“Aw, man,” said Chrissy. “I thought this was supposed to be a contemporary romance story.”

“Nope,” said the man in the steampunk hat and goggles that had just tunneled up through a concrete sidewalk slab. “This is a dark fantasy story, and you’re headed into the Vale of Pnath in the underworld to find purpose in life amongst the ghasts, gugs, and night-gaunts of eldritch legend.”

“Are you sure?” asked Trenton. “I was sure that this was going to be an action comedy. I mean, I ‘m pretty sure I saw terrorists getting ready to take over campus, and me and Chrissy are vapid and adversarial enough that you know we’ll bump uglies even in the heat of combat.”

“I didn’t sign on for that,” Chrissy pouted, folding her arms.

“And I’m not equipped to fight anything that isn’t a Lovecraftian monstrosity,” said the steampunk, shrugging.

An androgynous princeling happened by at that very moment, holding a beatbox. “Yo! Anyone call for Tolkienesque poetry to halt this story dead for a few pages?”

“And that’s the final straw,” Chrissy said, stalking off. “I’m not going to be in this story until it decides what it’s about. If you need me, I’ll be having a hard drink in a Western.”

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