It certainly looked like the kind of place to hold a sacred artifact: imposing stone pillars, multiple ascending staircases, all floating around in a field of stars and purple space gases. The swanky interior decorating of the Inner Vault did little to put the newcomer at ease, though, or even invoke the teeniest bit of wonder. There was still one last thing to do, and she wasn't going to waste time gawking at stuff, even though time essentially stopped the moment she stepped into the cursed halls of the Gungeon. Bea has just never been one to dawdle.
She also was never one to get into unnecessary conflicts: that was more Mae's thing. Possibly Gregg's, sometimes. Hence she preferred not to spend too much time in a crazy-ass gun dungeon, getting ambushed and shot at by smiley-face or grimacing abominations of metal and soul. Not that she had a particularly difficult time in facing what the Gungeon offered. In fact, she came close to conquering the place in under twenty runs. Mostly due to some rather sweet passive abilities, admittedly.
Her years managing The Ol' Pickaxe granted her a Handyman perk, which improved the damage and accuracy of all tool-based weaponry, such as the H4mmer and the Anvillain; she even got some great mileage from the Starpew. Then there was her Fixer-Upper perk that upgraded weapons of a broken or prototype status, making junk guns and one-shot wonders into legitimate threats. And if that wasn't enough, she also got a complimentary roll of Duct Tape which allowed her to make some truly sick weapon combos. The very model of preparedness, that Beatrice Santello… where DIY is concerned, at any rate.
With torn dress and fatigue beginning to creep in, the alligator lass ascended the stairs, wanting to get this insane roller coaster of violence, egregious puns and gross mishandling of hardware done with. Normally she'd grumble about the needless number of steps, but she had long exhausted her grump on seeing rooms and traps repeat themselves ad nauseum. Plus, *not* grumbling actually made the climb go quicker, for she reached the top in no time. And there, before her, was the coveted chest: the Gungeon's greatest treasure.
"So this is it?"
Said more like a statement than a question, really. Of course Bea knew she still needed to get to that pretty box and open it up before casting proper judgment. With that in mind, she got her smudged, mildly-burnt boots moving to get her there.
As she approached the treasure chest, she holstered her trusty Nailgun. Most unwieldy and awful, the Gunsling King would cry out. Bea would like to imagine just how dumbfounded that pompous jerk would be if he learned how so useless a weapon delivered the literal final nail in the venerated Dragun's coffin. The thought was momentary, as the uncovering of the chest became foremost in her mind once she was at its very front. She stared and blinked at it a few seconds, sensing some kind of gravitating presence within, before bringing up her claws and pushing the lid aside. After a few inches the lid removed itself, falling off from the back edge as light poured out. From such incandescent depths there arose and materialized The Gun That Can Kill The Past which, after doing its little twirl, wasted no further time in hovering gently down into Bea's open palms. While the Nailgun had been bulky, the weight of this piece was considerable. For a number of reasons.
"So you're the one, huh? The thing that can change the past. That can redo anything."
A very dumb, far-fetched rumor. That's what she originally deemed it when the first word of the Gungeon and its treasure made its round among her small circle of friends. Some silly legend to make snarky comments about while having awful pizza at the Clik Clak. Mild entertainment fated to be forgotten by all… until the day most of her friends up and disappeared, forcing her to take a day off to find them. It's little surprise that Mae or Gregg would go off on some stupid goose chase, but Angus as well? They were gonna get such a massive piece of her mind for dragging her into this.
And that's precisely what she did after finding them in the woods just outside of town (far from the mines, fortunately). Yet even after raking them over the verbal coals, they had insisted that the rumor was true and that there *was* such as thing as a Gungeon. What's more, they even claimed that they had each succeeded in finding the Gun, going back in time and undoing their respective past regrets. Utterly ridiculous, right?
They persisted, however, and the genuine conviction shared between all three of them eventually wormed its way into Bea's thoughts a week after their return. Either her friends had suffered a group hallucination and stumbled about in those woods, or they had indeed found some magical dungeon and redid their lives. But could such a thing truly exist? Was there really something that would let her change her past? In a few days after asking herself that question, she found the man who started the rumor; an hour from that she had stepped into the Breach; and after many more hours of struggle she held the very answer.
As she loaded in the special ammunition, her mind turned to the statue in the first Chamber and its inscription: "Kill your past; you've already damned your future". She had essentially damned herself in searching for answers to farfetched questions, but she was committed nevertheless. To chase a foolish, fleeting hope; to see if running out on her friends, her home, had been worth it. And with that reversed barrel raised and aimed, she held down the trigger.
