Trekking up the mountain path, trees become more sparse the farther you venture. After several days of meandering through the valley, the lack of water has left you envisioning mirages. Mirages of computers with the Internet, televisions, and mammoth platters of wonderful food stretched as far as the eye can see. All you want to do is die. Die and then be stabbed recklessly by the sword hanging from your belt. Wait a minute, SWORD?! Since when were you carrying a sword?! You clumsily pull it from its sheath and give it a feeble swing, surprised to find blood crusted along the blade. You look at it with newfound admiration. Anyone that angers you will soon find their heads rolling across the mountain terrain like a tumbleweed. You snicker smugly, sheathing your newly found weapon with a metallic SHINK! Finally, you emerge into a small clearing. Say what? You could've sworn you were in a forest just a second ago. Spinning around on your heel, you confirm that, yes, just a moment ago you were surrounded by imposing trees and vast wildlife. Speaking of wildlife, it seems that all signs of animal existence have disappeared as well. Sensei never mentioned anything about a specific time of day when all of the birds suddenly dropped dead. Come to think of it, Sensei's teachings are looking pretty weak compared to your favorite food, right about now. And before you have time to ponder your safety, everything suddenly goes black. * * * When you awaken, you immediately wish you were unconscious again. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly and rub your temples in a soothing, circular motion, trying to calm the violent headache you have since been plagued with. Whoever (or whatever) had knocked you out apparently overestimated the human skull if they felt it necessary to use a shovel against your poor noggin. You grope for your sword blindly and grind your teeth in anger when you notice its absence. So much for revenge. As the pulsing pain subdues, you realize how chilly it is around here. You open your eyes gingerly, expecting the worst - but instead, you're disappointed. Disappointed of what, that you're not chained to a medieval torture device? Yeah, that'd be cool. Especially if you had ended up on one of those rack things, the instrument that stretches your body apart until your muscles snap and you're bleeding all over - WHAT THE HELL DID THEY INJECT YOU WITH BEFORE YOU ENDED UP IN THIS DUNGEON?! You pull yourself into a sitting position, trying to shake this gloomy mood off. Suddenly you regret the sitting up part as it hits you how depressing this chamber is (luckily, it doesn't literally hit you). Cool and damp with a single candle burning - that would be a good explanation of this dump. The last Motel 6 you went to had more class. With the support of the wall, you ease yourself up. This is the part where you ditch this shack and run down the mountain like an old man being pursued by a bulldozer. Taking slow and deliberate steps, you - almost piss your pants as a voice addresses you out of the blue. "Welcome to Planet Nodd, weary traveler," the voice says. Aw, dude, "Planet?" So much for being within walking distance of home. A figure emerges from the shadows, her pale figure silhouetted by the eerie glow of the candlelight. She looks average enough to you, disregarding the fact that her skin is fair enough to spook a ghost. She gazes at you with a crooked smile, as if she expects a rebellion of some sort. After a brief pause, she continues with evident calmness: "They call me Kate. I suppose they call me that because it's my name, but hey, you never know." Her eyes shimmer with an terrifyingly insane twinkle. You begin to introduce yourself when she interrupts you. "Sorry, but you'll be jacked up and/or dead before you exit this facility, so your name is of no use to me," she states matter-of-factly. Then with a beckoning gesture, she continues: "Follow me. The dungeon isn't a place you'd want to spend the night, yeah?" As you stride out of the chilly confides of the dungeon, you hear Kate murmur something about the pawns being mischievous when they stay up past their bed time. Suddenly, staring at the back of Kate's head, you begin to believe in capital punishment. * * * Walking down the drab corridor, apprehension begins to harden in the pit of your stomach. This was the kind of building furnished by the archenemy of Martha Stewart. The walls, that had obviously once been a vibrant shade of white, are now a palette of scuff marks and... fingernail scratches? And was that just blood you saw back there?! You can almost hear the "Funeral March" playing in the background, and you look around skittishly, almost expecting