NOBODY EVEN LIKES HIM
Looking up from my laptop, I realize I've been so absorbed in session planning, I've lost track of time.
"Sure, no problem." As I begin gathering my notes and books from the living room floor, I only just now notice the smell of cinnamon and sugar permeating the house like a sweet fog. "Whatever you've got going in the kitchen smells really good, Chica."
"Thank you! I've got two different kinds of cookies blazing in the oven: snickerdoodle and chocolate chip," she replies, wiping her feathers on her apron. "Have you heard from Foxy and Mike yet?"
"Not yet," I answer, toting my stack of game materials over to the dining room table. "Shit, it's getting late, too. What'd they go out for?"
"Chips and root beer. We were down to two cans left, and that wasn't going to fly the way Bonbon drinks it."
"Ah, yeah," I chuckle as I begin cleaning up the living room. "Soda's her one guilty pleasure. Though the way she eats, she could probably drink motor oil by the gallon and still be healthier than any of us."
Stopping cold, Chica looks over at me pensively. "Bonnie, um... you don't think I eat too much, do you?"
"Oh, of course not." My response is instantaneous; I've been conditioned for this one. "You're fine, Chica. Not an ounce of fat on your, uh, wings."
"Hmm! Well, I do try to keep a girlish figure," she grins, dusting the table off with her feathers. "Why, I've just been so hungry lately. It's probably the molting, you know?"
"Sure, that's gotta be it," I smoothly reply. "Us rabbits go through it too when our dewlaps come in. It's that whole, y'know, biological nesting thing Mother Nature equipped us with."
"Right! Exactly!" Chica cheerfully burbles before disappearing into the kitchen.
Yeah, right. Her excuse is bogus, and I think she knows it. I've watched her outeat two grown bears, regardless of whether she's molting or not. Still, whatever lets her sleep better at night. She stays busy enough to keep the majority of her weight off, so I guess it's not a problem.
The door clicks open as I finish gathering the last of the pillows from the floor, returning them to their proper places atop the furniture. Foxy and Mike trot inside, loaded down with cases of soda and two large shopping bags full of chips and other snacks.
"We're back. I'm gonna go rinse off before we get started," Foxy grunts, shoving one of the root beer boxes into my paws. He sounds more annoyed than usual.
Nodding, Mike kicks the door shut with his foot. "I don't blame you, Rackham." When Foxy walks past, I notice his backside's completely covered in mud from the chest down.
"Shit. What happened to him?" I ask, helping Mike carry the snacks into the kitchen, where Chica is hovering near the oven like an expectant mother.
"It was actually kind of sad. On our way to the corner store, Rackham wandered out a little too close to the road, and I guess it was in his blind spot or something. Remember that storm that rolled through this afternoon?"
"Oh geez." I can already see this one shaping up in my head. "He got sprayed with mud by one of the passing drivers?"
"Worse." Mike finishes unpacking the chips and drinks onto the counter. "He got sprayed with mud by Marion. Twice -- first when he whizzed by, then a second time when he backed up to apologize."
Chica raises a wing sharply to her beak, sending more loose feathers fluttering. "Poor Foxy!"
"Only Marion could be that oblivious," I sigh.
"Oh, you haven't heard the best of it yet." Gathering up the empty shopping bags, Mike stuffs them in the recycling bin. "Marion got out and insisted on giving us a ride to the convenience store, but he had to pick up some mail that needed a signature or something, so we had to ride all the way down to the post office. Which, of course, is like fifteen or twenty miles from here."
I drag my paw down my face. "Of course. Never mind the fact you could have walked to the corner store, bought everything and still walked back in less time."
"Our sentiments exactly. So on our way over, Marion asks what our evening plans are, trying to make small talk. You know how awkward he is. Aaaand Rackham lets it slip that we're having a game night with friends."
Realization hits me like a freight train.
"You've got to be kidding -- that idiot told Marion? Please tell me you're putting me on...!"
