"Oh all right," Donut grumbled. She brightened and gave a little hop. "Now open your box, Carl!"

Carl side-eyed the spinning, squawking blur that was Mongo and then nodded. "Okay." His fan box shimmered into existence in front of him and flipped its lid back.

The air was suddenly filled with sparks and ribbons and cheesy 1970's-esque game show music with a disco beat. Colored lights flashed. Mongo stopped howling and jumping and rushed to Donut's side, trembling in fear and also snapping at everything around him that might potentially threaten his 'mother', which mostly meant shadows and particularly dense clusters of confetti.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Mordecai's frog face was suddenly stony and cold. I started to turn and ask him what was happening, but I was interrupted by the AI's voice, sounding even cheesier than usual.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it's time for your favorite segment of Dungeon Crawler World...The Prize Carousel!

The kitchen disappeared to make space for a point of light that expanded rapidly and then solidified into a carousel like on the old Wheel of Fortune episodes with the schlocky cardboard pie sections on the heavy wheel. The area around the carousel was pitch black, an utter void from which trotted a figure.

Here's your host. It's the dungeon darling, giver-of-prizes, slayer of gods, former Crawler champion, it's Chaco the Bard!

Chaco had the body of a Greek god, the head of a wolf, and a pair of angel wings sprouting from his back. It should have made him supremely appealing, but he ruined it by wearing a brown-and-tan suit that looked like it had been made from the upholstery off some grandma's truly tacky couch. In one hand he clutched an old-style microphone with a bulbous silver top and a black plastic body. The other hand was waving furiously at an invisible audience.

"Thank you, thank you! Nice to be here, everyone!"

Chaco. Pterolykos. Song Bard. Level 66.

Host of The Prize Carousel.

"Good evening, everyone! It's your man, Chaco, and we're here to give some priiizes! We have a great segment for you tonight. We have..." He hesitated and it was so obvious that his producer was speaking in his earpiece that I expected him to reach up and touch it. "Crawler Carl! Crawler Carl hails from America, where he was recently discharged from his nation's military after exciting adventures overseas putting down a revolution in darkest Africa!"

"What are you talking about?" Carl asked, bewildered. "I was in the Coast Guard. We didn't—"

"Now, now, Carl, no need to be modest! But, okay, we won't embarrass you any further. Isn't he modest, folks? Isn't he great? Okay, well, you're gonna love this, Carl. You are the recipient of a bright and shiny Plaaaatinum fan box! Woo-ee, your fans sure do love you, Carl! Do you know how many credits a Platinum fan box costs?"

"How the fuck would I know that?"

"Haha, careful Carl, this is a family show amirite? Well, let's see—" Chaco cut off, his eyes going wide as he stared over Carl's shoulder to where Mordecai stood beside me, fuming. The toadman was so angry his chest was heaving and his pink tongue was flicking in and out a few centimeters at a pop.

Chaco dropped the microphone limply to his side and the fake enthusiasm went out of his voice. "Fuck...Mordecai? Is that you, man?"

"So you do remember me, you stupid fuck," Mordecai growled. He stepped forward, his legs trembling in anger. "You remember me, and that's all you've got? 'Is that you, man?'"

"Look, Mordecai, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... Look, after I got out, I tried to—"

"Shut the fuck up, you stupid motherfucker!" Mordecai screamed. He grabbed one of the armchairs and hurled it as though the massive piece of furniture were weightless.

The chair froze in midair, one of the arms just barely in contact with Chaco's head. He stumbled back in shock, dropping his microphone in the process. It skittered under the carousel as the chair fell to the ground, all its momentum vanishing. I turned to Mordecai, desperate to prevent things from escalating.

Mordecai was frozen in place, motionless and slightly too crisp, like a freeze-frame image that didn't match its background. The word Naughty blinked on and off over his head in a steady pulse...and then he vanished.

No one moved for several seconds, and then Carl turned and started to grab Chaco by the collar, stopping himself two centimeters short of actually touching the wolfman's clothes. Chaco shrank back; he overtopped Carl by nearly half a meter but still cowered before him.