"You better work." As the universe rattled and darkened around her, she added her other claw in gripping the gun and, closing her eyes, whispered, "...please work."
In a blink, Bea's very reality blew apart spectacularly, and the young crocodilian plummeted from the physical realm down into the fathomless well of Time. Clinging to one small, but fervent desire.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Enter the Gun-geon! (Enter the Gun!)
Generating…
Briddle Hospital
The Past (2 years prior)
The stark white and grey tiling coupled with the bright fluorescent lights overhead were probably meant to give a calm, or at least sterile atmosphere. But sitting in that stiff chair for an hour, listening to the beepings of lives literally being monitored in various rooms, gave Bea more of an caged feeling. She had always hated those moments of waiting in that seemingly endless, empty hall, both because of not having anything to do but read, and the purpose of such a visit. No matter how many times she had come over the past few weeks, she could never shake off the dread that hung in that tasteless hospital air.
This latest period of discomfort ended when the doctor on call stepped out from the doorway to her right. It took him a moment to scan the hall and settle his neutral gaze upon her, and began speaking once he was certain he had the young lady's complete attention.
"Your mother is in stable condition, though I cannot say for how long. Things have… progressed to the point where I'm afraid the next lapse she has could be her last. Not to cause any further distress, but this may be the last time you'll be able to talk to her while she's lucid." He looked around before addressing her again. "Where is your father?"
"He went for a walk. He's probably down in the lobby by now."
"I suggest you call him. He will undoubtedly want to speak with her."
"He doesn't have a phone on him."
"Oh… Well, I'll see if I can find him. You can come in and talk with her in the meantime. Just… try not to excite or agitate her too much. Her condition is delicate enough as it is."
"I know. Thanks, doctor."
Bea never liked how he assumed she'd make things worse, but that was probably his job, she reflected later on. For the moment, the doctor wandered off down the hall to bring back her dad. Which meant facing this on her own once more.
Getting up from her chair and blinking the fatigue from her eyes, Bea stepped around the chairs and entered the patient's room. To once again face that terrible, all-consuming beast.
THAT DRAGON
CANCER
The same large rectangular space, with its six beds arranged neatly three to each side, most of them occupied. She headed directly for the center bed on her left, moving past the cordoning curtain. Blocky bed, beeping monitors, some wilting flowers on a small table… and her mother sitting at the center of it all. Her earliest role model, one of the strongest people she ever knew, bedridden and hooked up to various machines that did little but track her steady decay. But there wasn't a trace of suffering on the face that turned her way as she sat on a folding chair. Even with her scales withered and grossly paled, the smile her mother made shone with kindly warmth. Almost like she was welcoming her daughter to the table for breakfast back home.
"Ah, hello, Bea."
"Hey Mom. How are you feeling?"
"Pretty good. Much better than a few hours ago. I'm sorry you had to miss out on school to come out here."
"It's okay. Nothing I can't catch up on."
"Hmm, ever our scholar. Where's your father?"
"He'll be here in a bit. Just… had to get a drink of water."
"Ah, alright. He certainly doesn't want to be cooped up here any more than you do, worrying over my sorry self."
Bea flinched at that. "Don't say that, Mom. We'd still come, even if the hospital didn't call us."
"I know you would, sweetie. Lord knows you both have made ample visits already. Him missing out on rest from managing the store, and you not hanging out with your friends. Just to drive up here to this crummy bed of mine for an hour."
"You're still a part of our lives. Just because you're… here, doesn't change that."
"Your father would definitely agree. *Sigh* Just shows that even in the worst of times, a low opinion of yourself does you no favors."
All playing out same as before. For someone so positive and benevolent, to be subjected to this slow and torturous demise. It's a thought that still rankled Bea in her most bitter reflections.
"So, did they happen to tell either of you how bad it is this time?" her mother asked.
"...More or less."
"Hmph, there really isn't a nicer or easier way of putting it. My time is nearly up; it's all just a matter of waiting for the end to come."
Bea just sat there quietly.
"I didn't mean to upset you any further by being so blunt about it. I just accepted the fact a good long while ago. As the two of you undoubtedly did as well."