"I wish. So he launches into this long conversation about roleplaying with us," Mike replies, cracking open a warm can of root beer and downing it in a few gulps. "Apparently Marion was huge into D&D back in college. Still has his dice and miniatures and stuff, too."
"D&D? The hell is that? We're playing Strongholds & Sapiens." I quizzically cock my head, trying to figure out what it is that he's talking about.
"Oh, uhhh... a variant? Maybe? No-- no, now that I think about it, you're right, he did say Strongholds & Sapiens." Mike crumples up his can, tossing it in the kitchen wastebasket. "Anyway, he pointedly asked if there was an extra seat at the table, so we couldn't exactly tell him no."
"Yes! You could!" I protest.
"Sorry, Beanie. He's headed to his apartment to grab his gear."
"Kill me now," I groan, yanking at my ears in frustration.
"What's so bad about Marion coming over for game night?" Chica asks. "He could probably use the company, since his monthly gatherings at the front office are always so, um... underattended?"
Shooting Chica a look, I'm surprised to find out she's actually serious. "There's a reason nobody goes to Marion's parties," I reply slowly, "and it's called Marion. Guy's a vacuum -- just sucks all the fun out of the room. Besides, isn't there like, some kind of rule about the landlord and the tenants fraternizing or something?"
"Apparently not," Mike interjects.
"Fantastic. I'm not nearly drunk enough for this shit."
Grabbing my arm, Chica spins me on my heel to face her, wagging a feathertip at me. "Now Bonnie, you know what Dr. Rabbinson's told you: you're not supposed to drink at all, remember? Alcohol doesn't play nice with your pills."
"It was a joke, Chica," I stammer, yanking away from her and turning to Mike. "So, uh, Mike, don't you need a character sheet?"
His eyes light up as he begins following me. "Yeah, absolutely. You'll have to hold my hand until I get the hang of it, since I'm all kinds of rusty."
"Well then, let's get started!" I grab his wrist and drag him over to the dining room table. Anything to get Chica to climb down out of my ass. "That way we don't hold everyone up once they get here."
"I meant the hand-holding thing figuratively," Mike jokes as we each take a seat. "By the way, I'm sorry in advance for being a total newbie without my own dice and stuff. I'll pick up a set next time we're at the mall if you don't mind me borrowing some tonight."
"Oh, please. I'll give you dice. I keep the damn things in bulk thanks to Foxy always losing the ones I loan him. You got a favorite color?"
"I'm partial to green. At least let me pay you for them, though?"
"Mike, why do you gotta say thanks with your wallet every time someone does something nice for you?" I raise an eyebrow at him. "I could bring you a soda from the fridge, and I swear you'd try to buy it off of me."
He blushes, clearly flustered. "I don't like taking advantage of other people, Beanie. I make my own way in life."
"That's noble of you and all, but you were kind of a hobo until recently, right? Nobody's going to think poorly of you for not having a set of polyhedral dice."
Embarrassed, Mike pretends to study his character sheet, and I feel a pang of guilt in my chest. At a loss for words, I decide to drop it for now. I didn't think it would be such a sore subject. I certainly don't want to make him feel like shit any more than I already have.
"Uh, all right, so a lot's changed for fifth edition, Mike," I sigh, trying to retake the reins. "But the core fundamentals are the same. Do you remember the basics, at least?"
He squints as he turns the paper over in his hands. "I haven't ever played this specific system, but I basically know how this kind of stuff works. Are the others going to roll characters tonight too, or am I the only one?"
"No, it'll be everyone as well, since we're starting a fresh campaign. With the exception of maybe Marion, they're all familiar with 5E, so it won't take as long for them," I answer. "So let's get you up to speed -- we'll start with your class first. What do you usually play?"
"Paladin," he answers.
"Boy, that's you to a tee, isn't it," I comment as I crack the manual open, skimming to the appropriate section on paladins. "How about race? Wait, what am I asking? You've got to be a human."
