As Terry dropped through the air like a rock, something happened. It was something so horrible, so unspeakable, so frustrating that words could not contain it. The air pressure ripped his hat loose and pulled it out of reach before he could snatch it. By itself, this wasn't a matter for concern. No, it was what happened next that made Terry want to find whoever was responsible for this hole and punch them in the throat five or six hundred times. He hadn't dropped more than thirty feet before some kind of magical emblem, mystical formation, or eldritch doohicky activated below him.

It instantly transported him to somewhere else. That was when it happened. He crashed into the floor, remembering too late to bend his knees. Funnily enough, it was the stone floor that cracked instead of his bones. His eyes shot upward to see his hat start to come through the glowing, otherworldly symbol. Then, the emblem snapped off, and half of his hat plummeted to the ground. Terry dropped to his knees, picked up the half of the bisected headwear that had been transported, and cradled it to his chest like a mortally wounded friend.

"My hat!" he shouted in despair.

"Seriously?" said an annoyed Kelima from several feet away. "I could have died falling into here, and all you care about is your hat?"

"You clearly didn't die, which is more than I can say for my hat," growled Terry. "Man, I wonder if I can get one of these made out of the special rocks."

Kelima gave him a dumbfounded look and said, "You want a smith to use one of the most valuable metals in the world to make you an ugly hat?"

He shot her a dark look and said, "My. Hat. Was. Awesome! God damned doomed new clothes trope."

"It wasn't that new," muttered Kelima.

"It was new to me!"

"Well," said Kelima with a roll of her eyes, "as much as I hate to interrupt a man mourning his hat, it seems to me like we've got bigger concerns."

"Like what?" asked Terry.

"Like figuring out where we are, for one."

"I know exactly where we are," said Terry.

He put the remains of his hat on the floor, patted it twice, and climbed to his feet.

"You do?" asked Kelima, looking surprised and a little doubtful.

"Well, I couldn't point to it on a map, but I know what kind of place we are."

"What kind of place are we?"

"Deathtrap," said Terry. "Well, I guess you people would probably call it a dungeon or maybe a labyrinth. Or maybe a labyrinth dungeon. I'm not sure how exotic dungeons are here. But the short version is deathtrap."

"How do you know that?"

"Where's the light coming from?" asked Terry instead of giving her a direct answer.

Kelima jerked a little. Her head started moving back and forth. Now that he'd drawn her attention to the fact that there was light but no obvious light source, it was impossible to miss. The light was just sort of appearing around them. Terry thought it might be emanating from the walls somehow, but he didn't care enough to investigate. His heart and soul were still in the process of bidding farewell to the most recent victim of The Tropestorm. He was capitalizing the word even in his head. It wasn't a tropestorm. It was The Tropestorm. The one that spun around him constantly and maliciously deprived him of little joys like safety and his hat.

"But, if we're stuck in a dungeon—" Kelima trailed off. "That's bad. That's really, really bad. Nobody goes into dungeons anymore. They're too dangerous. Everyone who tries it dies."

"If you could get all of your panicking out of the way now, that would be great," said Terry.

"Why aren't you taking this seriously? We are going to die!"

"Do you really think I would have jumped into that ominous hole if I thought that there was a real chance I'd die in here?"

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"Yes," said Kelima.

"No, not the chance that a normal person would die, but the chance that I would actually die?"

Kelima thought about that for approximately one second and answered, "Yes."

Terry blinked a few times at that and asked, "Really?"

"You don't always assess the level of danger correctly. You mostly seem to just wander around assuming that you're going to survive everything, no matter what."

"Well, that's because I'm the main character. At least, I assume I am based on the tropes. And the main character doesn't die in these situations. Injuries? Maybe. Psychic trauma? One hundred percent. Death? Nope. I'll definitely worry that I'm going to die, but I won't actually die. Instead, I'll have some profound insight when all looks to be lost, and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Especially in a fucking dungeon. Only redshirts die in a dungeon."

"What are redshirts?"

"Oh, you know, useless people. Porters. Newbies. Strays," said Terry with a smirk.

Kelima's eyes lit up with fury.