"Yeah…" Eventually. There had been plenty of fleeting hopes and bitter denials before Bea acknowledged the definite certainty of the matter. Her father, though…
"That's just the nature of the beast. You'd never expect a thing like cancer to happen to you, but when it happens to sneak up you can only fight it best as you can. And if you can't beat it, you just have to live with it and move on with some grace."
"..."
"I'm sorry for going morbid again, honey, hahaha. But you just can't let it destroy your spirit as well as your body. That's true tragedy right there. And I want you and your father to remember that."
"Of course." This woman's final moment of lucidity, and still she was thinking about others, being optimistic. Bea would ask where an all-caring god fit into this equation… then her mind would raise that night deep in the mines.
"Not to say I don't have regrets on the matter," her mother said. "Who wouldn't in this situation? I won't be there to see you graduate from college, make your way in the world, maybe have some children, heheheh. But, I am grateful that I was able to see you grow into the smart, beautiful young woman that you are."
Bea about choked up there, but kept her composure as her mother continued.
"You have always been a spark of joy for the both of us, Beatrice. Even when we've had our disagreements, I still feel pride in seeing you becoming more independent. I couldn't have asked for a better daughter to have loved and cared for all these years. And at this moment, I still love hold nothing but the deepest love and pride for you. Don't ever think otherwise."
"I know, Mom. I love you too."
Suddenly Bea's mom fell back into the bed, her arms falling to either side of her. However, she gave her daughter a look of tired assurance before any panic could arise.
"Sorry. I'm feeling a bit worn out. Heh, imagine: it's gotten to the point where holding a conversation is exhausting. A real drag, among other things." After taking a breath, she looked to Bea and said, "Don't call the nurse; I'm not in any pain. Just need to lie down awhile. You should go find your father. I'll be fine by the time you get back."
The strain of her talking was evident in her mother's eyes and her breathing. It pained Bea seeing this pitiful state she had been reduced to, but it wouldn't be right to tax her any further with needless chatter. She ought to find dad and bring him back, to share their final words. Real calm and collected.
(Stay longer)
(Let her rest)
Bea reached forward and clasped one of those frail claws with both of her own. Looking into those weary eyes that still possessed a life like no other, she let it out. Composure be damned.
"Mom, I won't put this off longer. I thought I'd play it cool for your sake, but that's just playing the coward, and I won't have another chance to tell you how much I appreciate all that you've done for me. All those times you were there to support me, to help me those few times I thought I effed up. You have been an inspiration, the great guiding influence in my life. You've shown me compassion, and patience, and wisdom. You're a prime example of how awesome moms and women in general can be. When you go I, there's gonna times I'll feel stuck and lost, with barely anything to look forward to. And you, you won't be there. I'll have-ave no one to talk to the same way I talk to you. I won't have your guidance, to show me what to do, to tell me what to d-do. And in those times, I'll, I'll feel like I took everything you did for me for granted. I would wind up regretting not telling you more, thanking you more, knowing how dark my life will become with you gone. I don't want you to go, but… that's how it is. All I can do is say I love you, Mom. I love you so, so, so, so damn much. I, I can't say it enough. I'll never be able to say it enough. That's just how much you mean to me, how much you'll *still* mean to me. Nothing can ever hope to match or replace you. I'm gonna… gonna miss you so effing much."
Bea would have two years to harden herself for the hardships the future would bring. For now, she allowed herself this moment of vulnerability and shed her tears early. As she choked out a few breaths, she felt her mother's claw squeeze weakly, gently back. Looking through her tear-stung eyes, she saw that same warm smile.
"Beatrice… though I know for a fact how much you love me, hearing you say it out loud makes me happier than I already am. But, you mustn't sound so hopeless when you say it. You have the smarts and the sense to handle anything that comes your way, and you'll have your friends and your father to carry you if it ever becomes too much. You can't let this cancer destroy more than just my own life. You just have to carry on and live, as your father will, as will everyone else. Be happy, for goodness sake; be hopeful of what's to come. I know it's cliché, but as long as you remember me in your heart, I'll always be with you." Another tender squeeze. "And don't go getting hung up on me judging your future choices. Just do what's best for you and that'll be fine by me. I don't intend on haunting you over any slip ups."
Bea couldn't help but smile and chuckle at that little jest, and calming down she withdrew her claws.
"Yeah, that's good to know," she said while wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt. "Always know the right things to say. That's why you're so awesome."