"I was actually thinking I might try something unusual!" Mike twirls his pencil around with enthusiasm. "What are my options?"
"What, humans aren't 'unusual'? Mike, dude. Live a little. The whole point of a roleplaying game is to indulge in fantasy. Besides, you've even got the face for it. Sort of," I grin, poking one of his cheeks.
"Oh, wow. Thanks," he snorts, rolling his eyes.
"No problem." I smooth his ruffled mohawk a bit as he reluctantly pencils Human in for his race. "Aaaaand there you go. I'm telling you, you'll thank me later. Now... how about weapon proficiency?"
"Thank you all so much for the invitation," Marion timidly offers, stepping into our apartment.
The last to arrive by a considerable margin, he skitters towards his seat. I resist the urge to groan out loud to his face -- not out of any kind of respect for him, but because I don't want a tongue-lashing later from Chica and Fred for being "disrespectful".
"No problem," I manage to reply with a very forced smile. "Great of you to join us."
He nestles his scarecrow-like body into his chair before dropping a large trunk onto the table's surface. Considering his wiry, fragile arms, I'm surprised he was able to lug something so heavy-looking in without collapsing.
Maybe that's what took him so damn long to get here.
"I took the liberty of pre-preparing my character sheets before I arrived. Oh, except the dice rolls of course. I wouldn't want to waste everyone's time," Marion says.
If you didn't want to waste our time, why the hell did you even show up?
"It's a little embarrassing to admit this, but on slow days at the office I've written up characters with the hopes of someday getting to play them with others," he continues, popping the lid of his case. "If I'd known there was a group meeting regularly right here in my very own apartment complex, ohhhh! You wouldn't have been able to keep me away!"
How is that any different from us not being able to keep you away now? I shoot Foxy a glare to let him know of my displeasure, and to my slight satisfaction he wilts on the spot. That's right, Foxy. You know what you've done.
Examining the marbled green dice I spotted him, Mike pipes up. "I can't say I'm surprised to hear you're the type, Marion. What sort of character do you play?"
"All kinds. I can be whatever the party needs," Marion boasts.
"Ah, a jack-of-all-trades?" Mike asks.
More like a jack-of-ass, Mike.
"Sure. You know, roleplaying is particularly interesting for me. My people have a curious culture, and we see the wearing of masks as something sacred -- to wear another's 'mask' or face is to become them, in a way," Marion babbles. "I suppose it's kind of difficult to explain, but that's part of the reason as to why I don't have a family name, for instance. Of course, there's--"
"Wait, so can you play S&S without offending your tribal frog deity thing or not?" Bonbon interrupts between mouthfuls of corn chips. "If it's all sacred and stuff, won't pretending to be something you're not be like wearing their mask?"
"An excellent question, but there's nothing in our sacred writings that says we can't wear the masks we ourselves make." Marion pushes his glasses higher up his face with one of his slender fingers. "Regardless, I have in my briefcase dozens of character sheets for each possible class. Whatever the scenario calls for, I can provide a solution with utmost proficiency."
"That's a pretty big claim!" Foxy reaches for a snickerdoodle cookie off of one of the snack plates in front of us, which seems to serve as the signal for everyone else to do the same. "I'll warn you now, though: we totally do house rules here, and buccaneer is a valid class choice. Oh, and I've got exclusive dibs."
"A buccaneer in a medieval setting! Fascinating! Does your group simply reflavor another class, or is it a custom addition entirely?" Marion asks as he nibbles at his own cookie like a squirrel eating an acorn.
Foxy's ears flatten a little. "The, uh, the first one... but I do get to use my own miniatures and everything!"
He tosses a pawful of his "custom" pirate figures onto the table for effect.
"Charming," Marion croons, bending over to admire Foxy's dubious craftsmanship. "I can see you clearly put a lot of time and effort into painting these."