a guy with a shovel to walk merrily out of a door and question as to where "this one" was going to be buried. You scuffle along, lowering your gaze so as not to scare yourself anymore. You try to concentrate on the gloomy shade of the floor and the myriad of muddy footprints facing both directions of the hallway - a testimony to how long they've been murdering people in this crack house. "What the dilly?" Kate grimaces. She stops dead in her tracks, and you begin to pray. Her head lowers slightly, but she doesn't turn to face you. "Maa maa, if you keep hyperventilating like that we're going to have to hook you up to a life support machine. But we're somewhat lacking on funds, so we'll probably end up giving you some of Padhraig's chocolate-covered coffee beans, and to tell you the truth, you'd be safer trying to smoke a spoon." A sour expression tinges your face, and you sneer mockingly. She looks over her shoulder at you. "Heh. Resa will have fun poking at your fear," she continues with a grin. "She won't pass up the chance to mess with your mind like I did." Kate spins around on her heel and pokes your stomach. You cross your arms around your gut immediately to serve as protection against any further poking. You're beginning to wish she'd keep her mouth shut; your imagination has already frightened you beyond comprehension, Kate's further commentary isn't needed. Wait a minute... Resa? Is she the ringleader of this crack-circus? And where does Kate fit into all of this? What the hell is she? A pawn-breeder? And... Padhraig?! Suddenly it occurs to you that the entire population of this place could have been inbred. You let out a small cry, and before you can scare yourself any further, Kate whirls around and stabs you with a threatening glare. You gulp. You can see the fire lapping up at your ankles as you burn on a wooden stake, and you tug at your shirt collar nervously, almost as if the heat isn't a figment of your imagination. Damn, you are really beginning to hate your imagination, here. "Your self-induced torture is disturbing," Kate declares, her eyes squinting suspiciously. "You haven't learned how to harness the power of your insanity yet, and you're going to give yourself a cardiac arrest if I don't tell you what this facility was made for," she sighs. "Uh, as I've said before, you are on Planet Nodd, military base of the Revolution. There are also sub-sects dedicated to the Yellow Poncho Mafia. "'Project: Revolution,' known fondly by the participants as 'the Revolution,' is a movement against the flimsy suggestiveness of American pop artists, like Britney Spears, Fred Durst, Sisquo, you get the idea. "The 'Yellow Poncho Mafia' is a private affiliation that really doesn't have a purpose other than to amuse the members of the Revolution. All members of the Revolution are also members of the Yellow Poncho Mafia, so in essence, everyone's laughing at themselves. "With that said, I can only pray to whatever will listen that you'll quit abusing that insanity of yours and let it roam free." You blink, and the corners of your mouth twitch. Before you can analyze the situation, you crumple to the ground in a giggling heap. After several minutes of hysterically guffawing, your chest beings to ache, as it is unaccustomed to the violent hitching of you lungs as you gasp for more air to feed your laughter. Kate remains nonplused, her eyes staid and patient. But suddenly, staring up at her through your tear-hazed eyes, you witness a flicker of annoyance in her features. Before you can completely stifle your laughter, Kate whips out a handgun and shoots your leg. "QUIT LAUGHING, you stupid bastard!" she wails, exasperated. You gape, waiting for the pain, but it never comes. Hah, you think, I can't believe people actually scream after being shot. What wusses - And then the excruciating pain washes over you. You inhale sharply, then let out a long, bloodcurdling scream. Your hand jets out to the said wound, clutching your shin desperately to slow the warm blood that has begun to seep down your ankle. "I'm sorry -" you begin, your attempts for redemption futile. "SHUT UP!" Kate screams, her throat failing to accommodate the decibel at which she is speaking. If you could call it speaking, you think bitterly. With effortless grace, she cocks the gun back and removes the cartridges, then throws the lethal accumulation of metal straight towards your face so that it has a balanced, placid spin guiding it. It would've almost been admirable, had the weapon not been on a nonstop course right towards your face. Because your hands are preoccupied tending to your wound, you're unable to stop the handgun - the very handgun that you have come