"What the fuck did you do?" Carl demanded.

"Nothing! It wasn't me! We're in a saferoom, you can't attack people in saferooms!"

"What happened to him?" I asked. "Donut, did we lose him?"

"No," she said. "I got a message saying that he's in timeout and he'll be back." She mewled softly. "Carl...it's for seven days."

"Seven days?!"

Oh lord. We only had nine days left on the level. Mordecai hadn't told us what he had figured out about the map. And he wouldn't be here to make me those stat-boosting potions.

Shame burned through me at that last thought. How could I be so selfish?! Whether or not I got a few points of stat boost wasn't the pressing issue. The important part was Mordecai's safety, and the safety of the entire team. He was far and away our biggest asset and all our lives were in danger. Donut's especially, since she was the most vulnerable member of the team.

"Look, I'm sorry," Chaco said. "I knew Mordecai back in the day, but I'm not allowed to talk about it. We need to do the segment, okay? You need to pick a prize and we don't have much time left."

"Are you kidding me?" Carl growled. "Fine. Do your schtick...Wait." He paused, one finger upraised in thought. "Is it always you?"

"Is what always me?"

"When this stupid 'pick your prize' thing comes up, are you always the host?"

"I think so? I don't really know. I don't watch the crawl. It's too horrible. Too many bad memories. I'm not out that often but I think it's not a common segment. Probably I'm always the one?"

"Motherfucker," Carl muttered. He took a breath and let it out slowly. "The fans set this up. Whatever. Do it."

"Okay, hang on, I just need my mic." Chaco got down on all fours and struggled to reach under the carousel, but the microphone was too far out of reach.

Carl watched the wolfman flail helplessly for a minute, then lost his patience. "Get out of the damn way." He pulled that handrail out of his inventory and swept it around under the carousel until the microphone went flying free. Chaco scrambled to scoop it up and brush it off. He twitched his tacky jacket back into place and checked that his feathers were smoothed down, then lifted the microphone back to his mouth and pasted on his big cheesy smile.

"Hey there, folks! Sorry for the blip—we had a minor technical mishap! Anyway, we're here with Crawler Carl, one of the top-10 crawlers of this season. Say hi, Carl!" He extended the mic towards Carl's face.

"Fuck off and do the prizes."

"Well, there you have it, folks! Carl's one of those grizzled, no-nonsense types that always climb the rankings so quickly! Carl, you are the lucky recipient of a Platinum fan box! Doesn't that sound amazing?"

"Whatever. Hurry it up."

"Carl," I hissed. He looked over and I made 'tone it down' gestures, allowing my fear to show on my face. He clenched his jaw but nodded before turning back to the host.

"Chaco, I'd like to say thank you to my fans," he said. "Yes, a Platinum box is very generous. Thank you all. Now how does this work?"

"All righty then! Moving right on to the exciting part. Carl, we have nine potential prizes for you on the carousel and you get to pick which one you want! Ready? Here we go!" He waved grandly and the lights on the carousel sped up. The music got louder and more intense, and the whole thing started spinning faster. The center of the wheel rose up, becoming a tall column with a person-sized cubby in it. The cubby turned with the carousel, out of sight for several seconds and then back.

"Prize number one: Two potions!"

The central post finished its latest rotation and locked into place so that the cubby continued to face us as the carousel spun under it. Where before the cubby had been empty it now had a pedestal covered in black velvet atop which were displayed two crystal decanters.

"What are they?" Carl asked.

"Ooh, sorry, contestant! All you get is the description, and the description is: Two potions! Don't choose yet though, because we still have...

"Prize number two! Bombs! Five hundred of 'em!"

The cubby spun around again and this time when it returned the pedastal was gone, replaced by a pyramid of the hob-lobber grenades that Carl had used to such good effect against the Cornets. They were a little different; the outer coating of those had been smooth and black, whereas these glistened and looked like they were coated in tar. There weren't five hundred of the fist-sized balls in the cubby, but presumably the display was representative and not literal.