Beaming at me, Foxy smugly crosses his arms. "Why, thank you! I'm proud of them myself."
"All right, is everyone ready to go then?" Chica asks, unzipping the pencil case she keeps her dice in.
"I know I am." Setting his barely-eaten cookie aside, Marion riffles through his briefcase, pulling out folder after folder stuffed with character sheets.
"Wow, you weren't kidding!" Bonbon gasps as Marion finishes unloading the rest of his folders, fanning them out in front of himself. "You aren't gonna try to play all of those guys in one night, are you?"
"I might," he jokingly replies. I hope. I hope he's joking.
"Okay everyone, stat rolling time!" I announce, checking my session notes. "You can all roll as many times as you want, but please be mindful of time constraints. No 'saving' old rolls, no rolling dice individually. All the standard stuff. Any questions before we start?"
Marion's hand shoots up. "Yes, actually! I still need to decide a character before I begin rolling. Mike, I see you're a paladin. And Rackham, you're... a rogue?"
"Buccaneer," Foxy insists, "but yeah, essentially I'm a rogue."
Our landlord discards several of his folders as he begins narrowing down his class choices. "Very well. And Bonbon, you are...?"
"Sorcerer!" Bonbon says with a snap of her fingers. "I'm all about that crazy human magic, baby!"
"Oh, what a fantastic decision!" Is there no ass this guy won't kiss?! "I do love it when a good magician's in the party. It's not quite a campaign without one!"
"Hell yeah!" Bonbon gives Marion a slap on the back, sending his glasses flying. "Now we're talking!"
"I suppose I'll be the cleric again," Chica says with a good-natured sigh, handing his spectacles over.
"Again?" Mike frowns.
"They never let me play anything else."
He leans across the table to look at her blank sheet. "Nah. I can be the cleric. Play what you want to play, Chi--"
"Yeah, Chica, I had no idea you didn't like playing cleric!" Foxy abruptly interjects, shoving past Mike as he literally leaps to her defense. "What's the point of us doing any of this, if you aren't having fun?"
Nodding sympathetically, Bonbon pats her wing. "Same, same! Why didn't you ever say anything, Chichi?" she asks.
"Oh, Bonnie always says the party has to have a healer," Chica replies, backing over me with the bus Foxy just tossed me under. She casts an accusing look in my direction, and it's now my turn to crumble under her gaze. "It's fine, though. I'm used to it."
Marion taps one of his folders authoritatively. "That's counter-productive to good spirit of the game." What is this, National Shit on Bonita Day? It's all I can do to keep from bouncing my dice bag off of the side of his stupid, smarmy head. "I'll make for a more than suitable cleric, since I already have several set up. If our stronghold master permits, of course."
"Fine by me," I answer as magnanimously as my wounded pride will allow. "Chica, what do you want to be?"
"Barbarian!" Chica feistily declares, balling her wingtips into fists. "I'm totally gonna get in there and crack some skulls!"
I look around the table. Mike and Bonbon are grinning with approval, Marion's amused, and Foxy seems... oh. Ohh. Well, I guess he'll be taking another shower later, though I imagine it'll probably be a cold one.
"If you want, Chichi, please feel free to use one of mine. I don't name any of my characters," Marion offers, handing Chica a folder labeled "Barbarian".
"Oh, thank you!" she says, thumbing through the stack.
Unlike the plain black-and-white photocopies we always use, his character sheets are printed in full color on fancy cardstock -- probably stuff he has for the apartment complex's official business, if I had to guess. If it didn't mean humbling myself, I'd almost be tempted to ask him to make some for us, too.
"Hmm! Marion, I'm glad you were able to come by and spice things up tonight!" she says after finding one she likes. "It should be a really good game now, Bonnie, don't you think?"
"The best," I wince.