to loathe in the past twenty seconds - from crashing into your face with a satisfying CRACK! Blood, everywhere. It seems as though you're bathing in it as it oozes down your forehead like a maroon, velvet curtain. You suddenly seem to forget about the bullet that has punctured the weary muscle of your ankle, as your head takes first priority on the list of injured body parts that is so uncontrollably growing. "Shit!" you wince. Then, once again, you find everything fading to black. * * * You awake to a pounding headache, worse than the previous one you were blessed with. Just as you're about to open your eyes, rip off Kate's face and staple it to her back, a voice floats to your ears - a voice that is barely audible above the merciless rapping of your heartbeat against your sorry skull. "I think you killed it, Kate," the voice mutters with evident disappointment. You hear soft footsteps drawing near you and, after a moment, feel a sharp jab in your belly. Your muscles clench involuntarily, and you swallow to keep from lashing out and performing an ungodly act of violence. "Nope. I poked it with a stick," Kate states in triumph. "Geez, did you really find it necessary to pound its head into a bloody nub?" "It defied me!" Kate whines in reply. "Yeah, but now it knows better and I won't get a chance to slap it upside the head!" "Well, I don't know, Resa, yell at it for getting blood on your desk, or -" Kate's voice immediately drops to a whisper. "Hey, I think it's awake." You give a painfully drawn-out sigh and force yourself to open your eyes. The world twitches and spasms around you, giving you slight pangs of nausea. "Yeesh," Kate says, wrinkling her nose with distaste. "Doesn't take much for you Sane Ones to pass out, does it?" "It doesn't have anything to with their sanity, as unfortunate as they are in that respect," Resa laughs. Doesn't anyone else find this highly disturbing? you wonder, eyes darting from Resa to Kate with an alarmed glint inhabiting them. "Sure it does," Kate shrugs. "The Pawns bleed all over their living quarters in the Yellow Poncho Mafia sect, and you never see them passing out." Resa returns the shrug, leaving her position beside Kate. Resa passes a flimsy cardboard box to Kate, who proceeds to rip it open hastily and dump its contents on the desk alongside your shoulder. "Yellow Band-Aids," Resa tells you - you can hear her grinning without having to see her face. Kate begins making an art out of taping them to your head wound. "They reminded me of my mafia," Kate recalls softly, probably to herself more than to you. "You must feel honored to have them grace your forehead, neh?" You consider it a rhetorical question and don't respond. They're insane anyway, you figure, if they want a response, their sane-lacking minds can muster their own. "We had your forehead stitched up and the bullet removed from your ankle," Resa informs you as if it's a trivial issue. You would've grit out a sharp retort had you been feeling up to the task, but you're having enough problems breathing at the moment. "Yeah, sorry about that," Kate sighs. She takes a step back, examining her handiwork. You gingerly touch your head wound, steeling yourself for the bolt of pain you're sure that will follow - but it never comes. In fact, your forehead isn't even swollen. Your eyes slit in confusion. "Why did you put Band-Aids on my forehead if there aren't any traces of the wound left?" you ask darkly. Kate cocks her head to the side and examines you as if you are a radioactive moon rock. "Because they look pretty?" she replies hesitantly, obviously not accustomed to lying. A deafening pause follows the ridiculous response. "Uhh," you grunt, ungracefully cutting the silence. "I think you're lying." "Hey, you shut the hell up. I could knock your skull open like one of those eggs with the mushy shells. Your life is mine." "Lives pawn for good money nowadays," Resa adds thoughtfully. Kate smiles warmly with pride. Meanwhile, you're having a hard time finding the humor in this. "What the hell does that mean?" you demand. "My life is mine, you sick fuck." "It's in denial!" Kate squeals, giddy. "Fun!" She takes a few paces away from the desk and starts rummaging through the various pockets of her jeans. After a moment of preparation, she holds her hand carelessly before her and says, blatantly proud of herself, "Shurikens." Her eyes twinkle with a feral dominance. Shurikens? Seeing your brows furrow in puzzlement, Kate defines the word for you: "Small throwing knives often associated with the Ninja. Ready?" She adjusts the blades between her fingers so that they can be more easily thrown in contrast to their snug placement just a moment