"Prize three! Books from Earth! Quantity 2,000!"

Once more the cubby spun. When it came back into view it was stuffed to the gills with books, everything from Fifty Shades of Gray to Great Expectations to a Canadian phone book to a stack of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition magazines bound together with brown twine.

"Prize four! A 1965 Harley Davidson FLH Panhead Electra Glide!"

Another spin and the books were gone. This time the cubby was wider, wide enough to show off—

Carl's face went white and I saw his hand twitch. There was something about this old-timey red and beige, slightly beat-up motorcycle that had meaning to him. Perhaps it had been his before the collapse? Whatever that meaning was, I hoped it wasn't enough to make him choose this for his prize. A motorcycle would be of very limited use on this floor.

"Carl, Carl, choose that one! With you on the motorcycle and me on Mongo, we would be unstoppable!"

Thank you for including me in your little fantasy, Donut.

"Prize five! Just one book!"

Another spin and the cubby was small again, once more equipped with the pedestal. This time the pedestal held an elegant silver frame on which was displayed a book entitled Best-Laid Traps. The book was largely unremarkable—the cover was factory-fresh brown leather but it didn't glow or flash and it was about the size of a trashy romance novel you would buy at the airport and leave behind at your destination.

"Prize six! Another book!"

Another spin, another prize. This one was also a book but much more impressive. Like the previous offering, this one was bound in brown leather, but the leather was older and more distressed. The book was the size of a large dictionary and the pages were gilded. It had no title, but the anarchy symbol was embossed on the front.

"Prize seven! Enchanted chaps!"

"Carl, pick those!" Donut cried. "Chaco, he picks those!"

"Sorry, but Carl must make the decision," Chaco said.

The ass- and crotch-less chaps were modeled by a spinning mannequin. They were made of a dark leather that glowed with a greenish aura.

"Yeah, no," Carl said.

"All righty then! Prize number eight! A single potion!"

It was the same orange, bubbly concoction Donut had just used to raise her Constitution. It was a stat buff potion, but this one glowed with a twinkly aura, almost like a strobe. Did that mean it was better than the ones that Mordecai had made?

"And finally, prize nine! A Craftsman 3000 Series 160-centimeter rolling tool chest!"

Once again the cubby was wider. Inside it was a metal tool chest, red paint chipped and scratched, the surface dented and heavily used. This was a working tool chest, not a display version.

The central shaft started to spin, rotating through the prizes so that each was visible for a second or two and they started to strobe. A timer popped into existence above the carousel: 90... It immediately started counting down. 89...88...

"It's time to make a decision!" Chaco said. "What'll it be, Carl?"

"Get the chaps!" Donut said. She looked over at me. "Katia, tell Carl to get the chaps."

I said nothing. I wasn't mixing into this mess.

The counter was down to twelve seconds when Carl pointed. "That one. The book with the anarchy symbol."

"Priiize number six! A great choice!"

The carousel vanished and the giant book was left spinning softly in midair. Carl stepped forward and plucked it out of whatever invisible hands were supporting it.

"Tell us what he won!" Chaco said, a massive canine grin on his face. He knew something and it amused him.

The Dungeon Anarchist's Cookbook by Anonymous, the AI announced.

This is a unique item.

Chicken and Goblin recipes galore! But it's more than that, too. Each recipe is accompanied by a hilarious tale by the anonymous author, recounting some of the zany and madcap misadventures they experienced gathering these mouth-watering recipes. Fun for the whole family! This book is a real hoot.

Carl's face fell.

"That's our show, folks! Let's have a big round of applause for our contestants and for our amaaaazing announcer: The system AI!"

Torrents of applause and whistling flooded the room for a few seconds. Chaco bowed repeatedly, straightened up, flared his wings, and vanished.

Carl stared at the book in his hand. He flipped it open, clearly moving on automatic given the despondent expression on his face, and stared at the first page for several seconds. He frowned and dropped the cookbook into his inventory.

"Well, fuck," he said. "That was a complete bust."