After tucking the remainder of his folders back in his case, Marion plunks an ornate wooden dice box down onto the table. My jaw drops when I notice the brand name etched onto the side. I'm very familiar with this set; it's from a vintage, limited edition, catalog-only printing endorsed by the creators of Strongholds & Sapiens. The dice inside that box must have cost him the equivalent of three months' of my rent. I eye my own recently-purchased polyhedrals with embarrassment and envy, feeling like a day-one novice at my own game.
This is going to be a long night.
I'd initially allotted two hours for the session, figuring everyone would be ready to call it quits by that point. From past experience, that's usually about how long everyone lasts whenever I'm running a campaign. To my surprise, however, the party has not only ended up blazing through the game with ease, but there even seems to be some kind of... enthusiastic energy surrounding them. Bonbon's playing well off of Mike (though I can't help but wonder how much of that might be due to his character's race), Chica's having an absolute blast, Foxy's even more into it than usual because of Chica, and Marion's playing with such grace and aplomb that I almost wonder if I'm pitching too soft at him.
"You walk into an enormous cathedral," I announce in my patented Stronghold Master Voice. "The walls are covered in gorgeous, elegantly-woven tapestries made of the finest silk in the realm, their surfaces depicting centuries-old tales of valor and legends of fury."
"Avast!" declares Foxy, rapping his hook on the table for effect. "Aye, but I wonder if those billowin' tarps wouldn't fetch a high price on th' black market. Shame they're twice as tall as even the biggest sails on me ship."
Marion does a dramatic little flourish. "Indeed, but be wary, brother Captain Sir Foxy. Remember the words of the great sage -- 'Greed is a bad creed'," says the guy with the titanium, laser-engraved dice.
I'm not too thrilled about being interrupted in the middle of my big explanation of their surroundings, but at the same time, I'm not about to squelch characterization... even if Foxy's been playing the same exact character since our first ever game.
"The molding joining the walls to the ceiling is enhanced with shimmering golden trim. You can hear the ambient sounds of running water, as it flows in directed streams beneath the polished glass floor."
"Chica want touch water," Chica grumbles.
Gazing at the table as if she's really seeing the environment I'm describing, Chica lets out a feral snort. It's almost a little creepy how much she's gotten into this role. She presses her beak to the scratched-up surface of our dining room table, rolling her eyes to glare at me without even so much as moving her neck. I clear my throat a little, smiling awkwardly at her.
She doesn't smile back.
"...okaaay then. Your nostrils are filled with the faint and distant smell of ash," I continue, scooting a little further away from her seat. "The cathedral itself is very round and very, very intimidating. Its circumference is dotted with a series of massive support pillars arranged in a hexagonal pattern, their carving perhaps Corinthian in style."
"Keep a sharp eye out for traps," Mike declares somewhat uselessly. I learned my lesson about over-reliance on traps years ago, and I've since learned a few new tricks to mix things up without having to resort to such amateur tactics. "Beanie, I'm gonna roll for a spot check."
"All righty, go for it."
"Oooh! Mike! Be sure to use your human thermal vision," Bonbon excitedly adds as she jabs his forearm. "Remember! Human race perks stack so I'll be using mine, too."
"Humans don't have thermal vision," Mike replies.
"Actually, they do. They've had it as a perk since 2E, since they got so many complaints from fantasy historians." I tap one of my resource books for emphasis. "I mean, everybody knows humans have thermal vision. How else are they supposed to mate with each other, since they're all colorblind?"
"Wha-- what does that have to do with anything?" Mike asks, befuddled as he tumbles a die across the table, nailing his spot check.
"Oh, I can teach you a ton about humans," Bonbon adds with a grin. "You've got so much to learn, Mike. Nice roll, by the way!"
"Thanks," he says with a wary grimace. "Uh, what do I see?"
I clear my throat. "In the center of the room, just in front of the throne is a rainbow-colored dragon nearly eight stories tall, slumbering softly. Even one of its iridescent scales is the size of Captain Sir Foxy's buckler."