ago. "NO!" you roar, drawing your arms and legs towards your torso immediately so that you're in a spherical formation protecting your head - like a fortress. "Get those damned things away from me! My life is yours, YOURS, I say!" Kate rolls her eyes, retracting her shurikens with an exasperated sigh. "I won't hurt you, then," she promises lamely. "You'd better get up. It's late. It'd be in your best interest to get some sleep before the ceremony tomorrow." You can't help but wonder what kind of ceremony she's speaking of. You grimace involuntarily. "Hey, don't look at me like that," Kate pouts dejectedly. "I never said anything about slitting your neck open and making a mural with the blood." A shiver runs down your spine, but you cautiously sit up nevertheless. Your toss a glance over your shoulder at Resa, who is adjusting a suspicious-looking glove on her hand. She flexes her fingers to improve the fit, peering at the glove in wordless contemplation. You redirect your stare towards Kate and instantly cower in terror. She has a sword! ABANDON SHIP! Just as you're about to chuck a paper weight at her head so you can make your escape, you realize with relief that she's just stowing the sheathed weapon near her hip so that her belt securely keeps it in place. Over Kate's shoulder, you witness a wooden sword-cradle nailed to the wall. It has two ledges - one is bare and is apparently the home of Kate's katana; the second is occupied by a... squeegee? You conclude after a few minutes of thought that the said squeegee belongs to Resa. "Now then," Kate says, turning towards you and grinning with pseudo-hospitality. "Follow me." "I'll take the shortcut and meet you in the Pawn sect, buddy," Resa calls to Kate before disappearing into a narrow, descending staircase off in the corner of her office. "All right. Till then," Kate responds. Kate turns to you, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword in an absentmindedly protective gesture. "Saa, let's go. The way we're going'll take longer, but it's less... infected." Kate says the last word with a fearful undertone lurking in her voice, making you sick to your stomach. She ushers you back out into the drab hallway. You look past Kate and gape when the corridor appears to continue infinitely. "If it's... infected," you begin slowly, preoccupied with the fact that you'll be walking until Fred Durst resolves never to scream the word "fuck" again, "then why is Resa using the passageway? She obviously didn't have a weapon." "Don't start with the assumptions, pansy. Assumptions get you killed," Kate corrects you with a demeaning scowl. "She had her bugnuk with her. She'll be fine." You blink. Ignoring Kate's idle threats, you parrot, "Bugnuk?" "A glove with retractable claws that protrude from the knuckles," Kate answers, holding up her hand and clenching it into a fist in imitation. A frightened yelp escapes your lips. "Resa would never use her weapons against another human," Kate reassures you. Muttering under her breath, she continues gravely: "unless provoked." "Would you quit saying stuff like that already?! It's bad enough that I'm in this murder shack to begin with, all of your gory details aren't improving the situation," you spit out angrily. "'Murder shack?'" Kate echoes. "How did you know?" "GOD DAMNIT!" you cry, burying your head in your hands to shake this awful hapless feeling you've acquired being on this worthless planet. "You are very perceptive, traveler," she continues in awe, oblivious to the nervous breakdown you're having. "This was a murder shack, before anyone can remember. This homicidal maniac had this warehouse built via his hundreds of slaves. He promised the slaves freedom after the completion to manipulate them to work faster. When the facility was finished, he killed all of them instead and fashioned their bones into jewelry. "But hey, we only use this building for the administrative duties performed by the Revolution and the Yellow Poncho Mafia, so what difference does it make?" You don't respond, reflecting grimly that Resa and Kate could probably one-up that homicidal maniac Kate had been describing. "Aya, you're a weird one," Kate murmurs. "I'm weird?!" you sputter. "You physically assaulted me! I would've been safer in a drive-by shooting!" Wrathful energy courses through your veins, making you quiver in rage. "Hey, I could've shot your head and thrown the gun at your ankle. Which would you prefer?" Kate asks nonchalantly. You ball your fists in anger as Kate draws a carrot from her sash and begins crunching on it. "Why didn't you just leave me alone in the first place?" you snap bitterly, finding the carrot somewhat distracting. "I was peacefully