"Coming from a high schooler, I'm especially flattered." Another chuckle from Bea, followed by a deep breath. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah. No, actually…"
Bea leaned forward and embraced her mom, mindful of the wires attached. She nuzzled against that maternal head with eyes closed, soaking it in and letting a few more tears drop while feeling the comfort of a return hug. After a minute that felt far too short, she removed herself.
"Alright. Now I'm better."
"It's trying, I know; it wrecks with people's emotions. At least you had the courage and sense to let it out than bottle it up."
"Uh-huh." Bea blinked a few times before a thought occurred. "I just remembered. There's something I brought for you."
"Is it more flowers? Won't do much good at this point."
"No. It's right here."
Bea delved into her skirt, and from a hidden Item Space she pulled out… a large, luscious Orange, with a single green leaf sticking from its stem.
"I got it from the cafeteria. I thought we could share it, even though we're not supposed to bring in food without—"
"Pah! It's one of their own. Besides, I think I can manage a simple fruit. So yes, I'd love some, Bea."
"Great. Let me just…"
Carefully she dug into and peeled away the skin, and once it was off she used her claws to separate the sections. She handed one to her mother before raising one for herself, then both partook of the succulent fruit silently for a moment.
"Mmmm… this is really juicy. And incredibly delicious."
"It really is."
A souvenir from the Gungeon. One its most potent Items: able to replenish life, as well as extend it. But it couldn't cure her mother's cancer. Bea wasn't naivé enough to believe that such a remedy existed, or that there was any way of stopping this cruel affliction. To extend this final moment further was all she could realistically have hoped to have done. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.
What followed was exactly as she remembered it. Her dad returned to pay his own final farewells; her mother's condition worsened, rendering her speechless; and in under a week's time she passed away. The funeral was held a week after that, attended by the few friends and family who had shown up. Typical somber occasion, with plenty of condolences and hugs given. She was still buried in that sunken plot beneath the hill, further hidden away under layers of shadow and autumn leaves.
When Bea and her father inevitably returned home, she was physically and emotionally drained. Having to live through her mother's death a second time was hardly more bearable. The house was quite melancholy, as to be expected, though the gloom was disrupted briefly by the heavy steps of Bea's father traversing its living room. Neither one of them had talked on the drive home, and the silence persisted minutes after stepping through the front door. Loosening the tie on his mourning suit, Mr. Santello looked at his daughter with his usual stoic gaze.
"You up for making dinner tonight?"
"In a couple hours, sure. Just feeling tired."
"Hrm. We could order out instead, if you want."
"Yeah. That sounds good."
He gave a curt nod and turned away in the direction of the picture-laden hall leading to his bedroom. Her dad has always been the firm, reserved type, yet over the past week he had been rather distant. Understandable given what's happened. A momentary fugue that'll dissipate over time. He just needs space; a chance to breathe and consolidate. It happens all the time where a death in the family is concerned.
But Bea knew better. It was a sign of things to come: minute, easily overlooked. Something that can be brushed off as part of the mourning process. She wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Not when it's the main reason for coming back to this unhappy point.
(Confront him)
(Leave him be)
Hurrying across the living room, she was up by her father's back in a breath.
"Dad, we need to talk."
Mr. Santello stopped and half-turned back. "Huh? About what, Bea?"
"About Mom."
He shifted, visibly caught off-guard. "Oh? Uh, can we talk about it later? I want to unwind first."
"No, we need to talk about it now," Bea said firmly, to which her father sighed.
"I know how tough it's been for you and it's still fresh in your mind, so let me get comf—"
"It's not about me, Dad. It's about you."
He looked at her a moment before saying, "Huh?"
"About how you're dealing with Mom's death. How you're holding up."
"Oh. Well, as okay as I can be. It's… tough, but I'm fine."
"No you're not."
"What?" His daughter's blunt statement caught him even further off-guard.
"How are you really feeling? Tell me."
"What's this about? I said I'm fine."
"You're not *fine*, Dad. Too much is going on in your head to *let* you be fine."
"How would you know?" he snapped, sounding agitated.
"Because you've been married to Mom for over twenty years, and even with your usual grit, there's a fragile center that will collapse given enough emotional weight."
He leveled a firm stare at her. "...What makes you think you can talk that way to me, Beatrice?"
"Because that's how you really are. You're more torn up about this than you're letting on, and hiding it will only make it worse."
The two looked at one other stiffly with rising tension. Bea's dad grunted and turned away.
"We're done talking."
"No we're not."
"Go to your room, Beatrice." He began moving, but Bea dared to follow closely.