"Arr, it'd explain th' smell o' ash..." Foxy muses, still in his pirate voice. Even Haddock isn't quite as much of a ham; Marion's clearly enabling him.
"Dragon?!" Chica's head jerks up from the table. "Chica HAAAAATE dragon!! Meat tough, makes sick! NOT EAT!!"
Reclining back in his chair, Marion clasps his hands across his chest with a snort. I cut my eyes at him as he smiles almost condescendingly.
"You have anything you want to add, Marion?" I ask, my tone perhaps a little pointed.
"Oh, not at all," he replies affably. "I just find it to be a little, ah, sudden. I thought for certain you wouldn't go for such a, er, 'reveal' so early on. But I was basing that assumption on your initial pacing. Please, by all means, continue."
"You have a problem with my pacing, then?"
"Not in the slightest, Bonita," he remarks patronizingly. "You're doing the best you can."
Closing up my books, I fold down my screen. "You know what, on second thought -- why don't we go ahead and knock off here for the night?" I ask through gritted teeth, twitching the corners of my mouth upwards, in the hopes that it'll look more like a smile than a predatory growl. "This seems like a great cliffhanger to leave off on. Plus, it's getting late, and I don't want Fred to get upset if we break curfew."
"Awww!" Bonbon whines. "I was having fun! Can't Mike's human and my human kick the dragon's ass before we call it quits?"
"And can we loot its hoard?" asks Foxy. "Dragons always got a hoard, right?"
"That's racial profiling, Foxy. Anyway, thanks for coming out, everybody!" I insist.
Marion begins gathering up his ludicrously expensive S&S shit that I totally don't hate him for owning.
"Ah, it was quite the experience," he says, whistling softly. "You've been a most gracious host. What time is next week's session?"
Hopefully never. "Let me get back to you on that," I mutter.
"Please do. If I don't hear back from you, I'll assume the time's the same." Marion's making deliberate eye contact with me as he heads for the door. Guess I'm not getting out of it so easily. "Chichi, your snickerdoodle cookies were delicious, by the way! I'll be sure to give gifts of my own next session -- perhaps some of my famous seven-layer dip."
"Chica very happy you like," she grunts, slapping her wing at the surface of the table as if she were digging a hole, eliciting a chuckle from Marion and Bonbon as they walk out the front door.
"Game's over, Chica. You can stop now," I snap as the door clicks shut behind them. The second they're gone, I get up from the table and quickly storm off to my room in disgust, not even bothering to collect my stuff.
There's a gentle tap-tap at the door to my room. It's not a muffled thump, so it can't be Chica, and Fred's already asleep at this hour.
"Shouldn't you be sniffing Chica's panties or something, Foxy?" I mumble under my breath, not even bothering to look up from my laptop screen.
"...holy shit, Beanie."
A chill runs down my spine. That's not Foxy's voice.
I slowly set my computer aside and slink over to the door, cracking it open. Mike's standing outside, a cardboard box in his hands full of game supplies.
"I wanted to return your stuff so that Chichi could make sure the table was cleared off for breakfast in the morning. What, uh, what was that just now? About Rackham?"
"You heard that?" My ears flop back against my head in shame as I open the door for Mike to step inside, a curious look etched across his features. "Please, please don't tell either of them I said that. That's the last thing I need right now."
"Well, your voice was rather muffled -- sounded like you asking Foxy for another of Chica's cookies?" he says with a wink.
"Hah. Thanks." I let out a sigh, relaxing as he makes his way into my room.
"You seemed a little pent-up tonight, Beanie. What's up?"
"Marion," I respond flatly. "He just -- ugh. He completely got under my skin."
"I get the feeling you're not the only one Marion aggravates," Mike says, gently setting the box on my desk as I plop down on my bed. "Why do you think he hasn't been able to find a group?"