meditating in the privacy of the mountain, but no! Do you normally snipe the innocent bystanders, or this a new hobby you've picked up?" Kate waves the remainder of the carrot around impatiently while she waits for herself to finish chewing. "I read about it in this 'How to Be an Evil Overlord' pamphlet," Kate chirps, eyes sparkling as she flashes you a smile. You jam your first in your mouth, biting down on your knuckles until it draws blood. "Frustration" is the name of the game, folks. "And where do they give out pamphlets like that?" you ask around your fist, struggling to keep your voice even. "The Immoral Complex," she answers, her voice publicizing her annoyance of your ignorance. "It's on the Evil Overlord University campus." "Yes," you respond mockingly. "Of course." Kate glimpses at you, brows drawn in irritation. She takes another bite of her carrot, munching noisily. "Lose the false bravado, fool. Swords are more painful than guns, I can assure you." "You can't use it while you're eating that carrot," you challenge weakly. What should've been an audacious statement of rebellion sounded more like a boneless plead for mercy, even to you. "Not if I use the carrot to gag you," Kate points out, her voice icy with seriousness. "Your contempt for human life is depressing," you manage to choke out. Kate gags on her carrot, stopping dead in her tracks. "Contempt?" she grimaces, unbelieving. She holds her hands before her, one occupied by a carrot, and denies your accusation. "You've got it all wrong, dude." "You inflict injuries severe enough to kill me and then denounce the fact that you hate mankind," you recap dryly, contradicting Kate's claim. "Never once did I say I was sane," Kate replies evasively, resuming her purposeful stride. You follow automatically. "Well, yeah, that was a given," you snort derisively. Kate gnaws on her carrot once more before carelessly tossing the butt of it over her shoulder. You jerk your head to observe its landing, but the stub of carrot has mysteriously disappeared. Your eyes widen in panic at the supernatural event that has just taken place right under your nose. "Mice," Kate provides. "No kidding!" you retort, eyes still bugging out of your head like melons. A legion of mice generations must dwell within the walls if stubs of vegetables vanish before they hit the floor. "You're not scared of mice, are you?" she asks, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. "Of course not," you scoff. "Not even... flying mice?" Kate questions further. You laugh harshly. "Don't be stupid," you snarl. "Mice don't fly." "Don't they?" Kate murmurs vaguely. Oh God. You swallow, your mouth suddenly parched. "You're joking, right?" you whimper. Kate doesn't dignify your skepticism with a response. "Mommy," you squeak, voice flighty with horror. "I said they flew, not that they hunted humans in packs or anything," Kate chuckles, obviously amused by the idea that such inconsequential rodents would dare to retaliate against the human race. An embarrassed blush blooms on your cheeks. "I wasn't planning to tell you that the mice here are, uh, well... carnivores," she admits solemnly. You scream so blazingly loud that it makes your throat raw. "Calm down!" Kate hisses, her arm instantly winding over your mouth to stifle your shrieks. "They won't hurt you if they can't smell your fear." You pant into her sleeve, trying desperately to compose yourself. Eventually your indisputable exhaustion settles too heavily on your shoulders to ignore, and tranquility manages to embrace you. Kate eases her arm away from you. "Yeesh, how can you be so touchy after being shot?" she asks quietly. Without waiting for your reply, Kate veers off to the right side of the hallway and mutely regards the chipping paint. After a moment of reflection, she raises her hand, curls it, then slams the wall brutally with the flat of her fist. The wall quivers and flinches as a heavy door broadly swings to the side, revealing a threshold into another chamber. "The Pawn sect," Kate announces with pride, gesturing you to enter before her. You timidly scuffle past Kate and do so. * * * Many words flood your senses first gazing at your surroundings in the Pawn sect, but one is predominant above the rest - "expensive." Ostentatious, onyx-colored stereo systems line the far wall, couches and chairs are clustered near the center of the room, a costly-looking desktop computer leans against the adjacent wall with various unidentifiable hookups, and plush carpet beneath it all to boot. Kate seems either oblivious or bored in comparison to your current state of stupor as she paces towards the computer that - you notice for the first time - has