"No Dad, we're talking this out."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes there is! You're hurting inside—"
"Dammit Beatrice don't tell me how I'm feeling!" he roared out while spinning around, as if to strike her. "Where do you get off saying there's something wrong with me, not even a day after burying your mother. You know how disrespectful you're being?"
"I'm fully aware. But that doesn't change the fact that there *is* something wrong about how you're dealing with this," Bea persisted. "Mom wouldn't want you bottle it up to uphold appearances."
"Don't say that."
"It's depressing and painful, but you can't ignore it. You'll never be able to accept Mom's death properly like that."
"Stop it, Beatrice."
"You can't pretend it's okay when it's not. It'll just eat you up until there's nothing left to hold you together."
"I said *stop*!"
"No! I won't until you listen and start talking to me."
"Beatrice, I'm warning you—"
"I don't care! I'm going to keep at it until you're honest about your feelings."
"I have nothing to sa—"
"Right now nothing seems wrong, but this road you're going down will leave you a hollow shell of yourself. I won't let that happen, for Mom's sake."
"Don't drag her into this bullshit shrink talk! What makes you think—"
"She wants us to move on, to live. What would she think if you end up having a breakdown over her death?"
"Don't do this."
"She doesn't want either of us to suffer as much as she did, and that's what you're doing by acting like it doesn't matter."
"Of course it MATTERS!" Mr. Santello slammed his fist against the wall, followed by a banging of his other arm. He glared at Bea, who stood there motionless. "God-Dammit! Why are you doing this to me? What the hell do you want?"
"I want to help you. I don't want to see you destroy yourself, which is precisely what's gonna happen if I leave you to deal with this alone."
"How are you so sure about all that? What makes you think I'm gonna crack, huh?"
"I just do. I mean, look at how on edge you are."
"Only because you're badgering me."
"If nothing was wrong, I doubt you'd behave like this under some scrutiny. If this isn't addressed, those feelings of yours are gonna build up and either explode or hollow you out. Either way, it's gonna make a mess out of you."
"That, that's…"
"You know what I'm saying is true. I've known you too long to think otherwise. So, will you please let it out? Please, Dad?"
Her father just looked at her, breathing deeply through his nostrils, then pounded his arm against the wall. "Shit." He pounded repeatedly. "Shit shit shit shit SHIT!"
A picture fell from its nail and clattered onto the floor. It was ignored, though, as Mr. Santello himself crumpled down onto his rear, looking defeated and distraught.
"It's been a week, and I miss her. It damned tore me up like nothing you can imagine, seeing her getting buried. I, I loved her so much; she was so good to us. To have them put her in the ground like it's nothing, just another body to put away. It's just so, so, so f*& ing messed up. How are they so indifferent? Why did this even have to happen to her? She never deserved this. Why couldn't it have been, been..."
His defenses finally gave way as he began to cry. It was a distressing sight for Bea, seeing her taciturn father blubbering away and grief-stricken. But a wound brought to light can heal. She got closer to her father, knelt down and wrapped her arms around his wide frame.
"I know, Dad, I know. She really was wonderful. Irreplaceable. But what's done is done. We just, have to remember her as she'd want us to, and be happy. She wants us to carry on."
"I don't know how. I, I didn't know how much I needed her here until the day she, she, she…" He broke down into some more choking sobs, to which Bea hugged a bit tighter and gave some comforting pats.
"We'll find a way. Just, let it out. I'm here for you, Dad. I won't go anywhere."
Thus father and daughter sat in that hallway, filling the somber home with bitter yet cathartic sorrow. After this moment, Bea's father became receptive to the idea of therapy, support groups, other methods in helping one cope with tragedy. And in participating in them, his heart and mind healed greatly, as opposed to the slow rot of a silent vigil.
This wasn't a perfect fix to everything, however. The lingering costs for Mrs. Santello's treatment and death would still force the two to sell their house and move into a shitty apartment. But at least her dad won't have to suffer a debilitating breakdown, which meant that Bea wouldn't be constrained to run the family business out of obligation. She would be free to be her own person. She might even be able to finally get to college.
Even if things don't quite work out so nicely (life does have that tendency to screw you over one way or another, let's face it), Bea could still view her future with brighter eyes and even greater hope. And should times get especially effed, she can count on the likes of Mae, Gregg, Angus, even Casey to help her through. I mean, that's what true friends are for, right?
Thanks for playing!
You killed the past. The Gungeon remains...