"There's a shocker. He's such a jackass -- him and his stupid fancy dice he's bought with our rent money, and his embossed sheets, and his folders, and his smug little glasses, and him giving me shit about my narrative style..." If I yank any harder at my ears they're gonna pop loose at the seams. "I guess it all kind of stirred up some feelings in me I thought I'd more or less buried."
Mike quietly sits on the bed next to me, prompting me to continue.
"...I think I told you how my first session went a while back, didn't I?"
"I think so," he says. "Your home ec teacher stepped in to sort out a spat between you and the others, right? Mr. Carson or something like that?"
"Homeroom, actually, and his name was Mr. Cawthon, but yeah, basically. I guess... I guess I've got one of those personality types that just, uh -- you know..."
Sitting down on the bed next to me, Mike scratches his head. "Hah, I do know. And I don't think any less of you for it -- as a game master or as a person. We've all had that one guy that rubs us raw if we let 'em. Hell, I'll let you in on a secret of my own, if you're willing to listen and you promise not to take offense."
"Shoot."
"I hated Bonworth at first," Mike says softly. "Like, absolutely hated him. I thought he was the world's biggest asshole."
I blink. "Wait. Bonworth? As in my brother, Bonworth? Are you serious?!"
"I wasn't used to his personality yet. I thought his hokey-joke cornpone-isms and ridit-dit-da-doo dance stuff was just... I thought it was all some kind of bizarre, insane facade that he used to lure people in or something. I was convinced he was hiding something sinister behind it all."
"Oh, woooow. Yeah, no. Less cartoon villain, more lovable goofball."
"I know that now," Mike grins. "Now that we've gotten to know each other, he kind of feels like the cousin I never had."
I take a moment to process this information before responding. "So you're telling me that, just like how you saw my brother at first, Marion isn't the ass I'm making him out to be?"
"Hell no!" he laughs. "Marion's three times the ass you're making him out to be."
I laugh involuntarily, wiping a tear from my eye. "Oh, wow. That took a turn I didn't expect. Here I was, prepping for a lecture like my mom used to give me."
"Nah, you're completely justified in not wanting him to come back," Mike admits. "He takes the game way too seriously, he calls all the shots -- I felt like the party was following him around to bask in his glory and us having fun was merely a side effect of it all. And then there's all those patronizing compliments he doled out, all so we'd want to pat him back. But maybe he does have a reason for being an ass -- put yourself in his weird, spindly little shoes for a second."
"I'd rather not, if it's all the same."
"I don't blame you there," he chuckles. "But c'mon, really, think about it this way: we've all got these kinds of cliques, you know? Your brother's got you and his roommates, Bonbon's got her crew. You've got your tight-knit little 'family' here with Fred, Rackham, and Chichi. Even April's already made herself at home at 87-B in my absence, and I've made a ton of friends along the way."
"Ahhhh. I see what you mean. Marion, though..."
"Exactly. Where does Marion belong? Like, where does he fit in?"
"I... hadn't really thought about that," I admit.
"He's tucked away in his little box of an office up front, filing paperwork and managing a community that he doesn't get to be a part of. Have you ever seen him with like, a friend? Anyone come to visit him? Even once? Your brother's probably the most company he gets when he's not out in his golf cart driving around to fix busted pipes or lease apartments. Tonight was probably the highlight of his week."
Mike reaches into his pocket and pulls out the fistful of green dice I spotted him, carefully depositing them onto the bed beside me.
"You should have heard how thrilled he sounded earlier when we were in the van with him. When he heard we were roleplaying, he sounded like a kid who'd been invited to his first ever birthday party. Even if he basically invited himself." He idly rolls the d20 back and forth with his index finger. "Beanie, the guy has folders full of characters he's made and never played. Don't you think that's kind of sad?"
I groan theatrically, flopping onto my back against the mattress. Mike's dice scatter like buckshot under the impact, bouncing all over the floor.
"Fiiine, I'll let him come back and play for another session," I grumble, swinging at the air out of frustration. "He can piss all over my SM style if that makes him feel like the big man."
