Back at the stairwell, Schiller glanced upward. Greed followed behind him, seemingly treating the earlier awkwardness as if it had never happened. The two Jokers walked behind him, while Bruce brought up the rear.
As they climbed the stairs, Greed fell back a couple of steps and came up beside Bruce. Bruce said to him, "I noticed you didn't eat much. Are you all right?"
"Pretty good." Greed nodded. "What about you? How's your hand?"
Bruce looked down at his hand. During his earlier treatment, he had rolled a Critical Failure, resulting in a cut on his hand. Fortunately, it was shallow and nothing serious.
The moment he reached the fourth floor, Schiller caught that familiar stench again—the smell of rotting fish. The overpowering odor was so intense that he could barely focus on anything else.
He stopped at the top of the stairs, stood to one side, and looked at the people coming up. "You go first."
"What does that mean?!" Greed shouted. "You want us to be cannon fodder and scout the way?"
"That's right. Only two people have guns now, and the other shooter besides me isn't faster than I am. You'd better get moving."
The others moved sluggishly, but they still made their way to the front. Schiller was doing this to guard against the possibility that walking ahead might suddenly trigger a check, and the tampered dice might roll him another Critical Failure and leave him badly injured. The wound on his shoulder had already taught him that lesson well enough.
Greed shuffled forward, pinching his nose as he walked. When he neared the room the smell was coming from, he finally couldn't take it anymore. "Bleurgh!"
Joker bent over and vomited too, apparently sickened beyond endurance. The others did not look much better. The