re better off,” Craig snarled defensively.

“They really are, now,” Mark agreed casually, wincing slightly as he felt a heavy log of shit dislodge and fall from his boxer-briefs onto the floorboards with a wet thud. He looked up. “So, you made me from the Dick Shooter disguise?”

“No, you absolute moron,” Craig said, taking a very wide, disgusted step backward away from the fallen log. “No one else on this entire fucking planet knows American Dad well enough to land an 'Incellio Kontos' joke that good.”

Mark thought back to the lobby. “Fuck. Caught on an incel joke. At least it landed.”

“It didn’t, Mark!” Craig suddenly fumed, his voice cracking with genuine anger. “That’s… that's not me!”

“Dude,” Mark smirked, leaning against the wall. “You don’t look half bad back on Earth. It’s your toxic 'nice guy' incel shtick that actively keeps the pussy at bay.”

“First off, eww,” Craig recoiled, looking physically ill. He clenched his fists, his rabbit ears pinning flat against his head. “Second... I’M FUCKING GAY, MARK!"

The small room fell entirely silent.

"Wait.” Mark shook his head, genuinely stunned. The pieces of Craig's bitter, aggressive Earth persona suddenly realigned in his mind. “You are?”

Craig sighed heavily, his angry posture completely deflating. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I couldn't come out at home in Kentucky. So I’m out here.”

Mark was dumbfounded. Craig didn’t come to Tawagato specifically to become a corporate overlord and fuck people over. He came here to be free from his own closet.

“Craig.” Mark's voice softened, the chaotic humor bleeding away. “I know we’ve had our serious differences, and we will likely continue to have them over this vape turf war, but... I’m genuinely sorry you felt trapped like that back home. Simone felt a very similar way.”

“What?” Craig cocked his head, confused. “You mean Simon?”

“No,” Mark said, his voice instantly hardening into iron. He shook his head. “Unless you want me to keep up with the derogatory pussy jokes, then you need to recognize her for who she actually is. She was suffering on Earth, too. And you constantly calling her a fag back at the shop is exactly why we’re in this mess right now.”

Craig looked away, staring at the blank wall, quietly considering Mark’s words. “I really didn’t know about her. I wasn’t thinking… that.”

“You know,” Mark said, gesturing to the sprawling hotel beyond the door. “This place could actually be awesome for everyone. But I can’t just sit back and watch you exploit these people in sweatshops.”

“They’re not real, Mark,” Craig shrugged defensively. “We’re human. They’re just your stupid, drunk, homebrewed creations. Besides, the exploitation isn't even working anyway.” He raised his hands, gesturing bitterly at his own manager’s blazer.

“What do you mean?” Mark wondered. “We see your Owlbear thugs everywhere. We’ve picked up several of your captive workers who wanted a better life and actively gave it to them.”

“Your little business will die out eventually,” Craig responded bitterly. “Just like back on Earth. The NPCs here have the exact same ass lack of attention span, but here, they kill readily. Of course I have to employ Owlbear bodyguards.”

“Craig,” Mark said, trying to reach through the corporate paranoia. “You’re making them work miserable hotel shifts because they are real. Treat them that way and… hell, look at Sara. She’s attracted an entire population of Shafted dwarves that are fiercely, genuinely loyal to her. Why don’t you just help us instead? Let’s team up and beat King Dong.”

Craig chuckled, a dark, cynical sound. “You honestly think you can beat King Dong?”

“Eventually.” Mark shrugged.

“You’re good with the mechanics,” Craig sighed, thinking it over. “I mean, you created the bones of the world, but you left a literal blank-slate King in place at the capital. Now, who knows what kind of Grima Wormtongue shit is going on up there behind the throne. The point is, you won’t win. He’s got ops and spies everywhere.”

“Then join us,” Mark offered. “Your team and my team? We can clean up the code and wreck his shit. Just like old times.”

“You think I’m gonna join you?” Craig scoffed, regaining his confidence. “More like you join me. I’ve been in this world longer. I have the supply networks. If I show you my juice supplier, your profit margins will soar.”

Mark considered the offer for a long moment, playing his part perfectly. “I’m not in charge anymore. Sara is the Manager. I can’t make that kind of corporate decision for the base.”

“But you can make the decision to join the winning team for yourself,” Craig countered smoothly. He stepped forward and reached his hand out toward Mark.

Mark studied the outstretched hand. He considered what making this alliance would do to the world. He thought about the exact reasons he had come to Tawagato in the first place, and then he thought about Sara's mandate. Get creative. Get in. Solve the problem.

Mark reached his hand out and took Craig’s in a firm shake.

“I’m really feeling like Letho of Gulet right about now.”

 

 

 

Character Name: Mark

Class: Wizard 10

Race: Changeling

Stats:

Strength: 6

Dexterity: 10

Constitution: 10

Intelligence: 30

Wisdom: 8

Charisma: 22