THE COLLECTIVE

"Against what?" the adventurer asks. They didn't say anything, but this does not tend to stop the ilithid from passing judgment on stray thoughts.

This is not a stray thought. It is an unwise fixation. There are not enough hours in the day to comment on the majority of your 'stray thoughts'.

The adventurer smiles. "If you insist. Well, what's so unwise about it? You'd want to eat me?"

No. I still require your assistance.

"Good to know." They laugh. For a proportedly straight-forward species, their ilithid companion tends to beat about the bush.

It makes an audible grumble. You will not be able to resist domination, and I will not let you go.

That gave them pause. "And here I thought you were indifferent to me," they joke.

You are useful. You would make a good thrall.

They cross their arms. This does beg an obvious question, doesn't it?

Your guild's trust in me is tentative. Enthralling you would be counterproductive.

"Fair enough, I suppose." But—

It is in my nature to dominate. I resist this impulse at its root. Letting you go is another matter altogether. It would be as unnatural to me as you choosing to starve mere feet from a banquet hall.

"Fine, fine, I get it, I'm too tempting for a taste," they say, waving their arms in the air. "Just don't complain if one of your buddies enthrall me first."

There is a palpable silence in the adventurer's mind. It raises the hair on their neck; the ilithid is never this quiet.

You make a compelling point, it finally 'says'. Perhaps it is in your nature to be dominated. You will be useless to me if you stray.

Their heart skips a beat. A moment passes. Nothing happens. "...You're messing with me."

No. It was a test.

Face flushing, the adventurer scoffs and says nothing.

Perhaps we should return to the guild. Your perversions are a liability.

"Hey! That's not fair, I just— I thought—"

Very little.

"Shut up, I just panicked," they insisted, heat crawling down their neck. "That's the whole reason I figured it might be a good idea to– to, y'know, get me used to the, um... The sensations, or warning signs—"

There would be none. Your mind would spread for me at first provocation. Instantly, you would slip into a waking slumber and never rouse again.

"...Hmph." They fold their arms again.

If nothing else, your eagerness is noted. Perhaps the guild would allow me to buy you at some future junction.

"I'm not for sale!" they bellow, indignant.

A husband and wife eat a bland dinner together in a dimly-lit kitchen. They don't speak or look at each other. The meal: a pathetic Salisbury steak.

Cut to their bedroom at night. The wife lays sleeping in the bed while in the background the husband is putting on her dress, pantyhose, pearl necklace, heels, makeup, and a wig. When he's done he quietly leaves the room. The wife opens her eyes as soon as she's sure he's gone.

Now we're in a seedy dive bar. A small crowd of mustachioed men wearing leather jackets, black boots, and sunglasses sip beers and puff cigarettes while the "show" unfolds. Camera pans down, then pans to the side. Between the black boots we see the husband on his hands and knees, greedily eating a Chipotle Chorizo Burrito Bowl with Cilantro Lime Rice from a plastic dog bowl on the floor. His makeup is ruined, face smeared with sour cream and hot sauce.

A man steps forward. The husband looks up, and his expression changes to that of a deer in the headlights. Cut to reveal that the "man" standing before the husband is none other than his wife, in elaborate drag as a Tom of Finland biker, false mustache and officer cap and all. She smiles warmly, and nods. The husband smiles too, and resumes his meal.

WHICH IS OFTEN