someone sitting lazily before it. Various sound effects waft and dance around you, apparently originating from the game the computer is hosting. "H'lo," Kate greets, beaming. "Hey there," the nameless teenage boy replies. You do a double take and note an aspen-hued hen standing by his chair, clucking softly. "Has Resa been by here?" "In your office," he answers, jerking a thumb towards a door cowering in the shadows of the stereo systems. "Thank you," she replies in a sing-song voice. As she walks away from the casual exchange, she adds, "Hey, Fwat. The guest by the entryway is a Class Two, so if Padhraig comes in, try to discourage him from scaring it like the last guy." "Affirmative," Fwat confirms in a strict tone, almost as if he's in a military setting. You ponder as to whether he's speaking that way to frighten you or because Kate has dictated such. And with that, Kate smirks and shoulders open a door to the right and exits. You wander in Fwat's general direction - you're at a loss as to what Kate expects you to do. As you near the youth, you realize he's not as young as you originally anticipated. At closer inspection, he seems to be 17 or 18. "What game are you playing?" you ask, not making the awkward silence any less awkward. "Crossroads." Silence. You find yourself pinning the chicken with an intense glare. "There's a chicken by your feet," you mutter, brows furrowed in puzzlement. "What of it?" Fwat placidly responds, not once drawing his attention away from the computer screen. "Chickens aren't supposed to be in buildings, are they?" you question shakily. "I thought the same thing when I saw you stumble in here," he retorts, voice void of any recognizable emotion. So much for engaging in friendly conversation. You decide to take a different approach. "How did Padhraig scare away the last visitor of this planet?" "Claimed he was a bishounen and tried to catch him with a net," Fwat informs you impatiently, sneering with frustration at the computer screen. He continues mumbling incoherently about witches and cinnamon knickknacks. You decide not to ask what a bishounen is - Explosions. You hear explosions. Your pace instinctively quickens. It hammers against your rib cage in an urgent demand to rest. Another eruption joins the chorus of rattling furniture, knocking you to the floor. Almost as if on cue, the intense pulsing of your heartbeat barrels itself against your temples so fiercely that your hands tremble. Yet another explosion tears through the sect, mingling with your heartbeat. "Get up!" you hear over the din. You turn to face the voice so quickly that your head spins as it drowns in dizziness. Fwat's standing near the computer, bracing himself against the wall. He's yelling something else, but you can't hear him anymore. As fast as you're able, you scramble to your hands and knees and crawl towards the same wall Fwat is clinging to. The loudest blast by far assaults your ears, and you find yourself being thrown against the wall you had been approaching. Though the haze of your nausea, you witness the opposite wall explode, nearby ceiling supports crumbling. Pebble-sized chunks of wall caulk and insulation hurl towards you, making your face sting as they nip at your forehead and cheeks. And then the monster causing this ruckus becomes visible through the clouds of dust - a purple tank?! The tank hovers around to expose the flank, a upsidedown pink triangle adorning it. The tank purrs lightly as the power is cut off. In the uncomfortable silence that follows, you hear the subdued squeaks of rusty screws grinding against each other, then a sigh as the entrance door of the tank swings open. A head pops out, oddly resembling a groundhog peeping out of its burrow. "Uh... Should I have used the door?" the tank pilot queries sheepishly. "You moron, now it's going to be Padhraig hunting season and only Kate and Resa get rifles! Damnit, they always leave me out!" Fwat hollars sourly, moving to assess the damage of the computer he had been using. All the color from Padhraig's face drains and his eyes take on the gleam of a fish's. He ducks back down into the murky interior tank, then resurfaces with a limp doll. He tosses it to Fwat, who catches it. "It's a voodoo doll," Pad says, answering the unsaid question. "A voodoo doll inhabited by Kate. Just stab it in the gut, or something. She'll pass out if she loses enough blood. It'll buy us enough time." "'Us?'" Fwat mirrors flatly. "I'm not taking part in your little games, Pad." Not quite remembering that the object in his hands was indeed a voodoo doll, Fwat drops the doll to the ground and mercilessly stomps it until beans are scattered around his feet. You stand