"...maybe not. I think I have an idea that'll address that very issue," Mike replies.
I cock an eyebrow, interest piqued. "Do tell."
Mike points over to the box full of supplies. "You said you ran your first game back in high school, right?"
"Yeah. What about it?"
"How often do you actually play?" Mike asks. "Chichi said she's always the cleric, and I get the feeling that Rackham and Bonbon aren't the type to sit behind a screen working out stats and calculating combat rolls while everyone else has fun."
I avert my gaze. He's right. I haven't played in years. Perhaps sensing that he's hit the nail on the head, he gives me a lopsided smile.
"So here's what you do: ask Marion to run the next session. You'll get an opportunity to have some fun of your own for once, and he'll get to direct the adventure like he so clearly wants to. And hey, it'll give him a taste of his own medicine, since you can freely heckle his own storytelling style once he's the puppet master."
"Ohhh! Holy shit, Mike, that's brilliant!" I gasp, before realization hits me. "Oh, but -- he'll see right through it! I'm already the stronghold master for this campaign. If I foist it off on him, he'll know I'm mad at him!"
"That ship's already sailed. He knows you're mad at him." Fidgeting, Mike gives me an apologetic smile. "We could all see it after you basically threw him and Bonbon out and stormed off to your room without saying good night."
I cringe a little as I look up at him. "Was it that obvious?"
"Um, yeah. Yeah, it was," he replies bluntly. "But I think there's a way around it that'll let you look like a good sport."
"I'm listening."
"Be completely honest with him. Tell him you've been running games for years and you're wondering if he'd be willing to take over, so that you can have a chance to play for once. You save face looking humble, and you don't lose your seat of power because it's obvious to everyone you know what you're doing. After all, your party still plays with you, and his doesn't." Mike leans back next to me, crossing his legs. "Plus, with all those fancy sheets and dice, I'm sure he's got all kinds of game master stuff he'd love to break out. He'll leap at the chance without even asking why."
"That's just crazy enough to work," I reply, clapping my paws together.
"There you go. Maybe roll up some really obnoxious character to grief him with?"
I smile broadly for the first time all night. "One of the few times I played outside my group, my joke warrior 'Painbringer the Deathbun' always got laughs. Mostly from me, due to all the loopholes 3rd Edition had that I could exploit."
"Bingo. Bring Painhaver or whatever back as a 'legacy character' and run roughshod on his campaign with it. Either he leaves in a fit of rage or you humble him and actually have fun. Either way, you win."
The door to my room creaks open, and Fred pokes his head inside.
"Bedtime," he says, pointing at my wall clock for emphasis; sure enough, we're well past curfew. "If you two're gonna stay up anyway, you'd better leave the door open."
"Oh, so you can listen to us make out?" Mike jokes with a dopey grin. "Fred, I didn't figure you for the voyeuristic type."
Fred cuts Mike a death glare that could wilt a tree, his heavy brow casting dark shadows over his eyes. I've seen that face before -- it's like the look of a wild animal ready to charge. Mike seems to read it well enough.
"Wise choice," the bear growls as Mike almost trips over himself to squeeze through the gap between Fred and my doorframe.
"...oh my god, that was mean, Fred," I softly chuckle. I catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his muzzle as he closes the door to my room.
Getting up from my bed, I make my way over to my bookcase to dig through my memento box. Painbringer's character sheet is still intact along with all of my other horribly min-maxed characters during my brief stint as a powergamer. I'm already trying to figure out how I'll convert her over to the new edition -- I might not have all of my old exploits, but I'm positive I can make something work.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone and dial Marion's number.
"Hi, Bonita," he says, picking up after just one ring. "Are we still on for next week?"
"You bet we are." I'm fighting to keep my grin from creeping into my voice. "That's actually what I was calling about -- I have a proposal for you, if you're interested."
"Do tell!"
"You know anything about running a game as a stronghold master?"