"I'm going to poison your food."

"I thought you were going to slit my throat in my sleep."

"You say that like I can't do both."

"I guess that's true," conceded Terry. "Although, I'm not sure either of those things would actually kill me."

He honestly didn't know. Or, rather, he wasn't sure that Kelima had the physical strength to actually slit his throat now. His skin had gotten increasingly difficult to puncture or cut. Plus, his healing had gotten a lot better. Enough blood loss might do it. If she could keep the arteries in his neck open long enough, there was a chance.

"Killing you would only doom me in here," said Kelima. "Making you suffer, on the other hand, is all benefits for me."

"Wow. I guess what they say about women is true."

"And what do they say about women?" asked Kelima, her eyes narrowing.

"Something about scorn, I think," said a distracted Terry as he looked past the noble girl. "Oh, well, I guess we didn't land in a safe room. You should probably get that sword out."

"What? Why?" asked Kelima, looking over her shoulder.

Creeping down the stone corridor toward them were a bunch of goblins. Terry grimaced.

"Goblins? Again? They smell so bad."

"Shouldn't you be more worried about the fighting?"

"Why? I know we're going to win. But the smell—" he said with a shudder. "That will linger long after they're gone."

Kelima shook her head as she drew her narrow blade, squared her shoulders, and got ready to fight. Terry told himself to let her fight. He told himself that she needed the experience. But the very recent memory of that stench overrode other concerns.

"Wait," he ordered.

Kelima glanced back at him, but didn't lower her blade.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Terry turned toward the wall and punched it. Shattered stone rained down to the floor. He scooped up two handfuls and squeezed. The corridor was filled with the sounds of stone cracking and shattering even more.

"Sorry. I just can't stand the thought of that smell on our clothes again," he said, stepping past her.

Drawing his arm back like he'd seen major league pitchers do, he whipped the gravel in his hand down the corridor. It shot away from him so fast that even his eyes couldn't track more than one of the bigger pieces. There were some agonized screeches from the goblins, and then silence. Terry, looking upon his work and finding it good, smiled.

"I think I'm going to call that move the Rock Shotgun."

Before Kelima could say anything, Terry's eyes went wide. The goblins were disintegrating. It wasn't happening fast, but he doubted there'd be anything left in a few minutes. Kelima noticed too and cocked her head to one side.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," admitted Terry.

Do you have any ideas? Terry asked other-Terry.

They're magical constructs. How did that detail about dungeons not manage to stick with you after all that stuff you read?

Constructs? You mean, like you?

I don't know, Terry, did you have a snarky exchange with the hideous green monsters?

I suppose not.

They're constructs in the sense that the dungeon is making them, and it's doing it with magic.

"Right," Terry muttered aloud. "They're not real. Well, they're real, but not real real. Do you know what I mean?"

"Do I ever know what you mean?" Kelima asked with a tired sigh.

Really, man? demanded other-Terry. I gave you that perfectly cogent and concise explanation, and you somehow translated it directly into dumbass.

Ignoring the voice in his head, Terry tried again.

"They're real in the sense that they can hurt us. But they aren't really goblins. The dungeon is making things out of magic that look and act like goblins. Once they die," said Terry, throwing up some air quotes, "they turn back into, well, magic… I think."

Kelima stared at Terry for a few seconds before she said, "I think I understand. As long as they're moving around, they're going to act like goblins and be a threat. Once they're dead, that's going to happen."

She waved a hand at the disintegrating bodies. They barely even looked like goblins anymore. The corpses looked more like green colored blobs of opaque goo. It seemed like the longer they were dead, the faster they broke down.

Just say yes, demanded other-Terry. Otherwise, more word salad might fall out of your mouth.

"Yes," said Terry.

Kelima nodded and said, "That looks unbelievably disgusting."

The goo blobs were bubbling. The pair stood there and watched until, in a quick series of popping noises, the blobs burst. The goo evaporated, but there was a sound of something hitting the floor, and bits of light reflected off of something shiny. Before Kelima could so much as twitch, Terry's hand shot out and seized her arm.

"Do not go racing toward the shinies!" he commanded.

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