motionless, the eye of the storm. Your limbs are too heavy from your fatigued state to run around and shriek like the beheaded chicken - a role which you have obviously come to fill. "Uh," Pad stammers, "that would be a voodoo doll, Fwat. You are now responsible for Kate's multitude of broken bones." Padhraig once again slips back into the confides of the tank and rises after a moment, this time with a wooden pole in hand. He climbs out of the tank and leaps to the ground, giving his rod an experimental spin. He quickly paces towards the voodoo doll, and you groggily realize that his staff is a bit more complicated than you initially expected. You recognize the weapon as a quarterstaff. It's about five feet in height, slightly shorter than Padhraig himself, and the honey-colored maple is flawlessly polished. Pad squats to examine the slaughtered voodoo doll, completely oblivious towards the wrathful shimmering of Fwat's eyes. "I always get the fuzzy end of the popsicle stick," Fwat growls. Padhraig scoops up the cloth skeleton of the doll, cautiously folding it and placing it in the pocket of his jeans. Just as he resumes his standing position, Resa barrels through the door. "Padhraig!" she roars. "What have you done to Kate, peon?!" Pad winces as if he has been backhanded, and his confident posture shrivels away. Suddenly Resa's gaze of daggers faulters as she notices the sabotaged wall. Her brows draw together in a grim cacluation of the situation. Resa whirls around to examine the purple tank. Finally, her unforgiving scowl settles to stab Pad's cowering form. "I'm sorry!" he squeals like a spooked pig, braiding his arms over his head in a futile gesture of self-preservation. Padhraig's quarterstaff tumbles to the carpet in doing so, rolling towards your feet. You regard the weapon blankly, when out of the blue, an idea dawns on you. You snatch up the fallen weapon, eyes darting about to initiate a head count. Resa's in a heated one-sided conversation with Pad; Pad, the planet's resident scapegoat, is uttering meek pleads for redemption and kissing Resa's feet; Fwat is standing casually to the side with a halo of innocence hovering above his head, for some reason. You are unsure as to why he isn't being verbally attacked as well, but you can't say you care. Embracing the weapon, you slink towards the door, slowly open it, and slide back into the hallway. Time for your escape. * * * You jog down the corridor, clinging to the side and using the shadows to your advantage. You want in the worst way to speed down the hall in a blur of color, but your body is already drunk with exhaustion. Your breath is ragged, tearing through your chest with an untamed fury. Tripping into a violent coughing fit, you reluctantly drag to a stop and crumple into the sturdy support of the quarterstaff. Your eyelids tremor, closing against your will. Before you can sink to the ground and give in to the sweet, sweet desire to sleep, a squeak of hinges snaps you from the fog of dreams. You observe another camouflaged door sweep open and a figure walks out. "Son of a -! How many of you people ARE there?!" you wail, jabbing a trembling, accusing finger towards the boy. He peers upon your sunken form with startlement. "Who're you?" he asks curiously, not deeming your question worthy of answering. "It doesn't matter, because I'll be dead before I leave this facility," you rasp, recalling Kate's earlier premonition. "You've got a point there," he shrugs. At hearing the apathy in his voice, you feel an uncontrollable rage explode within you, making your chest muscles constrict painfully. "WHY IS EVERYONE AROUND HERE SO FUCKING MORBID?!" you scream, throat raw. The brown-haired teenager takes a step away from your hyperventilating self, his glasses masking his emotion. "Dude, that's weak," he hisses in annoyance. "You're going to wake the mice." You bust up laughing, maniacal cackles racking your form. "Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, evil mice? Evil mice?" you carol so that your voice reverberates down the hallway. Your sick parody of "Brother John" causes laughter to peel through you. Without warning, a cool breeze dances throughout the hallway, kissing the mirthful tears that streak your face. At that moment, something occurs to you. Wind doesn't blow in windowless, door-lacking confinements. Your mindless giggling evolves into an ear-bleeding shriek. You drop the borrowed quarterstaff and it clambers to the cement-paved floor. "Whoa oh. Exit, stage right," the boy mutters. You hardly notice his departure, as you have since been reduced to a pile of babbling goo. "Hut! Hut! Onward, men!" The distant, shrill chanting echoing from down the hall kicks your momentary loss of sanity into the sewer. Oh, fuck. Now you've done it. You've awoken the mice. The dread that has overtaken you supplies your jelly-like spine with some temporary strength. Jittery, you grope for the fallen quarterstaff, clutching the weapon so tightly your knuckles turn white. "SOLDIER!" the authoritative voice tears through the hallway. "Sir!" a washed-out voice responds immediately. "Would you care to enlighten me as to why you're limping like a groaning zombie, soldier?" "The little pads on my feet, sir," the soldier whines pitifully. "They're bleeding from marching for such great distances." "And what exactly do you think I have to say about that, soldier?" comes the icy reply. "Shove it up my ditty bag, sir?" "Make it so, soldier. Now MAAARCH! The sweet smell of fear is close by!" Your eyes narrow in confusion, although you think you're safer not understanding exactly what it is you just heard. You drag your potato sack of a body to a standing position, leaning into the quarterstaff heavily. You press a clammy hand against your chest in a fruitless attempt to calm your heaving lungs. "SOLDIER! Forgive me, but I do not recall giving you permission to eat that bread crumb," the commander's voice snaps threateningly. "Please, sir!" another voice sobs. "I'm malnourished!" "And what would be my commentary on that particular subject, soldier?" "I don't have a ditty bag to shove anything up, sir!" the soldier wails. "My body was forced to eat itself when you failed to feed us last week!" The pathetic exchange taking place farther down the corridor fades out, as if it's being filtered through molasses. The sergeant is obviously the rodent reincarnation of Hitler if he can somehow convince a flock of carnivorous flying mice to march. Hell, the fact that he trained mice to do anything is a feat in itself. With the aid of the quarterstaff, you hobble along the hallway in the opposite direction of the fuzzy army. The last thing you want is a confrontation with the mouse dictator when you have to make a conscious effort to breathe as it is. * * * After what seems like an eternity of walking, you're beginning to understand exactly what that malnourished mice colony was complaining about. To think, you're ready to peel your face off with a cheese grater in self-hatred for skipping breakfast this morning, and those poor rodents went without food for a week! Nevertheless, your hopes are somewhat elevated when you witness a change in scenery - a large, crumbling, brick archway, a prelude to the black abyss beyond. As you approach the threshold, you witness a raven cloaked with glossy obsidian-colored feathers carelessly hop out of the protection of the shadows and examine you with what appears to be superiority. You slowly recoil and narrow your eyes in suspicion, inadvertantly becoming defensive. "Okay, what the hell are you people trying to pull on me this time?" you ask no one in particular, mistrust dripping from your voice and posture. A voice that's nearly inaudible floats from the abyss and questions softly, "Gah?" Startled, your gaze is torn from the raven and focused on the formidable entryway. A murky figure stands there, his skin almost illuminated it's so fair. Or is it her skin? No, you're pretty sure that form is male. Or female. Your head beginning to ache with the sudden onslaught of thought, so you decide to take the direct approach: "Tell me who you are or I take your crow hostage." As you await a response, you squint into the inky passageway, unsuccessfully attempting to decipher the gender of this shady minion of darkness. "It's a raven," the faint voice replies. "What?" you snap. "It's a raven, man. Not a crow, a raven. Crows are roadkill and shit, you don't wanna go messing with crows." Definitely female. "It could be a one-legged sheep for all I care, but if you don't tell me your name I'm going to take it hostage!" you audaciously proclaim despite your staggering fatigue. "Kazeno Rei," she sighs, her eyes glinting with an annoyance she is desperately trying to compose. "Look," you say clearly and decisively. "I know you people are a few clowns short of the circus, but if you can single-handedly attempt to crack my skull open, you should sure as hell be able to identify a threat. Now, I realize that what I used to make this conclusion is logic, and there doesn't seem to be an abundance of that here -" "Jenn," she interrupts suddenly. "If it gets you to shut up, call me Jenn." "Well, Jenn, this doorway you are so loyally blocking wouldn't happen to be the exit, would it?" you ask innocently, tapping your fingertips against the quarterstaff. "Yes. Yes, it is." (To be continued...)   < BACK